Ellie smiled before she even looked up, a quiet laugh slipping through her nose.

“‘Ruined you,’ huh?” she said softly, voice barely above the rain. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

She shifted just enough to see him, chin resting on his chest. The movie flickered in soft oranges and purples across the room — Hocus Pocus — one of those comfort films she could never skip. It had always been her and Faye’s thing. Every October, without fail. Blankets. Hot chocolate. Quoting every line before the actors could say it.

It was strange watching it without her.

The bowl of popcorn sat between her and Tyler now, and the apartment glowed warm with pumpkin light and candle haze, but there was still a quiet space that hadn’t quite filled in yet — the kind shaped like her sister.

Faye hadn’t been speaking to her lately. Not since she and Tyler had started getting serious again. The silence wasn’t loud or cruel — just heavy. Careful. Protective in that way Faye had always been when she didn’t know how else to love.

Ellie knew she didn’t mean to make her feel punished. But that’s what it felt like sometimes — the ache of being happy and guilty in the same breath.

Faye had always wanted her safe. The kind of safe that didn’t come with heartbreak. That was why she’d tried to set Ellie up with other men when Tyler reappeared — safe choices. Good jobs. Predictable smiles. Guys who wouldn’t know what to do with her Halloween decorations or her late-night, half-baked dreams.

But Tyler did.
He always had.

“For the record,” she said, tracing a lazy shape on his chest with her fingertip, “you were already halfway there the day you let me put cinnamon brooms in your truck. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He smiled — that slow, quiet one that reached his eyes — and she didn’t need him to say anything. The silence between them was enough. It always was now.

“And I don’t buy that you ever found this boring,” she added softly. “You’re too good at pretending you don’t love soft things. Blankets. Candles. Me.”

The last word slipped out lower, gentler. It wasn’t a tease anymore.

Onscreen, the Sanderson sisters twirled and sang, lightning flashing across their faces. The light flickered across the room — over the pumpkins on her shelves, the string lights over the window, the soft plaid blanket wrapped around them both.

The smell of popcorn butter and cinnamon filled the air, cozy and a little sweet, and she felt him shift, pulling the blanket back up over her shoulder. It was such a small thing, but her chest ached at how natural it felt. How right.

It hadn’t always been this easy. And she knew that if Faye could see them right now — really see them — she’d understand. Eventually.

Ellie reached for a handful of popcorn and tossed one at him, laughing when he caught it midair. The sound of her own laughter surprised her — unguarded and warm, the kind she used to think she’d lost somewhere along the way.

She looked at him again then, really looked. The glow of the movie danced in his eyes, gold and soft and steady, and for a moment, everything else — the rain, the silence, even Faye’s absence — faded into the background.

Leaning forward, she pressed a small kiss against his jaw, just below the line of his ear. “If this is what being ruined feels like,” she whispered, “maybe we both needed it.”

The rain thickened again outside, steady and rhythmic. Inside, the movie played on, laughter echoing faintly from the screen.

Ellie curled closer into his side, the blanket pulled tight around them both. Her voice dropped to a murmur, nearly lost beneath the sound of the storm.

“Just promise me one thing,” she said. “When winter comes, and everything goes quiet again—you’ll still want this. The small stuff. The messy, easy, normal days.”

She tilted her face up, eyes soft and searching. “Because I do. I want all of it.”

The Sanderson sisters broke into song, their voices bright and ridiculous, and she smiled against his chest.

“Besides,” she whispered, half to herself, “you’re not ruined, Tyler Harrison. You’re home.”

Tyler didn’t flinch when she called him home.
Didn’t get shy. Didn’t get sentimental.

He just smiled — slow and crooked — like he already knew. Like her saying it out loud was just confirming what his whole damn body had already settled into weeks ago.

The kiss she left against his jaw still burned soft and sweet, like cinnamon sugar on skin. And hell, if that wasn’t a dangerous thing. Because it wasn’t just the way she touched him — it was the way she looked at him. The way she saw him. Always had. Even back when he was a mess with a sharp mouth and a bruised heart and no real plan.

