Suture Lines
Nico Hischier x Hughes!Reader
Summary: you’re a surgical resident surviving on caffeine and spite when your NHL star brothers drag their bleeding captain into your kitchen. You stitch him up. He can’t stop staring. And somehow, between the chaos of eighty-hour work weeks and hockey games, between stolen moments and your brothers’ spectacular lack of boundaries, you fall for the one person you absolutely shouldn’t.
The groan that escapes you is a sound of pure agony. It’s a sound you’ve perfected over the last three months, the result of surgical-residency-induced exhaustion. You let your head fall back against the plush grey couch, the ridiculously soft material a small comfort against the profound ache in your bones.
“Is that the sound of a golden weekend?” Jack asks, not even looking up from his phone. He’s sprawled out on the floor, legs propped up on the coffee table, a position that looks painfully uncomfortable to anyone over the age of twenty-two.
“It’s the sound of a post-call weekend,” you correct, your voice muffled by the cushion. “There’s nothing golden about it. It’s more of a … tarnished brass.”
Luke wanders into the living room, a bowl of cereal in his hand that is, by volume, ninety percent marshmallow and ten percent grain. He nudges your feet with his own. “Tarnished brass? That’s bleak, Y/N.”
“I just spent thirty-six hours on my feet, Lukey. Thirty-six hours of retracting, suturing, and being yelled at for holding the Bovie wrong. The world is bleak.” You crack one eye open to glare at him. “And is it even noon? Why are you eating that?”
“It’s 11 a.m. It’s brunch,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He takes a loud, crunchy bite. “And I’m carbo-loading.”
Jack snorts from the floor. “For what? A riveting afternoon of playing Chel?”
“For the game tonight,” Luke says, pointing his spoon at Jack. “Unlike some people, I take my pre-game nutrition seriously.”
“My nutrition is fine,” Jack mutters, thumb swiping furiously across his screen.
“You ate a sleeve of Oreos for breakfast,” you point out, closing your eyes again. The light filtering through the massive windows of your new house feels like a personal attack. When they told you they got a place big enough for all three of you, you’d pictured a standard suburban house, not this sprawling modern thing with more glass than wall. It’s beautiful, but it’s a nightmare for post-call migraines.
“They were Double Stuf. More cream. That’s dairy. Calcium,” Jack argues.
“The logic is staggering,” you say, deadpan.
There’s a beat of comfortable silence, filled only by the sound of Luke’s crunching and Jack’s tapping. It’s moments like these that make the grueling residency almost worth it. For years, you were a ghost in your own family. A face on a screen, a voice over the phone from a dorm room at Stanford that felt like it was on a different planet. You missed birthdays, holidays, entire seasons of their lives. Moving here, into this house with your two younger brothers, was a tether back to reality. It was chaos and messy and loud, but it was home.
“So, you’re coming tonight, right?” Luke asks, his voice suddenly closer. You feel the couch dip as he sits on the edge by your feet.
You peel your eyes open again. “Luke, I love you. I love Jack. But the last thing I want to do right now is be surrounded by twenty thousand screaming people in a place that probably smells like stale beer and hot dogs.”
“Our arena does not smell like stale beer and hot dogs,” Jack says, offended. “It smells like victory. And overpriced popcorn. A classy smell.”
“And you wouldn’t have to be in the crowd,” Luke presses, his expression earnest and hopeful, a look he perfected around age five and still uses to lethal effect. “You can be in the family room. It’s quiet. Well, quieter. And there’s free food. Not Oreos, either. Real food.”
You sigh, running a hand over your face. You are so, so tired. The kind of tired that feels cellular, like every mitochondrion in your body has just given up. But then you look at them. At Luke, with his pleading puppy-dog eyes, and at Jack, who’s finally put his phone down and is watching you with an equally hopeful, if less overt, expression. They’re so proud of what they do. And they’re so ridiculously excited to have you here, to finally be able to share it with you. For years, they watched you chase your dream. Now, it’s your turn.
“Fine,” you concede. The word is barely out of your mouth before Luke is pumping a fist in the air.
“Yes! Let’s go!”
“But,” you add, holding up a finger. “I am not moving from this couch for at least four hours. I might not even be conscious for all four of them. Do not wake me unless the house is on fire.”
“Deal,” Jack says with a grin. “But if you drool on the new couch, I’m telling Mom.”
“Go eat your Oreos, Jack.”
He just laughs, and you let your eyes drift shut, the low hum of your brothers’ banter a better lullaby than any white noise machine.
***
Six hours later, you feel marginally more human. A two-hour nap, a scaldingly hot shower, and two cups of coffee have worked something resembling a miracle. You find yourself standing in front of your closet, a towel wrapped around your head, with absolutely no idea what one wears to a professional hockey game when one is the sister of two of the star players.
You can hear them downstairs, the sound of sticks clanking and a puck hitting a floor somewhere, followed by a triumphant yell from Luke and a string of curses from Jack.
“What’s the dress code for this thing?” You shout down the stairs.
“Just wear whatever!” Jack yells back. “But not a Rangers jersey or I’ll disown you!”
“I don’t own a Rangers jersey!”
“Good!”
Helpful. You settle on a pair of dark wash jeans that actually fit, a simple black sweater, and a pair of comfortable boots. It feels like a safe, neutral choice. When you get downstairs, Jack is lacing up his shoes by the door while Luke is trying, and failing, to juggle a hockey puck with his feet.
Jack looks up and gives you a once-over. “You look nice.”
“Thanks. You clean up alright yourself.”
He’s in a stylish, understated designer sweatsuit that probably costs more than your first car. He rolls his eyes at your comment, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips.
Luke finally loses control of the puck, and it skitters across the hardwood floor, stopping just short of your feet. He grins at you. “Ready to see what the hype is all about?”
“I’ve seen you play before, you know,” you remind him. “Countless rinks. Countless 6 a.m. practices my entire childhood.”
“Yeah, but this is different,” Jack says, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. “This is the show.”
He’s right, of course. The drive to the Prudential Center is electric. Music blasts through the speakers of Jack’s G-Wagon, and you watch the city lights of Newark blur past. As you get closer, the streets are flooded with people, a sea of red and black jerseys. It’s a completely different world from the sterile, quiet halls of the hospital. It’s vibrant and alive.
They have their own entrance, of course. A private parking garage that leads directly into the bowels of the arena. The second you step out of the car, the energy is palpable. You can hear the distant roar of the early crowd, the squeak of sneakers on polished concrete, the low thrum of the building itself.
“Alright,” Jack says, turning to you. “Our gear is in the room. We’re gonna go get ready. Someone from guest services will come grab you in about twenty minutes and take you up to the family suite. Your name’s on the list. Just wait right here.”
Luke claps you on the shoulder. “Don’t get lost. And try to enjoy yourself. Seriously.”
“I will,” you promise.
They both give you a quick hug before disappearing through a set of heavy double doors, leaving you alone in the surprisingly quiet corridor. It’s strange, seeing them switch into work mode. The goofy kids you live with are gone, replaced by focused, professional athletes. It makes a fresh wave of pride swell in your chest.
A friendly-faced woman with a clipboard finds you exactly twenty minutes later and leads you through a labyrinth of hallways, up an elevator, and into a sleek, modern lounge that overlooks the ice. The room is already buzzing with players’ wives, girlfriends, parents, and siblings. The glass wall offers a stunning, panoramic view of the arena as it fills with fans. The sheer scale of it takes your breath away.
You find a quiet spot near the front, feeling a little out of place. You accept a bottle of water from a passing attendant and just watch, soaking it all in. You see them come out for warmups, easily spotting Jack’s #86 and Luke’s #43. They look so small from up here, but they move with a grace and power that’s mesmerizing.
The game itself is a blur of speed and controlled violence. You still don’t understand all the rules, but you understand the fundamentals. You understand the breathtaking skill it takes for Jack to weave through three opposing players, the incredible vision Luke has from the blue line. You find yourself on your feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd when Luke sets Jack up for a blistering one-timer that finds the back of the net. The arena erupts, a deafening, joyous roar, and in that moment, you get it. You really, truly get it.
The Devils win in a shootout, a nail-biting, dramatic finish that leaves the crowd euphoric. As you’re led back down to the ground level to wait for your brothers, you feel a genuine buzz of excitement.
You wait in a designated area just outside the locker room. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and ice. You can hear the muffled sounds of celebration from behind the closed door — shouts, laughter, loud music. Family members and friends are milling around, chatting happily.
Finally, the door swings open, and a stream of sweaty, gear-shedding players begins to trickle out. You spot Dougie Hamilton, his towering frame impossible to miss, and then Jesper Bratt, his smile as bright as the arena lights.
Then, the door opens again, and Luke comes out, his hair still wet from the shower, a huge grin plastered on his face.
“Hey! Did you see that goal?” He asks, pulling you into a one-armed hug that still manages to lift you off the ground slightly.
“I did! It was amazing, Luke. You both were incredible.”
Jack follows a moment later, looking equally thrilled. “See? Told you it was better than sitting on the couch.”
“Okay, you were right,” you admit with a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
“No promises,” he smirks. “Come on, there are a few guys we want you to meet.”
You follow them as they weave through the small crowd. It’s a surreal experience. These are faces you’ve only seen on TV, larger-than-life figures, and now they’re right here, clapping your brothers on the back, talking about the game.
“Hey, guys, this is our sister, Y/N,” Jack announces to a small group.
