His apartment building was plain—peeling paint and front steps slick with ice no one had salted. Hog pulled into his spot, and I parked next to him.
He was at the door ahead of me, yanking it open.
"Come on," he said. "It's freezing."
Hog's apartment was exactly as I'd left it two days ago—organized chaos, yarn everywhere, and hockey gear drying by the radiator. He kicked off his slides, and I pulled off my boots, lining them up next to his, even though his were three sizes bigger and made mine look like a child's.
"You want food?" he asked. "I've got—" He opened the fridge. "Leftover pasta. Some banana bread I made yesterday. Beer."
"No."
"Okay," he said. "What do you need?"
My hands were shaking again.
"Don't talk," I managed finally. "Just—don't make me talk. Let me stay."
"Yeah. I can do that."
He moved closer, cupping my jaw in a massive hand. He tilted my face up so I had to meet his eyes.
"You're shaking."
"I know."
"Come here."
He led me to the couch and pulled me down next to him. He wrapped both arms around me and pulled me against his chest, solid and warm. He smelled like the arena, sweat and ice.
I didn't cry. Couldn't. The grief sat heavily on me, and it wouldn't move. It only pressed down, making breathing hard.
Hog didn't ask me to explain. He didn't try to fix me with words. He held on, one hand steady against my back, the other raking through my hair in slow, careful strokes.
Gradually, the shaking stopped.
Hog's fingers moved through my hair, fingernails scratching lightly against my scalp.
"You don't have to stay up," I said against his chest.
"Not tired."
"I don't believe that. You played a full game."
"Then I'll sleep here." He tightened his grip slightly. "Not letting go unless you want me to."
I must've fallen asleep at some point because the apartment was darker when I opened my eyes. Someone had turned off the overhead light, leaving only the small lamp by the window burning low. I was stretched out on the couch, wrapped in blankets, with my head on a pillow that smelled like Hog's shampoo.
He wasn't next to me.
Panic flared until I spotted him.
He was on the floor beside the couch, wrapped in his own blanket, knitting needles lying on his chest, with his head on a cushion pulled off a chair. The project looked like it was trying to be a turtle. Or maybe a dinosaur. Something small with a shell.
"You're on the floor," I said, voice rough with sleep.
He opened his eyes. "Yeah."
"Why?"