She’d always seen the good underneath the wreckage.
Even when he didn’t.

His fingers trailed up the curve of her spine now, slow and reverent under the blanket. He wasn’t rushing this. Would never rush this. Not when every quiet second with her felt like it was building something real — something lasting — without either of them needing to say much at all.

But this time, he did speak.
Because she asked.
And because he wanted to.

“I want all of it too,” he said, voice low, roughened by quiet conviction. “The big stuff. The dumb stuff. The boring stuff. You.”

He shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket over them again, brushing a kiss against the top of her head like a seal — like a promise he wasn’t afraid to make anymore.

“I’ll still want this when the leaves are gone and your windows are frosted over and you’ve got seventeen different kinds of cocoa mix in the cabinet,” he added, lips curving. “I’ll want it when you drag me to the holiday market for mistletoe I know you already bought from Target. When you cry at the end of Little Women again even though you swear you won’t this time.”

He glanced down at her, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear.

“I’ll want it even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

Outside, the storm shifted — a louder rush of wind against the windowpane, the kind that would’ve felt lonely once. But it didn’t now.

Not with her pressed to his side. Not with this warmth wrapped around them like the softest damn armor.

His voice dipped again, quieter now — just for her.

“You’re not the only one who needed it, El.”

He paused, heartbeat ticking out steady beneath her ear.

“Maybe I didn’t know what home was until I found you again.”

The Sanderson sisters sang something ridiculous in the background. The popcorn was getting cold. And he didn’t give a damn.

He had her.
He had this.

And for once in his life —
He wasn’t going anywhere.

Ellie felt his words before she even processed them, like warmth seeping through her skin — quiet, steady, disarming. The room around them blurred into the soft flicker of the movie and the hum of rain against the glass.

Her chest ached in that way that wasn’t pain, just too much feeling packed into one small, tender space. It wasn’t new, but it still caught her by surprise every time he said something like that — not just the words, but the certainty in them.

She breathed out, slow. “You make it sound so easy,” she whispered, eyes still fixed on the window where the light danced in the condensation. “Like forever’s just another Tuesday.”

The wind outside rattled the panes and she smiled faintly, because he made her believe it could be.

Her hand slid up from his chest to his jaw, fingertips tracing the rough line of stubble she knew too well. “I used to think I’d ruined us,” she said quietly, her voice half a confession, half a sigh. “All the running, all the second-guessing. But maybe we just needed the time apart to remember what this could feel like.”

She glanced toward the TV, where the Sanderson sisters were mid-song, then back at him. “Guess even witches believe in second chances.”

The way he looked at her — calm, open, unhurried — made her pulse trip. She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and sure, letting it linger until the world stilled again.

“Okay,” she murmured when she pulled back, her forehead resting against his. “We’ll do all of it. The big, the dumb, the boring. You’ll keep pretending you hate holiday markets, and I’ll keep pretending I don’t notice.”

She smiled, her voice soft and certain. “And when December comes, I’m dragging you to pick out a real Christmas tree. Not one of those pre-lit ones — a real one. We’ll need your truck, obviously.” Her eyes glimmered with quiet amusement. “Then we’ll hit every store in the next town over — Hobby Lobby, HomeGoods, that little antique place with the terrible parking lot — just so I can buy way too many ornaments we don’t need.”

She tilted her head up, brushing another kiss against his cheek. “You’ll complain the whole time,” she added with a grin. “And still carry it all to the truck.”

Her voice softened to a near whisper. “Just don’t stop showing up like this.”

She pressed another kiss to his jaw — gentle, grounding — and tucked herself back beneath his arm, fitting perfectly into the shape she’d always belonged in.

Outside, the wind eased. The rain steadied. The room smelled like cinnamon and popcorn and home.

Ellie closed her eyes, the sound of the movie fading into the background.

