The cookie box sat between us like some kind of odd victory trophy, and I realized this moment wasn’t about escaping the noise—it was about surviving it. About finding laughter where there should be tears. Resilience in the sweetness of something so simple.
And knowing, without needing to say it out loud, that we’d face the storm together. Bite by bite.
I leaned against the counter, cookie crumbs still scattered in front of me, when Nikolai’s phone buzzed against the granite with a short, sharp vibration.
He glanced at it and his expression changed instantly—like a switch had flipped. Gone was the quiet softness we’d spent the day wrapped in. His features tightened, his eyes narrowing with a focus I’d come to recognize. Business. Game face.
“Coach,” he muttered, already reaching for it. My chest squeezed at the sound of that word. I knew what was coming. My heart beat a little faster, hope and dread chasing each other through my ribcage like two rival players on the ice.
He answered with a clipped, steady “Yeah,” then turned away, his voice lowering into something private and professional. I watched him as he paced toward the window, shoulders drawn tight, one hand running through his hair. The late sunlight carved golden outlines along the shape of him—my protector, my chaos, my calm.
I knew that stance. Knew what it meant. Knew he was about to leave again.
The silence that followed his call stretched like a frayed wire between us. When he finally turned around, there was something resigned in his posture. “I fly out tonight,” he said, his voice rough. “Five days. Back with the team.”
I nodded, the weight of his words sinking in slowly. “You’ll be back,” I whispered, trying to believe it even if part of me feared what might happen while he was gone.
“Yeah.” He said it like a promise—but we both knew that promises didn’t always hold up under pressure. Not in our world.
He crossed the room, each step more careful than the last, as if afraid he might break something between us. His hand reached for my face, thumb grazing my cheek like he was memorizing the feel of me. His other hand settled behind my neck, grounding me.
“I’ll text when I land,” he said gently.
“You’d better,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice light, even though the lump in my throat threatened to make it crack.
Then he kissed me—slow, sure, and deliberate. Not rushed, not desperate. Just real. His lips moved against mine like they were spelling out everything neither of us could say yet. That I mattered. That he’d come back. That he didn’t want to leave.
I melted into him, clinging to the way he made me feel safe, even if only for this one last moment before the world pulled him away again.
I held onto him a little tighter, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like I could tether myself to him—keep us from slipping apart again. We stood there in the hush of the kitchen, our foreheads nearly touching, the soft sound of our breathing the only thing filling the space. The chaos of the outside world felt distant, muffled by the quiet sanctuary we’d carved for ourselves here, if only for a little while.
I didn’t say “be careful.” He didn’t say “I’ll miss you.” But the weight of those words—unspoken and heavy—hung between us like something sacred. There was no need to voice them. We both knew what was at stake. We both understood what we were risking.
When he finally stepped back, the loss of his warmth was instant and jarring. His eyes stayed locked on mine, that same fierce intensity simmering beneath the surface. In that look, I saw everything: the promise to return, the unwillingness to let go, the fire that had kept us together through every brutal twist this week had thrown at us.
“I’ll be counting down every minute,” I whispered, my voice barely making it past the lump in my throat.
His smile was soft, small—touched with sorrow and something stronger, something almost defiant. Then, slowly, he turned away and bent to grab his bag from beside the door. The zip of the duffel sounded impossibly loud in the silence.
He paused at the doorway, his hand resting on the frame like he didn’t want to leave just yet. Our eyes met one final time. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. I just watched him, memorizing the shape of his silhouette against the dying light.
When he finally stepped through and the door clicked shut behind him, I stood there for a long time, the ghost of his presence still clinging to the air.
Then, alone again, I pressed my hand to my chest and whispered a silent prayer into the quiet.
The day dragged on like molasses, thick and heavy, clinging to every second like it was trying to make time stop. I had hoped staying busy would distract me from the hollow ache burrowed deep in my chest, but nothing helped. I cleaned until my hands were raw, scrubbing the countertops until they gleamed like hospital tiles, but the shine only made the emptiness more obvious. It was a quiet house, too quiet without Nikolai in it, the kind of silence that felt like pressure on the ears, like holding your breath underwater.
I tried to read. God, I tried. But the words floated in and out of my mind, whole pages disappearing without sticking. I flipped back, reread, and still couldn’t remember what had just happened in the story. His voice kept sneaking in—laughing, teasing, the soft murmur he used when he was half-asleep. His presence wasn’t gone; it just hovered here in the corners, a ghost I didn’t want to banish.
Baking seemed like a better idea. I pulled out the mixing bowls, chasing comfort in cookie dough and warm sugar. The smell alone was enough to soften the edges of my sadness. I didn’t even care that I’d made these cookies twice this week already. The ritual helped. He’d laugh at that, say I was trying to bribe the universe into bringing him home faster. Maybe I was.
As I pressed chocolate chips into the tops of the last batch, I imagined his hands sneaking around me to steal one off the tray. I could almost hear him whisper in my ear, “Burnt ones are my favorite,” just to see me roll my eyes. I wanted him here so badly it hurt.
Evening crept in, wrapping itself around the house with a heavy stillness. I found myself pacing again—up and down the hallway, across the living room, back to the kitchen. I checked my phone every ten minutes even though I knew he wouldn’t be able to text until after the game. Still, I couldn’t help hoping.
When I couldn’t take the waiting anymore, I lit a candle—vanilla, his favorite. The soft flame flickered against the dimness, casting shadows on the walls and something steadier inside me. I whispered into that warm little glow, “Please keep him safe.” A prayer. A wish. A quiet plea I sent out into the universe.
Then I clicked on the TV. The Serpents logo flashed across the screen, bright and familiar, and suddenly the silence didn’t feel so suffocating. The announcers’ voices filled the room. I pulled a blanket over my legs, heart hammering like I was the one about to step onto the ice. And then I waited—for the puck to drop, for a glimpse of his jersey, for any sign that he was okay.
