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“That’s it,” I whisper against her shoulder, “let go for me.”

She shatters around me with a soft scream, her body convulsing around me, dragging me deeper, holding me there. And fuck—that’s all it takes.

I thrust once, twice, and then I’m gone too—spilling into her with a groan that sounds more like a confession, like a vow I’ll spend my whole life keeping.

I collapse on top of her, both of us breathless and undone, our bodies tangled, slick with sweat and something more.

Eventually, I pull out of her slowly, carefully, the evidence of our connection glistening on her thighs.

We spent the rest of the night wrapped in each other—slow, intimate, lost in soft kisses and quiet whispers—making love again and again.

As if the night won’t end.

As if time has no hold on us.

As if we’ve already promised forever—and this is how we prove it.

As if we had all the time in the world.

Because tonight, we do.

THIRTY-ONE

Sierra

I look down at the massive gold band on my finger and smile, my chest so full it might burst. There’s a quiet kind of joy blooming in me—warm and steady. The kind that roots deep and stays.

Our honeymoon felt like something out of a dream. One of those slow, sun-drenched dreams where everything smells like coconuts, and the time doesn’t seem to exist.

We spent five perfect days in the Maldives, hidden away in a luxurious overwater bungalow with nothing around us but the turquoise sea and the endless sky.

Every morning, I woke up tangled in Nick’s arms, his sleepy voice whispering, “Good morning, Mrs. Hardy,” against my neck. And every night we fell asleep the same way—spent, breathless, hearts completely full.

We made love on the deserted white sand beach, under the shade of palm trees, in the cool water of the ocean, and again in the private pool outside our bungalow.

We barely wore clothes, even if I packed half my wardrobe. We swam, we kissed, we laid on the sun-beds with drinks in hand, letting the warmth seep into our bones. We explored the small island together, walking barefoot, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing.

There were moments when we laughed so hard I cried, and others when he touched me so gently it undid me entirely. In those days, I saw a softer, even more vulnerable side of Nick—not the NHL star, not the man with sharp edges and a powerful presence, but the boy who once sat on my parents’ couch, watching movies with my brothers.

The boy who, I now know, used to look at me like I was untouchable.

Now, he looks at me like I’m everything.

We connected deeply—not just through passion, but through long conversations, glances that said more than words, and shared silence that felt safe.

By the time we left, we were even more sure of each other. Of us.

We agreed I would move to London—though it took a lot to convince Nick. He didn’t want me to sacrifice anything for him, no matter how many times I told him it wasn’t a sacrifice, just a choice I was happy to make.

In the end, I had to pull out the big guns. I refused to have sex with him for half a day, teasing him mercilessly until he gave in, muttering something like, “You’re evil. You win, okay?”

That’s when he confessed he had prepared the guest room in his London penthouse two days before the Annual Hockey Gala—that’s why it was designed for a woman. It was clear he’d put thought into every detail.

And now we’re back to real life.

Nick’s in London, already back to his daily training. His first official game of the season is tomorrow—a Saturday I won’t be able to attend. Not this time. But I’ll be at every other one after that, because this weekend… I’m officially moving with him.

It still sounds surreal when I say it in my head, even if we’re married already.