seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
auston matthews: team usa is a team
sidcros: team canada is a bravo show
Always been you
SUMMARY: You and Cale had been inseparable since childhood. Through scraped knees, school dances, college goodbyes, and the growing distance created by his hockey career, everyone seemed to realize you were in love except the two of you. But when Cale returns home and discovers you may finally be ready to move on, years of unspoken feelings become impossible to ignore.
WC: 3.9k
WARNINGS: Childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, jealousy, emotional misunderstandings, brief angst, happy ending.
Requested: Cale Makar + childhood friends who slowly falls in love
You met Cale Makar when you were six years old.
Technically, he met you.
You had been sitting on the curb in front of your house, glaring down at the bloody scrape covering your knee after falling off your bicycle. Your pink helmet was crooked, one shoelace was untied, and the bicycle itself had been abandoned dramatically in the middle of the sidewalk.
You had been trying very hard not to cry, then a boy with flushed cheeks and messy brown hair stopped in front of you, his hockey stick still held in one gloved hand “Are you okay?”
You sniffled, straightening your shoulders “Yes.”
He looked at your knee “You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” It hurt terribly.
The boy remained silent for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a slightly crushed packet of fruit snacks and held it toward you “My mom gives me these after hockey.”
You stared at the packet “Why are you giving them to me?”
“Because you look sad.”
“I’m not sad.”
He nodded seriously “Okay. But you can still have them.”
That was the beginning.
Cale helped you push your bicycle home, even though his house was in the opposite direction. He waited on your front steps while your mother cleaned your knee, and when you came back outside with a bandage covered in tiny yellow stars, he was still there.
You split the fruit snacks between you, after that, there was rarely a day when Cale wasn’t somewhere nearby.
You attended the same elementary school, lived only three streets apart, and spent nearly every afternoon together. When Cale had hockey practice, you sat in the cold arena with a coloring book balanced on your knees. When you had dance recitals, he sat beside your parents wearing a tie his mother had forced him into, clapping louder than anyone else when you appeared onstage.
He taught you how to skate, you taught him how to braid friendship bracelets.
He was terrible at it.
“You made all the colors crooked,” you complained, inspecting the bracelet he had tied around your wrist when you were nine.
“It’s supposed to look like that.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s unique.”
“It looks broken.” Cale frowned at the matching bracelet around his own wrist “I like it.” you looked at him for several seconds before softening “Fine. I like it too.” He wore it until the threads became so thin that it finally fell apart during practice.
When you were twelve, he punched a boy for pulling your hair, when you were thirteen, you helped him study for a history test by turning important dates into ridiculous hockey statistics, when you were fourteen, he walked you home through a snowstorm because neither of your parents could reach the school.
At fifteen, everything began to change.
Not dramatically.
There was no sudden moment when you looked at Cale and understood that he was no longer simply the boy who traded snacks with you or let you borrow his hoodie.
It happened slowly, it was noticing how much taller he had grown over the summer, it was the warmth spreading through your chest whenever he smiled at you from across a crowded hallway, it was recognizing his footsteps outside your bedroom before he knocked on the door, it was the way your stomach twisted when girls began appearing at his hockey games wearing his number.
Cale never seemed particularly interested in the attention.
He was polite, occasionally awkward, and entirely oblivious whenever someone flirted with him, you were not oblivious “Emma likes you,” you told him one afternoon.
You were lying beside each other on the floor of his basement, pretending to do homework while a movie played quietly in the background.
Cale stopped writing “Emma who?”
You turned your head toward him “Emma Richards.”
He stared blankly “She sits behind you in math.”
“Oh.”
“She’s been to your last four games.”
“A lot of people come to the games.”
“She wears your jersey.”
“So does my mom.” you threw a pillow at him, Cale caught it before it struck his face “What?”
“She likes you.”
He studied you carefully “Why do you care?”
Your heartbeat stumbled “I don’t.”
“You sound like you care.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“With what?”
“Getting a girlfriend.”
His expression shifted in a way you couldn’t understand “I don’t need help.”
“You’ve never even kissed anyone.”
Cale’s cheeks turned pink “Neither have you.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It seems relevant.”
You sat upright, crossing your arms “You could kiss Emma.”
“I don’t want to kiss Emma.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like her.”
“Then who do you like?” The question hung between you, Cale’s eyes remained fixed on your face, his expression strangely nervous. For one impossible second, you thought he might say your name, instead, he looked down at his notebook “No one.”
You ignored the disappointment settling inside your chest “Right. Me neither.”
Neither of you mentioned the conversation again.
A year later, Cale took someone else to the winter formal, you told yourself it didn’t bother you, you even helped him choose his tie, the girl’s name was Natalie. She was kind and pretty, and you hated yourself for resenting her when she had done absolutely nothing wrong.
“You look nice,” you told Cale when he stopped by your house before the dance. He stood awkwardly in your living room wearing a dark suit, his hands buried inside his pockets “You think?”
“Your tie is crooked.”
“I knew something was wrong.” You stepped closer and reached for it, Cale became completely still as you straightened the fabric against his chest. You could feel him watching you, but you kept your attention on the knot “There.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Neither of you moved, his face was so close to yours that you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose. You wondered what would happen if you leaned forward, then a car horn sounded outside, Cale stepped back “That’s probably Natalie.”
“Probably.”
He hesitated beside the door “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“You could come with us.”
“As your third wheel?”
“As my friend.”
The word hurt more than it should have, you smiled anyway “Go have fun, Cale.”
He left reluctantly.
You watched from the window as Natalie climbed out of the car and greeted him with a hug. Cale glanced back at your house before getting inside, you spent the rest of the evening eating popcorn with your mother and pretending that your chest didn’t ache.
Cale came to your house after the dance.
It was nearly midnight when he tapped on your bedroom window from the roof of the porch, you nearly screamed “What are you doing?” you whispered after pushing the window open.
“Can I come in?”
“You’re in a suit.”
“I know.”
“It’s snowing.”
“I noticed.”
You stepped aside, letting him climb through the window, Cale’s hair was damp with melting snow, and his cheeks were red from the cold. He loosened his tie before sitting at the foot of your bed “How was the dance?” you asked.
