"The closet?"
"Perfect." He shoved it in the back. "Now it has a friend."
We hung my few personal items around the apartment. They mixed with Pickle's chaos—Storm memorabilia, photos of the team, and his grandmother's handwritten pierogi recipe taped to the fridge.
The apartment looked like two people lived there now.
Not perfectly coordinated, but together.
That night, we lay in bed with the lights off, Thunder Bay sounds muffled by snow outside.
Pickle sprawled across three-quarters of the bed, one leg thrown over mine. He breathed against my shoulder, deep and steady.
"You awake?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah."
"I love you."
The words hung in the dark between us.
I turned to face him. His eyes caught the streetlight filtering through the curtains.
"I love you too."
He smiled—wide and ridiculous and perfect. Then he kissed me, soft at first, then deeper. His hand slid under my shirt, palm warm against my ribs.
"You sure you're not too tired?" I asked against his mouth.
"From what? Lying here thinking about how much I love you?" He pulled back just enough to look at me. "I've been waiting to say that for weeks. Now I want to show you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He pushed me onto my back and straddled my hips. "I'm in charge."
"Yes, you are."
His hands moved with a sense of purpose, delivering pleasure. When he pulled off my shirt and leaned down to kiss my chest, I felt it everywhere.
"Still good?" he asked, voice lower.
"So good."
He grinned against my skin. "It has to be better than good. I'm excellent at this now."
"Your confidence is—" I lost the thought when his hand slid lower.
"Distracting?" He laughed. "You love it."
"I do."
The heat built between us—familiar but far from routine. Every kiss was a choice we kept making.
When he finally moved against me, skin to skin, he looked down and said, "Stay."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise."
