Page 27

He glances up as I approach, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that still catches me off-guard.

He pockets his phone in one fluid motion, pushing himself off the car with casual grace.

"There you are. I was beginning to think you fell asleep in the shower.

" His voice carries that hint of French-Canadian accent that thickens when he's tired or turned on.

A detail I've been cataloging with embarrassing precision these past weeks.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." I adjust my duffel bag on my shoulder, trying to sound casual when everything inside me feels like it's vibrating at the wrong frequency. "Willis wanted to run extra drills."

Bast's eyes flicker over my face, that perceptive gaze missing nothing. "How did it go?"

"Better than yesterday," I echo Willis's assessment, finding it easier than crafting my own. "Still working through some things."

He nods, not pushing for more as he opens the passenger door for me. The gesture is small but loaded with a considerate intimacy that makes my chest tighten.

Once we're both settled in the car, the quiet envelops us like a blanket. Bast starts the engine, the low purr filling the space between us as we pull out of the parking lot. Seattle's skyline glitters in the distance, the Space Needle piercing the dusky sky like an exclamation point.

I wait for questions that don't come. Bast navigates through traffic with the same quiet confidence he brings to everything, occasionally glancing at me but never demanding explanations. The silence isn't empty or awkward; it's comfortable, like a deep breath after being underwater too long.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mom, a photo of her physical therapy session with a thumbs up. The sight of her smile, determined despite everything, hits me in that soft, vulnerable place behind my ribs. I send back a heart emoji, because sometimes words aren't enough.

"Your mom?" Bast asks, catching my small smile.

"Yeah, she's crushing her PT today." I turn the screen so he can see. "She's stronger than I'll ever be."

Bast's expression softens. "The Shaw resilience is genetic, then."

The compliment washes over me, unexpected and warming, like sunshine breaking through Seattle's perpetual cloud cover.

I look out the window, watching raindrops begin to race each other down the glass, tracing invisible paths that remind me of the strategy diagrams Coach Willis had drawn on the whiteboard earlier.

"I'm trying," I admit quietly, the words feeling heavier than they should. "But some days it feels like I'm skating uphill with weights strapped to my ankles."

"We all have those days," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us, resonating somewhere deep in my chest. "Even me."

It's hard to imagine Sebastian Bergeron, the man whose highlight reels I used to watch on repeat in my dorm room, the legend whose poster hung above my bed until embarrassingly recently, doubting himself. The concept seems as impossible as water flowing upward.

"You?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice, turning to study his profile. "Mr. Unflappable? The guy who stopped forty-seven shots in Game Seven like it was a casual Tuesday practice?"

His laugh is short but genuine, a rare sound that I've been mentally collecting like sea glass.

"The press calls me the Ice King for a reason, Derrick.

It's not just about being cold under pressure.

" He signals for a turn, the city lights painting his profile in gold and shadow, highlighting the slight tension in his jaw that I wouldn't have noticed weeks ago.

"It's because no one gets to see what's underneath.

The cracks, the doubts, they stay buried where they belong. "

The confession, simple as it is, feels like being handed something precious and breakable, a trust I'm not entirely sure I've earned. This glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls of Sebastian Bergeron feels more intimate than any physical touch we've shared.

As we stop at a red light, Bast reaches across the center console.

His hand finds mine, warm and calloused from years between the pipes, fingers threading through mine with casual confidence that makes my insides liquify.

My throat tightens, and I fight the urge to look at our joined hands like I can't believe they're real, like they might disappear if acknowledged directly.

"You don't have to pretend with me," he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead, though I can see something vulnerable flickering in their depths.

"Not ever. The mask stays on the ice." He squeezes my hand once before releasing it to shift gears as the light changes.

"Now, let's get home and get you fed. Willis may run you ragged, but I draw the line at letting you starve. "

Later, after a shower, I pad down the stairs, still drying my hair with a towel.

The scent hits me first. Garlic, lemon, something buttery and rich.

I follow it like a cartoon character drawn toward a fresh pie on a windowsill, practically floating on the aromatic current.

The house is quiet except for the soft clinking of utensils against pots and pans, the occasional sizzle of something hitting hot oil, and the low, melodic hum of a song I don't recognize playing from the kitchen speaker, something with a gentle bass line that seems to sync with my footsteps.

Then I see him. Barefoot, shirtless, wearing only a black apron tied snugly around his waist and those god damned gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips.

He looks more delectable than whatever he's cooking, all muscle and smooth skin, the tattoo sleeve of fighting dragons rippling with each movement of his arm.

I can't help the saliva pooling in my mouth at the thought of licking every inch of him, tracing the contours of his back with my tongue, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.

He's stirring a pot with practiced ease, wine glass balanced elegantly in his other hand, the glow of the stove casting golden light over his light brown skin, highlighting the definition of his shoulders, catching in the soft edges of his close-cropped hair.

The concentrated expression on his face, brow slightly furrowed, lips parted in focus, makes him look almost vulnerable.

He hasn't noticed me yet, and for a moment, I'm content to just drink in the sight of him, this private, unguarded version of Sebastian that so few people get to see.