There’s a chorus of friendly greetings. You shake hands with Dougie, whose hand absolutely engulfs yours, and Jesper, who gives you a charming, almost shy smile.
“Great game, guys,” you say, feeling a little awkward but trying to sound confident.
“Thanks for coming out,” Dougie says, his voice a surprisingly gentle rumble. “It’s good to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot about the genius doctor in the family.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck. “Hardly a genius. Just sleep-deprived.”
Jack slings an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t let her fool you, she’s the smart one. We just hit a puck around.”
As they’re all laughing, you feel a shift in the energy of the group. You see Jack and Luke’s eyes move to someone just over your shoulder.
“Nico! Get over here!” Jack calls out.
A man turns from his conversation, and for a second, the noisy hallway seems to go completely silent in your head.
He’s not as tall as Dougie, but he carries himself with a quiet authority that makes him seem to fill the space. He’s handsome in a way that’s almost startling up close — sharp jaw, kind eyes, and a smile that’s just starting to form as he approaches.
This is Nico Hischier. The captain.
He comes to a stop in front of the group, his eyes flicking from Jack to Luke, and then to you. And when his gaze lands on you, it just … stays.
There’s a palpable pause. It’s probably only a second, maybe two, but it stretches, thick and charged. His smile, which had been casual, softens into something different. Something more focused. His eyes, a warm, deep brown, seem to be taking in every detail of your face. It’s an intense look, but it’s not unnerving. It’s … appreciative. Curious.
Luke, ever oblivious, claps him on the back. “Nico, this is our sister, Y/N. The one we were telling you about.”
Nico finally breaks his gaze, blinking as if coming out of a trance. He extends a hand to you. His grip is firm, his palm warm.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says. His voice has a slight accent, a smooth, melodic cadence that you can’t immediately place. Swiss-German, your brain supplies, recalling some pre-season interview you half-watched. “Jack and Luke, they talk about you all the time.”
“All good things, I hope,” you reply, finding your voice. You pull your hand back, but you can still feel the phantom warmth of his touch.
“Only good things,” he confirms, his eyes finding yours again. He doesn’t look away.
From the corner of your eye, you see Jesper subtly nudge Dougie with his elbow. Dougie glances from Nico, to you, and back to Nico, and a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. You don’t notice. Jack and Luke certainly don’t notice. They’re too busy basking in the post-win glow.
“Y/N’s a doctor,” Jack says proudly, puffing out his chest a little. “A surgeon.”
Nico’s eyebrows raise in genuine surprise. “Wow. That’s … very impressive.” His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s like you’re the only two people in this crowded, loud hallway. “You are living here now? In Jersey?”
“I am,” you confirm. “Doing my residency at University Hospital. I’m actually living with these two knuckleheads.” You gesture with your thumb towards your brothers.
“Hey!” They both protest in unison.
Nico laughs. It’s a nice sound. Warm and genuine. “Well, I am sure that is … an experience.”
“You have no idea,” you say, a real smile breaking out on your face.
“So, what did you think of the game?” Nico asks, his body angled slightly toward you, effectively closing off the circle to just the two of you.
“Honestly? It was incredible. So much faster in person than on TV.”
“It is, yes.”
“That goal Jack scored in the second …” you start, turning slightly to include your brother. “Luke, that pass was insane. How did you even see him?”
Luke launches into a technical explanation, and Jack jumps in to add his own perspective. You listen, nodding along, but you’re acutely aware of Nico. He’s not watching them. He’s watching you. He’s listening to your questions, watching the way your face lights up when you talk about the game.
“We’re gonna head out to grab a bite,” Jack announces to the group. “You should come, Y/N. Celebrate the win.”
Your internal battery, which had been hovering around fifteen percent, suddenly plummets to five. The thought of more socializing, of a loud restaurant, is physically painful.
“Oh, I don’t know, Jack. It’s late, and I have to be at the hospital at a truly ungodly hour tomorrow morning.” It’s not a lie. Rounds start at 5 a.m.
“Oh, come on,” Luke whines. “Just for a little bit. One drink.”
“Luke, I can’t. Seriously. Another time.” You give him an apologetic look. You feel a pang of guilt, but the exhaustion is a physical weight on your shoulders.
“Residency is that demanding?” Nico asks quietly, his expression full of something that looks like concern.
You meet his eyes. “It’s … a lot,” you admit. “But it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”
“That is something I understand,” he says softly, a small, sad smile on his face. He understands sacrifice. Of course he does.
“Well, we won’t keep you, then,” Nico says, his tone polite, but you see a flash of genuine disappointment in his eyes before he masks it. “It was really nice to finally meet you, Y/N.”
“You too, Nico,” you say. You offer a wave to the other guys. “Great game again, everyone. Jack, Luke, I’ll just grab an Uber.”
“No way,” Jack says immediately. “We’ll drive you. We can meet the guys there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s fine. Go celebrate with your team.”
“Hughes responsibility,” Luke says, pointing between himself and Jack. “We got you here, we get you home.”
You know it’s a losing battle. “Fine. But you have to be quick.”
As your brothers say their goodbyes to the team, promising to meet them at the restaurant in thirty minutes, you catch Nico’s eye one last time. He’s talking to Jesper, but his attention isn’t on the conversation. He’s watching you. Jesper says something to him, and Nico just nods, his gaze never leaving yours until you turn to follow Jack and Luke down the hall.
The entire walk to the car, you can still feel the weight of his stare.
In the car, Jack is buzzing. “So? What’d you think? Nico’s a good dude, right? Best captain.”
“He seems really nice,” you say, your voice even. You stare out the window at the passing streetlights, the image of Nico’s warm, intense eyes burned into your mind.
“Yeah, he’s great,” Luke adds from the back seat. “Takes his job super seriously, but he’s a good guy. Funny, too, once you get to know him.”
Neither of them mentions the way he looked at you. The way he couldn’t seem to look at anyone else once you were there. To them, it was just a normal introduction. Captain meets teammate’s sister. Nothing more.
But back in the hallway outside the locker room, the conversation is very different.
As soon as the three of you are out of earshot, Dougie slings a massive arm around Nico’s shoulders.
“Dude,” he says, a huge grin on his face.
Nico blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from the empty space where you just were. “What?”
Jesper is practically vibrating with suppressed laughter. “What? He says ‘what’?” He asks Dougie, his English lilting with his Swedish accent. “‘What?’ he asks. Like we are blind.”
Nico frowns, a confused look on his face as he looks between his two teammates. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“You didn’t take your eyes off her, man,” Dougie says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “Not for one second. I thought your head was gonna spin right off your neck.”
A faint flush creeps up Nico’s neck. “She is their sister. I was being polite.”
“Polite?” Jesper scoffs, failing to hide his grin. “Nico, my friend. Polite is a handshake. Polite is ‘nice to meet you.’ What you were doing … that was not polite. That was …” he searches for the right word, gesturing with his hands. “That was like watching a nature documentary. The lion, he sees the gazelle.”
“I did not see a gazelle,” Nico says, his blush deepening. He starts walking toward the exit, trying to escape the conversation. Dougie and Jesper easily keep pace with him.
“You’re right, you’re right,” Dougie says, trying to sound serious but failing miserably. “A gazelle is a bad comparison. Y/N seems much smarter than a gazelle. She’s a surgeon.”
“My point is,” Jesper says, jogging a little to get in front of Nico and walk backwards, “you have heart eyes, Captain. Big, stupid, heart eyes.”
Nico stops and runs a hand through his damp hair, a mix of frustration and embarrassment on his face. “Okay, okay. She is … nice. She is very nice. And beautiful. Is this what you want to hear?”
Dougie and Jesper exchange a triumphant look over his head.
“It’s a start,” Dougie says sagely.
“So,” Jesper begins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “When do you ask her out?”
Nico’s head snaps up, a look of mild panic on his face. “Ask her out? I cannot ask her out.”
“Why not?” Dougie asks, genuinely confused.
“She is Jack and Luke’s sister,” Nico says, as if this is the most obvious and insurmountable obstacle in the world. “They are my teammates. My friends. You do not just … ask out your friend’s sister.”
“Says who?” Jesper challenges. “This is not a rule. This is a movie plot. You are not living in a movie, Nico.”
“It is a rule,” Nico insists, his jaw setting stubbornly. “An unwritten rule. Of respect.”
Dougie just shakes his head, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Man, you are so screwed.”
Nico sighs, the adrenaline of the game completely gone, replaced by a swirling, unfamiliar mix of excitement and dread. He thinks of your smile, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you laughed at your brothers. He thinks of the intelligence in your expression when you talked about the game, the weary-but-determined set of your shoulders when you mentioned your residency.
He’s the captain of a National Hockey League team. He faces down 250-pound defensemen and 100-mile-per-hour slap shots without flinching. He’s supposed to be cool, calm, and collected.
But the thought of asking you for a cup of coffee? That, for reasons he can’t quite comprehend, feels like the most terrifying thing in the world.
“I am not screwed,” Nico mutters, mostly to himself, as they head out into the cool night air.
Jesper just pats him on the back. “Denial, my friend. It is the first stage.”
***
The sleep you’re getting isn’t really sleep. It’s a series of disjointed, thirty-minute naps snatched between periods of groggy consciousness. You’re curled on the couch, a thick blanket pulled up to your chin, drifting in a grey limbo. A night shift in the surgical ICU has scraped you raw, leaving you feeling hollowed out and frayed at the edges. The house is blessedly, beautifully silent. For now.