Maybe Faye still wasn’t talking to her. Maybe there were things waiting outside this room that would be hard. But not now. Not tonight.

Tonight, she had this — the small, quiet kind of forever she’d been brave enough to believe in again.

Tyler listened like it mattered.
Because it did.

Every word she breathed into that space between them — soft, flickering, tangled in popcorn-scented stillness — landed somewhere deep in his chest, solid and unshakable.

He didn’t rush to answer her. Didn’t reach for charm or jokes or even reassurance, not right away.

He just stayed.

Let her lean in. Let her kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw — each one grounding him more than the last. Let her paint their December like it was already written in stone — the tree, the truck, the antique shop with the awful parking lot and the even worse snowplow situation.

He saw it all.
And he wanted it.
Every ridiculous, glitter-dusted, cinnamon-scented second of it.

His arm tightened around her, palm warm at her side, thumb dragging slow over the edge of her sweater like he was memorizing it.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, voice roughened by truth, not hesitation. “You were just scared. So was I.”

His fingers shifted, brushing the inside of her wrist — soft and steady. “But I’d rather do a hundred messy starts and stops with you than get it right once with someone who doesn’t see me.”

His jaw flexed just slightly, not from tension — from feeling. The kind that didn’t come out smooth or polished. The kind that lived low and honest.

“And I’ll show up, Ellie Tate. Every time. Even when you don’t ask. Even when you try to pretend you’ve got it handled on your own.”
He paused. “Especially then.”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers again, letting the weight of everything she’d said settle between them like a promise in the dark.

“I’ll carry every box. I’ll complain about every ornament. And I’ll still tie the tree to the roof with that ugly red rope because you like the way it looks in pictures.”

His smile was quiet, crooked — just for her.

“You’ll always have me. For the big, the boring, and the holiday market hell.”

Outside, the storm softened to a whisper.
Inside, the fire didn’t need tending.
It was already burning — low and steady.

Right here.
Right now.
With her.

Ellie didn’t speak right away.

She just looked at him — really looked — the kind of gaze that lingered past the words and the promises and found something raw underneath. His hand was still resting at her side, thumb drawing slow lines against her sweater, and every stroke of it seemed to match the pace of her heartbeat.

Her smile came small, a little unsteady but full of warmth. “You always say things like that when I’m just about ready to cry,” she murmured, voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You have the worst timing.”

She brushed her fingers along the edge of his jaw, tracing the faint roughness there. “And I don’t know if I was scared or stubborn or just… tired. Probably all three. But you weren’t exactly easy to love back then, either, Harrison.”

Her tone softened. “You made me feel like I had to earn it. Every look, every word. Like if I just did one thing wrong, you’d start slipping away again. So I learned how to be quiet. How to make myself smaller.”

She paused, the truth heavier than she meant it to be. “And maybe I needed that time apart. To figure out how to stop shrinking.”

Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand. “So, yeah. You showing up now? It matters. Because I finally know what I want you to see — not the easy version. The real one. The one that fights for what she wants, even when she’s scared.”

Ellie let out a slow breath, the ghost of a smile finding its way back. “And for the record,” she said, leaning just close enough that their foreheads nearly touched again, “I’m not pretending anymore. If I need help, I’ll ask. If I can’t carry something, I’ll let you.” Her grin turned soft. “But don’t get too smug about it, or I’ll make you hang every ornament twice.”

She nudged him lightly with her knee under the blanket, trying to ease the ache the honesty always brought. “And that ugly red rope? I like it because you tied it. Because you cared enough to make something as ordinary as hauling a tree home feel like a memory.”

She smiled, smaller this time. “You’re not the only one who’s showing up, you know. I’m here too. For the big, the boring, and whatever else you throw at me. Even the markets. Even when you grumble through every aisle.”

Ellie shifted closer until her hand rested against his chest again, feeling the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “You’ve always been the one thing that scared me most,” she whispered, “and the only thing that’s ever felt worth it.”

