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"I still can't believe you two are actually dating now," Dylan said, reaching across the table to steal one of my fries. "Like, genuinely, no-contract-involved dating."

We were at Midnight Munchies Diner for what had somehow become a weekly double date with Dylan and Olivia. Their own reluctant attraction had finally blossomed into something neither could deny, though they still bickered constantly.

"What's so unbelievable about it?" Ethan asked, sliding his arm around my shoulders.

"Uh, everything?" Dylan gestured dramatically with a ketchup-laden fry. "You went from 'That photographer nearly killed me and ruined my career' to 'I love her more than hockey' in like, five months."

"I never said I love her more than hockey," Ethan protested with a grin.

I elbowed him in the ribs. "Thanks a lot."

"I'm kidding! Obviously I love you more than hockey." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "Hockey never made me breakfast."

"Neither does Mia," Olivia pointed out. "She burns toast. I've seen it happen."

"Et tu, Olivia?" I grabbed my chest in mock betrayal. "My own best friend."

"I'm just providing journalistic accuracy," she replied primly before turning to Dylan. "And you've got no room to talk about unlikely romances. You spent our entire first date arguing with me about athletic privilege in academia."

"Because you wrote that ridiculous article implying athletes get free passes in classes!" Dylan countered, immediately heated. "Some of us work twice as hard to maintain our GPAs while also committing twenty hours a week to sports."

"Here we go again," Ethan muttered to me as our friends launched into their familiar debate.

I leaned my head against his shoulder, watching Dylan and Olivia face off across the table. Despite their argumentative dynamic, there was unmistakable fondness underneath the barbs. Dylan's eyes never left Olivia's face as she passionately defended her position, and though he disagreed with every point, there was clear admiration in his expression.

"They're ridiculous," I whispered to Ethan. "How long before they realize they're perfect for each other?"

"Took us fake dating and a championship game," Ethan replied quietly.

Our quiet side conversation was interrupted by Olivia snapping her fingers between us. "Hello? Earth to lovebirds. We were asking if you're coming to the senior send-off party next weekend."

"Wouldn't miss it," Ethan confirmed. "It's mandatory for senior team members anyway."

"And you?" Olivia turned to me. "Or are you too busy with your fancy Sports Illustrations preparation?"

"I'll be there," I promised. "Someone has to document Dylan's inevitable karaoke meltdown."

"That was ONE TIME," Dylan protested vehemently. "And in my defense, nobody should be expected to know all the words to any song when they're that drunk."

"And yet you still insisted on performing it," Ethan reminded him. "Including the operatic section."

As Dylan launched into a passionate defense of his musical choices, I felt a wave of contentment wash over me. These moments—silly, ordinary, filled with laughter and friendship—had become precious as graduation loomed closer, marking the inevitable transitions awaiting us all.

Spring settled over campus, transforming the landscape with blooming cherry trees and students sprawled across the quad's green lawns. With only weeks until graduation, a bittersweet undercurrent ran beneath the semester's final activities.

Ethan's senior game arrived—the last home game for graduating players. Though not officially a championship, it carried emotional significance for the seniors and their families. I arrived early, claiming my usual spot on the press platform, camera ready.

The pre-game ceremony honored each graduating senior, highlighting their contributions to the program. When Ethan skated to center ice, spotlight following his movement, my chest swelled with pride. Coach Alvarez presented him with a framed jersey while listing his accomplishments: team captain for two consecutive years, championship-winning goal, school record for assists in a single season, and academic honors.

Ethan accepted the acknowledgment with characteristic humility, but I captured the emotion in his eyes as he shook Coach's hand—pride, gratitude, and a hint of the bittersweet recognition that this chapter was closing.

The game itself was more celebration than competition, with coaches ensuring all seniors had significant ice time. Ethan played beautifully, setting up two goals and scoring one himself. When he was named MVP, the crowd's roar was deafening.

Afterward, I waited outside the locker room, camera full of meaningful moments I'd captured throughout the evening. When Ethan emerged, hair still damp from his shower, he wore a complicated expression—satisfaction mingled with melancholy.

"Hey you," I greeted him softly. "Congratulations, MVP."

He smiled, pulling me into a tight embrace. "Thanks for being here. For documenting all of it."

"Wouldn't have missed it." I pulled back slightly to study his face. "How are you feeling?"

He considered the question as we began walking toward the exit. "Grateful. Proud. A little sad." His fingers laced with mine. "Mostly just aware that nothing will ever be quite like this again."

Outside, the campus was quiet, most students already at weekend parties or tucked into libraries for late-night study sessions. We walked in comfortable silence, following a familiar path across the quad.

"I've been thinking about this summer," Ethan said eventually. "You in New York, me in Pittsburgh. Three hundred and seventy miles, approximately."

"A six-hour drive, depending on traffic," I finished, squeezing his hand. "We've established this."