The silence is shattered by the sound of the front door being thrown open with enough force to rattle the minimalist art on the walls.
“We’re home!” Luke’s voice booms through the open-concept living space, followed immediately by Jack’s.
“And we brought a casualty of war!”
You groan, pulling the blanket over your head. It’s like living with a pair of enthusiastic, six-foot-tall golden retrievers. You love them more than anything, but their volume control is permanently broken.
“Use your inside voices,” you mumble into the cushion, your words muffled and thick with sleep.
“We can’t, this is an emergency!” Luke insists. Heavy footsteps approach the couch. “A medical emergency. Get up, Doc.”
Something wet drips onto the floor near your head. Then another drop.
Slowly, reluctantly, you push the blanket down and crack an eye open. The first thing you see is a pair of scuffed white sneakers. The second thing you see are the dark red droplets dotting the light oak floorboards next to them.
Your eyes travel up. Past the track pants, past the team-issued sweatshirt, to a face. It’s Nico. And he’s holding a blood-soaked towel to his left cheekbone.
In an instant, the exhaustion recedes, pushed back by a surge of adrenaline. Your surgeon brain switches on. You sit bolt upright, the blanket pooling in your lap.
“What the hell happened?” You demand, your voice now sharp and clear. You’re already assessing the situation. He’s standing, conscious, alert. No signs of concussion from this distance, but the bleeding is steady.
Nico offers you a weak, slightly lopsided smile. “High stick. It is my own fault. I was admiring my pass.”
“He’s being modest,” Jack cuts in, coming to stand beside his captain. He’s still in his practice gear, smelling faintly of ice and sweat. “It was a total accident. Fights broke out and everything. It was awesome.”
“Jack,” you warn, your eyes narrowed.
“Right, sorry. Medical situation.” He gestures wildly between you and Nico. “Anyway, Scott was dealing with Noeser because his knee kind of exploded, so the medical room was a mess, and Nico here was just going to let them use glue on him. Glue! On his face!”
Luke nods emphatically, taking up the narrative. “And we were like, ‘No way, dude. You’re the captain. You’re too pretty to have some huge, ugly scar on your face for the rest of your life.’ And then I was like, ‘Wait a minute …’” He points at you with a dramatic flair. “‘We have a plastic surgeon!’”
“I’m not a plastic surgeon yet, I’m a resident,” you correct automatically, your gaze still fixed on the cut. “And you can’t just bring bleeding people into the house.”
“Why not? It’s our house,” Jack says, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. “And it’s Nico. He’s practically family. Just … stitch him up. Please? Look at him. He’s pathetic.”
Nico, who has been watching this exchange with a look of quiet amusement mixed with pain, shoots Jack a mild glare. “Thank you, Jack. Your concern is very touching.” He then looks back at you, his expression turning apologetic. “I am so sorry to bother you. They insisted. I told them I am fine. We can go.”
He makes a move toward the door, but you’re already swinging your legs off the couch and standing up.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down,” you command, pointing to one of the stools at the massive kitchen island. “And take that towel away so I can see.”
For a second, nobody moves. They just stare at you. The shift from half-dead sister on the couch to surgeon-in-charge was instantaneous and complete.
Nico is the first to react. He gives a small nod and walks over to the kitchen island, perching on the edge of a stool. Your brothers watch with wide, impressed eyes.
He slowly lowers the towel. The cut is clean, but it’s deep. It starts just at the crest of his cheekbone and runs about an inch and a half toward his temple. It’s gaping slightly, still oozing blood. It’s not a disaster, but Jack was right. If this wasn’t closed properly, it would absolutely leave a nasty scar.
“Okay,” you say, your mind already running through the steps. “It needs sutures. Definitely. I have a practice kit upstairs. Don’t move. Jack, get me a clean bowl of warm water and some washcloths. Luke, find the first aid kit under the sink and bring me the entire thing.”
They scramble to follow your orders, clearly thrilled by the real-life medical drama unfolding in their kitchen.
You take the stairs two at a time, your exhaustion a distant memory. You find the case in your closet — a full suture kit you use to practice your technique on pig’s feet and silicone skin pads. It has everything you need: needle drivers, forceps, scissors, and several sterile packets of sutures and needles. You grab a pair of disposable gloves and a few alcohol prep pads from your nightstand and hurry back downstairs.
When you return, the scene in the kitchen is one of controlled chaos. Jack is sloshing water onto the counter as he sets down a bowl, and Luke has dumped the entire contents of the first aid kit onto the island. Nico is sitting exactly where you left him, a fresh towel pressed to his cheek, watching the Hughes brothers’ antics with an air of patient resignation. He looks up as you approach, his eyes meeting yours.
“You do not have to do this,” he says, his voice low and serious. “I can go to the hospital.”
“And wait six hours in an emergency room for some intern to close you up with stitches that are twice as big as they need to be? No thanks,” you say, your tone brisk and professional. You set your kit on the counter. “Besides, this is what I do. It’ll take me ten minutes. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
You pull on the gloves with a practiced snap. The sound seems to echo in the suddenly quiet kitchen. Even Jack and Luke have stopped moving, their attention fully on you. You dip a clean cloth into the warm water and gently gesture for Nico to lower the towel again.
He does, his eyes never leaving your face.
“This might sting a little,” you say softly as you bring the warm, damp cloth to his skin.
You work with practiced efficiency, your touch surprisingly gentle. You carefully dab away the blood, cleaning the skin around the laceration. You’re hyper-focused on the wound, on the depth, the edges, making sure there’s no debris. But you are also acutely, unavoidably aware of him. Of the heat radiating from his skin. Of the subtle way his muscles tense under your touch. Of the fact that his eyes are tracking your every movement.
“You are very calm,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble.
“It’s my job to be calm,” you reply, your gaze still on his cheek. You take an alcohol pad and tear open the packet. “This will be cold. And it will sting more than the water.”
“I think I can handle it.”
You press the pad to the skin around the cut, and he flinches, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. But he doesn’t pull away. He just sits there, perfectly still, trusting you.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
“Is he crying?” Jack asks from across the room. He’s now leaning against the fridge, watching with rapt attention. “Are you crying, Captain?”
“No, I am not crying,” Nico says, his eyes still closed. “Your sister is torturing me. There is a difference.”
You can’t help the small smile that touches your lips. “Almost done.” You dispose of the pad and open your suture kit. The metallic gleam of the instruments is familiar and comforting. You load a small, curved needle holding a thin, hair-like black thread into the needle driver.
“Alright, here comes the worst part,” you announce. You pick up a syringe and a small vial of lidocaine. “I’m going to numb the area. It’s a small needle, but you’ll feel a pinch and then a burning sensation for a few seconds as the anesthetic goes in. After that, you won’t feel a thing. Okay?”
He opens his eyes and looks at you. The depth of his gaze is startling. He gives a single, slow nod. “Okay.”
“Just try to hold still.”
You lean in closer, your left hand coming up to gently cup his jaw, tilting his head just so. His skin is warm, a day’s worth of stubble scratching lightly against your gloved fingertips. His breath hitches, a barely perceptible thing, but you feel it. For a fraction of a second, your professional focus wavers. You’re suddenly aware of his jawline, of the mole just below his ear, of the scent of his cologne mixed with the clean, cold smell of the hockey rink.
You swallow and refocus. You position the needle at the edge of the wound. “Deep breath in … and out.”
He breathes out as you slide the needle in, expertly injecting a small amount of lidocaine just beneath the skin. He winces, his jaw tight under your hand, but he doesn't make a sound. You repeat the process on the other side of the cut.
“That’s it,” you say, pulling back. “The worst is over. We’ll just give that a minute to work.”
You busy yourself with arranging your instruments, giving him a moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him watching your hands as they move with purpose and precision.
“You have done this many times,” he states. It’s not a question.
“A few,” you say. “Though usually not in a kitchen. And usually on people who are fully sedated.”
He chuckles, a soft, breathy sound. “I can pretend to be asleep if it helps.”
“No, I might need you to … oh, I don’t know, not pass out on the floor.”
“I will do my best.”
You gently tap the skin near the cut with the tip of your forceps. “Can you feel that?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Good.” You take a deep breath and lean in again, picking up the needle driver. “Alright. Here we go.”
This is where your world narrows. The kitchen, your brothers, the exhaustion — it all fades into a soft, blurry background. All that exists is the small patch of skin in front of you, the gleaming instruments in your hands, and the task you need to complete.
You place your left hand back on his jaw to steady him. The angle is awkward, so you have to lean in very, very close. Your face is just inches from his. If you were to turn your head slightly, your foreheads would touch.
You take the edge of the skin with the forceps, and with a smooth, practiced motion, you push the needle through, drawing it out the other side. You begin the precise, rhythmic work of laying down the stitches. A simple interrupted suture. You’re meticulous, focusing on everting the edges perfectly to minimize scarring.
Nico is unnaturally still. You expect him to be watching your hands, or looking at the ceiling, or squeezing his eyes shut. But he’s not.
He’s looking at you.
No, that’s not quite right. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at your mouth.
You’re concentrating, your own lips slightly parted in focus. And his gaze is fixed there. It’s an intense, unwavering stare that you can feel more than you can see. It’s a palpable weight on your skin. A low hum of energy passes between you in the small space you share.