The rain had softened outside, more a hush than a storm now, and the flicker from the TV washed over them in soft amber.

She tilted her chin up, eyes glinting in the dim light. “So I guess we’re even,” she said gently. “You found your home, and I finally stopped running from mine.”

Then she kissed him — slow, certain, nothing left unsaid.

The popcorn was cold, the credits were rolling, but neither of them moved.
They didn’t need to.

Not tonight.
Not anymore.

Tyler didn’t breathe for a second.

Couldn’t.

Because God, when she looked at him like that — not with resentment, not with rose-colored forgiveness, but with that fierce, honest kind of clarity — it wrecked him a little. In the best way. In the real way.

His thumb slowed where it traced her side, and he swallowed hard before speaking.

“You didn’t imagine it,” he said, voice low, roughened by something he didn’t try to hide. “Back then, I was an idiot. Worse than that, I was a selfish, prideful, emotionally-stunted dick who didn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

He shook his head, jaw tightening. “You gave and gave, and I just— I took. Or pushed. Or made you feel like you had to tiptoe around me to keep me close. And that’s on me. Every bit of it.”

His eyes met hers, steady now. “You never had to earn a damn thing, Ellie. You were already it. Brave. Brilliant. The best damn thing that ever crashed into my life and scared the hell out of me because I didn’t think I deserved it.”

His hand shifted, fingers curling gently under her chin, lifting her gaze fully to his.

“And I didn’t,” he said, plain and certain. “But I’m not running from that anymore. I’m not hiding behind silence or mood swings or half-assed effort.”

He leaned in until their foreheads touched — not to win her back, but to stay with her. To meet her where she was now.

“I see you,” he whispered. “Not the quiet version. Not the girl who thought she had to shrink just to keep me. You. The woman who fights for what she wants and still somehow has room to forgive a guy who almost fumbled the whole damn thing.”

He closed his eyes for a beat, then exhaled into the space between them.

“You scare me too,” he admitted softly. “Because you’re the only thing I’ve ever really wanted that I could actually lose.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, tone warming slightly, “you can hang every ornament however you want — upside down, color-coded, alphabetized by vibe, I don’t care. Just keep letting me be here to see it.”

His hand slid back over her side, tugging her closer under the blanket.

“And yeah, the red rope’s ugly,” he murmured against her temple, pressing a kiss there. “But if you like it, it stays. Hell, I’ll use it every year until the neighbors stage an intervention.”

A small laugh caught between them — hers, then his.

But beneath it all was something steadier. Deeper.

Love that had been earned the hard way. Not in grand gestures, but in the choosing. The showing up.

Tyler tucked her in tighter, heart steady against hers, letting the cold popcorn and rolling credits fade into the background.

“I got you, Tate,” he said quietly. “For good. Even when I grumble through every aisle.”

And he meant it.
Every word.
Every storm.
Every season.

Because this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Ellie’s throat went tight — the kind of ache that sat right behind her ribs and made breathing feel like remembering.

She didn’t rush to fill the silence that followed. She just let it wash over her — the honesty, the weight, the rough edges of his words. It was all so real. Not a performance, not a plea. Just truth.

Her hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing his jaw before she spoke. “You have no idea how long I waited to hear you say that,” she said softly. Her voice didn’t shake this time. It just landed — sure and steady. “Not because I needed an apology. But because I needed to know you knew. That it wasn’t just me imagining the cracks.”

She traced the line of his throat with her thumb, her touch feather-light. “You did hurt me. You made me feel small. And for a while, I let you — because I thought love was supposed to be something you earned by being easy to keep.” She paused, exhaling through her nose. “But you’re right. That’s on both of us. You were scared, and I was quiet. We built a version of love that couldn’t breathe.”

Her mouth curved — not in a smile, not quite. “But I’m not scared anymore. You don’t scare me, Tyler. Not even a little.” She tilted her chin, eyes glinting. “You used to. Back when every time you pulled away, I felt like I was losing the air in my lungs. But now? I know how to stand on my own. And that’s why I can choose this — choose you — without losing myself in the process.”