“It was fine.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Not really.”
You tried not to appear too relieved “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Did Natalie do something?”
“No. She was great.”
“Then why are you here?”
Cale looked at you “I wanted to see you.”
The answer left you speechless, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, folded napkin. When he opened it, there were two slightly crushed cookies from the dessert table inside “They had the chocolate ones you like.”
Your heart softened painfully “You stole cookies for me?”
“I took them.”
“That’s stealing.”
“They were free.”
“You still hid them in a napkin.”
“So they wouldn’t get frosting on my pocket.” You took one of the cookies and broke it in half, Cale smiled, you sat beside him on the bed, sharing stolen desserts while snow gathered outside your window.
Neither of you spoke about Natalie, neither of you spoke about how close his hand was to yours, by graduation, everyone knew Cale was leaving.
His hockey career was already carrying him toward places far beyond your neighborhood. You were proud of him. You had always been proud of him, but standing inside his bedroom while cardboard boxes covered the floor, you realized that being proud did not make saying goodbye any easier “You’re acting like I’m disappearing,” Cale said.
You folded another sweatshirt and placed it into the open suitcase “You’re moving thousands of miles away.”
“We can call.”
“You hate talking on the phone.”
“I’ll learn.”
“You’ll be busy.”
“Not too busy for you" you looked down before he could see how much those words affected you, Cale sat beside the suitcase “You could come visit.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
You turned toward him “Of course I promise.” he held out his little finger, you stared at it “We’re eighteen.”
“And?”
“You’re asking me to pinky promise.”
“It’s legally binding.”
You laughed and hooked your finger around his “Fine. I promise.”
Cale didn’t release your hand immediately, his thumb brushed over the side of your finger, his expression becoming serious “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Your breath caught “What?” he looked nervous. More nervous than you had ever seen him before an important game or exam “I…”
His phone rang on the desk, the sound made both of you jump, Cale closed his eyes briefly “It’s my dad.”
“You should answer.”
“It can wait.”
“He’s probably calling about the flight.” Cale looked at you for another second before releasing your hand “Right.”
You never discovered what he had intended to say.
Distance changed things, even though neither of you wanted it to, at first, you spoke every day, Cale sent photographs of campus, the arena, and the terrible meals he attempted to make when he was tired of dining hall food.
You sent updates about home, photographs of his parents’ dog, and recordings of his younger brother making fun of how frequently Cale mentioned you.
Then life became busier.
Practices became more demanding. Your own classes became more difficult. Sometimes his games overlapped with your exams, and sometimes your calls went unanswered because one of you had fallen asleep.
Still, Cale remained the first person you called when something wonderful happened and the person you wanted when everything went wrong.
When he was drafted, you cried harder than his mother, when he made his NHL debut, you watched from your apartment wearing the old crooked friendship bracelet he had made you, now preserved carefully inside a small glass frame.
When he scored, you screamed so loudly that your roommate ran into the room believing someone had broken in, Cale called you later that night “Did you see it?”
“Did I see it? Cale, I nearly suffered a heart attack.” he laughed, the sound warm despite the exhaustion in his voice “I wish you were here.”
Your smile faded slightly “Me too.”
There was silence “Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“I miss you.”
Your throat tightened “I miss you too.”
You almost told him then, you had loved him for years, maybe you had always loved him. But Cale was beginning a life that was larger and more complicated than anything you had imagined for either of you. You were afraid that telling him would feel like adding another responsibility to his shoulders.
So you said goodnight instead.
Years continued passing, Cale became one of the best players in the world, but to you, he remained the boy who forgot to replace the empty milk carton and called you whenever he needed help choosing a birthday present for his mother.
You visited Colorado whenever your schedule allowed, he returned home during the summers, every reunion felt effortless, as though no time had passed at all and every goodbye became harder, there were other people.
You dated a classmate for six months, Cale dated a woman he had met through friends.
Neither relationship lasted.
You never discussed why.
Whenever Cale mentioned another woman, you smiled and asked polite questions while a familiar ache spread through your chest, whenever he saw photographs of you with another man, he became unusually quiet.
His teammates noticed “You’re glaring at your phone,” one of them observed as Cale sat inside the locker room.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You look like you want to fight it.”
Cale locked the screen “It’s nothing.”
“Is that Y/N?”
Cale glanced sharply toward him “How do you know about Y/N?”
“You talk about her constantly.”
“I do not.”
“You told us she broke her arm when she was eleven.”
“She fell out of a tree.”
“You also told us she hates raisins, collects old postcards, and once dressed as a traffic cone for Halloween.”
“She lost a bet.”
“Sure.”
Cale frowned.
The photograph was still burned into his mind, you were standing beside a man at a friend’s wedding, smiling while the man’s hand rested against the small of your back. Cale had spent years convincing himself that he had time.
Time to become settled, time to understand what he could offer you, time to find the courage to risk the most important friendship he had ever known.
But perhaps time was exactly what he had been losing.
The following summer, Cale returned to Calgary earlier than expected, you discovered this when someone knocked on your apartment door at eight in the morning.
You opened it wearing an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, your hair tangled around your shoulders, Cale stood in the hallway with two coffees and a paper bag.
You stared at him “What are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“You said you weren’t coming home until next week.”
“I changed my flight.”
“Why?”
He lifted the bag “I brought breakfast.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I missed you.” Your irritation disappeared immediately.
You stepped aside.
Cale walked into the apartment as though he belonged there, placing the coffee on your kitchen counter before examining the photographs attached to your refrigerator.
Most of them included him, birthday parties. Graduations. Summer trips. His first visit after college. A photograph of you on his back after he had carried you across a muddy field.
Then he saw the newest one.
You stood at the wedding beside the same man from the photograph online “Who’s that?” Cale asked.
You followed his gaze “Daniel.”
“Daniel who?”
You raised an eyebrow “Are you interrogating me?”
“No.”
“You sound like you are.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“We met a few months ago.”
“Are you dating?”
You turned toward the coffee, hoping he wouldn’t notice your expression “We’ve been out a couple times.”
Cale’s jaw tightened “You never told me.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I’m never too busy for you.”
