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Could you write smth for Connor? Maybe he and the reader hated each other growing up but when she moved to Chicago for college they ran into each other again and finally got to know each other. I’m a sucker for enemies-to-lovers ngl

friction | cb98

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You learned early that disliking Connor Bedard was easier than trying to understand him.

Understanding required patience. It required generosity. It required believing there was something underneath the silence worth reaching for. Disliking him, on the other hand, came naturally. It was immediate. It gave shape to the unease he inspired just by existing in your periphery.

In Vancouver, everyone who orbited hockey moved like schools of fish. Constant motion, constant proximity, bodies flowing around one another in familiar patterns. Early-morning practices where the sky was still black and the air inside the rink smelled like cold rubber and burnt coffee. Tournaments that blurred into one another, cities reduced to identical hotels and identical arenas. Parents lined along the glass with travel mugs clutched in gloved hands, already half-exhausted before the first puck dropped.

You and Connor were always there at the same time.

Same rinks. Same locker room hallways. Same schedule printed out and taped to refrigerators across the city. You knew his gait without thinking about it, the way he skated even when he was just walking—head down, shoulders set, moving like there was always somewhere else he needed to be.

You never spoke much. You never needed to. Proximity did the work for you.

Connor was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Not shy. Not awkward. Intentional. Like he’d made an early decision that most people weren’t worth the effort of response. Even as a kid, there was something sealed about him, something closed tight behind the eyes. He carried himself like something important was always happening just out of frame, something only he could see, and interruptions were an inconvenience rather than an invitation.

Coaches adored him. They spoke his name with a particular softness, a careful reverence. Adults leaned in when he talked, as if proximity might let some of his focus rub off on them. His name followed him through hallways, through conversations you weren’t part of, through rooms he’d already left. A low, persistent hum that never quite faded.

You hated that hum.

You hated the way he never reacted when you pushed. When you made pointed comments under your breath. When you challenged him openly, eyebrow raised, mouth sharp. He never snapped back. Never rolled his eyes. Never gave you the satisfaction of friction. He absorbed it all without visible impact, like your words dissolved somewhere before they reached him.

You hated that he could ignore people so completely it felt like erasure.

And on the rare occasions he did look at you, really look, it was never curiosity that met your gaze. Never interest. It was assessment. A quick, efficient cataloguing, like he was filing you away under something already decided. Then his attention moved on, and you were left standing there with the uncomfortable sense of having been weighed and dismissed.

You were loud where he was quiet. You filled space where he withdrew from it. You watched everything; he hid everything. You learned early that if Connor Bedard wasn’t going to notice you, you’d make sure he felt you.

Fraser Minten noticed you immediately.

He sat too close on bus rides, knocked his knee into yours without apology, laughed like he meant it. He talked too much and listened just enough. You became friends in the easy, unceremonious way teenagers do. Shared rides home when parents ran late, shared snacks in the stands, shared jokes that made absolutely no sense to anyone else.

“Do you ever shut up?” you asked him once, deadpan.

“No,” Fraser said cheerfully. “Doctors say it’s terminal.”

You teased him relentlessly. He took it with a grin every time. Around Fraser, you didn’t brace yourself. You didn’t sharpen your edges. You sprawled instead of standing rigid, laughed instead of scanning the room. It felt… safe, in a way you didn’t have language for yet.

Fraser was Connor’s friend too, technically. Same circles, same teams, same long hours spent together. Fraser bridged the gap between worlds without even trying—easy with you, loyal to Connor, never choosing sides because he never thought there were sides to choose.

You sometimes caught Connor watching.

Not you, exactly. Not your face. The space you took up. The way Fraser leaned toward you when you spoke. The way your laughter cut cleanly through the noise. His gaze would flick there and then away, quick and unreadable, like he’d glanced at something bright by accident.

When Connor left Vancouver, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no goodbye party. No group photo. No emotional speeches. He packed up and went, Chicago swallowing him whole. The hum faded into distance, quieter but not gone.

You told yourself you were relieved.

You didn’t examine the hollow feeling that lingered after.

