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.”
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
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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.
OKAY LAST ONE I SWEAR!! can i pls req a wake up kiss w/ cale makar?
he's so pookie pie :))
[ wake up ] a loving kiss to wake the partner up. from these kiss prompts. part of my mini writing event, now closed!
cale makar x reader, rated g. all fluff! cale birthday post (idk when his bday is but roll w it)
with steady hands you carry your small, homemade birthday cake into the bedroom. cale is still sleeping, soft snores escaping him, his hair messy against the pillow. you balance the plate in one hand, lean down to his face and whisper, "happy birthday."
your lips brush his cheek, then the bridge of his nose, before you finally kiss him properly. cale stirs, his eyes fluttering as a low, sleepy grunt bubbles up from his chest.
you pull back when he opens his eyes, presenting the cake to your boyfriend. he sits up, one hand grasping weakly at your hip to pull you closer. you go easily, sink onto the bed, and hold out the plate.
"aw, babe," he says, soft, still groggy from sleep as he rubs his eyes. "you didn't have to-"
you cut him off, carefully taking a forkful of the cake and guiding it into his open mouth. he can't hide the bliss on his face, the smile he cracks upon tasting soft vanilla cake, rich buttercream, and fresh strawberries.
"good, isn't it," you remark, matching his smile.
cale nods, his fingers stealing the fork from your grip to give you a taste of the treat you worked so hard on.
please please pleaseee more cale makar smut. maybe something with “can you stay quiet if i take this call?” and it’s like a teammate calling him or something? and like reader tries to stay quiet but is just so desperate for him & can’t help making noise
nsfw content below
he barely gets his bag through the door before you’re on him, arms looped around his neck, mouth pressed to his in a kiss that’s all teeth and relief. cale laughs into it, soft and breathless, cheeks already flushed that pretty rosy shade he can never hide, his dirty blond hair mussed from travel and your fingers immediately sinking into it. he lifts you without thinking, hands sliding under your thighs as your bodies slot together like you’ve been missing parts of yourselves for the whole road trip. he pushes you back against the nearest surface, kissing you slow and deep at first, then with growing need as your hips roll against his, both of you giggling into each other’s mouths because you can’t believe he’s finally home. his hands wander beneath your shirt, warm and familiar, palms skating up your ribs as he murmurs how much he missed you, his voice going low when you tug his hips closer.
he kisses down your neck with that same soft laugh, like he can’t help it, like he’s overflowing with the kind of happiness that turns tender into hungry in a heartbeat. you feel his breath hitch when you tug his shirt up, fingers brushing his skin, and he presses you harder to the wall as his mouth finds the spot beneath your jaw that makes your legs tighten around him. his hand slips into your waistband, thumb tracing the heat between your thighs, gentle at first, almost reverent, before he pushes his fingers in slow circles that immediately have you melting against him. he whispers your name, nosing at your cheek, telling you he thought about you every night he was away, thought about touching you just like this, thought about how you sound when you’re falling apart for him.
you’re already gasping when his phone buzzes in his pocket, the vibration sharp against where your hips are pressed together. he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, fingers never stopping their maddening rhythm as he digs the phone out with his free hand. you catch the caller ID over his shoulder: devon, of course, and he gives a helpless little laugh that vibrates against your skin. “can you stay quiet if i take this call?” he murmurs, voice warm, affectionate, breath brushing your ear as his fingers slide deeper between your folds. “i really should answer, but i don’t want to stop touching you.” the way he says it—soft, almost shy—goes straight to your stomach, and you nod because you’ll promise anything as long as he keeps his hand exactly where it is.
he answers with his usual gentle tone, cheeks still flushed, trying to sound normal while you cling to him. his fingers move with more purpose now, slow but deep, stroking you in a way that makes your breath stutter, his thumb brushing over the most sensitive part of you with sweet, deliberate pressure. he tries to keep the conversation steady, murmuring little responses while his eyes flick to your face, watching every reaction you fail to swallow down. you bite your lip, trying to keep quiet, but your hips cant forward helplessly, chasing his touch, and the smallest sound escapes you—barely a whimper, but cale hears it, eyes going hot as he curls his fingers just right. devon says something that makes him laugh softly, the sound warm and unbothered, even as his hand works you closer to the edge.
you try to stay silent, you really do, but the pace of his fingers deepens, his thumb circling you exactly the way you need, and your breath catches in a way that isn’t quiet at all. cale’s eyes widen, blush spreading all the way to his ears as he presses the phone harder to his cheek, pretending he didn’t just hear you come undone beneath him. he mouths quiet, baby, with a little grin, even as he speeds up, clearly unable to resist how desperately you’re clinging to him. another gasp breaks from your throat, and he has to bite his lip to keep from reacting aloud, mumbling a quick, distracted “yeah, man, that sounds good” while you tremble around his fingers. his free hand holds you firmly by the hip, grounding you through the rising wave he’s coaxing out of you with steady, loving precision.
and then you’re shivering, tightening around him, unable to hold in the soft, choked sound that spills from your lips as you come, your face buried in his shoulder. cale’s breath catches audibly, and he has to turn away from the phone, pretending to cough to hide the noise he makes at the feeling of you falling apart in his hand. he finishes the call in a rush, cheeks blazing, voice a little too tight as he says he’ll call back later. the second he hangs up, he drops the phone, cups your face with his clean hand, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.
“i’m home now,” he murmurs against your lips, sliding his other hand up your back as you cling to him. “and i’m not done with you yet.”