The familiarity of those words made your chest ache “You don’t have to know everything about my life, Cale.”
“I thought I did.”
“So did I.”
He fell silent, the tension between you was unusual and uncomfortable, you pulled two breakfast sandwiches from the bag “You brought bacon.”
“You like bacon.”
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything about you.”
You looked at him, Cale appeared to realize what he had said, but instead of retreating, he held your gaze, your phone vibrated against the counter. Daniel’s name appeared on the screen, Cale’s eyes dropped toward it “Are you seeing him today?”
“He asked me to dinner.”
“Don’t go.” The words came so quickly that you thought you had misunderstood “What?” Cale swallowed “Don’t go to dinner with him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like him.”
“You haven’t met him.”
“I don’t need to.”
You stared at him in disbelief “You don’t get to come home unexpectedly and decide you don’t like someone simply because I went on two dates with him.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re acting ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“Cale.”
“I know.” He dragged a hand through his hair and turned away, you had watched Cale face crowded arenas, endless interviews, and some of the most intimidating athletes in the world without appearing afraid.
But standing inside your kitchen, he looked terrified “I saw the photograph from the wedding,” he admitted.
“What photograph?”
“The one where he had his hand on you.”
Understanding dawned slowly “Are you jealous?”
Cale released a breath “Yes.”
Your heart began pounding “You’re jealous.”
“I’ve been jealous for years.”
You forgot how to breathe, Cale stepped closer, though he still left space between you “Every boyfriend. Every date. Every man who looked at you and understood immediately what I was too afraid to admit.”
Your voice emerged as a whisper “Admit what?” his eyes met yours “That I’m in love with you.”
The room became completely still “You’re in love with me?”
“I think I always have been.”
Your eyes burned “You can’t say that.”
Cale’s expression fell “Why not?”
“Because I’ve spent years trying to stop loving you.”
The pain disappeared from his face, replaced by stunned hope “You love me?”
You laughed unsteadily, wiping beneath your eyes “Of course I love you, Cale. I’ve loved you since we were teenagers.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The day I left for college.”
You remembered his bedroom. The half-packed suitcases. His nervous expression before his phone rang “That’s what you were going to say?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me later?”
“Because you seemed happy. Then I was playing all the time, and everything was changing, and I didn’t know whether asking you to be part of my life would be fair.”
“You were already part of mine.”
“I know that now.”
You shook your head “We wasted so much time.”
Cale moved closer “We don’t have to waste any more.”
Your chest tightened “What if this ruins everything?”
“You’re already everything.” The words broke through the final pieces of hesitation you had been carrying for years, Cale lifted his hand slowly, giving you enough time to stop him. His fingers touched your cheek, warm and slightly unsteady “Can I kiss you?”
You had imagined this moment in a hundred different ways, at school dances, in airport terminals, at your childhood home while snow fell outside.
None of your imagined versions included tangled hair, cold coffee, or a paper bag of breakfast sandwiches sitting between you, somehow, the reality was better “You took long enough,” you whispered.
Cale laughed softly before kissing you, the first touch of his lips was gentle and careful, as though he still couldn’t believe you were allowing it, then your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer.
Cale kissed you again.
Years of stolen glances, unfinished conversations, and feelings hidden beneath friendship disappeared in a single breath, when you separated, his forehead rested against yours “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that.”
“Probably fewer times than I have.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
You smiled “You’re still not getting credit for waiting twelve years.”
“I was trying to be respectful.”
“You were being an idiot.”
“That too.”
Your phone vibrated again, Cale glanced toward it “Daniel?”
“Probably.”
He looked worried “You should answer.”
“I’ll text him later.”
“You don’t have to cancel because of me.”
“I’m not canceling because of you.” You touched his cheek “I’m canceling because I was only going out with him to convince myself I could move on.”
Cale’s gaze softened “And can you?”
“Apparently not.”
“Good.”
You narrowed your eyes “Don’t sound so pleased.”
“I’m extremely pleased.”
You kissed him again before he could continue, telling your families should have felt significant, instead, it was humiliating “You owe me fifty dollars,” Cale’s brother announced the moment you walked into the Makar family home holding hands.
Their mother gasped.
“You bet on us?”
“I said it would happen before Cale turned thirty.”
Cale stared at him “That isn’t supportive.”
“I’ve been waiting since middle school.”
Your mother was no better “You finally told her?” she asked Cale.
You looked between them “You knew?”
“Honey, everyone knew.”
“We didn’t know,” you protested.
“That was the problem.”
Dating Cale was surprisingly similar to being his best friend, he still stole food from your plate, you still reminded him of birthdays and appointments, he still called after road games, although now he ended every conversation by telling you he loved you.
There were differences too.
His hand found yours whenever you were near, he kissed your forehead when he passed behind you and after years of sleeping in separate rooms during visits, you finally understood how comforting it was to fall asleep beside the person who had known you nearly your entire life.
Several months later, you found Cale sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom, you were spending Christmas with your family, and he had disappeared while everyone gathered downstairs “What are you doing?” you asked.
Cale looked up from an old box “Your mom said our school pictures were in here.”
“You’re snooping.”
“She gave me permission.”
You sat beside him, photographs covered the carpet, there was one from your first day of school. Another from your thirteenth birthday. One showed Cale asleep against your shoulder during a family road trip.
He picked up a photograph from the winter formal.
You hadn’t attended the dance, but your mother had apparently taken a picture of the two of you before Cale left, you were fixing his tie. Cale was looking at you as though there was no one else in the room “I loved you then,” he said quietly.
You leaned your head against his shoulder “I know.”
“You know now.”
“I think some part of me knew then too.”
He searched through the box before pulling out something tangled beneath a stack of old birthday cards, a faded friendship bracelet, the threads were crooked and nearly colorless with age.
Cale smiled “You kept it.”
“Of course I kept it.”
“It looks terrible.”
“It’s unique.”
He laughed, recognizing his own childhood defense, you took the bracelet and tied it carefully around his wrist. It was too small now, so it rested loosely across two of his fingers “You know,” you said, “you promised we’d be best friends forever when you gave me that.”
“I remember.”
