Blaze’s POV
Sophie's words echo in my head the entire drive home.
He doesn't know how you feel. And he's not gonna know until you tell him.
She's right. I've been swallowing my frustrations, masking my loneliness, telling Asher everything is fine when it absolutely isn't. How can I expect him to fix problems I've never properly articulated?
On impulse, I pull into a parking spot outside a jewelry store I've passed a hundred times without noticing. The window display glitters with promises—engagement rings, anniversary bands, gifts that say what words sometimes can't.
Inside, I browse with unexpected purpose, looking for something meaningful. Something that speaks to our history, to everything we've built together, to the love that still burns beneath my frustrations and fears.
I find it in a display case near the back. A simple pendant—a small silver compass, elegant in its minimalism. Perfect for engraving.
"Can you add coordinates?" I ask the jeweler. "Specific ones?"
"Of course. What location?"
I give her the coordinates of the cottage—that tiny, perfect place where we first admitted what we felt for each other. Where we stopped pretending and started being honest about everything that had been building between us for years.
The pendant feels warm in my pocket as I drive the rest of the way home. Hopeful. Romantic. Like the first step toward bridging the distance that's been growing between us.
Tonight, I'll give it to him. Tell him everything I've been holding back. We'll reconnect, remember why we chose each other, and figure out how to navigate this new chapter together.
That's the plan, anyway.
Asher arrives home nearly an hour later than expected. Exhaustion radiates from every line of his body—the slump of his shoulders, the shadows beneath his ice-blue eyes, the way he moves like his bones have turned to lead.
"Hey." He offers a tired smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Sorry I'm late. The shoot ran over again."
"How was it?"
"Long, tedious. I'm glad it's done." He drops his bag by the door and crosses to kiss my cheek—a perfunctory gesture, lips barely brushing skin. "How was your day?"
"Fine. Had coffee with Sophie."
"That's nice." He moves past me toward the kitchen, and I watch him go with a sinking feeling in my chest.
The spark that usually lights his expression when he sees me is noticeably dimmed tonight. He's going through the motions of connection rather than genuinely engaging.
"I thought maybe we could go out tonight," I suggest carefully, the jewelry box warm against my thigh. "That new restaurant downtown, or even just a walk by the harbor. We haven't spent quality time together in days."
Asher's face falls, genuine regret flickering across his features.
"I'm really wiped out, babe. It was a brutal day—multiple takes, scheduling conflicts, meetings that ran long." He opens the refrigerator, staring blankly at its contents. "I was hoping we could just order in and go to bed early."
The disappointment hits harder than expected, sharper than it should. Another evening sacrificed to his exhaustion. Another opportunity for connection pushed aside because work took everything he had to give.
I think about Sophie's advice. About swallowing my feelings to avoid conflict. About waiting for him to notice problems I've never properly named.
"Ash, we need to talk." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Really talk."
Something in my tone makes him straighten, the refrigerator door swinging shut. Fatigue is replaced by wariness as he turns to face me. "About what?"
"About us. About how things have been lately."
I take a breath, forcing myself to continue despite the anxiety clawing at my throat.
"I've been feeling lonely, Asher. Disconnected from you. Your schedule keeps getting more demanding, and I feel like I'm just... waiting. All the time. Waiting for you to come home, waiting for you to have time for me, waiting for our life together to actually start."
His brow furrows. "That's not fair. I've been working hard, yes, but it's for both of us."
"I know you're working hard. I'm not questioning your effort."
I step closer, desperate for him to understand. "I'm questioning where I fit into your life anymore. I used to be your partner. Now I feel like your personal assistant, managing our household while you live this exciting career that I'm no longer part of."
"So what, I'm supposed to turn down work opportunities because you're bored at home?"
The edge in his voice cuts deep, exhaustion making him more reactive than usual. "I thought you understood what my career demands. You were a professional athlete too—you know how this works."
"I was, but I'm not anymore."
The frustration I've been suppressing finally boils over, rising hot and bitter in my chest.
“And apparently that means I don't matter as much as I used to. Everything revolves around your schedule now—our honeymoon got cut short, our dinner dates get cancelled. And now even a simple evening together is too much to ask."
"You're acting like I'm doing this on purpose." Asher's eyes flash with defensive anger. "Like I'm choosing to be away from you. Everything I do is for us—for the life we're building together."
"The life we're building?" I shake my head, a bitter edge creeping into my voice. "What life, Asher? Because right now it feels like I'm just waiting around for whatever time you can spare me."
"I spare you plenty of time!"
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, your job gets the best of you and I get the leftovers. The tired, distracted remnants of whatever energy your career didn't consume."
"You're being dramatic."
He runs a hand through his curls, frustration evident in every gesture.
"I'm trying to build something here. For us. A legacy that goes beyond hockey, opportunities that will matter long after I retire. I thought you'd support that instead of guilting me for being successful."
"I do support you! But I'm your husband, Asher, not your cheerleader. I need to be more than someone who waits at home and applauds when you walk through the door."
"Then find something to do with your time! Get a job, start a project, I don't care—but don't make your boredom my responsibility!"
The words land like a slap. My boredom. As if my loneliness is just restless idleness, easily solved by finding a hobby to keep me occupied while he lives his real life elsewhere.
"You know what?" My voice has gone quiet, dangerously controlled. "Maybe I will. Maybe I'll build a life that doesn't revolve around waiting for scraps of your attention."
"Blaze…"
"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."
I don't wait for his response. I grab a blanket from the closet and retreat to the living room, my heart pounding with anger and hurt and the horrible suspicion that something fundamental has cracked between us.
From the bedroom, I hear Asher moving around—the creak of mattress springs, the click of a lamp switching off. He doesn't come after me. Doesn't try to apologize or bridge the gap.
We've never slept apart before. Not since we started being honest with each other, not since we stopped hiding. This feels like a regression, a return to the silence and distance we fought so hard to escape.
The jewelry box sits on the end table where I emptied my pockets earlier. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands, imagining the compass pendant inside—coordinates to a place where we were brave enough to choose each other.
It feels naive now. Pointless. A romantic gesture for a relationship that might be falling apart despite everything we sacrificed to build it.
I set the box aside, unopened, and stare at the ceiling until exhaustion finally drags me into restless sleep.