Summary: Moving in with your boyfriend of 3 years may have just been your best decision yet
Pairing: Cale Makar x fem!reader
Word Count: 6.1k
Notes
christmas fic in almost june i feel insane
but idk it feels right for him
and who doesn't love some holiday cheer in the summer
i have never been to denver so i made shit up about real places so i am sorry if it is grossly inaccurate
just some sweet wholesome fluff :) enjoy
Saturday morning slips in soft and bright, sun sharpening the crystalline edges of last night’s snowfall and bouncing light across the kitchen tiles. You slip your toes into the memory of warmth, cushioned socks still hot from the dryer, and shuffle toward the counter where the French press waits. Outside the window Cale has carved himself into the landscape, beanie low, shovel flashing silver as he sends plumes of powder arcing over the driveway. His hair peeks out along his forehead, soaked through and darker at the ends, while the sharp winter air paints his already flushed cheeks into a deeper, almost comical rose. That weirdly adorable rosacea has always made him look like he just finished laughing too hard, even when he’s suit-and-tie serious about hockey.
The kettle sings. You pour and watch steam curl up into the kitchen air, the scent of hazelnut beans filling the house you both moved into three months ago. It still feels new, the unpacked boxes gone but the thrill of shared space lingering in every corner. Three years of being attached at some invisible hinge, pressed together through road trips and morning skate alarms, and now there’s a pile of matching slippers by the door, your fleece jacket draped over his Avalanche hoodie. Denver hasn’t truly decided whether to welcome you, but the snowflakes plastered to the window screens make it look like a snow globe that got shaken up just for you two.
You glance back outside and catch him grinning to himself between shovel strokes, breath fogging, eyes so vividly blue they seem lit from within. He’s been forcing that grin the last few days, trying to walk off the heaviness of not having his family here. The storms rolling over the Rockies locked airports shut, and his parents and siblings are stuck in Calgary. You’d heard him on the phone this morning, gentle voice trying to console his mom for not making it down for Christmas, quietly apologizing as if he could control weather systems. Hockey schedules have him occupied—morning skates, meetings, practices—but his shoulders have been tense lately, a little sloped when he thinks you’re not looking. He loves his team, loves this city, yet the idea of empty guest rooms during the holidays gnaws at him.
The front door groans open, a gust of biting air hitting the kitchen. Cale stomps snow from his boots, shovel thunking against the frame. “Driveway’s clear,” he announces, breathless delight mingling with a soft tremble of cold. “Neighborhood kids are out building a fort. Battle of Colorado happening on the sidewalk.”
He shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the chair back, and you are struck again by that stupidly endearing flush smeared across his cheeks and nose. It makes his light features more gentle, the angle of his jaw softened by warmth. He looks like winter itself met blush and decided to stay.
“God, you’re beautiful,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
He steps closer, smile tipping higher despite the red. “I’m literally a mess of ice.” He cups your waist and kisses your forehead hard enough to leave a chill. The coffee mug you’re holding tilts as he slides up to your lips, kissing you soft and sweet—and freeze-your-face-off cold.
“Cale!” You jerk back, scrunching your nose, huffing a laugh. “Your nose is freezing!” You rub at your face as if that will erase the sting, dramatic gasp and all.
He looks ridiculously pleased. “But did I mention the driveway’s clear?”
You poke his chest, still warm from layering though damp at the collar. “You could have warned me.”
“You love me.”
“Against my better judgment,” you tease, leaning into his chest regardless. He wraps his arms around your waist, something in that simple hold unfurling tension you didn’t realize you’d been carrying.
The coffee press hisses as it sinks, thick dark liquid pooling. You hand him a mug, watching as his fingers curl around the ceramic. He sighs into that first sip, eyes fluttering half closed. His lashes are still dusted with stray snow, and his hair sticks up in strands that will never lie flat without your interference. You reach up and thumb a lock into place, achingly aware that little domestic rituals like this are exactly what you’d always hoped for without knowing it.
“You know,” you start softly, “we’re still going to have a perfect holiday. Even if the dinner table only has two chairs occupied.” You glance toward the window, snow-laden pines shining under a shy sun. “We’ll FaceTime your family, watch your mom’s Christmas breakfast prep disaster happen in real time.”
He laughs, the sound bubbling with relief. “My mom would kill me if I told you about that disaster, but yes, exactly. We’ll duct tape the iPad to the counter so they can supervise.”
“I’m already planning the menu. Your cousin sent me her gingerbread recipe as a bribe to make sure you don’t get sad.”
His smile softens, and you can see the emotions shifting behind his eyes—gratitude, ache, excitement. “Three years,” he whispers, thumb rubbing circles over your back. “We moved in just in time for the biggest storm of the decade. I keep thinking how different it would’ve felt if we weren’t together.”
“We are together,” you say, tucking your chin against his chest. “In every storm.”
His heartbeat thuds steady, a metronome against your ear. Outside, snow drips from icicles, the day promising more brightness than the week that came before. Amid the scent of coffee and the distant noise of kids’ laughter filtering through double-paned windows, Cale presses another kiss to your forehead. “You make everything feel warmer,” he murmurs. “Even when I’m bringing in the Arctic.”
“Bring the Arctic all you want,” you reply, curling at his side. “Just keep that cold nose away from my face until I’m ready.”
He feigns offense. “I can’t help it, it’s part of the package.”
“Blue eyes, hockey player body, freezing nose,” you tally with a grin.
“And I recently added ‘live-in snow removal service’ to the resume.” He snuggles closer, body thawing against yours. The house creaks in pleasant agreement, pipes humming softly. Somewhere inside you, contentment settles like a heavy blanket, your mind drifting through quiet backstory flashes—those late-night phone calls before you moved in together, marathon drives to catch his away games, the way he’d go pink down to his collarbone when you cheered for him in person. Every minute led here, a Saturday morning where the only plan is comfort.