She leaned in, their foreheads still pressed together, breath mingling between them. “You saying you see me? That’s everything I ever wanted. Because this version of me — the one who fought like hell to feel whole again — she’s not here to be rescued.”

Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, slow and sure. “She’s here because she wants to be. Because you’re worth fighting for. Because this —” she glanced around the room, at the flickering candlelight, the forgotten movie, the storm-softened window — “this is what real feels like.”

She let out a quiet laugh, that soft, unguarded kind that always found its way out when she was finally at peace. “And just for the record,” she murmured, “the red rope is staying. Forever. You’ll be seventy, complaining about your back, and I’ll still be making you tie it because it’s tradition.”

Her grin widened when she caught the small smile tugging at his mouth. “And yes, I’m absolutely going to alphabetize the ornaments by vibe. You’ll hate it. You’ll say nothing. And that’s how I’ll know you still love me.”

Her voice softened again, words slipping into something that felt like a vow. “You’ve got me too, Tyler Harrison. Not the scared girl. Not the easy one. Me. The whole thing. Even when I drive you insane. Even when I overthink everything. Even when you’re tired and it’s still only Tuesday.”

She brushed her thumb over his lips, eyes locked on his. “And I’ll keep showing up too. For the big, the boring, and the holiday market hell.”

A breath of laughter slipped out of her, low and genuine. “You’re going to regret saying that part, by the way. You’ve clearly never seen me at Hobby Lobby in December.”

She kissed him then — not for reassurance, not for closure — but because it felt like breathing again. Because it was what came next, naturally.

When she pulled back, she rested her head against his chest, her hand splayed over his heartbeat.

“You got me,” she whispered, words muffled but certain. “For good.”

Outside, the rain had stopped completely. Inside, the quiet was full — golden and whole and alive.

And Ellie knew this wasn’t the end of something broken.
It was the start of something true.



The End.

Main Street had settled into that late-night hush it only reached after nine.

The bakery lights down the block were dim. The antique store window reflected nothing but streetlamps. From Ellie’s second-floor window, the town looked smaller. Manageable. Like something she could cup in her hands.

Her apartment felt warm against the cold brick outside.

No overhead lights — just lamps. A record spinning low near the window. The soft glow of candles flickering across the small round table she’d pulled closer to the glass so they could see the street while they ate.

She’d changed twice before landing on something that felt right.

A soft blush cropped cardigan, fitted but cozy, the sleeves slightly long over her hands. High-waisted straight-leg jeans that hugged her hips just enough. Bare feet. Small gold hoops catching the light. Hair down in loose waves that brushed her collarbone. Gloss on her lips she pretended she didn’t reapply twice.

The table was set.

Real plates.
Cloth napkins.
Two wine glasses.
Steam still lifting faintly from the skillet on the stove — garlic and butter thick in the air.

She checked the score on her phone one last time even though she already knew it.

She’d watched most of it. Leaning against the counter, pretending she wasn’t pacing. Refreshing the score between stirring the sauce. Smiling to herself when the announcer raised his voice.

When she heard his truck outside, her stomach flipped anyway.

Boots on the stairs. Slow, heavy. Familiar.

The door opened.

She stayed in the kitchen, turning just as he stepped in. The cold followed him. So did that restless energy that clung to him after a game.

He dropped his duffel near the couch, shut the door with his foot, and looked up.

And then he saw her.

There was a pause.

Not dramatic. Just long enough.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just walked toward her — slower than usual — eyes moving over her like he was trying to figure out when she’d decided to look like that.

She folded her arms lightly, one brow lifting. “What?”

A small smile pulled at her mouth. “I was watching, you know.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the residual heat from him despite the cold air he’d brought in. One hand settled at her waist instinctively, thumb brushing against the hem of her cardigan. The other slid up along her side, fingers spreading lightly against her back as he pulled her closer.