Your heart gives a funny little kick against your ribs. You try to ignore it, to attribute it to the residual adrenaline. You’re a professional. He’s a patient. He’s your brothers’ teammate and friend. But the intensity of his focus is making it difficult to breathe normally. It feels … intimate. Far too intimate for a minor medical procedure at a kitchen island.
You clear your throat, needing to break the charged silence. “So … a high stick, huh? Was it one of ours or one of theirs?”
His eyes flicker up to meet yours for a second before dropping back down to your lips. “Theirs,” he says, his voice a little rough. “An accident.”
“Do you get in a lot of fights, Captain?” You ask, your voice quieter than you intended. You’re starting the second stitch.
“Not if I can help it.”
“Why not?” You pull the suture taut, your movements fluid and economical.
“There are better ways to lead.”
His answer is simple, direct, and it makes you pause for a beat. You glance up and meet his eyes. There’s a seriousness there, a depth you hadn’t expected. The jokey, casual facade is gone.
“Like getting your face stitched up in your teammates’ kitchen?” You ask, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips.
His own mouth quirks up on one side, the side that isn’t numb and swollen. “Exactly like this. It builds character.”
You laugh, a quiet puff of air. The sound feels loud in the stillness. You go back to your work, tying off the second stitch with a perfect surgeon’s knot.
From the living room, the sound of an explosion and a triumphant yell from Luke signifies that your brothers have lost interest in the surgery and have moved on to their video games. The noise provides a strange, normal backdrop to the highly abnormal situation unfolding in the kitchen.
You’re halfway done. Four perfect, tiny black stitches are now holding his skin together. You have to lean in even closer for the last few, to get the right angle near his temple. Your hair, which you’d hastily tied back, comes loose, a stray strand falling across your cheek. You try to blow it away, but it doesn't move.
Before you can think to move your hand, his own hand — his right one, the one that isn’t gripping the edge of the counter — comes up. He moves slowly, as if not to startle you. With a surprising gentleness, he hooks his index finger around the stray piece of hair and tucks it behind your ear.
His fingers brush against the shell of your ear, against your skin. It’s a fleeting touch, but it sends a jolt straight through you, sharp and unexpected.
Your breath catches in your throat. You freeze, needle driver hovering over his skin. You finally look up, really look at him.
His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide. He’s not looking at your lips anymore. He’s looking right into your eyes, and the raw, undisguised emotion you see there makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying flip. It’s not just appreciation. It’s not just curiosity. It’s the look Jesper Bratt had called “heart eyes.” And now, seeing it up close, you understand. Oh, you understand completely.
His hand is still there, his fingers resting for a moment against your hair just above your ear. The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken things. The pew-pew-pew of video game lasers from the other room feels like it’s coming from another dimension.
Nico seems to realize what he’s done, where his hand is. He pulls it back quickly, as if burned, and clears his throat.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking down at his lap. “The … hair. It was in your way.”
“It’s fine,” you manage to say, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. “Thank you.”
You force yourself to look back down at the wound, but your hands are trembling slightly. You grip the needle driver tighter. Get it together. You’re a surgeon. This is a patient. But the mantra feels flimsy, useless against the blush that is now creeping hotly up your neck. You are suddenly, intensely aware that you are a woman, leaning over a very handsome man, in your kitchen, at two in the afternoon.
You finish the last three stitches in record time, your movements a little less fluid, a little more jerky. You snip the final thread, the tiny sound of the scissors seeming to sever the tension between you.
You pull back, taking a deep breath and creating a much-needed space between your bodies.
“All done,” you announce, your voice overly bright. You start cleaning up your instruments, your hands still not quite steady.
Nico gently touches his fingers to the bandage you’ve placed over the stitches. “I felt nothing.”
“That’s the lidocaine. It’ll wear off in a couple of hours. It’ll be sore,” you say, reverting to your professional doctor-voice. It’s a shield. “Take some Tylenol or ibuprofen if you need to. Keep it clean and dry for the first twenty-four hours. I’ll take the stitches out in five to seven days. Don’t let one of the team trainers do it, they’ll just yank them out. Come back here.”
You didn’t mean for the last part to sound like an order, but it did.
He looks up at you, a real, genuine smile spreading across his face, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. The sight of it does another stupid thing to your insides. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jack, alerted by the sudden cessation of surgical activity, wanders back into the kitchen. He peers at Nico’s face.
“Whoa,” he says, his eyes wide. “Dude, it looks amazing. You can barely even see it. Y/N, you’re like a wizard.”
“It’s my job, Jack,” you say, stripping off your gloves and throwing them away.
“Still. That’s pretty cool.” He claps Nico on the shoulder. “See? Told you she’d fix you right up. Now you won’t scare little kids.”
Nico stands up from the stool, rolling his shoulders. He turns to you, his expression serious again.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice full of a sincere gratitude that makes you feel shy. “Really. For taking the time. I know you were sleeping.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad I could help,” you say, trying for casual. You risk a glance at his face and immediately regret it. He’s still looking at you with that same unnerving intensity.
“I owe you,” he says.
“No, you don’t. Just … try not to get hit in the face with a stick again anytime soon. My services aren’t cheap.” You try for a joke, but it falls a little flat.
“I will pay you,” he says immediately, reaching for his wallet.
“Don’t be an idiot,” you and Jack say in perfect unison.
Jack throws an arm around Nico’s shoulders. “She’s not gonna take your money. You can pay her back by scoring a hat trick on Saturday. C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”
“Let me know if the bleeding starts again or if it gets really painful,” you call after them as they head for the door.
Nico stops in the entryway and turns back. Luke is yelling at the TV in the other room, and Jack is already halfway out the door, but Nico just looks at you.
“I will,” he says. And then, more softly, so only you can hear, “Thank you again, Y/N.”
Then he’s gone. The front door clicks shut, and the house is quiet again, save for the sounds of digital warfare.
You stand alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of your impromptu clinic. You stare at the spot on the floor where you first saw the drops of his blood. You slowly lift a hand and tuck a piece of your own hair behind your ear, your fingertips brushing the same spot his did. A phantom tingle lingers on your skin.
Your exhaustion comes crashing back, ten times heavier than before. But it’s different now. It’s mixed with a strange, thrumming energy, a nervous flutter deep in your stomach.
You think back to the neat row of stitches on a man’s face, a man with impossibly kind and intense eyes, and you realize with a sinking, thrilling feeling, that you had just performed a medical procedure on Nico Hischier. And you’re not entirely sure which one of you was left more flustered.
***
It’s been four weeks since you stitched up your brothers’ captain in your kitchen. Four weeks of long days bleeding into longer nights, of sleeping in call rooms and living off stale coffee and protein bars. In that time, you saw Nico exactly once more in a clinical capacity. He had come back, as instructed, on a crisp Saturday morning. You removed the seven tiny black sutures from his cheekbone in a procedure that was somehow even more excruciatingly intimate than putting them in.
The silence in the kitchen had been thick, charged with the memory of the last time he’d sat in that exact spot. He had thanked you, his voice low and sincere. You had noted, with a professional and detached satisfaction, that there would be no scar. And then he had left. You hadn’t seen him since.
Now, it’s Friday night. The tail end of a brutal eighty-hour week that culminated in a twelve-hour Whipple procedure. You don’t remember driving home. You don’t remember changing out of your scrubs and into a pair of worn-soft sweatpants and one of Luke’s old Michigan hoodies that swallows you whole. You only remember the magnetic pull of the living room couch, and the blissful surrender as you fell face-first into a cushion.
You’re deep in the weeds of a nonsensical dream involving a talking retractor when the sound of the doorbell, loud and shrill, pierces through the fog. A moment later, the front door opens, and a wave of noise crashes into the quiet house.
“Did you get the wings? Tell me you got the garlic parm,” Luke is saying.
“Of course I got the garlic parm, I’m not an animal,” another familiar voice replies. Dougie Hamilton.
“Let’s go, boys, let’s go! First game is me and Bratter versus the Hughes clowns,” another voice shouts.
There’s a chorus of boisterous greetings, the thud of sneakers on the floor, the rustle of takeout bags. The living room is suddenly full of very large, very loud men.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the couch. Maybe if I don’t move, they’ll think I’m a decorative pillow and leave me alone.
“Ah,” Jesper Bratt says, his voice much closer now. “It seems the surgeon is in her natural habitat. Passed out on the couch.”
“Dude, she’s always sleeping here,” Jack says, his tone a mix of amusement and affection. “It’s like her charging station.”
“Well, we need this station for Chel,” Luke announces. “The TV is the main event. Alright, Y/N, up and at ‘em.”
You feel a hand on your shoulder, gently shaking you. “Five more minutes,” you mumble, your voice thick with sleep. “Patient’s not coded yet.”
“She’s talking in her sleep,” Luke laughs. “Come on, Y/N. Go to your actual bed. It’s way more comfortable.”
“No,” you whine, shrugging his hand off. “Comfy here.”
As Luke prepares to shake you again, a quieter, more deliberate voice cuts through the noise.
“Stop.”
The hand on your shoulder disappears.
“What?” Luke asks.
“Let her sleep,” Nico says. His voice is calm but firm, carrying an authority that makes everyone pause. “Look at her. She is exhausted.”
You can’t see him, but you can picture the scene perfectly. Your idiot brothers, well-meaning but clueless. And Nico, ever the captain, ever observant.
“Yeah, but we gotta play,” Jack argues, though his voice has lost some of its conviction. “Where else are we gonna hook up the PlayStation?”