By noon the house smells like cinnamon and pine, the giant candle you lit earlier warring with the real evergreen in the corner that Cale insisted on hauling home despite the snowstorm last week. He’d promised the tree a place of honour, arguing that if his parents couldn’t be here at least their ornaments could. Now, as afternoon light glints through the living room, boxes of decorations crowd the rug, each one labeled in his neat block letters—CALE, CHRISTMAS—, reminders of traditions that somehow survived the move across countries and leagues.
He kneels beside the open box, expression reverent as he untangles decades of ribbon and glitter. Every time he pulls something new out, he offers a story without you prompting, as if setting the tree is a conversation with ghosts of holidays past. “This one,” he says, holding up a clay skates ornament, “Taylor made when he was in kindergarten. He glued the laces to the wrong side, so it looks like tiny weapons.” His blue eyes shine with fond mischief. “My mom refused to throw it out.”
He settles it on a branch, the tree’s needles trembling under his careful touch. The sun hits his face in gold streaks, warming the rosy flush that still lingers on his cheeks. You watch from the couch, a mug of tea nestled into your palms, heart heavy with affection. The scene unfurls like a dream—the quiet house, a fabric throw draped over his shoulders, your blended lives more seamless than any of the ribbons he struggles with.
“I never told you the first time I thought about living together.” He says it offhandedly, but the words hang in the air. He’s still kneeling, hands in the ornament box, but his attention flickers toward you, gaze soft. “We were on the phone the first few months we dated. You were in your little studio apartment, and I could hear the noisy neighbors through the wall. You were still taking classes, exhausted, and I just…” He swallows, the memory hitting him hard. “I wanted to drive over, scoop you up, and put you somewhere safe, where you could sleep and wake up without stress. That’s when I knew I didn’t just want you visiting Denver—I wanted you in every room.”
Your breath catches. You’d been balancing long-distance then, surviving on screen-time and brief reunions between road trips. Back then you’d thought about it too, wondered what it would be like to toss a sweater on his couch and just never leave. Now here you are, a combined laundry basket at your feet. The reality isn’t Friday night movie montages exactly—it’s errand lists and late-night laundry and watching him lace up skates on TV while you make dinner half-awake—but it’s so much better because of those tiny, almost mundane details that anchor your days together.
“You should have told me,” you say, but you mean it in gratitude. “Maybe I would have moved sooner.”
He shrugs, eyes gleaming. “I didn’t want to scare you. We had our rhythm, and I didn’t know if you’d want to deal with me being on the road so much.”
“You’re worth the empty bed nights,” you reply, letting the truth tumble out before it can be filtered. “Even when you’re gone, it feels like you’re here. Your socks invade my drawers and your notes are stuck to the fridge.”
His laugh cracks, not from humor but from emotion. He stands and steps around the tinsel-littered floor to the couch, easing down beside you. His thigh presses against yours, warming your leg through fleece. “I love you,” he says, tone reverent enough to rival any vow. “And I know I say that all the time, but I want to keep saying it. Forever, if you’ll let me.”
You tuck your toes under his leg, battling the rush of heat that travels to your cheeks. When he gets earnest like this, the world narrows to the breath between you. He brushes a thumb over the back of your hand, tracing lines as if memorizing creases he’s already memorized a hundred times.
“Forever sounds good,” you whisper, voice steady despite the swell in your chest.
He nods, satisfied, and leans his head against your shoulder. You stay like that for several quiet minutes, watching the lights blink on the tree even though they’re not plugged in yet. Outside the snow has mellowed, and thin sunlight paints the street in pale gold. Somewhere in the distance a car engine struggles to start, but inside there is only the soft tick of the clock and the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing.
Eventually he pulls away with a little hum, stretching his arm. “We should make the sugar cookies before it gets too late.” He stands, offering you a hand. “Mom said we have to keep the tradition alive or she’ll revoke her Christmas card privileges.”
You roll your eyes and let him pull you up. “I will do it for your mother.” You poke his flushed cheek. “Only for her.”
In the kitchen, the counter becomes a battlefield of flour, measuring cups, and stolen spoonfuls of dough. He smears flour across his own nose in an attempt at humor, and when you laugh, he beams like a little boy caught fingerpainting. He doesn’t talk about hockey once, though you know the season churns in the back of his mind—line combinations, film sessions, plane rides. Here, in the warmth of your kitchen, he lets himself be just Cale, not the defenseman with a franchise on his shoulders.
As the cookies bake, he slides behind you, hands sliding around your waist. “Thanks for today,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know I’ve been… off.”
“You’ve been working so hard, baby,” you answer, leaning into his solid frame. “There’s a difference.”
He inhales as if he’s trying to memorize your scent, the spices in the air, everything that says home. “Still. You’ve been holding me up in quiet ways. Shoveling the driveway helps distract me.” He smiles into your shoulder. “So does this.”
You close your eyes, letting the simple truth of it dissolve the nagging ache of plans that didn’t happen. This afternoon may be an improvisation, a holiday stitched together from tradition and invention, but you can feel it strengthening something between you. When the oven timer dings, you pull apart reluctantly, frosting and sprinkles waiting to make their annual appearance.
Later, as you ice cookies with a level of precision that would impress any pastry chef, he strings the lights on the tree, humming off-key. You catch him glancing over every few minutes, a soft expression carved into his features. The rest of the day stretches ahead—maybe a walk in the snow, maybe a movie marathon, maybe just more silence stitched with lazy conversation. Either way, this is only the beginning.
Twilight drapes itself over downtown Denver like a velvet scarf, neon signs humming to life while the cold tucks sharp teeth into every stray breeze. You and Cale step out of the rideshare and onto the sidewalk outside Union Station, bundled into matching scarves that his grandma mailed last week with a note insisting they were picture perfect for holiday dates. The plaza glows under strings of bulbs, the building’s façade splashed with red and green lights. Couples skate on the temporary ice rink, their laughter floating up to mingle with faint strains of a Sinatra cover drifting from a nearby speaker.
