Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Ophelia

Anyone would think Haydn is a hopeless romantic with the way he sets up our dates. Like right now—we’re on the terrace, and it feels like something out of a dream.

Twinkling lights drape over the pergola, casting a soft, golden glow against the deepening night sky. Below us, the pool shimmers like glass, its gentle ripples scattering reflections into what looks like a galaxy of stars. Beyond that, the lake stretches endlessly, its surface so still it feels sacred, as if it’s holding its breath. Tonight isn’t about unpacking boxes but celebrating what this move truly means.

Tonight is for us.

Of course, Haydn doesn’t do this alone. He has people—planners, assistants, anyone he needs to call to make something like this happen. One phone call from him, and suddenly there are tickets to the ballet, reservations at the opera, or a terrace transformed into a fairy tale. He’s not just thoughtful, he’s intentional. He doesn’t simply aim to impress me—he ensures I feel like the most cherished person in his world.

And I love him for it. Not because of the grand gestures—though I’d be lying if I said they weren’t magical—but because of the thoughtfulness behind them. Despite his crazy schedule and the constant demands of his career, he always takes the time to think about what makes me smile. He remembers the little things: how I like the lights dimmed just so, or that I’d pick an evening under the stars over a crowded gala any day.

But it’s more than that. It’s the way he notices me, even when he barely has time to notice himself. The way he senses when I’ve had a hard day and has my favorite tea waiting for me when I walk through the door. The way he looks at me, like nothing else in the world could ever matter more, even when everything around him demands his attention.

I don’t just love Haydn for taking care of me or for treating me like a princess. I love him for the way he makes me feel seen. For the way he always carves out space for us, no matter how demanding life gets.

Today, he did more than just carve out space—he cleared his entire day for the move. He paused his routine, his rigid schedule, and gave me something rare and precious: his undivided time. And not just that. He gave me tonight, this perfect moment that feels like it’s wrapped in golden light and promises.

I glance over at Haydn, his tall frame leaning casually against the railing. The faint glow of the terrace lights catches the sharp lines of his jaw, the strong curve of his profile. He’s staring out at the lake, his shoulders more relaxed than I’ve seen in weeks, his expression unguarded.

These are the moments I live for—the ones where he’s not “Haydn Wesford, the hockey star,” but just Haydn. The man who knows me better than I know myself. The man who makes my heart ache in the best way possible.

Quietly, I reach for my camera resting on the table, lifting it to my eye. He doesn’t notice at first, his focus lost in the view, the golden light casting shadows across his face. The shutter clicks softly, capturing the way the light dances across his features. Once. Twice. The gentle whir of the lens adKeaneg finally draws his attention, and he turns toward me, his brow lifting in mock annoyance.

“Are you seriously taking pictures of me right now?” he asks, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in that familiar smile that always melts me.

“Always,” I reply, lowering the camera but not quite ready to put it down. “These are the only moments when I get to see the real you. The version of you no one else gets to capture because it’s only for me.”

He tilts his head slightly, leaning back against the railing, and the look he gives me is so raw, so unguarded, it feels like the world narrows to just this moment. It takes my breath away.

“You make it sound like I’m a different person,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful, the words a quiet challenge.

“You are,” I answer softly, holding his gaze. “Out there, you’re always guarding yourself—the net, the team, your next move. You’re thinking about the next game, the next season, or what you can do better so they don’t get past you. And when you’re not, you’re performing. For the crowd, the cameras, everyone who thinks they know you but doesn’t.”

I pause, letting the weight of my words settle between us before I continue. “But here . . . here, you’re just Haydn. Not the star goalie, not the guy who’s always on. Just you, my man. And I love capturing that.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks, the quiet stretching into something that feels deeper than words. Then, from somewhere inside the house, the soft, velvety sound of a jazz saxophone drifts through the open terrace doors. It’s smooth, slow, the kind of melody that pulls you under and whispers for you to dance.

Haydn’s smile widens, his eyes lighting with mischief as he pushes off the railing and holds out a hand to me. “Come on, gorgeous girl,” he says, his tone warm and daring. “Dance with me.”

“Haydn,” I protest, laughing even as I set the camera on the table. “We’re not in a ballroom. This is?—”

“Perfect,” he interrupts, taking my hand and pulling me toward him. “It’s perfect. You, me, the stars. Just say yes, Pia. You know you want to be in my arms—it’s your favorite place.”

I roll my eyes but don’t resist as he slides an arm around my waist, drawing me closer. The saxophone’s melody drifts in harmony with the low hum of a bassline, and we sway together under the lights.

The world outside fades, leaving just us. His hand rests firmly against the small of my back, his other entwined with mine, and I let myself melt into him, allowing everything else to slip away for this one, perfect moment.

“Have I ever mentioned that you’re not such a bad dancer for a goalie,” I tease him, tilting my head back to meet his gaze.

He grins, his gray eyes sparkling in the glow of the string lights. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve got moves, Pia.”

I laugh, the sound light and effortless, and he twirls me before pulling me back into his chest with surprising ease. My heart feels as though it might overflow, and I rest my cheek against his chest, breathing him in—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating through his shirt. His steady heartbeat thrums beneath my ear, grounding me in this perfect moment.

The song fades into the next, something slower, but he doesn’t let go. Our movements soften, a quiet rhythm building between us as I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of him. The rise and fall of his chest against mine, the steady cadence of his breathing—it’s all I need in this moment.

Behind us, the table is set, his personal chef having worked their magic once again. A charcuterie board stretches across the center, laden with cured meats, cheeses, olives, and honey.

Plates of tapas—crispy croquettes, stuffed peppers, marinated shrimp—wait patiently beside it, their aromas mingling in the night air. Two glasses of red wine catch the light, their deep ruby hues glowing in the golden ambiance. It’s a stunning setup, but none of it compares to this—his arms around me, the soft music, the stars watching from above.

Eventually, I pull back just enough to look up at him. “You’re spoiling me too much, you know.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. “Someone’s gotta keep you from working yourself to death.”

I smirk, arching a brow. “You say that like you’re not the most overworked person I know.”

He shrugs, his smile turning playful. “Maybe. But I’ve got my priorities straight.”

I shake my head, a soft laugh escaping me even as warmth spreads through my chest at his words. “Thank you,” I murmur, my voice quieter now. “For all of this. For loving me and letting me into your life.” It’s not just about tonight. It’s about everything—for this life we’re creating together, for the way he pulls me back when I bury myself in work or guilt, for loving me with a depth that makes me believe I deserve it.

His expression softens, and he leans down, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. “You don’t have to thank me, Pia. Just stay. Let me love you. Let me take care of you for the rest of our lives. That’s all I need.”

Emotion swells in my chest, tightening my throat, and all I can do is nod. The music plays on, wrapping around us like a gentle cocoon, and we sway together under the twinkling lights, the moon and stars our silent witnesses.

Later tonight, I know we’ll make love here beneath the open sky before retreating to bed. It’s how we are—how we love, how he makes me feel alive in ways no one else ever has.

But even now, as perfect as this moment is, a faint feeling of loss lingers in the back of my mind, threatening to pull me under. If only I could let it go, tonight would truly be perfect.