“You kept your promise.”
Cale looked at you with the same softness that had been there when he was nine years old, sitting beside you on the curb with fruit snacks between you “I intend to keep it for the rest of my life.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
He kissed you slowly, surrounded by photographs documenting every version of the two of you, children, teenagers, best friends.
Two people who had spent years circling the truth without realizing that love had been growing quietly between them the entire time.
Cale had been there for scraped knees, school dances, college departures, career changes, and everything in between, he had always been the person you searched for first, the person who felt like home.
Falling in love with him had not happened suddenly, it had happened in hockey arenas and snowstorms, in stolen cookies and late-night phone calls, in every goodbye that hurt too much and every reunion that felt too easy.
You had not fallen in love with Cale all at once, you had fallen slowly.
Softly.
And then forever.
Routine
Cale Makar x Reader
Summary: Cale doesn't know how to handle you interrupting his morning routine. [word count: 1k]
Warnings: mature - reference to explicit content | fluff
Author's note: there's a sincere lack of 🥬 x reader so I guess I'm writing what I want to see lol
It was his fault. He kept you up late last night. He couldn't blame you for the way you clung to the pillow, drool pooling on the soft cotton, blanket haphazardly flung across your bare skin, and hair forming a knotty halo around your head. Much like he was last night, this morning he was struck by your beauty, no matter how much of a drooling mess you were.
Cale sighed to himself, gnawing on his lip as he made himself turn away from you, wondering if he should wait for you to wake up, or simply just make you a warm tea to entice you out of bed. As much as he loves you, it felt like an itch on the inside of his skull as he realised the only way he could make his bed to finalise his morning routine was if you were out of the bed in question.
Every morning, Cale followed a simple yet non-negotiable routine - wake up, eat, wash his dishes, and make his bed. It was not up for debate, or at least, it never had been before.
Rationally, he knew it would be fine if he didn't make the bed, that your sleep would always be more important, especially if he was the cause of your lack of sleep. And yet, it felt like an effort to get himself out of his bedroom and to his kitchen.
Sipping from his smoothie, Cale breathed deeply and attempted to distract himself by tidying his kitchen bench. There was nothing to clean. Furrowing his brows, he swept his eyes over the living room, free of clutter.
He was home late after his game last night, but you were still there from before he left, from when you and he wrestled, played, and made a mess of the house. When he arrived home, he hadn't noticed that you had tidied everything up in his haste to ravish you in celebration of his win.
Cale felt his heart swell. He knew that even though you weren't a particularly messy person, you definitely didn't enjoy cleaning in the same way he did. You were comfortable with clutter in a way that he has never been before.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, turning to see you shuffling out from the hallway, wrapped in the comfort of his bedshirt that he didn't actually sleep in last night, with comically fuzzy socks that he was sure would make you slip on the hardwood floors at one point or another.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he cooed affectionately, watching you as you grabbed the blanket from the couch, pulling it over you with a small grumble. You shuffled towards him in the kitchen, bumping your forehead against the hard plains of his chest, sighing contentedly and snuggling a little closer into his warmth.
“G’ mornin’,” you yawned out. He carded his fingers through your messy hair, catching at your chin and lifting so he could meet your gaze. You smiled warmly as he leaned down to kiss you deeply, hungrily, swallowing your little moans that pulsed through his system. He pulled away, knowing that he didn't have time to delve into your flesh this morning and risk being late.
“Did I wake you?” You shook your head.
“No, my alarm went off. I wanted to make sure I saw you before you left for practice today.” He smiled, and just like it always did when he looked at you like that, your heart skipped a beat. “Have to give you a good luck kiss, don't I?”
“It’s just practice,” his cheeks reddened. For the life of you, you couldn't understand how he could be so shy when you complimented him when he could unravel you shamelessly and without restraint in the container of the bedroom.
“Well, you need practice luck, too.” You kissed him again, shorter this time, before shuffling over to make yourself a tea. “I was thinking I could whip something up for us to eat tonight? Make a little date of it?”
“Sounds amazing, I'll pick up some wine on the way home,” he nodded, heat blooming in his chest at the ways in which you looked after him. Checking his watch, Cale quickly made his way to the bedroom to make the bed.
“Could you pick up a white wine? I think that'll pair really nicely with what I have in mind.” You called out to him, pretending that you weren't overtly checking out his ass.
“Anything for you, beautiful,” he called back. “Can I grab you anythi-”
He stopped short, looking at the bed. The already made bed, sheets and blankets folded exactly the way he liked it, the corners tucked in all the right ways, the pillows fluffed and placed to perfection, and without a wrinkle in sight.
“Sorry, what was that?” He distantly heard you respond. Cale was too stunned that you remembered every detail, that you even bothered to do this for him, especially when he knew for a fact you didn't really care to make your own bed back at your apartment.
You were sipping from your mug when he walked back in the kitchen, removing the mug from your hands and placing it on the counter before he grabbed your face with both hands and pulled your lips in to meet his in the middle. You didn't hesitate to answer him in kind, working your mouth against his with muffled moans of pleasure, gripping his shirt to keep from toppling over from the force of his kiss. Cale's large hands still framed your face as the two of you separated, breathless yet wanting more.
“What was that for?” You puffed out, wishing he never stopped.
“You made the bed.” Cale answered firmly. You cocked an eyebrow in turn.
“Is that all it takes? If I had known sooner, I'd do it every time I sleep over.” He grinned, pressing his lips to your forehead. You shrugged, “I figured it's important to you since it's the first thing you do in the morning.”
“I love you.” Cale's soothing voice whispered over you, lighting you up from the inside out.
“I love you, too.”