Cale tightens his grip on your hand, guiding you through clusters of people. He looks like a walking winter advertisement—cheeks flushed cherry-red from the cold, straight hair tucked under a beanie, blue eyes bright as the lights streaming above. Every time he exhales, his breath curls in white clouds around his face, and you can’t help memorizing the visual, wanting to tuck it somewhere safe. This city moves differently in his company, as if the brick and glass knew his stride.
You both gravitate toward the hot cider stand like it’s a magnetic beacon. The vendor greets Cale by name, Denver perks still catching you off guard. “Two, please,” he orders, voice soft and easy.
While the guy ladles steaming cider into paper cups, Cale nudges you with his shoulder. “Remember when we got stuck in that blizzard in Calgary and you insisted on walking to get coffee?”
“You mean when you forgot your gloves and I had to lend you my mittens? Hard to forget the sight of a pro hockey player in pink pom-pom mitts.”
He laughs, cheeks deepening in color. “You still remind me every chance you get.”
“Because you let me.” You take the cups, handing him one. The heat seeps through your gloves, warming fingers chilled from the night air.
He sips, eyes sliding shut for a second, and you watch his expression shift from playful to contemplative. You lean into him, letting his arm curl around your shoulders, and together you wander the plaza. A nearby art installation—giant glowing spheres stacked into a tower—throws shifting colors across his face, blues and purples mingling with his natural flush. You’ve never seen him look more content. The noise of the crowd, the sharp scent of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, the distant rumble of light-rail trains all blur into background music.
You pause near the skating rink, watching a little girl wobble forward while her father skates backward, encouraging her. Cale’s gaze follows them, softened by something reminiscent of longing. You know he’s thinking about his own father, teaching him to skate on a rink back in Calgary, stories he’s retold with a reverence that makes those memories feel like your own. Without prompting, he squeezes your hand.
“Maybe one day…” he trails off, eyes fixed on the little girl giggling as she grips her dad’s hands, “maybe we can have a kid of our own. I know you’d love to watch me teach them how to skate.” He punctuates it with a laugh, trying to lighten the thought, but your heart has already skipped a beat. It’s the first time he’s voiced the idea so plainly, no joke to deflect it, just a simple, hopeful piece of future hanging between you.
“I’d frame the photos,” you say, voice steady despite the overwhelming tenderness swelling in your chest. “Just to embarrass you both.”
He smiles, yet his eyes carry an aching sincerity. “You’d be the best mom,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than to you.
You lean your head against his shoulder, watching the rink lights spin circles over the ice. “You’d be a ridiculous skate coach,” you counter. “Charts, assignments, stickhandling drills for toddlers.”
“They’ll be skating before they can walk,” he jokes, though emotion threads through his words. “Just like my dad did with me.”
He quiets then, attention caught by the way the girl’s father lifts her, spins her gently. You feel him thinking about home, the family waiting, the empty seats at the table this year. You tighten your arm around his waist, fitting your body closer to his. He responds by kissing your temple, that cold nose nudging your skin but not bothering you tonight.
“The rink’s busy, but we could still skate,” he says, half wistful, half daring.
“You sure your fans won’t mob you?” you tease lightly.
“If they do, they’ll have to deal with rink etiquette. No elbows on the boards, no selfies mid-spin.” He takes a more serious breath. “Besides, I just want to skate with you. Slow, probably sliding all over because the ice is chewed up, but still.”
You nod, heart a melange of nostalgia and anticipation, and follow him toward the rental booth. He’s recognized twice before you even lace up—one teenage boy in a Nuggets beanie asks for a photo, and Cale obliges with that effortless awkwardness, the rosacea flush intensifying under the cold and the shy gratitude. The kid walks away chattering into his phone, probably already telling every group chat that he just met Cale Makar, and you catch the pride dancing across Cale’s features. Not ego, just gentle appreciation for the place and people he now calls home.
The rink guard opens the gate and you step onto the ice, blades biting into grooves piled thick from earlier skaters. The cold seizes your lungs at first, but the world narrows to the scrape of metal, the weight of his hand wrapped around yours. You’re not graceful, not tonight, not with boots that always feel two sizes heavier, but Cale navigates the uneven surface like he’s back on pristine arena ice. The rosy flush in his cheeks deepens when he glances at you.
“Hold onto me,” he says softly. “I won’t let you fall.”
“I know,” you answer, and you mean it way beyond the rink.
He guides you around the perimeter, a slow glide, other skaters weaving past with bells on their laces. You drift past a couple sharing hot chocolate, an elderly man skating alone with surprising elegance, a group of teenagers racing dangerously close to the boards. At every turn, Cale keeps you balanced. He chuckles when your footing slips and steadies you effortlessly, his hands warm despite the chill.
“I still think about that first time you saw me play,” he muses, voice low enough to carry only between the two of you. “You were in that ridiculous purple sweater, standing in the family section.”
“It was a great sweater,” you defend, although you’re smiling at the memory. “And I was there because I couldn’t stand watching you through a TV screen anymore.”
“I looked up, saw you shouting, and forgot about the game for a full shift.” His grin is crooked. “Coach almost benched me.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Totally worth it.” He spins you gently, your blades wobbling but not slipping, his hands braced at your waist. “I still feel like that sometimes—like I see you and everything else blurs.”
Heat rises to your face despite the cold. “That’s so corny,” you whisper, though your heart is melting under the weight of the confession.
“True things usually are.” He halts near the center, pulling you close, breath pooling in a silver cloud between your faces. “I keep thinking how this is our first Christmas in the same house. No flights, no crammed weekends. Just… us.”
“Us and the blizzard,” you point out.
