"Feels like the start of something," he said quietly.
I thought about all the times I'd moved before—St. Louis to juniors, juniors to the Storm, apartment to apartment, always temporary, always ready to pack up when the next contract came through or didn't. Always waiting for permission to stay.
This was different. We'd signed the mortgage papers together, hands cramping from the number of places we had to initial. Rhett had measured the kitchen three times to make sure my KitchenAid would fit on the counter. We'd argued about paint colors for the office—he'd won with "accessible beige," which I maintained was the saddest name for a color in human history.
We'd chosen this. Together.
"Yeah," I said, setting down my container of pad thai. "And for once, I don't need to shout about it."
He turned his head, and we were close enough that I saw the small scar above his eyebrow—the one from when he'd face-planted on his bike at eight and needed three stitches. Sloane had told me the story last month over dinner, while Rhett protested that it made him sound uncoordinated.
I knew the scar now. Knew the sound of his breathing when he fell asleep first. Knew he always checked the locks twice before bed, and that he saved his receipts in the truck console until they fossilized.
I knew him.
And he knew me—the fights and the knitting, the spirals and the banana bread, and the parts I'd spent thirty years convinced were too much or not enough.
He'd built me a closet.
"You good?" Rhett asked, thumb brushing my wrist.
"Yeah." I laced our fingers together. "Just thinking about how I used to fill every silence. Like if I stopped talking, people would forget I was there."
We sat there while the sun dropped lower, turning the living room amber. One of the boxes nearby was labeled LOCKER ROOM STUFF in my handwriting.
I nudged it with my foot. "Pretty sure I packed Pickle by mistake."
Rhett laughed—the real one, not the polite contractor version he used with demanding clients. "Is that what's been making that noise?"
"Thought it was the furnace."
"The furnace doesn't yell about sock tricks."
We finished our food and then tackled the bedroom. By the time we'd cleared enough space to use the bed, it was past midnight, and my shoulder complained about the day's lifting. We climbed in together.
"Tomorrow's the team's first skate," I said.
"I know."
"Pickle's probably already spiraling."
"Definitely spiraling."
"Gonna be a long season."
"Good thing you like chaos." Rhett rolled onto his side, propping himself on one elbow to look at me. "And good thing you've got somewhere to come home to when it gets loud."
I reached up and finally smoothed down that piece of hair sticking up in the back. "Yeah. Good thing."
He kissed me, tasting like pad thai.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and soft. "Welcome home, Hog."
"Welcome home," I echoed.
***
I stood at the boards, stretching my hamstrings, shoulder taped but functional, watching the Zamboni make its final pass. First skate of the new season.
