“Hey, Ice Prince,” he says with a crooked grin.
But the name doesn’t bring the same fire that it usually does.
“Hey.”
He steps aside, motioning me in. “Dinner’s ready. I may have gone overboard.”
“Define overboard,” I say, kicking off my shoes.
The smell answers for him—garlic, butter, and something rich and herby. His kitchen table is set with two plates, and pasta steaming in a pan. There’s even salad. He shrugs when he sees my expression.
“I like cooking,” he says. “Figured you could use a break from protein bars and post-game shakes.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “You’re not wrong.”
We eat in that easy rhythm that happens when the day has already taken the edge off you. He tells a story about our rookie goalie accidentally backing his truck into the coach’s car. I counter with one about Harry punching a vending machine because it “looked smug.” Kyle laughs so hard wine almost comes out his nose.
And just like that, the noise in my chest quiets.
After dinner, we migrate to the living room. His place is warm, lived-in, the kind of space that smells faintly of coffee and cedar. A throw blanket slumps over the couch back; there are mismatched coasters on the table, and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle spread on a sideboard. It’s all… him.
He plops onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Okay. I have three options: stupid action, stupid horror, or stupid romance.”
“I thought this was movie night, not psychological torture.”
“Come on, Hale. Pick your poison.”
“Action,” I say. “Always.”
He grins, cueing up something loud and self-aware. The screen flickers blue over the walls as we settle in. A bowl of popcorn materializes between us; the salt dusts my fingers. Kyle’s thigh brushes mine once, then again, lingering this time.
I tell myself not to move.
The first half of the movie passes in jokes and running commentary. He groans at plot holes, I throw popcorn at him, he catches one piece in his mouth and cheers like he’s won gold. It’s easy, maybe too easy.
For a while, I let myself believe I could really fall for him. He’s the kind of man you build a quiet life with. No scandal, no mess, no obsession clawing at your ribs. He’d bring me coffeein the mornings, tease me about my sleep-hair, make sure I eat breakfast. He’d never call me in the middle of the night just to sayyou belong to me.
Halfway through the second act, Kyle stands, grabs his phone, and flips the camera. “We should commemorate this domestic bliss.”
Before I can protest, he snaps a photo of the coffee table—popcorn bowl, two glasses of wine, his slippered feet crossed at the ankle. I open my own phone, tweak the angle, and post it to my own story before common sense can intervene.
Just the table. The movie’s paused mid-explosion. His feet in the frame. No faces.
Still, I know exactly who I’m aiming the shot at.
The instant it posts, my heart skips. It’s pathetic how fast I imagine Magnus seeing it—his phone lighting in some dark room, his jaw tightening, that cruel grin curling at the corner of his mouth. The thought shouldn’t make me warm. It does.
The space between us narrows like the tightening of a string. His arm drapes along the back of the couch behind me, casual in theory, deliberate in fact.
I glance sideways. “You’re awfully touchy for a man watching explosions.”
“Just keeping you warm,” he says.
“Right.”
When the next explosion flashes across the screen, his hand finds my shoulder. The pressure is steady, reassuring. His thumb draws slow circles near my collarbone. I should lean away. I don’t.
The movie keeps rolling, but the air shifts—heavy, humming. The popcorn bowl slides to the table. His hand travels to my jaw, tipping it toward him.