“And the blizzard.” His eyes gleam. “But even the storm feels less harsh with you.”
Music changes, a slower song spilling across the ice. Cale slides one hand into yours, the other still on your waist, and starts to sway. You try to follow, letting the rhythm guide your steps, trusting his balance to compensate for your lack. The world shrinks to a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights and murmured laughter. Every so often he leans down, brushing his forehead against yours, that gentle, steady contact grounding you in the moment.
“You know what else is missing this year?” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Your insane tradition of wrapping every gift at two in the morning on Christmas Eve.”
You choke a laugh. “I can still do that.”
“You won’t need to. Because…” He pauses, gaze slipping away briefly. “I already wrapped everything.”
“You?” You gape. “You used tape?”
He pretends offense. “I can wrap. It’s, like, geometry.”
“I need proof.”
“You’ll see on Christmas.” He flushes deeper. “I wanted to take the stress off you. You’ve done so much already.”
You think about the house decorated with strings of lights he hung without complaint, the hours he spent shoveling the driveway, the way he’s called his parents daily to make sure they don’t feel forgotten even though they initiated this holiday tradition. The softness inside you sharpens, a blade of gratitude.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He shrugs. “I like taking care of you.” The words are simple, no grand gesture attached, yet they wrap around you like a promise.
Eventually you glide toward the exit, stepping off the ice with stiff legs and aching calves, and collapse onto a bench to pull off skates. He kneels to loosen your laces, thumbs brushing your ankles with patient care. People bustle past, but he moves as if the two of you are alone in the universe, stream of consciousness focused entirely on you.
“Well, where to next?” he asks once your boots are back on.
“There’s that old bookstore around the corner,” you suggest. “The one with the strings of fairy lights in the windows.”
“Sold.” He stands and helps you up. “Lead the way.”
You weave through the crowd again, shoulders bumping, conversations merging into a communal hum. Cale keeps his arm around you, body heat easing the bite of the wind. In your peripheral vision, Union Station glitters like a backdrop in a holiday movie, the towering wreaths and towering arch glowing like stage pieces. Somewhere behind you, the rink speakers switch to a jaunty carol, the kind that would normally make you roll your eyes, yet tonight it folds into the perfect soundtrack.
For a heartbeat you imagine what future nights might look like—a toddler in a puffy jacket waddling between you, the two of you bringing your families together in this city, Cale still blushing every time a camera catches him, still stealing your gloves when he forgets his own. The thought warms you more effectively than any cider.
He catches your expression. “What are you thinking about?”
You consider downplaying it, but you choose honesty. “Years from now,” you say, “when we come back to this spot with a kid who wants to skate, how we’ll tell them that tonight is where we planned our first real holiday together.”
His eyes soften into a shade you’ve never been able to describe. “God, you’re it for me,” he chuckles.
He lifts your gloved hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles through the wool. The night swallows you whole, a gentle, glittering cocoon, and neither of you knows that tucked away in the pocket of his coat, next to the warmth of his palm, a small velvet box waits for its moment.
Monday drapes itself in gray, Denver smothered under a low ceiling of clouds that promise more snow but haven’t committed. You wake to the soft percussion of sleet ticking against the bedroom window, the faint hum of the heater kicking on, and the empty space next to you where Cale usually sprawls, limbs akimbo like he fought off a dream. He left before dawn for practice, pressing a kiss to your temple while you half-slept, murmuring that he’d be back early, that he wanted to spend the afternoon with you. The promise carried warmth even through sleep, and now, as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks, the smell of his aftershave clings to the hallway, proof that he’d lingered just long enough to comb his hair and tug on his Avalanche hoodie.
The counter holds a note weighed down by a small pinecone. In his neat handwriting he’s scribbled: “Back by 1. Cider leftover in the fridge. Also, don’t forget to water the tree (apparently it’s thirsty?). I love you.” You grin, tuck the pinecone into the bowl of clementines as if it belongs there, and brew coffee. The kitchen is quiet, the kind of morning stillness that feels like the world breathing out, and you wonder if he’s already on his way home, if he’s pulling into the driveway as you pour creamer into your mug.
By twelve forty-five the garage door groans, footsteps thump upstairs, and the front door swings open. Cale steps in bundled in team merch, cheeks punched pink by the cold, hair a little damp from snowflakes melting under the beanie. The rosacea flare splashes across his cheekbones, only enhanced by the brisk air. He kicks off his boots, smiles with his entire face when he spots you curled on the couch with a blanket.
“You watered the tree?” he asks, pulling the beanie off and shaking out his dirty blond hair.
“I give it pep talks too,” you reply. “Growth mindset.”
He laughs, the sound rich with relief. “Good. Otherwise it might need a sports psychologist.”
He settles beside you, sliding under the blanket, his body radiating chill that quickly warms as you drape yourself across his lap. The television plays softly, some old black-and-white holiday movie he likes because it reminds him of late-night reruns with his siblings. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and rests his chin on the top of your head.
“I missed you,” he murmurs after a beat, as if he hasn’t been gone more than a few hours. “The rink was freezing and all I could think about was getting back here.”
You tilt your head to meet his gaze. “Isn’t every rink freezing?”
He makes a face. “This was special. Someone messed with the thermostat. I swear my eyelashes froze during video.”
“You made it back alive. Proud of you.”
His grin softens, the edges turning inward. “I wanted to tell you something.” He hesitates, thumb stroking your shoulder. “Nate asked me how I was doing with the holidays, with my family stuck in Calgary. I told him I was okay, that I had you. For the first time, saying it felt like more than just an answer. It felt… permanent.”
Your heartbeat stutters. “Permanent?”