Cale Makar request, having to ask or practically even beg him to go harder in bed. He’s not overly gentle but it’s never enough and you need more from him
first cale smut ever i think :3 nsfw content below
you don’t know when it started driving you crazy like this. maybe the fifth or sixth time you ended up beneath him, his messy blond hair falling across his forehead and his cheeks flushed warm with that permanent rosy glow. maybe it was earlier, when you realized cale makar could make love to you with such devotion you forgot how to breathe, but still somehow never quite give you the depth, the pressure, the pace you craved. he wasn’t timid, never that—just careful. just adoring. just so focused on keeping the moment sweet that he sometimes held himself back without even realizing.
tonight, though, your body is aching for more. he’s above you with his forehead resting gently against your cheek, blue eyes soft and half-lidded as he moves inside you with slow, tender strokes that make your chest tighten but leave you wanting something deeper. his hands cradle your hips like he’s handling something delicate, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin as he whispers your name like it’s the only word he’s ever needed to learn. it’s beautiful, it always is, but the want twisting low in your stomach keeps tightening, and you finally let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
“cale,” you murmur, fingers slipping into his hair, tugging lightly at the soft strands just to get him to look at you. he lifts his head at once, cheeks flushed, breath warm against your lips as he asks if you’re alright. that’s what undoes you—the earnestness, the care, the way he would stop everything if you asked.
“I am,” you whisper, guiding his hips with your legs. “i just… need more. a little harder. please, baby.”
his eyes widen in the faintest flicker of surprise, not because he doesn’t want to give it to you, but because he never wants to overstep. you feel him hesitate for one heartbeat as if recalibrating, as if making sure he’s hearing you correctly, and then something gentle and determined settles across his features. he leans down to kiss you slow and warm, his lips brushing yours like a promise.
“if you want more,” he says softly, “i’ll give you more.”
he adjusts his grip on your hips, fingers sinking a little deeper, grounding you while he draws back and pushes into you with more pressure, more intention. still tender, still achingly intimate, but now there’s weight behind it, a rhythm that sends heat curling up your spine. you gasp into his mouth, and the sound makes his breath hitch. he watches you closely, not possessive, not rough, just deeply attuned—like every shift of your body is something he’s memorizing in real time.
“like that?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper as he moves with more purpose, letting his hips meet yours with the fuller, deeper motion you’d been begging for.
“yes… yes, just like that,” you manage, nails dragging lightly down his back. “don’t hold back on me tonight.”
his cheeks flush even deeper—rosy and warm, blooming all the way to the tips of his ears. you can feel the way your words melt something inside him. he kisses you again, slower this time, as if trying to anchor himself before he lets go even a little more.
“i never want to be too much for you,” he murmurs against your cheek, breath shivering as he thrusts deeper. “but if you need me to go harder… then i want to. i want to give you everything you’re asking for.”
he does, inch by inch, giving you exactly the amount of pressure and depth you crave without ever losing that soft, reverent way he touches you. his pace builds only when he hears the way your breath falters, when your hips rise to meet his, when your hands grip his shoulders like you’re afraid he might stop. he presses his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut as he exhales your name like a prayer.
“still feeling good, baby?" he whispers, voice warm and earnest in your ear.
it does. god, it does, and you tell him so, over and over, until he can’t hold back the quiet, breathless sounds he makes only for you—those little broken sighs, those soft murmurs of your name that tremble with affection. he keeps you close as he moves, chests pressed together, bodies locked in a rhythm that’s finally exactly what you needed.
he’s still loving you, still touching you like you’re precious—but now he’s giving you all of himself too. all that quiet strength, all that unspoken want, all that steady devotion that makes you feel like you’re the only person in his world.
and when you tighten around him, pulling him deeper with a whispered plea for more, cale shudders against your mouth and murmurs, breathless and sincere, “anything you want… i’m right here. i won’t stop until you tell me to.”
love and big feelings dad!cale makar x mom!reader wc: 2.7k warnings: sad cale, VERY angsty, mentions of pressure from fans, not proofread ):
The front door opens with a soft crack. Cale lets out a soft sigh the second he’s crossed the threshold, toeing his shoes off, placing them neatly on the shoe rack. He drops his things in the entrance, closing his eyes for a second, savoring the quiet of the house.
And then he hears you.
“Oh sweet girl,” you laugh softly, and he hears little baby cooing noises too. “Daddy’s home, are you excited? I heard the door.”
Cale smiles, and heads in the direction of the nursery. The door’s open, soft light spilling into the hallway from the lamp next to the rocking chair. He stands in the doorway for a few seconds, just looking at you, and your baby girl. Your hair is thrown up into a bun on the top of your head, you’re wearing an old shirt of his, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.
You look up when he arrives, your squirmy one month old cradled safely in your arms. Sophie’s wearing a navy blue sleeper, looking so comfortable and snuggly. Cale’s heart melts at the sight, immediately feeling all the tension and stress from the game melt from his body, replaced by a warm fuzziness starting in his heart, slowly spreading to the rest of his body.
“Hi my love,” you stand up and cross the room, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him. Cale’s hands find your hips, holding you close to him, chasing your lips as you fall back to your heels. “We missed you, and we’re really happy you’re home. Someone didn’t want to fall asleep.”
Cale sighs again, but this time it’s content, dropping his forehead to rest against yours. He gazes down at his baby girl, suspended lovingly and safely between her parents. She’s smiling softly up at the both of you, eyelids drooping as she fights sleep.
He moves his arms to be under Sophie, and you carefully transfer your little girl into her daddy’s arms. Cale’s entire demeanor softens the second he’s holding her, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her little forehead. You melt as you watch Sophie yawn and snuggle into Cale’s chest, her big eyes fluttering closed. She lets out a tiny huff, and then she’s fast asleep.
You look up to meet Cale’s eyes, but his gaze lingers on your daughter for another second. When he finally does make eye contact with you, his eyes are shining with unshed tears, holding Sophie as close to himself as possible.
“Wanna go lay down?” you ask. Cale nods, and you place your hand on his back, leading him to your bedroom.
The Avalanche won tonight, but it was hard-fought. A close call. Cale doesn’t like close calls, especially if he feels like he could’ve done something about it. You know that he’s struggling right now, and not just mentally. You saw him take a hit from a Minnesota player and wince, wince hard. Harder than he should’ve for a hit of that size. He skated off to the locker room, effectively putting your heart in your throat, but then he was back for OT.
Even now, holding Sophie. He’s got her in both arms, of course, but he’s supporting the majority of her weight with his right arm instead of his left.
