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"I love it," he says, voice rough. "I love you. Keep going."

I line up and push in slowly.

The first slide is deep and overwhelming. He makes a broken sound and his good hand fists in the sheets. I freeze, buried halfway, shaking with the effort of staying still.

"Okay?"

"Yes. God—yes. More."

I sink the rest of the way in, careful, watching his face the entire time. When I'm fully inside him I stay there, forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air.

"I stand next to you," I whisper.

His eyes are wet again. "So do I."

I start to move.

It's slow because it has to be—short, deep rolls of my hips that keep any pressure off his bad leg. The angle is perfect. Every thrust drags over the place that makes his breath hitch. He can't thrust back the way he usually does; he can only take what I give him. His free hand comes up and cups the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

"Rémy," he says, and it's not a count, not a rule. It's just my name, over and over, like he's grounding himself in it. "Rémy—Rémy⁠—"

I don't keep track. I just keep moving, keep looking at him, keep giving him everything I've been holding since Nashville. The apology lives in every careful thrust, every soft kiss I press to his mouth, every time I whisper that I've got him. He takes it all. He receives it the way he's always received me—open, trusting, completely present.

When he gets close his breathing changes. His fingers tighten in my hair.

"I'm—Rémy⁠—"

"I know. Come for me. I've got you."

He does—shuddering under me as much as the brace allows, clenching hard around my cock, spilling between us with a low, wrecked sound that is only my name. The way he pulses around me pulls me under with him. I bury myself as deep as I carefully can and come with my face pressed to his, eyes open, watching him the entire time.

We stay locked together for a long while after, breathing, quiet. Eventually I soften and ease out. I clean us both up with a washcloth from the bathroom, then carefully rearrange the pillows under his brace so his leg stays elevated.

After, it's dark. The city's coming in through the window, orange and gold, the way it did the first night in Toronto. He's on his back on my bed with his braced leg propped up on three pillows and a folded towel, and I'm tucked into his side with my head on his chest.

His heart's slow and steady under my ear. It's the steadiest thing in the world.

"Tomorrow," I say.

"Tomorrow."

"You're going to be there? At the game?"

"Anand moved the surgery. Tuesday. So I can be in the building." He's running his fingers through my hair, slow. "I'll be in the press box. Or in the tunnel. Wherever they let me put a crutch."

"Not the press box." I lift my head. "If we win. If we win, I want you on the ice."

He goes still.

"When they bring the Cup out," I say. "I want you out there. On your crutches. In your suit. With the team. With me."

"Rémy. Everybody's going to be watching."

"I know," I say. "That's the point."

He looks at me in the orange dark.

"Rule one," he says. "My new list."