“Yeah.” The word hangs between you, gentle and certain. “Like this isn’t a temporary arrangement. I’m not visiting your life and you’re not visiting mine—we built one together.” He pauses, eyes searching yours. “I’ve never felt that before.”
Emotion presses against your sternum, trying to climb into your throat. You nuzzle closer, letting his heartbeat steady yours. “I feel it too,” you confess. “Waking up alone this morning felt wrong, even though you were only gone for a few hours. We’re stitched together in all these tiny ways.”
His cheeks redden further, not just from cold. “I know we talk about the future sometimes, but lately I keep thinking about what’s next. Not in a rushing kind of way. Just… excited.”
You catch the edge of anticipation in his voice, the way he can’t quite sit still. He shifts, one knee bouncing, the restlessness of somebody carrying a secret on the verge of spilling.
“What do you want to do today?” you ask, wanting to steer into something simple, to keep this cocooned time just the two of you. “We could bake more cookies, call your mom, go for a walk before the next storm hits.”
He chews his lip. “I was thinking we could take a drive. Maybe up to Lookout Mountain. The weather’s supposed to hold for a few hours.”
You blink. That overlook was your first weekend adventure after moving to Denver, a spontaneous trip that ended in you wrapped in a blanket on the hood of his car, watching the city lights glitter below. It’s a place that holds quiet significance, a marker of beginnings and whispered secrets.
“Now?” you ask, out of surprise.
“Yeah,” he says, voice gaining confidence. “I already packed hot chocolate in a thermos. And blankets. And, uh, extra gloves so I don’t have to steal yours.”
There’s something in his expression, nervous energy, that makes your pulse quicken. Still, you nod. “Let me get dressed.”
Within half an hour you’re bundled in layers, boots laced tight, scarf tucked under your chin. He holds the door for you, his own jacket zipped up to his chin. The rosacea flush is still vivid, amplified by excitement. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it down before tugging his beanie back on.
The drive west winds through snow-dusted neighborhoods where kids roll massive snow boulders into lopsided snowmen. The higher you climb, the heavier the clouds appear, but the roads have been plowed recently, asphalt gleaming wet under the muted light. Cale taps the steering wheel to an upbeat holiday song, humming under his breath. Every so often he glances over, eyes shining.
“You okay?” you ask softly, studying his profile. The strong cut of his jaw, the way the cold brings color to his face, the slight furrow between his brows.
“More than okay,” he answers. “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”
“About driving up a mountain?” you tease.
“About being with you on top of one,” he replies, tone earnest enough that the tease melts away. “I like the view. It makes everything feel smaller.”
He turns onto the narrow road that snakes up to the lookout. Snow banks hug the edges, pine trees bowing under the weight of frost. When he parks near the overlook, the city sprawls far below, the skyline softened by the winter haze. You both step out into biting wind, pulling collars up, breaths immediately puffing white.
He uncaps the thermos and pours hot chocolate into two travel mugs, handing you one. The steam curls up, sweet and thick. You lean against the guardrail, sipping slowly, letting the heat sink into your palms. The air smells like cedar and impending snow. Denver sprawls in the distance, lights just starting to glimmer as afternoon slides toward evening.
Cale stands beside you, shoulders brushing yours, gaze fixed somewhere between the horizon and whatever thoughts are rattling behind his eyes. His hand fidgets in his pocket, repeatedly, as if testing something.
“You’re really jumpy,” you observe.
“I’m good,” he insists, words puffing out, fogging the air between you. “Just… thinking.”
“About?”
He turns, eyes locking onto yours. The wind musses his straight, dirty blond hair under the beanie, and his cheeks are more flushed than the cold can account for. He sets his mug on the guardrail, then takes yours, placing it beside his. When he reaches for your hands, yours are shaking slightly, though whether from cold or anticipation you can’t tell.
“I keep trying to find the right words,” he says quietly. “To explain how you make everything feel lighter. How the last three years showed me what it means to actually be in a partnership, not just dates squeezed between road trips. Moving in with you felt like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.”
Your pulse thunders. He squeezes your fingers, blue eyes searching your face as if memorizing every shift.
“I know my family couldn’t get here,” he continues, voice steadying. “I know the snow turned this holiday upside down. But it also reminded me that home isn’t a place. It’s you. Wherever you are, I want to be there.”
He takes one deep breath, shoulders lifting, and goes very still. When he slips his hand into his jacket pocket and drops to one knee in the snow, your vision tunnels.
The world shrinks to the man kneeling before you, cheeks flushed like a sunrise, blue eyes bright even under the overcast sky. Wind whips around you, but all you hear is the pounding of your own heart and his voice.
“I love you,” he says, and the words are a promise, heavy and gentle all at once. “I knew it the first time you made fun of my postgame interview. I knew it when you moved to Denver to build a life with me. I knew it when we made pancakes at midnight and when we fought over where to put the couch. I want every morning, every snowfall, every hockey season with you. Will you marry me?”
Time fractures. The snow-laden trees hold their breath, the city lights blur, your eyes brim with tears that freeze instantly on your lashes. All you can do is nod, the yes bursting out of you before you can form a full sentence. “Yes,” you manage, voice shaking with laughter and sobs tangled together. “Yes, Cale!”
He exhales a choked laugh, relief and joy colliding in his expression. He opens the small velvet box, revealing a ring that catches the muted light and throws it back in shimmering sparks. When he slides it onto your finger, his hands tremble, the calluses on his fingertips rough against your skin. The ring settles perfectly, a circle of promise nestled beside your heartbeat.
You haul him up before he can say anything else, throwing your arms around his neck. He wraps you up tight, burying his face in your scarf, nose pressed against your jaw despite the cold. Your breath hitches, laughter spilling out uncontrollably, muffled by his coat. Snowflakes land in his hair, on your lashes, melting as soon as they touch the heat radiating from your embrace.