Years later, standing in O’Hare with two suitcases bruising your shins and a phone full of unanswered emails from landlords, you wondered if the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

Your housing situation unraveled with impressive efficiency. A sublet fell through two weeks before move-in. A lease evaporated over a paperwork technicality. A “sure thing” turned into a non-refundable mistake you didn’t want to think about too closely. The semester crept closer, each day tightening the noose, and Chicago stopped feeling like a fresh start and started feeling like a concrete box you’d willingly stepped into.

You sat on your suitcase in the terminal, refreshing your inbox until your eyes ached.

Fraser was the one who said it.

You were on the phone, voice tight, explaining for the third time that no, you didn’t have anywhere lined up yet, yes, classes started soon, no, you weren’t panicking, when he cut in gently.

“Hey,” he said. “Connor’s there.”

The sentence landed between you like a dropped plate.

You laughed. Loud. Sharp. Disbelieving. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m serious,” Fraser said, cautious now. “Just temporarily. He’s got space.”

“Fraser,” you said, rubbing your forehead, “I would rather live in this airport.”

He sighed. “You don’t have a lot of options.”

You tried everything else anyway. Facebook groups. Sublets. Short-term rentals. Couch-surfing offers that evaporated when you mentioned the dates. Everything failed.

Connor texted you on a Tuesday night.

Heard about your situation. You can stay here for a bit. Guest room’s free. No pressure.

No greeting. No apology. No commentary. Just a solution.

The message was polite. Controlled. Infuriatingly reasonable.

And the worst part, the part you hated the most, was that it felt exactly like him.

You moved in three days later.

Connor met you in the lobby, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie you recognized from a million Vancouver mornings. He looked the same in a way that irritated you immediately, broader through the shoulders now, sharper at the edges, but still carrying himself like he was always conserving energy for something else. Like you were a brief detour on a very specific route.

“Hey,” he said, neutral as ever.

“Hey,” you echoed, suddenly acutely aware of the two suitcases flanking you like loyal sentries.

He took one without asking. Just bent, lifted, turned toward the elevator.

“Thanks,” you said, after a beat. It came out stiff, like a word you weren’t used to offering him.

He nodded once, like he’d been expecting it.

The apartment was quiet when you stepped inside. Not empty — quiet. The kind of quiet that felt intentional, curated. Everything was clean-lined and muted: gray couch, black coffee table, a single framed photo leaned carefully on a shelf. No clutter. No forgotten mugs. No blankets slung over the back of furniture. The place looked like it belonged to someone who never lingered anywhere longer than necessary.

“It’s… nice,” you said, because silence felt rude.

“Yeah,” he replied. He set your suitcase down neatly against the wall. “Guest room’s this way.”

The guest room door was already open. You could tell he'd wrestled with the bedrest for a while, corners messily tucked in. Fresh towels folded on the dresser. A glass of water already waiting on the nightstand.

He’d rehearsed this.

“Connor,” you said, quieter now, “thank you. Really.”

He hesitated. Just a fraction. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” you said. “But I appreciate it.”

He looked at you then, properly. Something unreadable flickered across his face before he masked it again.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Kitchen’s open. Just—” He paused. “—yeah.”

You almost smiled.

You told yourself you’d be gone in a month.

The first few days passed in careful politeness. A truce neither of you had negotiated, just fell into. You cleaned up after yourself with exaggerated thoroughness. He gave you space so wide it bordered on avoidance. You thanked him for small things — the Wi-Fi password taped to the fridge, the extra key slid across the counter without comment.

Living together made things worse.

There was no dramatic blowup. No raised voices. No slammed doors. Just friction. Constant. Exhausting. The kind that wore grooves into your days.

He woke before dawn, alarm buzzing softly at first, then insistently. You buried your head under the pillow and glared at the ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of his routine, the shower, the coffee machine, the quiet clink of a mug set down exactly where it belonged.

You stayed up late. Lights on. Laptop open. Phone pressed to your ear as you whispered through conversations that always seemed to stretch longer than intended. He’d pause mid-sentence when you walked into the room, like your presence recalibrated something internal. Like he had to reset before continuing.

