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There were also several from people who had attended my father’s service yesterday, but I left those unopened, not because I was frightened of what they might say or because seeing his name could still ruin my day, but simply because I didn’t want him in this morning. I’d given my father enough years of my life, and for once, I didn’t feel guilty about deciding something belonged entirely to me.

Max pushed another piece of toast onto my plate.

“I can’t eat that.”

“You played seventy-seven minutes and forty-three seconds.”

I pointed at him. “You’re going to use that number against me for the rest of my life, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

I picked up the toast because there were worse problems than being loved by a man who considered feeding me a personal responsibility.

As I ate, I looked around the kitchen and realized just how much of myself had already found its way into Max’s house. My coffee occupied space in the cupboard beside his, food he didn’t eat but knew I liked had appeared in the refrigerator, and the pantry contained my preferred cereal along with the stupid reusable straws I used and Max claimed served no useful purpose.

Upstairs was even worse, with clothes in his closet, shampoo in his shower, chargers plugged into outlets I now thought of as mine, books on the nightstand, and enough hockey equipment in the garage that I’d probably need a truck if I ever decided to take everything home.

I’d spent so much of my life making sure I could leave quickly that I hadn’t noticed when I’d started doing the opposite, and the realization made me stop chewing.

“Max?”

He looked up immediately. “What?”

“I need to do something about my apartment.”

His fork stopped halfway to his mouth, and concern replaced contentment almost instantly. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I’m just hardly there anymore.”

He lowered his fork very carefully, and I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed watching several possibilities move across his face as much as I did, but Max was normally almost impossible to unsettle.

“Ash, are you saying what I think you are saying?”

“That depends on what you think I’m saying.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do not play with me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re smiling.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you are being difficult.”

I reached for my coffee, intending to drag this out for another few seconds, but then I saw the uncertainty beneath his impatience and stopped. Max could lead an NHL team into Game Seven without blinking, stand in front of reporters, and make decisions that affected everyone around him, yet apparently the possibility that I might be asking to share his home mattered enough to scare him.

“I want to give notice on my apartment. I’ve barely slept there recently, half my things are already here, and I’m fairly certain you bought my cereal without even asking what kind I wanted, which means we’ve probably passed the point where pretending I’m only staying over occasionally makes sense.”

Max didn’t say anything, and suddenly the next part was considerably harder than I’d expected.

“So, if you don’t mind having my crap everywhere permanently instead of just most of the time, I’d like to move in with you.”

For several seconds Max simply stared at me before standing and coming around the island. He pulled me carefully off the stool and wrapped both arms around me, and I laughed against his shoulder as I held him just as tightly, feeling the breath leave him in a long exhale against my neck.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Oui.”