She tilted her chin up without thinking.

“You took that hit in the second,” she said softly. “You’re lucky you stayed on your feet.”

It wasn’t a question.

She knew.

She’d seen it.

His hand tightened slightly at her waist before he leaned down and kissed her — unhurried, familiar, grounding. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just enough pressure to make her forget she’d been nervous at all.

Her fingers curled briefly into the front of his shirt, holding him there for one extra second before she eased back, breath just a little uneven.

Her fingers brushed briefly against his forearm — quick, grounding — before she pulled her hand back like she hadn’t meant to linger.

“I made dinner,” she added, quieter now. “Like… actual dinner.”

There was a flicker of pride there. And something more vulnerable under it.

She reached for his hand before she could overthink it and tugged him gently toward the table.

“Come on,” she said. “Sit.”

She guided him into the chair by the window, her palm pressing lightly to his shoulder to make sure he actually stayed there. Then she turned back toward the stove before he could protest.

She moved with quiet focus now, lifting the skillet and twisting pasta carefully onto his plate first. Steam rose between them. She added extra sauce without asking, a small unconscious habit, then shaved a little more parmesan over the top than she had on hers.

She assembled her own plate second, smaller portion, tucking a piece of garlic bread onto the edge. The domesticity of it made her chest tighten in a way she didn’t examine too closely.

Only after both plates were finished did she carry his over, setting it in front of him with a small, satisfied nod.

“There,” she said softly.

She returned to the counter for her own and finally slid into the chair across from him. Candlelight caught in her earrings as she sat. The fairy lights reflected faintly in the dark glass behind her.

She poured the wine slowly, steady hands despite the faint hum under her skin.

“You were up by one for most of the third,” she said, glancing up at him. “I was refreshing the score like a crazy person.”

A small, self-conscious laugh escaped her. “I almost texted you at intermission, but I didn’t want to jinx it.”

She pushed his plate toward him gently, even though it was already in front of him — just a small, nervous adjustment.

“I’m proud of you,” she said, softer now. No teasing. No deflection.

Outside, Main Street glowed quiet and gold beneath them.

Inside, they sat across from each other at the small round table, knees brushing under it without either of them pulling away.

And for the first time that night, Ellie let herself relax into it.

Tyler had walked into the apartment still wearing the game in his bones.

That buzz behind his ribs. The dull ache in his shoulder where someone had tried to turn him into a highlight reel. The taste of rink air still stuck in the back of his throat — cold metal, sweat, adrenaline — even after the drive home with the heater blasting at his feet.

And now?

Now there were candles.

There was butter and garlic in the air.

There was Ellie Tate in a blush cardigan like she’d picked the color specifically to make his brain short-circuit.

He sat where she told him to sit because she’d used that tone — the one that sounded soft but left no room for negotiation — and because he was tired enough to let himself be handled. He dropped into the chair by the window like a man who’d earned it, elbows loose, shoulders heavy, long hair still a little damp at the ends from the cold outside.

He watched her move around her kitchen like it belonged to her — like she belonged to it. Quiet focus. Bare feet. Little unconscious habits that made his chest do something annoyingly tender. The extra sauce. The extra parmesan. The way she plated his first without thinking, like it was obvious who she was taking care of.

Tyler stared at the plate for a second when she set it down.

Not because he was surprised she cooked. He knew she could do anything she put her mind to.

He was staring because it hit him, sharp and simple: she waited up.

She’d watched him play. She’d worried. She’d fed that worry into something warm and steady instead of letting it eat her alive. And now she was sitting across from him with wine glasses and candlelight like this was normal, like this was what they did on a random night after he got his ribs checked by a guy built like a vending machine.

He rolled his shoulders, testing the bruise out of habit, and her earlier comment about the hit flickered through his mind. She’d seen it. Of course she had. She’d always seen more than he wanted her to.

He lifted his eyes to her, and the cocky part of him — the part that would never die, not fully — showed up first.