You left your shoes by the door instead of lining them up. He nudged them into place with his foot, jaw tight. He left cabinet doors ajar. You closed them silently behind him. He organized the fridge by category. You ignored it out of spite.

“You don’t need to wipe the counter every time,” you said one night.

He didn’t look up. “Crumbs attract ants.”

“There aren’t ants,” you shot back.

“There could be.”

You took phone calls in the kitchen. He hated that. The way your voice carried through the apartment, animated and sharp and alive. The way you paced as you talked, barefoot steps tracing invisible paths across his clean floors.

“You’re loud,” he said once, not unkindly, just factual.

“You’re allergic to noise,” you replied.

“Some people like quiet.”

“Some people don’t live in libraries.”

The snark became muscle memory.

And still, there were moments.

You learned him anyway.

The way he went quiet after losses, shoulders slumping just enough to be noticeable if you were paying attention. The way he pressed his thumb into the counter when he was thinking, grounding himself without realizing it. The way he watched everything without comment , games on TV, people across rooms, you when you weren’t looking.

He learned you too.

How you paced when anxious, steps quick and restless. How you overworked, laptop balanced on your knees long after midnight. How you avoided asking for help even when you needed it, choosing instead to push yourself harder until something cracked.

Once, he found you asleep on the couch, laptop warm against your thigh, notes scattered across the coffee table. He stood there longer than necessary, debating. In the end, he draped a blanket over you and turned the lamp off.

You woke up an hour later and pretended not to notice.

Another night, you came home late, shoes in hand, head buzzing. He was in the kitchen, shirtless, hair damp from the shower. The sight hit you sideways, not attraction, not exactly, just awareness. He glanced up, surprised to see you, then looked away too quickly.

“Long day?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yours?”

“Same.”

It was almost… normal.

You didn’t talk about the tension. Naming it would make it real. And if it was real, it would demand something from both of you neither of you was prepared to give.

So you lived in the space between irritation and understanding. Between resentment and something softer you refused to examine too closely.

Connor noticed you were disappearing before you did.

Not literally, you were still there technically. Still padding around the apartment in socks, still leaving half-finished mugs on the counter, still answering emails at all hours. But you’d been folding inward lately. Cancelling plans. Declining invitations. Saying “maybe another night” so often it started sounding like a reflex.

He watched you one evening from the doorway while you sat hunched over the kitchen table, laptop open, hair pulled back messily, jaw tight with concentration. You hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour.

“This is depressing,” he said finally.

You didn’t look up. “Good evening to you too.”

“You need to get out,” he continued, ignoring the jab. “You’ve been inside for over a week.”

“I went to class.”

“That doesn’t count.”

You sighed, pushing your chair back. “Connor, I’m tired.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped. Something about his tone, not annoyed, not sarcastic, just flatly concerned, knocked the fight out of you.

“Fine,” you said eventually. “Where?”

“Bar,” he replied. “Just a few guys. Nothing crazy.”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Give me twenty minutes.”

You were halfway through getting ready when your phone buzzed. Fraser’s name lit up the screen.

“You alive?” he asked cheerfully.

“Barely,” you said, wedging your phone between your shoulder and ear as you applied mascara. “Connor’s dragging me out.”

“Wow,” Fraser said. “Look at you two. Getting along.”

You snorted. “Don’t start.”

“How’s it going?” he asked, softer now.

You paused, watching your reflection. “It’s… fine. Annoying. He’s still exactly who he was.”

“And you?” Fraser teased. “Still exactly who you were?”

“Unfortunately.”

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

“Do you know where my black cap is? Also maybe we stop at the grocery store on the way home if it's still open, grab that pasta you were talking about?” Connor asked, stopping short when he realized you were on the phone. His eyes flicked to the mirror. “—who’s that?”

“Fraser,” you said.

Connor leaned closer to the doorway. “Minty?”

“Hi,” Fraser said immediately. “Wow, she’s got you running errands now?”

Connor ignored him.

You rolled your eyes. “Top shelf in the hall closet. Left side.”