“We can wait,” Nico says simply. There’s a beat of silence.
“Or,” he says, his voice softer, more hesitant now. “I can … I could just carry her upstairs. To her room. So we do not wake her.”
The silence that follows this suggestion is profound. It’s so quiet you can hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. You can feel the weight of at least four pairs of eyes on your unconscious form. You strain your ears, waiting for Jack or Luke to laugh it off, to tell him not to be weird.
Instead, you hear Jack clear his throat. “Uh. You sure, man? She’s not, like, a feather. She eats carbs.”
“I think I can manage,” Nico replies, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.
You hear Luke shrug. You can actually hear the fabric of his shirt move. “Okay, whatever. If you wanna. Her room is the second door on the left at the top of the stairs. The one with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign she stole from a hotel.”
Your mind, sluggish and syrupy with sleep, struggles to process what’s happening. He’s going to what?
Before you can formulate a protest, or even fully comprehend the plan, you feel it. Strong, warm hands sliding carefully under your back and beneath your knees. There is a moment of weightlessness, and then you are being lifted, scooped from the couch with a surprising, effortless grace.
Your body, limp with sleep, instinctively curls inward. Your head lolls and finds a natural resting place in the crook of his neck, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his hoodie. He smells good. Like clean laundry and crisp autumn air and something uniquely, warmly Nico. It’s a comforting scent. It pulls you deeper into the dream-like state.
You hear Jesper let out a low whistle from somewhere behind you. “Okay, Cap,” he says, his voice laced with laughter.
Nico says nothing. His movements are slow, deliberate, clearly focused on not jostling you. You can feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against your ear. You can feel the flex and release of the muscles in his arms and chest as he carries you towards the stairs. It’s the safest you’ve felt in a very long time.
He navigates the stairs with a quiet sureness. Each step is solid, even. He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t even breathe heavily. When he reaches the top of the landing, he pauses for a moment, shifting your weight slightly to push open the second door on the left.
He steps into the darkness of your room. The only light is a thin sliver of moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains. He crosses the room to your bed, and the scent of your own space — lavender and clean linen and the faint, papery smell of textbooks — rises up to meet you.
With the same care he used to lift you, he lowers you onto the mattress. The bed dips under your combined weight, and for a moment, he’s leaning over you, his arms still supporting you as he settles you onto the pillows. He gently extracts one arm, then the other, from beneath you.
You let out a soft, contented sigh and roll onto your side, away from him. He hesitates for a second before pulling the thick, fluffy comforter up over your shoulders, tucking it in around you like you’re a child.
He stays there for a moment, a dark silhouette against the moonlight. You’re not really asleep anymore, but you’re not quite awake either. You’re floating in the peaceful space between. You can feel him watching you. The air is still, holding its breath. He thinks you’re completely oblivious, a sleeping body to be moved from point A to point B. But even in your exhaustion, you are acutely aware of his presence, of the gentle, careful way he’s treating you.
Finally, he turns to leave. The spell is about to break. He’s going to walk out that door, go back downstairs to the noise and the games, and you’ll be left alone in the quiet dark. A sudden, inexplicable panic flares in your chest. You don’t want him to go.
Your hand shoots out from under the covers, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated but finding their mark. You grasp the thick, soft material of his hoodie sleeve.
He freezes, his back to you.
“Stay,” you whisper, the word a sleepy, breathy thing.
He turns around slowly. You can’t see his expression in the dark, but you can feel his surprise, his hesitation.
“Y/N?” He says, his voice barely a murmur. “You are awake?”
“Mmm, no,” you reply, which makes absolutely no sense. Your grip on his sleeve tightens. “Don’t go.”
“I … I should,” he stammers. He takes a half-step back, but your grip holds him in place. “The guys are downstairs. You need to sleep.”
“Please,” you say again. You tug on his arm, a weak but insistent pull. “It’s cold.”
It’s not cold. The comforter is thick and you’re wearing a hoodie. But it’s the only word your sleep-addled brain can supply.
“Y/N, you’re not thinking clearly,” he says, his voice a low, strained whisper. He sounds panicked. “You are half-asleep. You don’t—it is Nico. I have to go.”
He’s trying to be a gentleman. He’s trying to do the right thing. But your exhausted, subconscious mind doesn’t care about the right thing. It only cares about the warmth and the safety and the comforting presence of the man standing beside your bed.
You tug again, this time with a surprising surge of sleepy strength. “Stay with me.”
The pull is just enough to throw him off balance. He stumbles forward, his knee hitting the edge of the mattress. With a quiet curse, he tries to right himself, but your grip is relentless. He pitches forward, catching himself with one hand on the bed, but the momentum carries him down. He lands on the comforter beside you with a soft whoof, a tangle of limbs and surprised air.
He lands on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking down at you. You’ve rolled onto your back to accommodate his fall, and now your faces are only inches apart. You can see the whites of his eyes in the gloom, wide with shock.
“I am so sorry,” he breathes, already trying to push himself back up. “I did not mean to …”
But you just let go of his sleeve and, without a word, you roll back onto your side, facing away from him, and snuggle your back right up against his front. You take his arm — the one he isn’t using to prop himself up — and pull it over you, holding it against your stomach like a teddy bear.
Nico goes completely, utterly still. He’s a statue lying in your bed. He isn’t breathing.
“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice choked with panic. “What are you doing? I cannot … this is not right. I have to leave.”
“So warm,” you mumble into your pillow, already drifting off again.
This, apparently, is the final blow to his resolve. He stays frozen for another ten seconds, his mind clearly racing, trying to find an honorable escape from this deeply compromising, incredibly comfortable situation.
Then, with a long, slow, defeated sigh, he gives up.
He lets his body relax, sinking a little deeper into the mattress. He’s still on top of the covers, still fully clothed in his jeans and hoodie. But he lets his head rest on the pillow next to yours. The arm you’ve captured stays draped over you. He smells your hair, the lavender shampoo you use. He feels the soft, even rhythm of your breathing against his chest. He’s exhausted from a week of hard practices, and your bed is an oasis of warmth and comfort.
Just for a minute, he tells himself. I will stay just for one minute until she is fully asleep, and then I will go.
He closes his eyes.
***
An hour later, the Mario Kart theme music is blaring from the living room TV.
“I’m telling you, the blue shell is a mechanism of pure evil!” Jack yells, throwing his controller onto the couch in disgust.
“You are just mad because I am a better driver,” Jesper says smugly, doing a little victory dance on the rug.
Luke, who came in fourth, leans back and stretches. “Man, I’m starving. Where’s that pizza? And where the hell is Nico? Did he go home?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Dougie says, scrolling through his phone. “He carried your sister upstairs like an hour ago. Maybe he’s using the bathroom?”
“For an hour?” Jack says with a frown. “That’s a long time. Maybe he got lost.”
“How can he get lost? There are four rooms up there,” Luke says, standing up. “I’m gonna go check on him. Make sure Y/N didn’t sedate him and try to harvest his organs for research.”
Jack laughs and follows him. “Yeah, good call. She gets weird when she’s tired.”
They jog up the stairs, their footsteps loud in the hallway. They’re still laughing as Luke pushes open your bedroom door, which was left slightly ajar.
The laughter dies in their throats.
They stand in the doorway, side-by-side, their brains slowly processing the scene in front of them. In the dim moonlight, they see you, sleeping peacefully on your side. And they see their captain lying beside you, also fast asleep, his arm draped protectively over you, your back tucked up against his chest.
For a full thirty seconds, neither of them moves or speaks. They just stare. Jack’s mouth is hanging slightly open. Luke blinks several times, as if trying to clear his vision.
Then, they look at each other. An entire, silent conversation passes between them. A look of shock gives way to confusion, which then slowly, simultaneously, melts into pure amusement. A huge, shared grin spreads across both their faces.
Luke clears his throat. It’s not a loud sound, but in the quiet room, it’s enough.
Nico jolts awake as if he’s been electrocuted. His eyes fly open, wide with panic. He takes in his surroundings — your bed, you sleeping beside him, your brothers standing in the doorway — and the color drains from his face.
He scrambles to sit up, carefully untangling his arm from around you so as not to wake you. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Guys,” he starts, his voice a hoarse, panicked whisper. “Guys. I swear. It is not what you think.”
Jack and Luke just continue to grin, their arms crossed.
“She was asleep,” Nico rushes on, running a hand through his hair distractedly. “And I put her in bed, and she … she grabbed me. And she was talking in her sleep, and she pulled me … I lost my balance. And then I just sat down for a second, to wait for her to fall asleep again, and I … I must have dozed off. Nothing happened. I promise you. On my life, nothing happened.”
He’s rambling, his accent getting thicker with his panic. He looks from Jack’s amused face to Luke’s, searching for any sign of anger, of the impending fight he’s sure is coming.
But it never comes. Instead, Luke lets out a quiet snort of laughter.
“Dude,” Luke says, shaking his head. “Relax.”
“Breathe, man,” Jack adds, his grin widening. “We’re not gonna kill you.”
Nico stares at them, utterly bewildered. “You are … not mad?”
“Mad? Why would we be mad?” Jack asks, stepping into the room. He gestures between you and Nico. “Look, man, our sister has been married to medicine for the last ten years. She goes to work, she comes home, she falls asleep on the couch. That’s her whole life. Honestly?” He leans in conspiratorially. “It is nice to see her with an actual human being for a change.”