He settles down on his side of the bed, adjusting Sophie so that her perfect chubby cheek is smushed into his shoulder, one of her little hands clutching the fabric of his shirt. You climb into bed next to him, pulling the duvet over your laps, snuggling close to him.
You look at him for a long moment, study the set of his brow, the stiffness in his jaw. His eyes are on yours, but there’s a distance to them, like he’s not fully here. His mind is still back in Ball Arena, analyzing every movement he and his teammates made on the ice. Yes, the Avalanche won, but the game wasn’t easy. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t luck that won them the game, not at all, but it took the team a while to pick things up and get their act together tonight.
Usually, you tell Cale to leave it in the car. Especially since Sophie was born, you want him to be focused on Sophie, and on you. Not on hockey and the way a certain game went. “The past is in the past” is what you always tell him, and so far he’s been pretty good at it.
But tonight, you do something different.
“What’re you thinking?” your voice is quiet, careful not to disturb the peace and calm of your home. “Talk to me, baby.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just stares ahead at the TV above your dresser, turned off. He rests his cheek on Sophie’s head gently, rubbing her tiny back with his thumb. You can see the tears pooling in Cale’s eyes, the ones you know he won’t let fall. In all the years you’ve known him, all the years you’ve loved him and told him that it’s okay, you’ve only seen him cry two times.
Once at your wedding, when you were walking down the aisle in the most perfect dress.
Once the day Sophie was born. Her first little cry rang out in the hospital room, and tears were already streaming down his face. When the nurse laid Sophie in his arms, he was a blubbering mess.
Being a hockey player has changed Cale, in more ways than one. And that’s one of those ways.
“My brain is tired,” he says, voice quiet. His eyes are on the TV, locked onto the reflection of the three of you.
“Your brain is tired?” you repeat. His bottom lip wobbles, and your heart cracks a little bit at the sight of it. You reach a hand up to scratch the short hairs at the nape of his neck, hating anything and anyone who caused the look of distress on his face. “I’m here for you, Cale. Tell me what you feel.”
It takes him another few seconds to gather his words, and his courage. He shifts so he’s cradling Sophie in his arms, looking down at her sweet little face. Cale sniffs and hitches her a little bit higher on his chest.
“I’m hurt. It’s my shoulder, maybe my collarbone, I’m not sure. I lied and told everyone that I was fine and that I’m doing great but I’m not,” his voice is shaky, shoulders bunched up by his ears. There’s anxiety written over his entire demeanor, but he’s still talking. “I’m not the best player on the team, and I know that. But I also know that everyone relies on me. The team, the fans. I just… I don’t want to let anyone down.”
“Oh honey….” Tears have sprung to your eyes as well, heart aching for your husband. You kind of knew he felt this way, at least a little bit, but you didn’t think it was this bad. Cale’s usually so calm, collected. And the fact that he’s been playing injured? “Why haven’t you said anything? To me, or to your coach? Or any of the guys?”
Cale finally looks at you, eyes rimmed in red. “I don’t want anyone worrying about me.”
That’s it. You sit up, swinging your leg over his lap and sitting down. Once again, Sophie is nestled between you both, safe and warm and comfortable. Cale’s holding her close to his heart, as if giving himself strength, seeking comfort in your beautiful bundle of joy.
You cradle his face in your hands, looking at him for a long second, trying your hardest not to cry. “Cale Makar, you are my husband,” you tell him, voice steady, bordering on stern. “You are my husband and I love you, with all my heart. You are the father of my daughter, a wonderful man, and the only person I could ever imagine spending my life with. There is nothing in this world that is more important to me than you and Sophie. Your happiness is important to me, your health is important to me. I know… I know I tell you to leave hockey at the rink, but if you need to talk to me you can. If you need advice, we can talk things through. I don’t want you hurting yourself, physically or mentally, because you feel like you have to do it all yourself. You don’t. I’m here for you, my love. Always.”
Cale nods slowly, looking down at Sophie again, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears. All he says is, “I’m sorry.”
“No, no!” You use your thumb to tilt his head back up, and kiss the tip of his nose. Then both his cheeks, his forehead, and finally his lips. It’s a soft kiss, one full of love and care and as much support as you could possibly show him. You taste saltiness in the kiss, and realize that Cale’s crying. You pull away to find him keeping his eyes closed, shame evident on his face. “Don’t ever apologize. Not for this. I want you to get your head out of that mindset, stop thinking about other people. Think about yourself, honey, and how you feel.”
“I can’t help it,” he says, voice small. “I just want everyone to be happy. I want Bednar to be happy, I want the fans to be happy, I want the guys to be happy. Most of all, I want you and Sophie to be happy. I don’t want to burden you with things that aren’t your problem.”
You sigh, softly stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. “Your problems are my problems, in the same way mine are yours. We’re married, Cale. We do life together, right? When I tell you not to bring work home, I mean things like a petty argument with Devon, or one particular shot that didn’t go in the net. Not things like this, things that matter. You’re hurt, and you kept playing.”
Cale huffs. “Lots of guys do it.”
“I don’t care,” you tell him, leaning in to kiss him again. When you pull back, you shuffle a bit closer, sandwiching Sophie tighter between you, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Cale Makar, you are important. Not just as a good defenseman, as a hockey player, but as yourself. Not just as Sophie’s dad, or my husband, but as Cale. You need to prioritize yourself, and how you feel.”
He’s quiet for a few minutes, and you can tell by the look on his face that he’s taking in what you’re saying. Digesting it, unpacking it, thinking it through. He glances down at Sophie a few times, how peaceful she looks, sleeping in her daddy’s arms. Cale told you last week that being a father is the most fulfilling thing he’s ever experienced. He’s won a Stanley Cup, the most coveted award in Sports, and he’s never felt more joy or love than when looking at his daughter.
When you were pregnant, a few of the guys told him that he would feel like this. That there’s nothing quite like being a father. And even though he knew it would be true, that just placing a hand on your belly made his heart swell with love and pride, nothing compares to Sophie being here, in his arms.
“I’m gonna call Bednar… in the morning,” he still sounds unsure, but he said it, put it out into the world. “Tell him I need to get checked out by the team doctor. Officially. And I’m going to be honest.”
You smile. “Thank you.”
