He looked devastatingly beautiful. Seeing him in my kitchen made my brain stutter—how is he real, how is he here, how is this my life now?
The soft lights caught in the dark strands of his hair as he slid two plates out of the warming tray, brow furrowed with the same focus he wore on the ice. Herb crusted chicken with a delicate pan sauce, roasted vegetables caramelized at the edges, and a mound of fluffy couscous.
He’d done all of this. For me.
“It smells incredible,” I said, dropping my bag by the door.
“Hana’s recipe. Don’t get used to it though,” he said without looking up. “Your fridge was actually well stocked for once.”
“Wow. A complimentandan insult. I’m getting so spoiled.”
I was starving—practice had been brutal—but I still couldn’t resist crossing the kitchen and wrapping an arm around his waist. He stiffened for a fraction of a second, then relaxed into me as I pulled him in for a kiss.
The kiss was slow and warm, and when I pulled back, his eyes were soft in a way he’d probably hate if he knew.
Fuck. This feeling—so familiar and so foreign at the same time—I wanted to drown in it.
I pulled back slowly. “You taste like wine.”
“It’s called quality control. Go set the table.”
Aspen whined beside us, nudging his head against my thigh. I gave him the attention he demanded while Théo carried our plates to the dining table, rolling his eyes at both of us.
Dinner was easy. We settled into easy conversation—trading stories, filling in the gaps, learning all the small details that didn’t fit into our usual charged exchanges.
“Traverse City,” I said when he asked where I’d grown up. “Northern Michigan. Winters so cold your eyelashes freeze together.”
“That’s cute.” Théo took a sip of wine. “Try Montréal. We had ice storms that knocked out power for days. My mom used to heat soup over candles.”
“I played juniors in Ann Arbor. We practiced outside in the dead of winter when the rink was double booked.”
“Built character, I’m sure.”
“Almost lost a toe to frostbite.”
He smiled at that—a real one, not the sharp smirk he used as armor. Then he pulled out his phone and scrolled for a moment before turning the screen toward me.
Two boys in full hockey gear, drowning in pads that were clearly too big for them. The smaller one—dark haired, scowling even at four years old—was unmistakably Théo. Beside him, a five year old Avery grinned at the camera, missing his two front teeth.
“Oh my God.” I took the phone, zooming in. “You were so angry. Even then.”
“I didn’t want to play hockey. I wanted to do what the pretty girls were doing on the other side of the rink.” He shrugged. “Mom figured it out eventually.”
“Avery looks exactly the same.”
“He peaked early.”
I laughed, handing the phone back. “You were cute.”
“Still am.”
“Not the word I’d use,” I said, deadpan, “but sure.”
“Do continue,” he said, leaning back in his chair like a king granting an audience. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I’ll save it for later then,” I said and went back to my food.
The chicken was perfectly cooked, the sauce rich with white wine and herbs, and I watched Théo eat every bite on his plate without pushing anything around.