He nodded. “Thanks.” Then, after a beat: “Bye Minty.”

“You guys sound… comfortable,” Fraser said.

You scoffed. “Don’t read into it.”

“I am absolutely reading into it,” Fraser replied. “You’ve fallen into a rhythm.”

Connor’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something. He didn’t. He just left, footsteps receding down the hall.

“You hear that?” Fraser said. “He didn’t even deny it.”

“Goodnight, Fraser,” you said, hanging up.

The bar was loud but not overwhelming, dark wood, low lighting, music just quiet enough to talk over. Connor greeted people easily, nods and shoulder claps, a version of him you rarely saw at home. You stuck close at first, unsure where to put yourself.

“This is—” Connor hesitated when someone asked. “—we grew up together.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s accurate,” he said.

A chorus of disbelief followed.

“Was he always like this?” someone asked you, incredulous.

“Oh, worse,” you said immediately. “He once refused to talk for an entire car ride because Fraser touched his stick.”

“That’s not—” Connor started.

“And,” you continued, warming to it, “for about a year straight, he cried any time he lost a street hockey game.”

“I was like nine.”

“So were the rest of us.”

Laughter bubbled around you. Connor shook his head, but there was something loose about him now, something unguarded.

You drifted, eventually, toward Frank and Oliver . Oliver introduced himself with a smile that felt genuine, unforced.

“So you’re staying with Connor?” Frank asked, sipping his drink.

“Temporarily,” you said. “Until I find a place.”

“Looking on your own?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t mind a roommate. Connor and I are just… not a good fit.”

Connor, across the bar, glanced over without knowing why.

Frank grinned. “Oliver’s actually looking too.”

Oliver perked up. “Yeah. You want to trade numbers? Maybe we’ll have better luck together.”

“Sure,” you said easily.

Connor didn’t notice the exchange. Or if he did, it didn’t register as important.

Coffee followed a few days later. Then another. Apartment listings sent back and forth. Laughter came easily with Oliver, unguarded in a way that surprised you.

“You sure you want to move out?” Oliver asked one afternoon, stirring his drink. “Seems like you’ve got a good thing going.”

You laughed. “If you spent one night with us, you’d see. We bite each other’s heads off nonstop.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not buying it.”

“Trust me.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer, observe you two in your natural habitat,” he said lightly.

You smiled. “Sure. But in the meantime—” you slid his phone back across the table, “—send in the offer for that place on Clark. I’ve got a good feeling.”

You went a little overboard with dinner.

You knew it as you pulled the pan from the oven, steam curling up toward the ceiling, the apartment thick with the smell of garlic and butter and something sweet caramelizing. You’d even lit a candle — not in a romantic way, you told yourself, but in a this is a nice night way. You set the table properly. Plates. Napkins. Real cutlery.

Connor came in still riding the high of the game, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair damp from a shower at the rink. He stopped short when he saw the spread.

“…what’s all this?” he asked.

You smiled, wiping your hands on a towel. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“Two wins,” you said easily. “Your game. And I’m this close to closing on an apartment.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Wow. Congrats.” He stepped closer, peering at the food. “Where’s the place? You want me to come check it out with you?”

The offer was instinctive. Automatic. Like he’d always assumed he’d be part of this step.

You didn’t notice the way his shoulders loosened when he said it.

“Oh,” you said, sitting down and picking up your fork, “Oliver and I already checked it out.”

Connor paused mid-motion.

“Oliver?” he repeated. Then, sharper: “My Oliver?”

You laughed. “I mean, I think he’s also his own person.”

“Why would you ask him to check out a place for you?” Connor asked. “You could’ve just asked me.”

You tilted your head. “Did I not tell you? He was looking too. I was looking. It just… made sense.” You shrugged. “We’ve been apartment hunting together for a couple weeks now.”

A couple weeks.

Connor sat down slowly, like the chair had surprised him.

“…you’re moving in with Oliver,” he said.

“Yeah.” You smiled, trying to keep it light. “Is there anything I need to know? Is he secretly a murderer when he’s not a hockey player?”