“I was so scared,” he admits against your ear, words soft enough that only you hear them. “Not about you saying no. Just about making it perfect.”
“It is perfect,” you whisper back. “It’s us. On a freezing mountain with hot chocolate and snow in our boots.”
He kisses you then, slow and sure, breathing you in as snow swirls around. His lips are cold, his nose icy, but none of that matters. Everything distills into a single flash of feeling: belonging. The city below sparkles on, unaware, while up on the mountain the two of you stand at the edge of one chapter and the beginning of another.
When you finally return to the car, your boots squelching snow, he keeps glancing at your hand, at the ring catching the dim afternoon light. Every time he looks, a new grin breaks across his face. You rest your hand on his thigh as he drives, the weight of the ring unfamiliar but right, as if your finger had been waiting for it all along.
Back home you step inside, shaking off the cold, and the tree greets you with twinkling lights and pine scent. You stand in front of it, both of you still in your coats, your hand lifted to study the ring again. Cale comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.
He rests his forehead against yours, breathing steady, heartbeat syncing with the quiet hum of the house. Outside, the wind nudges at the windows. Inside, the laundry basket overflows, the mugs from earlier sit abandoned on the counter, and your hand glows with a new weight. He takes it in his, thumb brushing the ring, the smallest smile anchored in awe.
You stay there without rush, the tree casting soft light over both of you, and say nothing else.
Girl dad Cale Makar and baking or teaching them mini sticks or something?
cale makar as a girl dad is almost too easy to picture, especially on saturday mornings when the house smells like sugar and vanilla before you’ve even gotten out of bed. he’s already in the kitchen with your daughter perched on the counter beside him, both of them still in pajamas. her hair is sticking up in every direction, and his looks only slightly more controlled, messy blond strands curling at the ends. he’s tying a tiny apron around her waist with the same focus he brings to a power play, cheeks already flushed with that soft rosiness that never really goes away. the second he sees you in the doorway, he gives you that bright, shy smile—the one that still makes your chest warm—before turning back to the very serious task of teaching your toddler how to whisk.
you watch the two of them work in a rhythm that’s somehow chaotic and gentle at the same time. your daughter holds the whisk with both hands, tongue poking out in concentration, while cale steadies the bowl and murmurs quiet encouragement that melts you on the spot. “that’s perfect, sweetheart, you’re making it fluffy,” he says, voice warm and earnest, as if she’s crafting a gourmet masterpiece instead of splattering batter across half the counter. he doesn’t flinch when it lands on his shirt; he just laughs, a soft breath of sound, then dips a finger into the batter and taps a tiny dot on her nose. she squeals, delighted, and tries to get him back, and he leans down so she can reach, letting her smudge an even bigger streak across his cheek.
the kitchen only gets messier from there, but cale looks like he’s never been happier. he carries her on one hip while letting her dump chocolate chips into the mixing bowl with the other hand, guiding her wrist so she doesn’t accidentally pour in the entire bag. he narrates each step like they’re filming a cooking show, his voice soft and patient, pausing every few seconds so she can repeat a word or proudly declare she’s “helping daddy.” when she steals a chip for herself, cale pretends not to notice, but his eyes flick to you with a conspiratorial sparkle that makes you laugh. he sets her down only when it’s time to shape the cookies, rolling small balls of dough and gently placing her hands over his so she can press them onto the tray.
by the time the cookies are in the oven, both of them are dusted in flour, and the counter looks like a minor natural disaster. but cale lifts your daughter onto his lap as he sits at the table, kissing the top of her head while she leans back against his chest with a proud sigh. you settle beside them, brushing flour from his hair only for him to blush deeper, smiling like he can’t help it. he tells you how well she did and how she’s going to be an amazing baker someday, and your daughter beams, kicking her little feet against his legs. the timer eventually beeps, but neither of them move right away; cale just holds her closer, rocking gently, breathing in the moment like he wants to memorize it forever.
when they finally pull the cookies from the oven, your daughter insists that daddy taste the first one. he takes a bite with exaggerated ceremony, eyes widening as if it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. “this is perfect,” he tells her, voice warm with pride, and she lights up like she’s just won a trophy. he hands you one next, brushing his thumb along your wrist as he does, that same soft, rosy warmth coloring his cheeks. as the three of you sit at the counter eating cookies that are a little too big and a little too uneven, cale catches your eye with a look so full of quiet love it feels like another kind of sweetness entirely.
heeyyyy can i get tickets to the canadian takeover tour?
thinking abt cale and how he’d be would be the best bf for a girl with constant headaches cause his voice is so soft and even, almost like it’s low impact. he can talk quietly to you while you try to sleep off the headache 💕
ik u said earlier smth about wanting to write for him sooo here’s my input
the thing about cale is that he doesn’t treat your headaches like an inconvenience or a disruption or something he has to tiptoe around. he treats them like weather, something that comes and goes and deserves respect, something he adapts to without complaint, the way he’d quietly adjust his stride on the ice to make room for a teammate who stumbled. when you tell him your head hurts, even if you whisper it, even if you barely get the words out before you’re curling into yourself, he moves toward you immediately, gentle in that instinctive way he has, every edge softened. he lowers the lights. he closes the curtains. he touches your back like you’re made of something precious. and when you end up in bed, forehead pressed to the pillow, the slow throb behind your eyes making the world feel too sharp, he slips in beside you with so much care it almost makes you cry.
he lies on his side facing you, cheek already flushed even though he hasn’t done anything except breathe. he tucks one arm under your pillow and brings the other to rest just above your hip, thumb stroking slow, lazy lines over the fabric of your shirt. he talks only when you want him to, voice so soft it feels like a warm cloth pressed against the ache. he never pushes for conversation. he just offers the sound of himself, that calm, even cadence, everything about him dialed down to a level that feels specifically designed not to hurt you.