Nico is floored. This is not the reaction he expected. “No, but you do not understand,” he insists, still whispering frantically. “This is your sister. I have so much respect for her. For you. I would never … we did not … we just slept.”
“Yeah, we get it, Romeo, you’re a gentleman,” Luke says, waving a dismissive hand. He glances at your sleeping form, his expression softening. “Just … don’t wake her up. She’ll be a monster tomorrow if you do.”
Nico can only stare, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. His mind is short-circuiting. He had run through a thousand scenarios, and all of them ended with him getting punched, or at the very least, yelled at. This calm, amused acceptance was not on the list.
“So …” Nico says, unsure of what to do now. “Should I … go?”
Jack and Luke look at each other again.
“Nah,” Jack says with a shrug. “You look pretty comfortable. And the pizza’s probably here. We’re gonna go eat.”
Luke points a finger at him. “Don’t hurt her, or whatever. You know the drill.” He then gives Nico a big, goofy thumbs-up. “Have a good night, dude.”
And with that, they turn around, walk out of the room, and quietly pull the door closed, leaving Nico sitting on the edge of your bed in the near-total darkness, completely and utterly baffled.
He looks at the closed door. He looks at you, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the entire exchange. He looks back at the door.
He’s been left in his teammate’s sister’s bed. On purpose. And he has absolutely no idea what to do next.
***
The first thing you register is the light. It’s a soft, grey morning light, filtering through the blinds and painting stripes across a room that is distinctly yours. The second thing you register is the warmth. A solid, living warmth pressed against your entire backside, an arm draped securely over your waist, and the slow, steady puff of breath against the back of your neck.
Your eyes flutter open. It all comes rushing back in a dizzying, mortifying wave: The exhaustion. The arrival of the team. Nico’s offer. Being carried upstairs. Asking him to stay. Pulling him into bed.
Oh, god. You pulled him into bed.
Your heart kick-starts, a frantic, panicked thumping against your ribs. You are spooning the captain of the New Jersey Devils. You are the little spoon. You, who hasn’t so much as held hands with a man in three years, have somehow managed to lasso your brothers’ friend and captain into your bed for the night.
Slowly, carefully, you try to roll over without disturbing him. The arm around your waist tightens instinctively in his sleep, pulling you closer for a moment before loosening. You hold your breath, but his breathing remains deep and even. You complete the turn, moving with the glacial slowness of a bomb-disposal expert, until you are on your other side, facing him.
He’s even more handsome up close, in the soft morning light, without the stress and focus of his job etched onto his features. His face is relaxed in sleep, his dark eyelashes stark against his skin. The tiny, faded line on his cheekbone where you put the stitches is almost invisible. You did a good job. Your hand twitches with the absurd urge to trace it.
As if sensing your gaze, his eyelashes flicker. His breathing hitches, and then his eyes — deep, warm brown — slowly open.
They find yours instantly.
For a long, silent moment, you just stare at each other. Neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the soft hum of the house around you and the frantic pounding of your own heart. His eyes are wide, searching yours, a dozen emotions playing across his face: confusion, surprise, and a healthy dose of panic.
Then, as if a starting gun has gone off, you both speak at once.
“Oh my god, I am so, so sorry-” you start, scrambling to sit up.
“Listen, I can explain, I fell asleep, I didn’t mean-” he says at the exact same time, also trying to sit up.
You both stop, the words hanging in the air between you. The silence that follows is even more awkward than the first one. You’re both sitting up now, facing each other, the rumpled comforter pooled around your waists. You clutch it to your chest like a shield.
He runs a hand through his already messy hair, looking anywhere but at you. “I should not have stayed. I was going to leave, I swear. I sat on the edge of the bed and I just … closed my eyes for a second. I am so sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“You made me uncomfortable?” You echo, a hysterical little laugh bubbling up in your throat. “Nico, I practically assaulted you. I have a vague memory of physically pulling you into the bed. You should be filing a restraining order, not apologizing.”
He finally looks at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. “It was not an assault. But you are surprisingly strong for a sleepy person.”
“It’s the years of holding retractors in the OR. Builds arm strength,” you say, the words just tumbling out in your nervousness. “But seriously, I am mortified. I don’t usually … kidnap people. I was just so tired.”
“I know,” he says softly. His panic seems to be receding, replaced by a quiet seriousness. He turns his body to face you more fully. “Y/N.”
The way he says your name sends a little shiver down your spine. “Yeah?”
He takes a deep breath, like a man preparing to jump off a cliff. He’s looking directly at you, his gaze steady and intense. It’s the same look he had in the kitchen when you were stitching his face, the one that made your stomach do a slow, dizzying flip.
“I am not sorry I stayed,” he says, his voice low and firm. “And it is not just because your bed is very comfortable.”
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Okay …”
“I should have just said this from the beginning,” he continues, speaking faster now, the words tumbling out as if he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. “The night we met, after the game. And when you stitched me up. And last night. I keep trying to … be normal. To be respectful. Because you are Jack and Luke’s sister. But it is not working.”
He pauses, taking another breath. You just stare, completely captivated, your own apology forgotten.
“The truth is,” he says, finally meeting your eyes with a look of raw vulnerability, “I really, really like you. A lot. And I know the timing is maybe weird, and the situation is definitely weird, and you are probably not interested because you are a brilliant surgeon and I am just a guy who plays hockey. But I had to tell you. I just … I had to say it.”
He finishes his speech and braces himself, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. He looks like he’s expecting you to laugh, or to call security, or to simply vanish in a puff of smoke. He’s prepared for rejection.
But rejection never comes.
Instead, a slow, wide smile spreads across your face. A genuine, unrestrained smile of relief and happiness. The tension that had been coiled in your stomach for weeks finally, blessedly, unwinds.
“Oh, thank god,” you breathe, the words coming out on a laugh.
Nico blinks, his expression of grim preparation morphing into one of utter confusion. “Thank … god?”
“Yes. Thank god,” you repeat, nodding emphatically. “Because I really, really like you, too. And I was starting to think I’d imagined that whole ‘staring at me with intense, heart-stopping eyes’ thing.”
It takes a second for your words to register. He stares at you, his brain clearly rebooting. Then, a slow-dawning, brilliant smile transforms his entire face. The relief is so palpable you can almost feel it wash over him.
“You … you do?” He asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Yeah, I do,” you confirm, your smile matching his. “And for the record,” you add, leaning in a little closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you’re a great cuddler. Ten out of ten. Very comforting.”
He laughs, a real, happy sound that fills the quiet room. “I am glad I could be of service.”
The air between you is different now. The awkwardness has evaporated, replaced by something warm and light and full of giddy possibility. You’re just two people, sitting in a messy bed in the morning light, smiling at each other like idiots.
You break the gaze first, glancing towards the door. “So. What does a world-class hockey captain who moonlights as a professional cuddler want for breakfast?”
***
The house is empty. A note on the fridge from Jack, written in his messy scrawl, confirms your suspicion. Went to get groceries. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do! You roll your eyes, crumpling the note and tossing it into the recycling bin.
The kitchen is filled with the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling in a pan. You move around each other in a comfortable, if slightly shy, dance. You’re handling the eggs, he’s on bacon and toast duty. It feels surprisingly, wonderfully normal.
“So,” Nico says, carefully arranging bacon strips on a paper towel-lined plate. “I was wondering.”
“You were wondering?” You prompt, sliding two perfectly fried eggs onto a plate next to his bacon.
He turns from the counter, leaning back against it and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He looks nervous again, but in a different way now. It’s a hopeful kind of nervous.
“I would like to take you on a date,” he says. “A proper one. Not in a crowded hallway after a game or with you performing surgery on my face or after you have abducted me in your sleep.”
You laugh, the sound bright in the sunny kitchen. “I think I’d like that. A date without medical equipment or subconscious kidnapping sounds lovely.”
“Dinner?” He presses. “Somewhere nice. I will wear a shirt with buttons and everything.”
“Wow, a shirt with buttons? I’m honored.” You lean against the opposite counter, taking a sip of your coffee. “I’d love to. There’s just one small problem.”
His face falls almost imperceptibly. A flicker of the old panic returns to his eyes. “A problem?”
“Yeah,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “My schedule is a nightmare. I’ll have to check it.”
You see the shift in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there. The slight tightening of his jaw, the polite but disappointed smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He thinks you’re blowing him off. It’s the classic gentle rejection, the “I’ll have to check my schedule” that means ‘thanks, but no thanks.’
“Of course,” he says, his voice a little too breezy. “I understand. You are very busy. We can … figure it out some other time. No problem.”
You just look at him for a second before shaking your head with a smile. You push off the counter, walk over to where your phone is charging, and unplug it. You hold it up.
“Nico,” you say gently. “I’m not blowing you off. I’m being serious. I have to literally check my schedule.”
You tap open your calendar app and turn the screen towards him.
It’s a terrifying wall of color-coded blocks. Almost every single day is a solid chunk of blue labeled “GEN SURG,” or purple for “TRAUMA,” or red for “SICU.” There are 24-hour call shifts highlighted in an alarming shade of crimson. In between are tiny slivers of white, most of which are labeled with things like “SLEEP” or “LAUNDRY (MAYBE).” It looks less like a calendar and more like a complex, unsolvable Tetris game.
He stares at the screen, his eyes wide. “Wow,” he says, the single word full of awe and a little bit of horror. “Okay. I see.”