"I know. But I've been looking at the calendar more carefully." He guided me toward a bench beneath a blooming cherry tree, delicate pink petals occasionally drifting down around us. "The Pittsburgh Seals ' development camp doesn't start until July. That gives us almost all of June where I could potentially be in New York."

My heart leapt. "Really? You'd come stay with me?"

"If you want me to," he replied, suddenly uncertain. "I don't want to impose on your new beginning there. If you need space to establish yourself professionally—"

"Ethan Wright, don't you dare finish that sentence," I interrupted. "Of course I want you there. Every possible day."

Relief washed over his features. "Good. That's... good."

"Very articulate for an honors student," I teased.

"What can I say? You short-circuit my vocabulary." His expression grew more serious. "I know long-distance is going to be hard. Different cities, demanding schedules. I just want you to know I'm committed to making it work."

"I know you are." I leaned my head against his shoulder. "Some miles between us don't stand a chance, remember?"

He chuckled. "Using my own lines against me?"

"I'm a photographer, not a writer—I document, I don't create."

"You create plenty," Ethan disagreed. "You create perspective. Ways of seeing things others miss."

The simple observation touched me deeply. Before I could respond, a petal drifted down, landing in Ethan's hair. I reached up to brush it away, then impulsively took a photo of him in the soft evening light, surrounded by falling cherry blossoms.

"What was that for?" he asked, blinking at the unexpected flash.

"Professional documentation," I replied solemnly. "I need evidence that the great Ethan Wright once sat under a cherry tree saying poetic things to his girlfriend."

"Ah, blackmail material. Smart."

We continued our walk across campus, discussing practical aspects of our summer plans—when he'd arrive in New York, potential weekend visits to Pittsburgh once his training began, coordinating our limited time off. The logistics were complex but manageable, a puzzle we were both determined to solve.

As we passed the art building, Ethan glanced at the illuminated windows. "How's your final project coming along?"

"Almost finished," I said. "Just a few more editing sessions. Dr. Lawrence wants to see the complete series by Friday."

"The transitions theme, right? With the campus changes?"

I nodded, pleased he remembered. "Yes. Capturing moments of transformation—seasonal shifts on campus, graduating seniors, even architectural renovations." I hesitated, suddenly shy. "The centerpiece is actually a series of you."

Ethan stopped walking, turning to face me fully. "Me?"

"Before you panic, they're good photos," I assured him quickly. "It's a triptych showing your transformation throughout the season. The first is from our earliest encounters—you're all intensity and focus, isolated in the frame despite being surrounded by teammates. The second is mid-season, showing more connection with the team but still carrying visible pressure. The third is from the championship—the moment after your winning goal, pure joy without self-consciousness."

"My transformation," he repeated softly.

"Dr. Lawrence thinks it's my strongest work," I admitted. "She says I've finally found my voice as a photographer—seeing beyond the obvious narrative to the emotional undercurrents."

Ethan was quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "You really have been seeing me all along, haven't you? Even when I was shouting at you for stepping on my ice."

"Especially then," I confirmed with a small smile. "That's when I first saw past the hockey star facade to the person underneath—complicated, driven, and much more vulnerable than you wanted anyone to know."

"Terrifying," he murmured, but his eyes were warm.

"What is?"

"Being truly seen." He brushed his knuckles softly against my cheek. "But also the greatest gift."

Under the stars, with campus quiet around us, I felt the enormity of what we'd found together—a connection neither of us had been looking for but now couldn't imagine living without.

The weeks before graduation passed in a blur of final projects, exams, and bittersweet lasts—last team dinner, last class presentation, last midnight coffee run. Increasingly, our conversations revolved around practical logistics of moving, storing belongings, and preparing for our summer apart.

"I still can't believe you own this many hoodies," I commented, sealing another box in Ethan's nearly empty apartment. "Don't the Seals provide team gear?"

"Yes, but these are sentimental," Ethan defended, carefully folding a faded Wolves sweatshirt. "Each one represents a different hockey memory."

"The hockey memory hoarder," I teased. "We need a special box labeled 'Ethan's emotional security blankets.'"

"Hey, you're the one with seventeen different camera bags, each with a 'specific purpose' that looks exactly the same to the untrained eye."

"They serve completely different functions!" I protested. "The padded one is for lenses, the waterproof one is for outdoor shoots, the vintage leather one is for professional meetings—"

"I rest my case," Ethan interrupted with a triumphant grin. "We all have our things."

We'd developed an efficient system over the past few days—sorting his belongings into categories for Pittsburgh, storage, donation, or trash. The growing stack of boxes labeled "Pittsburgh" created a tangible reminder of his approaching departure, a reality I still hadn't fully processed.

"What about these?" I asked, holding up a stack of photographs I'd found tucked in his desk drawer.

Ethan glanced over, then flushed slightly. "Oh. Those are, uh, from our early 'dates' together. The staged ones."