“you know,” he murmurs, eyes drifting over your face like he’s memorizing the exact way your eyelids flutter, “i think you’re the strongest person i know.” his voice is quiet, low in a way that isn’t gravel or growl but the gentle hum of someone who doesn’t want to disturb the air itself. “you deal with so much and you still make space for everyone. for me. i don’t know how you do that.” he shifts a little closer, not enough to jostle you, just enough that you feel his breath warm against your forehead. “i really love you.”
he always says it like that, straightforward and unembarrassed, but with that soft tone that makes it feel like a secret he’s letting you unwrap slowly. he brushes a fingertip along your temple, barely touching, so lightly it’s almost imagined. “i love taking care of you,” he adds, cheeks going pinker because admitting things so openly always gets him. “i hope that’s okay...”
you hum, or nod, or breathe in a way that tells him you heard him, and that’s enough. he keeps talking, voice drifting in and out like a lullaby without melody. “you never have to do anything alone. if your head hurts, it hurts me too. not literally but… i feel it, you know. i feel it here.” his hand lifts, presses gently over his chest, then returns to your waist. “because you’re my favourite person in the whole world, baby.”
he pauses, and the silence isn’t empty. it’s soft. full. he nuzzles his nose lightly into your hairline, the touch so delicate it doesn’t disrupt the pulsing in your head. “i like when you fall asleep on me. feels like i’m doing something right.” his voice dips even quieter, almost a whisper.
his thumb keeps tracing that same slow pattern, steady as heartbeat. the rhythm of him is soothing in a way nothing else is. the warmth of his body, the faint shake of a breath he doesn’t want to be too loud, the way his words spill out like he’s thinking them in real time and letting you have them anyway.
“if talking helps, i’ll talk forever,” he says, tone sweet in that disarming way that always gets you. “i’ll tell you every stupid thing i love about you until the headache gives up.” he smiles softly when your fingers curl weakly into his shirt. “like how you scrunch your nose when you’re trying not to laugh. or how you always steal my hoodies and pretend you don’t. or how you look at me like i’m something good. no one’s ever looked at me like that.”
he leans in, lips brushing your temple with the slightest pressure, barely-there affection meant not to aggravate anything. “i’m really glad i get to be here with you. even on the bad days. especially on the bad days. that’s part of loving you. and i love you so much.”
his voice thins into a murmur, softer and softer as he feels your breathing start to slow, the pain easing just a fraction. he keeps talking anyway, because he knows you fall asleep easier when his words are there to wrap around you.
and he stays. warm. steady. quiet. holding you like he was built for exactly this.
Maybe you could write something about being friends with benefits with Cale .. but it’s not really friends with benefits it’s just waiting for a good time to get together DO YOU GET THE VIBE LOL
it started as a joke, which was fitting because everything with cale seemed to start that way, a half-smile and a shrug and him pretending he wasn’t thinking ten steps ahead while you pretended you weren’t doing the same, the two of you sprawled on opposite ends of his couch, skates drying by the door, some late game murmuring on the tv that neither of you were watching, and you said something like guess we’re kind of friends with benefits now, right, because he’d kissed you last week and you’d kissed him back and then nothing had happened except a lot of looking and a lot of laughing and a lot of almost
cale had blinked at you, cheeks already pink like they always were, rosacea flaring as if it had opinions, messy dirty blond hair falling into his eyes because he never bothered to tame it when he was home, and he’d said yeah, i guess, but his voice had gone careful around the edges, like he was handling glass, and you knew immediately that this wasn’t really that kind of arrangement, not the casual kind people talked about to sound cool and unbothered
being friends with benefits, in your universe, meant late nights where he cooked you pasta and complained about his edges feeling off lately, meant sitting on the floor while he taped his stick and you leaned your head against his knee, meant him knowing exactly how you took your coffee and you knowing exactly when to leave him alone after a bad practice, meant his arm always finding its way around your shoulders without him thinking about it, like muscle memory
the benefits part was mostly tension, electric and quiet, his thumb brushing your wrist when he handed you a beer, his knee knocking into yours under the table and not moving away, the way he’d look at your mouth for half a second too long when you laughed, the way you’d catch him watching you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, eyes soft, blue and earnest and a little bit wrecked
sometimes you’d make out, slow and unhurried, mouths warm and familiar, him tasting like mint gum and whatever he’d just eaten, his hands steady at your waist like he was grounding himself, and then he’d pull back first, forehead resting against yours, breathing out through his nose
“we’re really bad at this,” you’d murmur
“yeah,” he’d say, smiling anyway, cheeks flushed deeper. “but i don’t think i want to be good at it.”
it became this unspoken agreement that neither of you named, that you were waiting, not because you had to but because it felt right, like the timing mattered, like there was a version of this where it wasn’t half-measures and stolen kisses and lingering touches, but something fuller, something you both wanted too much to rush
your friends noticed before either of you admitted anything, the way cale always saved you a seat, the way you wore his hoodies like they were yours, the way he lit up when you walked into a room and tried very hard to look normal about it, and when someone finally teased him about it he’d just shrug, that shy little smile tugging at his mouth
“we’re just… seeing where things go,” he’d say, which was his way of saying everything without saying too much
late one night, after another almost, you lay side by side staring at the ceiling, the space between you charged and warm, and you thought about how funny it was that this was supposed to be simple, supposed to be no strings, when it felt like you were both holding onto something invisible and precious, waiting for the exact right moment to pull it close
cale rolled onto his side then, blue eyes serious and gentle, blush blooming like always. “we’ll get there,” he said quietly, like a promise, and you believed him, because with him it never felt like stalling, it felt like building toward something that was already inevitable
