Matthieu slipped off his shoes, avoiding eye contact, and hung his jacket on the underused hooks by Kieran’s door. The silence was awkward. Finally relenting, Kieran pulled Matthieu into his arms, pressing him close as he kissed his temple.
“How was your day?” he whispered into Matthieu’s hair.
Matthieu stiffened, then, like someone had pulled a pin and released all his tension, his body relaxed. He sagged into Kieran, letting him take some of the weight. The sigh into Kieran’s shoulder sounded more like contentment than anything else. He loved the sound of it.
“Long,” Matthieu finally managed. “Did you catch any of that game?”
Kieran hadn’t even thought to. Regret washed over him; he’d spent the afternoon with Ivan and Jasper instead of watching his man command the ice.
His man.
They’d get to that. Right now, Matthieu needed a different conversation.
“No, practice went long, and then I went to lunch with Ivan.”
Tension returned so quickly that Matthieu jerked out of Kieran’s arms. Kieran caught the mistake half a second too late.
“—and Ivan’s husband, Jasper,” he added quickly, as if it might undo the flicker of emotion on Matthieu’s face. “Matty,” Kieran said gently. “He is my teammate. My captain. There’s nothing between us, and there hasn’t been for a long time. I’m not sure there ever was.”
Matthieu took a moment to consider Kieran’s words, then let it go. “It was a complete bloodbath,” he said, shifting the topic back to hockey. “I lost track of how many misconducts I handed out by the end.”
Kieran grunted his understanding. Some teams were like that whenever they faced each other. “Did you get to see your mom?”
Matthieu gave the slightest nod.
“How is she doing?”
“About the same as yesterday. But I don’t want to talk about her. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to talk about anything.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that curled something low in Kieran’s belly. “Sorry, I told you on the phone I’d be bad company.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Kieran raised a hand to Matthieu’s cheek. He looked so tired that Kieran ached to take care of him. “Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring you something to eat. Then we can get an early night.”
“Alright.”
“Alright,” Kieran echoed, turning Matthieu by the shoulders and giving him a gentle push toward the couch.
With the open-plan layout, Kieran had a clear view of Matthieu getting comfortable. Unlike last time, his kitchen was fully stocked. The food service had stopped by while he was out and filled the empty fridge and cabinets.
Kieran wasn’t a great cook. He could manage the basics, though. Grilled chicken over pasta with a creamy pesto sauce was simple enough to make and showed more effort than microwaving a precooked meal. He set a large pot of salted water to boil, then started cleaning and prepping the chicken. It took Kieran a moment to notice Matthieu watching him move around the kitchen.
“I didn’t know you cooked,” Matthieu said, his voice tight. Kieran might’ve imagined it, but Matthieu almost looked hurt, as if not knowing this was a glaring reminder of their time apart.
“I wouldn’t call it cooking. I can throw simple things together, but my freezer’s full of frozen meals like every other player’s. There’s not much point in cooking a whole meal just for me.” Kieran was rambling—he knew it.
“One of those would have been fine. You didn’t have to go to so much effort.”
“I wanted to.” His eyes lingered on Matthieu’s over the chopping board as he seasoned the chicken.
Their gazes held a beat too long before Matthieu finally looked away. “You keep saying things like that.” He was back to muttering, staring at his lap, and picking at a hole in the worn fabric of his jeans.
“Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“No,” Matthieu said—firm at first, then hesitating. “I guess. I just don’t understand why.”
Kieran got everything cooking, washed his hands, and walked over to sit beside Matthieu on the couch.
“Apparently, I didn’t make this clear to you last night.” He pulled both of Matthieu’s hands into his own, making sure he had his full attention. “I am hopelessly in love with you, Matthieu Bouchard. I want more than anything for you to be happy, but I understand that’s too big an ask right now. Until then, I want to make sure you’re fed. That you feel safe. That you feel how deeply I love you. I fucked up before, but I won’t make that mistake again. I never told you how I felt back then, but Matty, I’ll tell you—no, show you—every single day from here on out if you’ll let me.”
His throat burned by the time he finished, a knot of emotion lodged beneath his tonsils, threatening to spill out in garbled words and tears. He willed himself to hold it together. He needed to prove he had enough strength for both of them—that Matthieu didn’t have to keep holding himself together alone. He couldn’t do that if he fell apart now.