He forced a laugh. It sounded wrong in his throat.

“No. He’s fine,” Connor said quickly. “He’s… good.”

He pushed the conversation toward the game then, the goals, the mistakes, a hit he didn’t like. You followed his lead, unaware of the way something in him had gone taut and watchful.

A few nights later, you mentioned it casually while loading the dishwasher.

“Oliver’s coming over for dinner tomorrow.”

Connor looked up from drying a plate. “Yeah, cool. What should we cook?”

By the time Oliver knocked, you and Connor were already moving around each other in the kitchen with an ease that had crept up on both of you. You passed ingredients without looking. You stepped back when the other stepped forward. You bumped hips and muttered apologies that sounded fond despite yourselves.

Oliver clocked it immediately.

He leaned against the counter, watching you stir the pot while Connor chopped garlic beside you.

“Wow,” Oliver said lightly. “I feel like I’m interrupting something.”

Connor’s jaw tightened.

You laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. Sit down.”

Oliver did, but his eyes stayed curious. The night unfolded politely enough, food, conversation, jokes, but Connor never quite settled. He kept glancing at you, then away. Answering questions half a beat too late.

When Oliver stood to leave, he smiled, easy and sharp all at once.

“You two are close,” he said, like it was an observation. Like it was harmless. "You don't see chemistry like that often."

The silence that followed was anything but.

Connor stared at the counter. You suddenly found the wall very interesting.

Oliver’s smile flickered, just a fraction, like he’d confirmed something. “In the kitchen I mean. Anyway,” he added, cheerful again, “see you soon.”

After the door shut, Connor exhaled hard.

“Good luck living with that guy,” he muttered.

You turned slowly. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He froze.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. “I just—”

“You just what?” you pressed.

Connor looked at you then, really looked, and whatever he’d been about to say died between you.

“Never mind,” he said.

But it was already there now.

The thing neither of you wanted to name.

Connor wakes before the light does.

It’s habit more than intention, but instead of rolling out of bed like he always does, he stays still and listens. The apartment isn’t empty, it never feels empty when you’re here, just quiet in a contained way, like the space is holding its breath.

Your door is closed down the hall.

That shouldn’t matter. It does.

He stares at the ceiling and thinks, with a clarity that makes his chest tighten, this is what it sounds like right before something changes.

He gets up quietly. Moves like noise itself might betray him.

The kitchen light is too bright. He turns it down. Finds eggs, bread, a pan. He knows where everything is now, when did that happen? He cooks on instinct, but his thoughts won’t cooperate.

You in his hoodies, sleeves swallowed past your hands. You cooking together, bumping into each other and not apologizing. You late at night, glasses slipping, hair half-fallen loose, wandering into the kitchen like the place belongs to you.

Someone else seeing that.

Someone else knowing you like that.

By the time you wake up, the table is set.

You stop short when you see it. “What’s… this?”

“Breakfast,” Connor says. Too quick. “Sit.”

You do, slowly, watching him over the rim of the mug he hands you. There’s a pause, the kind that asks a question without words.

You squint. “Okay,” you say. “Explain.”

Connor opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“Don’t move in with Oliver.”

You blink. Once. Then: “—what?”

“Just—” He gestures, vague and frustrated. “Don’t.”

You lean back in your chair. “This again? What are you talking about?”

He exhales through his nose, like he’s already tired. “I just… I don’t like it.”

“Like what.”

“This.” He motions between you. The table. The apartment. “Whatever this is.”

You stare at him. “You're being ridiculously vague right now.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t want anyone else knowing you the way I do.”

The words hang there, fragile and wrong and suddenly irreversible.

You laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” You shake your head. “You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t,” he says immediately — then stops. Frowns. Tries again, quieter. “But I don’t… not like you either.”

You let out a slow breath. “Connor. We agreed this was temporary. I was always going to move out. Why are we acting like this is new information?”

“I know,” he says. “I just— I didn’t think it’d be with him.”

“Why?” you ask. “Because he’s your teammate?”

“Because it’s—” He falters. “Because it’s different.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what, this is an ego thing? A dick-measuring competition?”