“Yeah.” You scroll through the week. “Okay, so today is Saturday, I’m post-call, so I’m free until tomorrow at 6 p.m. Then I’m on for three days straight … a day off Wednesday but it’s a recovery day so I’ll be a zombie …” you trail off, your finger tracing the screen. “Ah! Here.”
You stop on the following week. “Next Thursday,” you announce triumphantly. “I have a normal, human ten-hour shift. I’m done at seven. I have a whole evening off. And I don’t have to be back in until 8 a.m. Friday. That’s practically a vacation.”
Nico pulls his own phone out, a relieved smile returning to his face. He taps open his own calendar, which is filled with practices, workouts, and games. “Next Thursday … we are home, but no game. It is perfect.”
“Perfect,” you agree, smiling back at him.
“So, Thursday,” he confirms, his eyes bright with excitement. “I will pick you up. From the hospital? At seven?”
The thought of him waiting for you there, in your world, a bright spot at the end of what will inevitably be a long and difficult day, makes your stomach flutter.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended. “That sounds really perfect.”
***
A week and a half later, you are, in fact, having a long and difficult day. A routine appendectomy turned into a complicated bowel resection, and you’ve been on your feet for eleven straight hours. Your entire body aches, your brain feels like scrambled eggs, and all you want to do is crawl into a hole.
But then you remember. It’s Thursday. It’s seven o’clock. It’s date night.
A fresh wave of energy, fueled by pure adrenaline and anticipation, surges through you.
“Okay, I’m out of here!” You call to the other residents in the lounge. “Don’t burn the place down without me.”
Your friend, Sandra, a whip-smart pediatrics resident, looks up from the chart she’s writing. “Big plans tonight, Hughes? Another hot date with your couch and a pint of Marcus & Jerry’s?”
“Funnily enough, no,” you say, pulling off your scrubs and quickly changing into the dress you’d stashed in your locker — a simple, elegant dark green wrap dress that’s comfortable but chic. “I have an actual date. With a human man.”
This gets the attention of Marcus, a lanky, perpetually exhausted emergency medicine resident. “A man? Does he have a pulse? Is he aware you talk about surgical drains in your sleep?”
“He has a pulse, and he’s been warned,” you laugh, running a brush through your hair and quickly touching up your makeup.
“Well, have fun,” Sandra says, a genuine smile on her face. “You deserve it more than anyone.”
You thank them and practically float out of the residents’ lounge and toward the main exit of the hospital. The automatic doors slide open with a whoosh, and you step out into the cool October evening.
And there he is.
He’s leaning against a sleek black Audi, looking impossibly handsome. He’s not in team gear or a hoodie. He’s wearing dark grey trousers and a crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A shirt with buttons. He’s holding a single, perfect white rose.
His head is down, looking at his phone, but then he seems to sense you. He looks up, and his face breaks into that incredible, heart-stopping smile.
Your tired, aching body is forgotten. The stress of the day melts away. There is only him, smiling at you from across the driveway.
Just as you start walking towards him, the hospital doors slide open again behind you.
“Hey, Hughes, you forgot your …” Sandra’s voice trails off as she and Marcus step outside. They both stop dead, their eyes going from you, to the handsome man with the rose leaning against the expensive car, and back to you.
Sandra’s jaw drops. Marcus just points.
“Is that …” Marcus whispers loudly. “Is that Nico Hischier?”
You turn back, a blush creeping up your neck, and give them a small, apologetic wave.
Sandra’s face breaks into a gigantic grin. She grabs Ben’s arm, shaking it. “Oh my god! You go, Y/N! Get it, girl!” She whisper-yells, giving you two enthusiastic thumbs-up.
You just laugh, shake your head, and turn back to Nico, who is watching the exchange with a look of pure amusement.
“Friends of yours?” He asks as you reach him.
“My fellow inmates,” you reply. He hands you the rose, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact sends a familiar jolt through you. “It’s beautiful, Nico. Thank you.”
“Not as beautiful as you,” he says, his voice sincere. He opens the passenger door for you. “You look … wow. Not like you have been in a hospital for twelve hours.”
“It’s a medical miracle,” you say, sliding into the car. It smells like leather and his cologne, a combination that is dizzyingly pleasant.
The restaurant is perfect. It’s an intimate Italian place tucked away on a quiet street, with low lighting and white tablecloths. It’s nice, but not so fancy that it feels stuffy.
The conversation is even better. It flows easily, naturally, as if you’ve been doing this for years. You talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about growing up in a small town in Switzerland, about the immense pressure of being the first overall draft pick. You tell him about the relentless, crushing weight of medical residency, but also about the incredible, indescribable high of saving a life.
“Sometimes,” you admit, swirling the wine in your glass, “I feel like I’m an imposter. Like one day everyone’s going to figure out I have no idea what I’m doing.”
He nods, his expression full of a profound understanding. “I feel this every day,” he confesses. “When you wear the ‘C’ … everyone looks to you. On the ice, in the room. They expect you to have the answers. And some days, I am just a kid from Naters who is good at skating. It is terrifying.”
You look at him, really look at him, and you see past the confident athlete. You see the thoughtful, slightly insecure, incredibly kind man underneath. And you realize you’re falling for him. Hard.
The drive home is quiet, but it’s a comfortable, happy silence. He pulls up to the curb in front of your house. He doesn’t turn off the engine, but he turns in his seat to face you.
“I had an amazing time tonight, Y/N,” he says, his voice low in the dark car.
“Me too,” you whisper. “It was the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“Good,” he says with a soft smile. “I am hoping to set a high bar.”
He gets out and walks around to open your door, walking you up the short path to your front porch. The porch is dark, the house behind it quiet. Jack and Luke are probably in the basement, absorbed in some video game.
You stop in front of the door, turning to face him. The single porch step you’re on makes you almost eye-level with him.
“Well,” you say, a little breathless. “Thank you again. For everything.”
“My pleasure,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. His gaze drops to your lips, and your heart gives a familiar lurch.
He lifts a hand, his thumb gently grazing your cheekbone, right over the spot where his scar isn’t. “Can I …”
You don’t let him finish. You just nod, your eyes fluttering shut.
He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you don’t. You meet him halfway.
His lips are soft, hesitant at first, a gentle question. You answer by pressing back, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. The kiss deepens, and it’s everything. It’s sweet and romantic and full of all the unspoken things that have been building between you for the last month and a half.
And then, the world explodes in harsh, fluorescent light.
The porch light blares on, blindingly bright. You both pull apart, blinking in the sudden glare.
From inside the house, through the living room window, comes the unmistakable sound of your brothers absolutely losing it. Peals of howling, unrestrained laughter echo through the glass. You can see their two stupid silhouettes doubled over.
Nico groans, dropping his head in embarrassment. “Oh my god. I am going to kill them.”
You look from the window to his mortified face, and you can’t help it. You start to laugh, too. A real, genuine laugh.
“Welcome to my family,” you say, shaking your head.
“They are unbelievable,” he mutters, though a smile is starting to play on his own lips. He looks back at you, the porch light illuminating the blush on his cheeks.
“Yeah, well,” you say, your laughter subsiding. You reach up, cup his face in your hands, and pull him back down to you. “They’re my problem, not yours.”
You kiss him again. This time, there’s no hesitation. It’s confident and happy and you don’t care about the light or your idiot brothers watching from the window. You kiss him until you’re both breathless and smiling against each other’s lips.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says, his forehead resting against yours.
“You better,” you reply.
You give him one last, quick peck on the lips before turning, unlocking the front door, and slipping inside, the sound of your brothers’ fading giggles filling the entryway. You close the door, lean back against it, and bring your fingers to your lips. They’re still tingling.
You walk into the living room to find Jack and Luke sprawled on the couch, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.
“Did you have a nice time on your date?” Jack asks, his voice trembling with suppressed mirth.
“Was that the first kiss?” Luke chimes in. “Did we ruin the first kiss?”
You just look at them, a slow smile spreading across your face. “The second was even better,” you inform them coolly.
You leave them to process that, walking up the stairs to your room, the sound of their indignant, surprised squawking following you all the way.
***
The last few months have been a blur of stolen moments and carefully guarded secrets. Your life is still a chaotic whirlwind of eighty-hour work weeks, life-or-death surgeries, and the constant, crushing pressure of residency. His life is an equally demanding cycle of practices, games, travel, and the immense responsibility of leading a professional hockey team.
And yet, somehow, you’ve made it work.
Your relationship has blossomed in the quiet spaces between your two hectic worlds. It exists in the sleepy 6 a.m. coffees you share before you head to the hospital and he heads to the rink. It lives in the late-night texts filled with exhausted but happy updates. It thrives on the rare, precious nights off when you order takeout, curl up on the couch, and just exist in the same space, the comfortable silence a balm on your frayed souls.
It's been perfect. It’s been private. It’s been yours.
Which is why you have a sinking feeling in your stomach as you stand by the glass at the Prudential Center on a cold Wednesday morning in March. You had a rare late start at the hospital, so you stopped by to drop off a coffee for Nico and tolerate your brothers for five minutes. You should have left already. You really should have. But you stayed to watch the first few minutes of morning skate, leaning against the cool glass, a warm cup of your own coffee cradled in your hands.
Your mistake was underestimating the chaos that follows your brothers like a shadow.