“You watched?” he said, voice low, rough around the edges, like he’d swallowed gravel and tried to soften it into a smile. “Damn. I was really counting on you missing the part where I almost became a cautionary tale in the second.”

He took his fork, twirled a bite of pasta like he knew what he was doing, then paused just to look at her again. Because he couldn’t help it. Because the whole apartment felt like her — warm and deliberate and quietly brave — and he liked the way he fit in it.

“You know what’s insane?” he went on, leaning back slightly, letting his knee bump hers under the table like it belonged there. “I used to come home after games and the only thing I could think about was keeping the night going. More noise, more… whatever.”

He gave her a lazy half-smile, tired-cocky in the way that used to be armor and now felt like something gentler.

“And now I’m sitting here,” he said, glancing at the candles like they were suspicious, “in a tiny, ridiculously cute apartment on Main Street, with real plates and cloth napkins like I’m in a movie where the guy learns how to have feelings.”

His eyes flicked back to hers and softened on impact.

“And it’s better,” he said, like it irritated him a little how true it was. “It’s not even close.”

He finally took a bite. The food was hot and rich and perfect in a way that made him make a quiet sound he’d deny in court. He chewed, swallowed, then pointed his fork at her like he was about to give a postgame interview.

“This is… unfair,” he decided. “You can’t just casually be incredible at everything and then sit there looking like that and expect me to have normal, reasonable thoughts.”

He took a sip of wine, then another bite, then glanced out the window at the sleepy streetlights like he needed a second to recalibrate.

When he looked back at her, his expression had shifted — still that cocky ease, still that tired hockey-player slouch — but his eyes were softer, steadier.

“I’m glad you didn’t text,” he said quietly, and there was something playful in it, like he was trying to keep the moment from getting too heavy. “I would’ve answered, but I also would’ve been thinking about you instead of the power play and then Mark would’ve murdered me.”

A beat.

Then, lower: “But… I like knowing you wanted to.”

He let the silence land, comfortable. The hum of the record. The tiny crackle of the candles. The faint distant quiet of a town going to sleep.

His foot nudged hers under the table again, a lazy little touch that said I’m here, I’m staying, stop overthinking.

“You said you’re proud of me,” he said, voice softer now, almost careful.

He didn’t look away when he added, “That does something to me, you know.”

He reached across the table with one hand — slow, unhurried — and hooked a finger lightly around her wrist, tugging just enough to bring her hand into his. Warm skin. Small pulse. Real.

“I’m proud of you,” he returned, like it was obvious, like it didn’t need a speech. His thumb brushed once over the inside of her wrist. “For this. For… making this feel like something I can actually have.”

He leaned back again, letting go only after his fingers lingered a second longer than necessary.

Then the cocky edge slipped back in, because he couldn’t help himself.

“And just so we’re clear,” he added, eyes glinting, “if you keep feeding me like this after games, I’m gonna get spoiled. Like, emotionally. Domestic-ly. Whatever the word is.”

He twirled another bite of pasta, grin tugging at one corner.

“And then you’ll really be stuck with me, Tate.”

Ellie didn’t rush to answer him.

She never did anymore.

Not with him. Not with things that mattered.

She watched him first — the way he sat there like the game was still settling in his bones, shoulders loose but heavy, hair falling into his face just slightly, fork in his hand like he’d forgotten what to do with it for a second. The way he kept looking at her like he hadn’t quite adjusted to being here yet.

With her.

She wrapped both hands around her wine glass, more for something to do than anything else, listening.

Really listening.

Her mouth curved a little when he said he used to keep the night going. More noise. More whatever.

But then—

That small, automatic reaction hit before she could stop it.

A look.

Subtle. Quick. But there.

Her nose scrunched just slightly, lips pressing together as her eyes dropped to her plate for half a second. Not dramatic. Not accusing. Just… there.

Because she knew exactly what that meant.

She’d lived that version of him.