“No.” He straightens. “No, that’s not— don’t say it like that, you're making it sound weird.”

“Then say it a different way,” you shoot back. “Because right now it sounds like you’re mad you’re losing something you never wanted.”

The silence stretches.

Finally, he says, barely above a whisper, “I just want you to stay.”

Your expression softens, just for a second, then hardens again. “That’s not an explanation.”

“I don’t have a better one.”

You push your chair back. Not dramatically. Just enough. “Unless you can give me an actual reason for why you’re acting like this, I’m still moving out at the end of the week. Like planned.”

The word planned lands between you, heavy and final.

Connor closes his eyes.

He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might hand him the sentence he’s missing. It doesn’t.

You eat in silence.

The scrape of cutlery is loud in the small kitchen. When you stand to rinse your plate, he doesn’t look at you. When your door closes down the hall, the sound feels sharper than it should.

Connor stays at the table long after the food goes cold.

He stares at the empty chair across from him, at the space you’ve already left behind, and the thought hits him fully formed, merciless:

I’m so fucked.

Because wanting you is one thing.

Not knowing how to ask you to stay, that’s something else entirely.

You’re on the floor of the guest room, surrounded by boxes that are technically packed but feel more like props. Half-filled. Half-hearted. Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Fraser’s face fills the screen.

“Why haven’t you packed?” he asks immediately.

You sigh. “I have.”

“No you haven’t,” he says, squinting. “Those boxes look decorative.”

“I’m… pacing.”

“You’re moving out in three days.”

“I know.”

There’s a beat. Fraser’s expression shifts, not teasing, not yet. Curious.

“…do you want to tell me something?”

You hesitate. Then: “If I tell you, you’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

He grins. “Absolutely not.”

“Fraser.”

“I will try,” he says, clearly lying. “Go.”

You exhale. “Connor said something.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god.”

“No, don’t—” you warn. “Just listen.”

You tell him. About the breakfast. About the way Connor talked in circles. About how it didn’t sound like anything but also sounded like everything. About how confused it left you feeling, like you’d been handed a riddle with no solution.

When you finish, Fraser stares at you like you’ve just confessed to not knowing what gravity is.

“Are you stupid?” he asks gently.

You scowl. “Excuse me?”

“That was clearly him telling you he’s into you.”

“There was nothing clear about that conversation,” you argue. “It didn’t even sound like he knew what he was talking about. And come on — this is Connor Bedard. We’ve been sworn enemies since we learned what the word sworn meant.”

Fraser snorts. “You’ve been flirting since you were fifteen.”

“We have not.”

“You antagonize each other like it’s a sport.”

“That is not flirting.”

“It absolutely is when it’s mutual.”

You shake your head. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Fraser asks. “Or is there a part of you that wants him too?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “That’s completely unreasonable.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “So is everything about you and Connor.”

You groan. “I can’t have this conversation. I committed to a lease.”

“Then call Oliver,” Fraser says. “See what he says. I guarantee he’s on my side. So is literally everyone who’s ever known you two.”

“You were supposed to motivate me to pack,” you say flatly.

He grins. “I motivated you to confront your feelings.”

You hang up on him.

You pace the apartment. From the guest room to the kitchen to the living room and back again. You stare at the door. At the couch. At the place Connor sat that morning like he was bracing for impact.

Finally, you pull out your phone and call Oliver.

He picks up immediately. “Cold feet?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” he says. “Connor was pissed at practice today. I’m guessing that has something to do with you moving out in a couple days.”

You don’t answer.

Oliver hums. “Yeah. Thought so.”

You sink onto the edge of the bed. “I’m really sorry. I don’t even know for sure what I’m doing. I just— I still need to talk to him.”

“I’ve got a backup plan,” Oliver says easily. “You’re not screwing me over. Just… be honest.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thank you.”

“But,” he adds, “there’s no version of this that ends with you living anywhere but that apartment.”

You sigh. “You sound like Fraser.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You hang up just as the front door opens.

Connor walks in, keys in hand. He pauses when he sees you with your phone still in your lap.