You see Kathy, the Devils’ bright and bubbly social media manager, set up with a cameraman near the tunnel where the players file onto the ice. She’s holding a whiteboard and a marker, flagging guys down as they pass. It’s a familiar sight, some silly, lighthearted content for the team’s Instagram or TikTok. You watch as she stops Dougie, who gives a thoughtful, diplomatic answer to her question, and then Jesper, who laughs and says something that makes her blush. It’s all harmless fun.
Until she spots your brothers.
“Jack! Luke! Got a second for me?” She calls out, her voice cheerful.
They skate over in unison, their movements perfectly synchronized, twin smirks already plastered on their faces. They live for this stuff. You take a long sip of your coffee, a sense of foreboding settling over you.
“What’s up, Kathy?” Jack asks, leaning against the boards.
Kathy beams, holding up her whiteboard for the camera. The question, written in neat red marker, is simple. 1. Who on the team would you NOT let date your sister? And 2. Who WOULD you?”
Your blood runs cold. You freeze, coffee cup halfway to your lips. Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not happening.
Luke laughs, a loud, booming sound. “Ooh, that’s a dangerous game. Our sister’s scary.”
“Yeah,” Jack chimes in, nodding seriously at the camera. “She’s a surgeon. She knows how to hide a body. You gotta be careful.”
“Okay, noted,” Kathy says with a laugh. “So, let’s start with the ‘no’ list. Who are you keeping away from Y/N at all costs?”
Jack taps his stick on the ice, pretending to think deeply. “Hmm. I’m gonna have to say Timo,” he says. “Not because he’s a bad guy, I love him. But his energy level is just … too much. He’d try to get her to go rock climbing or something after a 36-hour shift. She might actually commit a felony.”
“I’m with you on that,” Luke agrees. “I’m also gonna add Marky. For the sole reason that he’s a goalie. They’re weird. And I don’t want him trying to talk to her about his glove-hand positioning over dinner. Oh, and he’s married.”
You let out a quiet groan. This is already so much worse than you imagined. You can feel the eyes of a few of the team staffers who are milling around starting to shift in your direction. They all know. Everyone in the organization knows you’re with Nico. But it’s an open secret, an unspoken truth. It has never, ever been blasted out on the team’s official social media channels.
“Alright, solid reasoning,” Kathy says, trying to hold back her laughter. She flips the marker in her hand. “Now for the big question. Who gets the Hughes brothers’ stamp of approval? Who on the team would you let date your sister?”
This is it. The moment it all goes wrong.
Jack and Luke look at each other. An entire conversation, full of mischief and mayhem, passes between them in a single, silent glance. The smirks on their faces grow into identical, shark-like grins.
Oh, you are going to end them. You will use your surgical skills for evil.
“Well,” Jack begins, drawing the word out. He looks directly into the camera, his eyes twinkling. “I mean, there’s only one real option, right?”
“Yeah, it’s gotta be the Captain,” Luke says with a firm nod, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Nico’s a good guy. He’s responsible. He speaks, like, five languages. Mom would love that.”
“Totally,” Jack agrees. “He’s the only one we’d trust. He’s the best.” He pauses, letting the perfect, diplomatic answer hang in the air for a beat. Then, he leans a little closer to the camera, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Except … we’re probably a little late on giving our permission.”
Kathy’s professional smile falters. She blinks. “Late? What do you mean?”
Luke leans in too, grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah, it’s not really a question of who we would let date her anymore,” he says, his voice dropping as if he’s sharing a huge secret. “Because he’s already doing it.”
They hold the pose for a dramatic second, then tap their sticks on the ice and skate away, cackling like hyenas, leaving behind a scene of pure, unadulterated chaos.
Kathy’s jaw is on the floor. She stares at the cameraman, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and journalistic glee. The cameraman just gives her a thumbs-up, a massive grin on his face. He definitely got it.
Your face is on fire. You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You want to teleport to another continent. Every single person in the arena seems to be looking at you, their expressions ranging from amused to sympathetic.
Just then, Nico skates out of the tunnel. He’s one of the last players to take the ice. He’s focused, adjusting his gloves, his expression serious. He sees Kathy and the camera, and then he sees the absolute pandemonium on the faces of everyone around them. His brow furrows in confusion.
“What is going on?” He asks, skating over.
Kathy, ever the professional, recovers in record time. She turns to him, a slightly dazed but excited smile on her face. “Nico! Perfect timing. We were just, uh, having a chat with Jack and Luke.”
Before she can say another word, you’re in motion. The humiliation gives way to a white-hot, laser-focused rage directed squarely at your two idiot brothers. You slam your coffee cup down on a ledge, march right up to the glass, and bang on it to get their attention.
They’re by the center line, laughing so hard Luke is practically bent in half over his stick. They look over at you, their laughter increasing when they see the look on your face.
“Jack Rowden Hughes! Luke Warren Hughes!” You yell, your voice muffled but your fury crystal clear. They just wave cheekily.
You point a trembling, threatening finger at them. “I know where you both sleep,” you say, your voice low and deadly, though loud enough for Nico and Kathy to hear. “And I have a very, very sharp scalpel.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
And then Nico starts to laugh.
It’s not a small chuckle. It’s a deep, genuine, heartfelt laugh that makes his shoulders shake. He looks from your furious face, to your brothers who are now pretending to be scared, and back to you. The look in his eyes is not one of embarrassment or anger at being outed so spectacularly.
It’s pure love.
He’s looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars. He’s watching you threaten your NHL-star brothers with surgical instruments, and he looks like he has never been more in love with anyone in his entire life.
He skates closer to the glass, his helmet off now, his hair damp with sweat. He just shakes his head, still smiling that incredible, heart-stopping smile.
“For the record,” he says, his voice loud enough for the camera to pick up. “She is not joking.”
***
The video drops at noon. The caption is a masterpiece of social media savvy. We asked. The Hughes brothers answered. And we think we just broke some news! 😅❤️ Congrats to the Captain and Y/N!
Your phone immediately begins to melt.
The clip doesn’t just get views; it goes supernova. It’s everywhere. Sports blogs write articles. ESPN runs a segment. The comments section is a wild, wonderful mess of fans who have apparently been shipping this relationship since the day you were born. The video of you threatening your brothers becomes an instant, iconic meme.
Your life, once so carefully private, is now spectacularly public.
That evening, you’re curled on the couch — the couch where it all started — under a blanket, staring into the middle distance. The house is quiet. Your brothers, sensing they were on the verge of an actual homicide investigation, made themselves scarce, claiming they had a “very important team dinner” to attend.
The front door opens and closes softly. A moment later, Nico appears in the living room doorway. He’s holding two bags of takeout from your favorite Thai restaurant. He takes in the scene — you, wrapped in a blanket, looking shell-shocked — and a gentle, sympathetic smile touches his lips.
“Long day?” He asks softly.
“You have no idea,” you mumble into a cushion. “My phone is a nuclear wasteland of notifications. My mother has called me twelve times. My chief of surgery sent me a link to the video with ‘Is this why you were late with your post-op notes?’”
He sets the food down on the coffee table and comes to sit on the edge of the couch, gently prying the cushion away from your face.
“I cannot believe them,” you say, looking up at him. “Of all the stupid, reckless, chaotic things they have ever done, this might be the worst. I am changing the locks. I’m writing them out of my will.”
He just listens, his expression patient, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. When you’ve finished your rant, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Are you really that mad?” He asks.
You sigh, the anger deflating out of you, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion. “I don’t know. I’m … overwhelmed. It was our secret, you know? It was the one thing that was just for us. And now it feels like it belongs to everyone.”
“I know,” he says, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “But …” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I am not mad. Not at all.”
You look at him, surprised. “You’re not? They hard-launched our relationship to a million people using a whiteboard.”
“I know,” he repeats, a small smile playing on his lips. “And I was tired of hiding, Y/N. I was so tired of it.” He takes your hand in both of his, his gaze serious and full of a love that still makes your breath catch. “I am so proud that I am with you. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want everyone to know that you are with me. Your brothers, in their own crazy, stupid way, they just did the shouting for me.”
You stare at him, the sincerity in his voice washing over you, soothing the last of your frayed nerves. He’s right. Hiding had been safe, but it was also exhausting.
“I love you,” you whisper, the words feeling more real, more solid, now that they’re out in the open.
“I love you, too,” he says, his smile widening. “And I think your brothers did me a favor.” He leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours. “Now the whole world knows you are mine.”
“And the whole world knows you’re brave enough to date a woman who threatened her brothers with a scalpel on camera,” you counter, a real smile finally returning to your face.
“It is the bravest thing I have ever done,” he murmurs against your lips.
He kisses you then. It’s not a first kiss, full of nervous, hesitant energy. It’s not a stolen kiss, tinged with the fear of being caught. It’s a kiss that is sure, and steady, and deep. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home. It’s a kiss that promises a future, one that’s no longer hidden in the quiet moments, but one that’s ready to be lived out loud, in the bright, unapologetic light.
You pull back, resting your head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you. The smell of green curry fills the air, your phone lies forgotten on the table, and for the first time all day, you feel a profound sense of peace. Your brothers might be idiots, but for once, their chaos had led to something perfect.
“You know,” you say, your voice muffled by his sweatshirt. “This all started on this very couch. Me, half-dead from a night shift.”
“I remember,” he says, his lips brushing against your hair. “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”
“I was drooling, Nico.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice full of laughter and love. “You were. And it was perfect.”
And in the quiet of the house, curled up on the couch where a simple introduction had sparked an entire universe, you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that this is it. This is your beginning. And it’s going to be anything but quiet.