“And then… and then I’m going to come home. I’m going to hold Sophie, and help you take care of her. I’m going to tell you how I’m feeling, everything.”
Sophie starts squirming, and you lean back to give her some space. Her little face is scrunched, her lips moving like she’s trying to get milk out of your boob, and you both laugh a little bit at the sight. Cale sighs, but it’s not heavy with the weight of the pressure placed on his shoulders. It’s happy.
“Are you hungry?” Cale asks rhetorically, his entire being lighting up when her eyes crack open. “Oh yes my love, let’s go get you a bottle.”
“Cale, I can take her,” you get off his lap and reach for Sophie. “You just got back from a game, go watch a movie or read or something, relax.”
He doesn’t hand Sophie over, just keeps her tight to his chest. “No, um… I’d… I want to feed her. I missed her tonight and I wanna spend time with her. You can go to sleep, you waited up for me. I’ll get her to bed, too.”
You’re hesitant, but you can see the need to be with his daughter plain as day on his face, so you press a kiss to Sophie’s cheek, and to your husband’s, and nod. “Okay honey. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will,” he says, getting off the bed, careful not to jostle Sophie too much.
“Promise?” you ask.
“I promise.”
You smile, and start getting under the covers as he leaves the bedroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen to start making Sophie a bottle.
Even from all the way upstairs, you can hear him talking to her, and hear her cooing in response. Cale had a rough night, has had a rough couple of nights, and even though it’s a work in progress, you can already tell that things are going to be better. that he’s going to be able to talk to you, tell you how he’s feeling and what he’s thinking.
If you got your way, the two of you would be settling down on the couch, Sophie in bed, both of you with a mug of tea in your hand. But you know that’s not what he needs right now. You’ll get that talk later, maybe tomorrow, or the day after that.
But right now, Cale needs to be with his baby girl. And that’s okay.
Sometimes with Cale, he just needs to hear the words. Needs to be told that it’s okay to do certain things, like feeling his feelings and talking them out. It’s going to be hard, and there’s going to be a lot of trial and error, but it’s a start. Tonight, you gave him the permission. He doesn’t actually need it, of course, but in his mind he does.
You know that your husband is a prized player on the Colorado Avalanche, and you’re so incredibly proud of him. He’s worked hard his entire life for this, and to be on such a successful team is wonderful. However, sometimes you wish he cared a little bit less. Just to ease his own conscience.
You know that’ll never happen, though. He tries to act like it’s not true, but Cale Makar has big feelings, he loves a lot and he loves hard. His first love was hockey, and then you, and now Sophie. But just because he loves you and Sophie doesn’t mean he loves hockey any less. In fact, you think he might love it more. He wants to make you proud. Wants you to be proud of his achievements, of how good he does.
That’s just another reason you love him, though. As you get out of bed and tiptoe to the top of the stairs, you think about how lucky you are to have him. You sit on the first step and listen to him talk to Sophie, tell her how much he loves her, how perfect she is.
Cale doesn’t do anything halfway. And even though sometimes you think it’s okay if he takes a few steps back, you’ll always respect his love and dedication for everything he does, especially hockey.
He’ll get there, you know he will. Eventually he’ll be able to tell you what’s wrong right away, and won’t hesitate to confide in you. Things have gotten a bit more complicated since Sophie was born, and you’re both still adjusting to life as new parents. You’re making progress, and that’s what matters.
“We’re so lucky we have Mommy, huh Soph?” Cale asks, voice quiet in the tranquil kitchen. “She’s the best. I don’t think anyone’s loved me quite like Mommy loves me. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
Tears come to your eyes for the second time tonight, but this time they’re tears of happiness.
Cale thinks he’s the lucky one? He clearly has no idea just how lucky you are.
a/n: this kinda went off the rails at the end and i'm not sure how much i like it, but i really like the concept of dad!cale! i'd love to write more for this little family, i think cale and sophie together are so cute (: i haven't read this all the way through since writing it, but i'm really tired and wanted to post it, so here you go! i hope everyone enjoys it <3
cale the boxer
SCP round 2 game 1 / MIN @ COL / may 2, 2026
Cale Makar where they're bothawkward and bad at flirting but like once they realize they're into each other insanely devoted :) love your writing btw
requests are open | navigation
Cale is not good at flirting.
This is not a secret. It is, in fact, a problem.
He is good at many things—reading plays, staying late, remembering small details about people without making a show of it. He is attentive in a way that feels accidental, like he doesn’t realize how much he’s doing until it’s already too late and everyone else has noticed.
Everyone except you.
You are also bad at flirting, which makes the situation untenable.
It starts quietly, the way these things always do. You’re around the team more often than you used to be—shared dinners, late practices, rides home when it’s snowing too hard to bother separating cars. You and Cale end up beside each other constantly, like someone keeps arranging you that way and forgetting to tell either of you why.
He always sits next to you.
Not obviously. Not decisively. Just—if there’s a choice, he drifts your way. If you move, he adjusts. If you’re already seated, he takes the empty chair beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You notice. You don’t assume.
“Did you want this seat?” he asks one night, already halfway into it.
“Oh—no, yeah, it’s fine,” you say too quickly. “I mean—yeah, you can sit.”
He smiles. It’s small, polite, soft. “Okay.”
And then neither of you speaks for several minutes.
This becomes a pattern.
He brings you coffee sometimes, always the same order, never commenting on the fact that he knows it. You thank him every time like it’s a surprise. You ask how practice was. He asks how your day went. You both give answers that are detailed but carefully unremarkable, like you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing when there is, objectively, nothing at stake.
Except there is.
Everyone else sees it.
“Nobody has ever needed to kiss more than those two,” Nate says one afternoon, watching Cale lean in to hear you better, his hand braced on the counter just beside yours, close enough to feel.
“Are they dating?” someone else asks.
“No,” Necas says flatly. “They would combust.”
You and Cale exist in a constant state of near-misses.
Hands brushing when you pass things. Knees touching under tables. Long conversations that mean something and nothing at the same time. Late nights where it’s just the two of you, sitting side by side, talking about everything except the obvious.