The nights he didn’t come back.
The stories she heard from other people.
The girls who always seemed to orbit those post-game nights.
The way she’d sat in this same apartment — or her old one — staring at her phone, pretending she didn’t care that she wasn’t invited.

That she wasn’t chosen.

They’d fought about it more times than she could count.

Quiet fights. Loud ones. The kind that lingered even after the words stopped.

And he knew that.

He knew she knew.

So she didn’t say anything right away.

She just lifted her eyes back to his, steady, letting that flicker of history pass between them without dragging it out into the open.

Because it wasn’t where they were anymore.

When he kept going, when his tone shifted — softer, almost reluctant in its honesty — something in her eased.

Her knee didn’t move when his bumped it. Her foot nudged his back, smaller, intentional.

Her fingers finally picked up her fork, but she didn’t eat yet.

She just watched him.

“And now I’m sitting here…”

Her lips curved a little more at that, something warm sneaking in despite herself.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, tilting her head just slightly. “Terrifying.”

There was a hint of teasing in it, but it was soft. Not sharp. Not defensive.

When he said it was better—

That did something.

She didn’t react right away. Just let it land. Let it settle somewhere deeper than she wanted to show too quickly.

Because a year and a half ago?

He wouldn’t have said that.

A year and a half ago, he wouldn’t have even noticed.

She took a small bite of her food finally, mostly so she had something to do with herself, chewing slowly while he kept talking.

When he pointed his fork at her, calling it unfair, her brows lifted.

“Oh, is it?” she said, light, but her voice dipped just a little at the end, like she was trying not to let the compliment hit too directly. “Sounds like a you problem.”

But her smile gave her away.

It always did with him.

When he mentioned the text, she let out a small breath through her nose, shaking her head slightly.

“I had it typed,” she admitted, glancing down at her glass. “I just… didn’t hit send.”

Her fingers traced the stem absently.

“I figured you needed your head in the game. Not…” She gestured vaguely between them, a soft, almost embarrassed motion. “…me.”

But her eyes flicked back up, and there it was again — that quiet truth she didn’t hide.

She wanted to.

She just didn’t.

When his voice dropped — softer, careful — and he said it did something to him…

She stilled.

Not completely.

But enough.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her fork before she set it down entirely.

Because that was the part that still felt new.

Not the charm.
Not the teasing.
Not the way he looked at her.

This.

The honesty.

The part where he didn’t dodge it.

Her gaze held his this time, no deflection, no joke to soften it.

“Good,” she said quietly.

Simple.

But steady.

When he reached for her, her breath caught just slightly — not in surprise, but in that familiar, grounding way he had of pulling her out of her own head.

Her hand went with his without resistance.

Her thumb shifted against his almost immediately, like she couldn’t not touch back. Light. Absent. But there.

His words landed slower.

Different.

Her eyes softened — not dramatically, not in a way she’d ever call attention to — but enough that it showed.

“For this. For… making this feel like something I can actually have.”

She swallowed, barely noticeable.

Because she remembered when he didn’t think he could.

Or worse—

When he didn’t try.

“You can,” she said, just as quiet.

No hesitation.

No question.

“You just… didn’t before.”

It wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t thrown.

Just honest.

A truth that belonged to both of them.

She let her fingers linger in his when he started to pull back, holding for that extra second before letting him go.

When the cocky edge came back, she exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head.

“There he is,” she murmured, softer, familiar.

Her foot nudged his again under the table, this time a little more deliberate.

“Emotionally spoiled,” she corrected lightly. “That’s the word.”

She took another sip of her wine, studying him over the rim of the glass, something steadier in her gaze now.

Something sure.

Then she set it down, leaning back slightly in her chair, one leg brushing his again under the table without moving away.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said, quieter now, but not fragile.

Grounded.

She didn’t dress it up.

Didn’t over-explain it.

Because he knew what she meant.

She tilted her head, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“And for the record,” she added, a little softer, a little closer to something she wouldn’t always say out loud—

“I don’t take that for granted.”