I watch Sophie's face as my words settle between us. Move in permanently. The shock registers instantly—her eyes widening, lips parting without sound, and for one terrible moment I think I've fucked this up completely. Pushed too fast, asked for too much.
"Blaze, I…" she starts, then stops, her hand coming up to touch her throat like she's forgotten how to breathe.
"I know it's a lot," I say quickly, desperate to fill the silence. "I know we haven't talked about... about what this is between us. But I meant every word, Sophie, I'm tired of temporary. Tired of chasing things that slip through my fingers the moment I get close."
She's still staring at me, processing, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.
"I've spent years fighting for things that kept falling apart," I continue, the words spilling out faster now. "My career, my relationships, my sense of who I'm supposed to be. And then you showed up, and for the first time in forever, something actually felt stable. Safe."
"Safe," she repeats, her voice barely a whisper.
"You've been here through my lowest moment," I tell her, my hands still covering hers. "Caring for me without asking for anything in return. That has to mean something, right? We have to mean something."
Sophie's quiet for a long moment, her gaze dropping to our joined hands. When she looks up again, there's something complicated in her expression that I can't quite read.
"What would that look like?" she asks softly. "Practically speaking. Your career might be over, you don't know what comes next…"
"That's exactly why I need this. Why I need you. Everything else in my life is uncertain right now. My body, my future, my identity—it's all up in the air. But you're here, you're real. You make me feel grounded when everything else is spinning out of control."
"Grounded," she murmurs, like she's testing the word.
"You're the only person who's made me feel like myself since the injury." I admit. "Not the broken version of who I used to be. Just... me. Like maybe that's enough."
I don't mention Asher. Don't let myself think about ice-blue eyes or a love that nearly destroyed me. That chapter is closed. This is my future now—warm and steady and real.
"What about your parents?" Sophie asks. "Your teammates? The media attention that comes with dating you?"
"My parents love you," I say, and she flinches slightly. "They've already told me how perfect you are for me. And my teammates? They're hockey players, Sophie. Half of them are married to their high school sweethearts. They understand commitment."
She goes quiet again, and I brace myself for rejection. For her to tell me she's not ready, that this is too much, that she needs time to think.
Instead, she takes a shaky breath and says, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yes," she says, stronger now. "Yes, I'll move in with you. Permanently."
Relief floods through me—warm and overwhelming and so intense I feel dizzy with it. I pull her close, cupping her face in my hands, and press my lips to hers. What starts as a tender kiss quickly catches fire.
All the tension of the past months, all the uncertainty about my career, my identity, my worth—it transforms into something else entirely. Into hunger. Into desperate need.
"God, Sophie," I breathe against her mouth, and she makes this soft sound that goes straight through me.
My hands slide down to her waist, and before I can think about it, I'm lifting her onto the kitchen counter. She gasps at the sudden movement, her legs wrapping around my hips instinctively.
"Here?" she asks, but she's already pulling me closer.
"Can't wait," I growl, my mouth trailing down the curve of her neck. "Need you now."
My hands explore beneath her shirt, mapping the familiar territory of her skin, and Sophie arches into my touch with a moan that echoes through the apartment. The sound shoots straight through me, igniting something primal and desperate.
"Take this off," I murmur, tugging at her shirt, and she lifts her arms obligingly.
I want to consume her. Want to lose myself in something good for once. But even through the urgency, I force myself to go slow. To savor this.
I undress her piece by piece, pressing kisses to every inch of skin I reveal—the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the soft swell of her breasts.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, my voice rough with want. "So fucking beautiful."
Sophie's breath hitches as I work my way lower, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Blaze, please…"
"I've got you," I promise, my hands making quick work of the rest of our clothes. "I've got you."
When I finally push inside her, Sophie arches against me with a cry that makes my vision go white. I have to grip the counter beside her hips to keep myself grounded, to keep from losing control completely.
"Look at me," I breathe, pressing my forehead to hers. "I want to see you."
Her eyes flutter open, dark and unfocused with pleasure, and we move together in a rhythm that builds and builds.
Our breath mingles in the space between us, and there's an intimacy here that feels almost overwhelming—not just physical, but something deeper. A promise being sealed with our bodies.
"I love you," I gasp as the tension coils tighter. "God, Sophie, I love you."
She doesn't say it back, but she doesn't have to. I can feel it in the way she holds me, in the way she whispers my name like a prayer.
Even if I don't fully believe my own words. But this is temporary. I just need to get used to this idea. Maybe if I repeat it often enough, it will become true.
When Sophie finally falls apart in my arms, her whole body shuddering against mine, I notice the tears streaking down her cheeks. My chest tightens with tenderness.
"Hey," I murmur, kissing them away. "It's okay. I know it's a lot."
She nods wordlessly, and I understand completely. It is a lot—the emotion, the commitment, the intensity of what we just shared. I'm feeling it too, this overwhelming sense of rightness mixed with something that feels almost like grief.
Afterward, we end up tangled together on the kitchen floor, both of us breathless and laughing at the absurdity of never making it to a proper bed.
"Real smooth, Wilson," Sophie says, her head on my chest. "Very romantic."
"Hey, I was going for spontaneous," I protest, pulling her closer. "Besides, you didn't exactly complain."
She laughs, the sound vibrating against my ribs, and I feel something settle deep in my chest. Something that feels like peace.
"This is the first time in months," I murmur into her hair, "that I've felt like things might actually be okay."
Sophie presses her face into my shoulder and doesn't respond. I assume she's simply overwhelmed, maybe drifting toward sleep. I hold her tighter and stare at the ceiling, letting myself believe, for the first time in a long time, that I might actually get to be happy.
And it has to be enough. Right?