You learn things about him that feel intimate without being romantic. That he hates small talk but does it anyway. That he replays conversations in his head afterward, wondering if he said something wrong. That he gets overwhelmed by noise and likes quiet places best.
He learns things about you the same way—carefully, gently. Your favorite walking route. The way you think better out loud. The fact that you downplay your own accomplishments instinctively, like you don’t want to take up too much space.
Neither of you ever crosses the line.
It’s maddening.
“Do you like her?” Devon asks him outright one night.
Cale freezes. “I—what?”
Devon stares at him. “Cale.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean. Yeah. Obviously.”
“Then why haven’t you done anything?”
Cale frowns. “I don’t want to make it weird.”
“It’s already weird.”
“Good weird,” Cale says immediately, then flushes. “I mean—comfortable weird.”
Devon sighs. “You’re impossible.”
You’re having a similar conversation across town.
“Are you into him?” your sister asks, exasperated.
You stare at the ceiling. “I think so.”
“Think so?”
“Yes?”
“You talk about him like he hung the moon.”
You groan. “I don’t know how to tell if he feels the same.”
“He sits next to you like it’s gravitational,” she says. “He brings you coffee. He listens to you like you’re the only person in the room.”
You hesitate. “What if that’s just… him?”
She stares at you. “I am begging you to open your eyes.”
The realization doesn’t hit like a lightning strike.
It arrives slowly, then all at once.
It’s a late night, quiet, the kind that feels suspended in time. You and Cale are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, conversation dwindling into comfortable silence. He’s scrolling on his phone. You’re half-watching something you’ve both already seen.
You look at him—and it’s like something in your chest shifts.
The way his hair falls into his eyes. The way his foot taps faintly when he’s thinking. The way he keeps glancing at you, like he’s checking you’re still there.
Oh.
The word settles, heavy and undeniable.
Oh.
You like him. Not casually. Not in a vague, someday way.
You like him like this—like your chest feels too small to hold it.
You inhale sharply without meaning to.
“You okay?” he asks immediately.
You turn to him. Your heart is pounding. “Can I ask you something?”
He straightens. “Yeah. Of course.”
You hesitate. He watches you like he’s bracing for impact.
“Do you ever,” you begin, then stop. Try again. “Do you ever feel like you’re holding something back because you’re afraid of ruining something good?”
His breath catches. “All the time.”
You meet his eyes. They’re open, earnest, terrified.
“Me too,” you say.
Silence stretches between you. It’s different now—charged, fragile.
Cale swallows. “Is this about… us?”
Your voice comes out small. “Is there an us?”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hope so.”
The confession is clumsy. Awkward. Perfect.
He admits he didn’t think you could possibly feel the same. You admit you thought his kindness was just politeness. You both laugh at how wrong you were, how long it took.
“I’m really into you,” he says finally, like he’s stating a fact he’s double-checked.
You smile, overwhelmed. “I’m really into you too.”
When he kisses you, it’s hesitant at first—like he’s asking permission even now. You answer by leaning in, closing the distance fully, finally.
It’s soft. Then it’s not.
Once it clicks, it clicks completely.
You fall into each other like you’ve been waiting years to stop holding back. It’s intense in its gentleness—hands always finding, always reassuring. Love that is quiet but total, steady and consuming all at once.
Everyone notices immediately.
“Oh thank god,” Nate says when he sees you together for the first time. “I was losing years off my life.”
Cale just smiles, unabashed now, arm firmly around your waist.
Later, when it’s just the two of you, he presses his forehead to yours.
“I can’t believe we almost missed this,” he murmurs.
You lace your fingers with his. “We didn’t.”
“No,” he agrees, holding you like something precious. “We didn’t.”
And it feels—finally—like exactly where you’re meant to be.
bonus:
The family skate is chaos in the way only something well-intentioned can be.
Kids wobble past clutching helmets two sizes too big. Parents cling to the boards with the quiet desperation of people who underestimated ice. Music plays too loud, laughter echoing off the glass, the rink full of movement and noise and warmth.
You’re lacing your skates when Cale crouches beside you, already done, helmet tucked under his arm.
“Do you want me to—?” he starts, gesturing vaguely at your laces.
“Oh—no, it’s okay, I’ve got it,” you say, immediately fumbling one anyway.
He smiles. “Okay. Just—tell me if you want help.”
You look up at him. “I will.”
You both freeze for half a second, like you’re still getting used to how easily that comes now.
On the ice, you stay close without even thinking about it.
Not in a showy way. Just—naturally. His hand finds yours. Your shoulder bumps his when you laugh. You forget to watch where you’re going because you’re too busy watching him.
“Careful,” he murmurs, guiding you gently away from a kid flying past.
“Wow,” you say. “You’d think you’ve done this before.”
He grins. “A little.”
You skate in slow circles, talking about nothing—what song is playing, how cold it is, how ridiculous the little kids look. At some point, you stop skating entirely and just stand there, foreheads touching, his gloves warm around your hands.
“You’re very distracting,” you tell him.
He ducks his head, embarrassed even now. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Across the rink, someone groans loudly.
“Are you kidding me,” Nate says, loud enough for several people to hear. “This is nauseating.”
Devon skates by, shakes his head. “They’re worse than we imagined.”
Necas doesn’t even slow down. “I hate this,” he says flatly. Then, after a beat, “Also, how did it take them this long?”
You laugh into Cale’s shoulder. “We’re being judged.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered, arms sliding comfortably around your waist. “I think we’ve earned it.”
“You’re insufferable now,” you say fondly.
He smiles at you—open, unguarded, like he’s stopped wondering if he’s allowed to be this happy. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
Later, when the rink starts to clear and the noise fades into a softer hum, you sit together on the bench, skates dangling, his arm draped around your shoulders like it’s always belonged there.
“I still can’t believe it took us this long,” you admit.
He presses a kiss to your temple. “I think we needed to be really sure.”
You lean into him. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He tightens his hold just slightly. “Me neither.”
From across the rink, someone makes a gagging noise.
Cale laughs, tucking you closer anyway, utterly unapologetic—two people who finally figured it out and have no intention of pretending otherwise.
cale makar eating cookie .gif