I stop in the doorway and just watch him for a moment. My chest does this tight, aching thing. This feels so normal, so easy, like we’ve done this for years. . .and that’s exactly when it hits me.

I'm not a guest anymore. I have a new contract.

I have a new team. There's no real reason, no official reason, for me to still be here.

Not with Bast. I'm not recovered completely, but enough to take care of myself.

We haven't even had the conversation. About us.

About what this is. We've been living in this beautiful bubble, dancing around definitions, letting touches and kisses speak what words haven't.

A cold wave of panic washes through me, starting at the base of my spine and creeping upward until it grips my lungs.

My chest goes tight, each breath becoming shallow and quick.

My hands are still damp from the towel, but they're clammy now for an entirely different reason.

Sweat beads at my hairline despite the comfortable temperature in the kitchen.

What if I've overstayed? What if this was temporary?

What if he's just been waiting for the right moment to tell me I should find my own place?

What if all of this, the cooking, the soft morning kisses, the way he holds me at night, was just his way of helping a teammate through recovery, an obligation that's stretched too long?

Coach Willis warned me about overthinking things, about letting fear sabotage what's in front of me.

Dr. Sloan would probably call this a protective mechanism.

Pushing away the issue before I can be pushed, but knowing that doesn't stop the spiral, doesn't ease the sudden tightness in my throat or the way my heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

“Hey,” Bast calls over his shoulder, having finally noticed me, his voice casual and warm. “Dinner’s almost ready. Sit down before I feed the cat that I don’t have.”

I force a smile and move toward the kitchen island, slipping onto one of the stools.

My legs a little shaky, like the ground underneath me isn't as solid as it was a minute ago.

The cool marble counter beneath my palms grounds me somewhat, but my thoughts continue racing, skittering between hope and dread like an untethered puck.

He notices. Of course he notices.

He stops stirring and glances over, brow furrowed, the spoon hovering midair. Then he mutters under his breath, "Tu penses trop fort." You're thinking too loud. The French rolls off his tongue effortlessly, familiar and intimate in a way that still makes my insides flutter despite my anxiety.

I look down at my hands, tracing an invisible pattern on the counter's surface. Say nothing. The silence between us fills with all the words I'm afraid to voice.

He exhales sharply and sets the spoon down with a clatter against the pot's edge, frustration pouring off him in waves.

"Mon dieu...pourquoi est-ce que c'est toujours comme ca avec toi?

" Why is it always like this with you? His accent thickens when he's emotional, another detail I've catalogued during our weeks together.

My head snaps up. "What?" The defensiveness in my voice is instinctive, a shield I've carried since childhood. I have no idea what he is saying but the tone says enough.

He crosses to me, fast and fluid until he's standing right there in front of me, one hand planted firmly on the counter, the other lifting my chin with the kind of gentleness that makes my chest hurt.

His fingers are warm against my skin, calloused in places from years of work, yet tender in their touch.

"Why do you do that thing," he says, switching back to English, "where everything's fine and then suddenly you vanish inside your own head like you're preparing for the worst?" His eyes pin me in place, gray and knowing, seeing through every defense I've constructed.

I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow, a sound that rings false even to my own ears. "Because usually, it is the worst." The admission costs me something, brings back memories of phone calls never returned, promises broken, bags packed in the night. Of the father who ghosted my mother and me.

His eyes search mine for a second, intense and unwavering, and I brace myself. For what, I don't know. Maybe rejection. Maybe distance. Maybe the gentle let-down I've been rehearsing responses to in my head.

"Is that what this is?" he asks quietly, heat simmering beneath the surface. "You getting ready to pack your bag?" There's something vulnerable in the question, something that suggests I'm not the only one with fears lurking just beneath the surface.

I swallow hard, the sound audible in the space between us. "I just realized. . .I don't have to be here anymore. And we haven't really talked about whatever this is." The words feel inadequate, too small to contain the enormity of what I'm really asking: Am I temporary to you?

He closes his eyes like I've said something stupid, a brief pained expression crossing his features. When he opens them again, they're full of something softer. Something careful. Something that makes me want to reach for him.

"Merde," he mutters. Shit.

"I'm not trying to ruin it," I say quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm just?—"

"I don't know what this is. Not yet. But I know I want it, and I know I want you. So, unless you're in a rush to leave. . ." The directness of it steals my breath, the certainty in his voice like an anchor in choppy waters.

I shake my head. "I'm not." Two simple words that contain multitudes.

"Then we take it like everything else," he leans down and kisses my temple, warm and steady, his lips lingering against my skin in a promise more eloquent than words "One night at a time."

He pulls away just enough to say, "Mange, mon prince." Eat, my prince. The endearment wraps around me like a blanket, sheltering me from the storm of my own making.

He’s already turning back to the stove before I can respond. I don’t need to. My heart’s still hammering in my chest, but now it’s for a completely different reason.

Later, after the risotto, quiet music and the wine that’s made everything soft at the edges. I lie on the couch, tucked beneath a blanket that smells like his laundry detergent. Bast is stretched out beneath me, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek.

I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of his breathing. One steady heartbeat at a time.

One night at a time. It's enough. For now, it’s enough.