Curious, I spread them across the cleared desk—awkward poses at the Harvest Festival, stilted smiles at campus events, careful maintenance of personal space despite supposedly being a couple. Looking at them now, our discomfort was painfully obvious.

"We were terrible actors," I laughed, picking up a particularly uncomfortable shot from the Winter Formal. "Look at this! You're barely touching my waist, like I might break if you actually held me."

Ethan came to stand beside me, studying the photos with an amused smile. "I was terrified I'd cross some invisible boundary and ruin our arrangement. And look at you—your smile doesn't reach your eyes at all."

"Because I was mentally calculating if the evening had lasted long enough to fulfill my contractual 'girlfriend duties,'" I admitted.

We continued through the stack, our laughter growing as we critiqued our awkward performances. At the bottom of the pile, I discovered more recent photos—candid shots Olivia had taken of us studying together, Dylan's badly framed selfie with us in the background looking at each other, a beautiful shot of us dancing at a team celebration.

The contrast was striking. In these newer images, there was no performance, no careful maintenance of boundaries—just genuine comfort and obvious affection.

"These tell quite a story," I observed softly.

Ethan nodded, picking up a photo of us laughing together over coffee. "From contractual obligation to the real thing."

That evening, we took a break from packing to meet Dylan and Olivia for dinner at the campus bistro. Over pasta and wine, we reminisced about the year's highlights and shared nervous excitement about our upcoming transitions.

"Let's make a pact," Dylan proposed, raising his glass. "No matter where we all end up, we meet back here for alumni weekend next year. Same table, same obnoxious stories."

"I'm in," Olivia agreed immediately, her eyes lingering on Dylan with uncharacteristic softness.

"Absolutely," Ethan and I confirmed together.

As we clinked glasses, I was struck by how much had changed since the beginning of the year. Back then, I'd been desperate for financial stability, viewing Ethan as nothing more than an entitled jock who'd nearly injured himself yelling at me. Now, somehow, he'd become the center of my world, and these people around the table had become family.

The night before graduation, Ethan surprised me with dinner reservations at an upscale restaurant overlooking the city that normally required weeks of advance booking.

"How did you manage this?" I asked as we were led to a prime table on the terrace, twinkling lights illuminating the spectacular view.

"I might have mentioned to the owner that I scored the winning goal in our University's first-ever hockey championship," Ethan admitted with a slight smirk. "Turns out he's a massive hockey fan."

"Shameless exploitation of your local celebrity status," I teased. "I approve."

Under the stars, with the city spread before us, we savored both the excellent food and the significance of the moment—our last night as college students, poised on the brink of our professional lives.

After our meal, Ethan reached into his jacket pocket, producing a small box tied with a silver ribbon. "I have something for you."

"Ethan, you didn't need to—"

"I wanted to," he interrupted gently, pushing the box across the table. "Open it."

Inside, nestled on velvet, was a delicate silver necklace with a tiny camera charm. The detail was exquisite, down to the miniature lens that actually moved. Accompanying it was a card in Ethan's distinctive handwriting:

For the woman who saw me—really saw me—when no one else did. Carry this reminder that your perspective has changed my world. All my love, E.

My throat tightened with emotion. "It's perfect," I whispered. "Will you put it on me?"

Ethan moved behind my chair, his fingers warm against my neck as he fastened the clasp. The small charm rested perfectly in the hollow of my throat, catching the light as I turned.

"I have something for you too," I said when he returned to his seat. I reached into my bag, pulling out a carefully wrapped frame. "It's not as portable as yours, but..."

He unwrapped it slowly, his expression softening as he revealed the contents—a framed print of my favorite photograph of him in mid-game, expression intense but joyful, completely in his element on the ice. Like his gift, mine came with a note:

To remind you why you play, when the pressure gets too much. This joy is your true power. Love always, M.

Ethan stared at the image for a long moment, running his fingers lightly over the glass.

"This is who you are," I said quietly. "When you're most authentically yourself."

He reached across the table, taking my hand in his. "Thank you. Not just for this—" he gestured to the photograph "—but for everything. For seeing past the hockey captain, for calling me on my bullshit, for agreeing to a ridiculous fake dating scheme that somehow led to the most real thing in my life."

"You're welcome," I replied, my voice teasing but my eyes serious. "Though technically, you should be thanking Vanessa. Without her, you never would have proposed our arrangement."

Ethan laughed. "I'll send her a fruit basket. 'Thanks for being so clingy that I had to fake-date a beautiful photographer who ended up changing my life .' Think that would fit on a card?"

"Might need a bigger basket," I suggested solemnly.

Under the stars, with the city lights twinkling below us, I realized how beautifully unexpected life could be. For me, who began this year focused solely on surviving financially and advancing my career, finding love was never part of the plan. Yet sitting across from Ethan, his face illuminated by candlelight, I understood that sometimes the most beautiful photographs are the ones you never planned to take.