“Hey,” he says. “Who was that?”

“Oliver,” you say. “How was practice?”

“Fine.”

A beat.

“Connor,” you say, “can we talk?”

He shakes his head immediately. “It’s fine. We really don’t have to.”

“I’d really like to.”

He exhales, long and resigned, and drops onto the couch across from you. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like he’s preparing to be scolded.

You swallow. “I need you to really dig deep here.”

He winces. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Is there,” you say carefully, “any chance the reason you don’t want me to move out is because you’ve… developed feelings for me?”

Connor doesn’t look up.

Instead, he drags his hands down his face and leans back, groaning quietly. “We really don’t have to talk about this. You’re moving out. I’ve come to terms with it. We can just forget any embarrassing conversations we’ve had in the last week.”

Your heart pounds. “What if there’s a chance I don’t want to move out?”

He freezes.

“And,” you add, voice shaking just a little, “the reason for that is because I’ve developed feelings for you.”

Connor’s eyes snap up. Wide. Panicked. “Please do not fuck with me right now.”

“I’m not.”

He stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like everything he’s been avoiding has finally cornered him.

Connor’s eyes stay on you, wide and unguarded.

“Oh,” he says again. Quieter this time, like the word has weight.

You don’t move. You don’t smile. You wait, because you’ve learned the hard way that if you rush him, he disappears.

He swallows. “You’re… you’re serious.”

You nod. “Painfully.”

He drags a hand through his hair, stands up, then immediately sits back down like he forgot what standing was for. “Okay. Okay, um—”

He laughs once. Short. Nervous. “I didn’t think that was an option.”

“What, me?”

“Us,” he says. “You’ve never— I mean, you’ve always—” He trails off, frustrated. “You don’t make it easy.”

You huff. “That’s rich.”

“I’m serious,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “I just assumed you were counting the days until you could get away from me.”

“I was,” you admit. “And then I wasn’t. And I don't know when that happened.”

Connor nods slowly, like that makes sense. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. He studies you in a way that feels different, not guarded, not distant. Intent.

“You know I didn’t mean it like… possession,” he says. “When I said I didn’t want anyone else knowing you like I do.”

“I know,” you say gently. “I think.”

“I just—” He exhales. “I got used to you being here. To the noise you make. To you stealing my stuff. To the way you sit on the counter when you’re tired. And suddenly I was supposed to picture you doing all of that with someone else and my brain just— stopped working.”

You smile despite yourself. “You could’ve said literally any of that.”

He snorts. “I don’t know how to talk about things.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He looks down at his hands. “I thought if I didn’t say it out loud, it would go away.”

“And?”

“It did not.”

You move to sit next to him on the couch. Not touching. Just… nearer. Connor's shoulders tense, then relax.

“I don’t even know when it happened,” you admit. “I think maybe it was when you started making me coffee without asking. Or when you sat with me on the floor that one night when I couldn’t sleep and didn’t try to fix anything.”

He blinks. “You remember that? You were like barely conscious.”

“I remember everything,” you say softly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Connor lets out a breath that sounds like relief. Or surrender. Or both.

“So what happens now?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “Well, for starters, I don’t move out.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Good.”

“And,” you continue, “we stop pretending we don’t care.”

He winces.

“I know,” you say. “But we’re already terrible at not caring.”

He laughs quietly at that. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

Another pause. This one different. Charged.

Connor clears his throat. “Just so we’re clear — you’re not moving in with Oliver.”

“No.”

“And not because I freaked out.”

“No,” you say. “Because I want to stay.”

He looks at you then, really looks, like he’s memorizing something.

“Okay,” he says, voice steady for the first time all night. “Then I’m in. Fully. No half-sentences.”

You smile. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he says. “Even if I’m bad at it.”

You lean in before you overthink it. Lean your head onto his shoulder, Connor closing his eyes at the feeling.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah. I figured. Took you long enough to catch up.”

He groans. “Please don’t make this worse.”

“I absolutely will.”

And for the first time since Vancouver, since Chicago, since all the years of friction and almosts—

it doesn’t feel like a fight anymore.

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