Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Haydn

My eyes blink open to the faintest sliver of morning light slipping through the curtains. My body knows the time before I even glance at the clock—it’s always like this. Years of early practices and game-day routines have hardwired me to wake before dawn. Five-forty in the morning, right on schedule. Whether the sun is just beginning to rise or the world is still cloaked in stillness, my body always knows.

But today, I don’t move. Instead of slipping out of bed, I stay exactly where I am, wrapped around her, savoring the calm of this quiet moment.

Ophelia is curled against me, her back pressed to my chest, one of her hands resting lightly over mine. She fits here so perfectly it feels as though she was always meant to be in my arms, like this is where she belongs.

I glance down, my gaze lingering on the soft rhythm of her breathing, her dark hair spilling across the pillow in messy waves. She’s still deep in sleep, her face peaceful in a way that’s rare to witness. It’s almost disarming, how everything seems to settle when she’s near, as if her presence has a way of easing the parts of me that are always pushing forward, always chasing more.

Careful not to wake her, I tighten my arm around her just slightly, pulling her closer. She murmurs softly, a sound that barely reaches the air, her hand shifting against mine as though she’s instinctively reaching for me, holding on to the assurance that I’m still here.

I dip my head, unable to resist, and press a featherlight kiss to her bare shoulder. My lips linger there, brushing against her skin as if committing it to memory. She stirs faintly, her body leaning into mine, as if drawn closer by an invisible connection I can feel but can’t quite describe.

For a moment, I linger, pressing another kiss along her shoulder, then one more, each one a quiet expression of everything I hold inside. My gaze returns to her face, tracing the gentle curve of her lips, the rise and fall of her breath like a melody meant only for me. It feels like a promise—not spoken but felt—a fragile, beautiful thing I never want to lose.

A deep pull stirs inside me, and I have to resist the urge to wake her, just to see those sleepy, half-lidded eyes of hers—the way they hold a look that makes everything else fade into the background. For now, though, I’ll stay like this, savoring the stillness and letting myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is what forever feels like.

But routines are routines, and I’ve always been a creature of habit, especially when it comes to mornings. Reluctantly, I ease myself out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and head downstairs.

The house is silent, the early light filtering through the kitchen window, painting the room in muted golds and silvers. I set the coffee maker, its hum breaking the stillness as the rich, familiar scent fills the air.

While it brews, I stretch, rolling my shoulders and loosening muscles that still carry the strain of yesterday’s training. Pre-season is just around the corner, and the pressure is already building, a familiar weight that seems to settle in this time of year.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a long sip, the cold seeping into me as I lean against the counter. My eyes drift to the window, to the lake beyond—calm and silver in the early morning light. Normally, this would be the time I’d start thinking about conditioning drills, strategies, or ways to fine-tune my game. But today, my thoughts keep circling back to her.

To Ophelia, still asleep upstairs.

And to the question that’s been running laps in my head for weeks.

The proposal.

I hadn’t planned to think about it this morning. But the thought sneaks in anyway, quiet yet insistent, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface.

Is it too soon? Should I give her more time to adjust to this life with me, to let the idea of us sink in?

She’s been through so much—losing him, rebuilding her life piece by piece. I don’t want to rush her. I don’t want to add more to her plate when I know she’s still carrying the remnants of a past that shaped her in ways I can’t fully understand.

And yet . . . every part of me wants her to know she’s my future.

That I’m here, fully, completely, forever.

The coffee maker beeps, pulling me from my thoughts, and I pour a mug, savoring the warmth in my hands. I take it to the back porch, stepping out into the cool morning air. The lake is perfectly still, the surface like glass, reflecting the soft, early light. I settle into the quiet, close my eyes, and let out a slow breath, feeling the crisp air fill my lungs. This is the time of day when everything is calm, when I can let the noise in my mind fade, even if just for a few minutes.

I take a seat, set down my coffee, and close my eyes again, slipping into the familiar rhythm of meditation. Inhale, hold, exhale. I imagine my thoughts—the worries, the questions—drifting away, like leaves floating on the surface of the lake. Slowly, the tension begins to release, like I’m shedding layers I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

One by one, I let each thought rise and fall. The pre-season pressure. The expectations from the team. The endless drive to perform, to push harder, to stay on top. And then . . . her. Ophelia. Her face, her laugh, the way she fits perfectly against me in the early hours of the morning. The question that’s been circling in my mind finds its way back, but this time, it feels quieter, softer, like it doesn’t need an answer right now.

I breathe in, focusing on the sound of the water lapping against the shore, the faint rustling of leaves. When I open my eyes, the lake stretches out before me, perfectly still, a mirror for the sky. For a moment, I can picture us out here together on mornings like this—her sitting beside me, wearing my ring, our lives intertwined in a way that feels as steady as the ground beneath me.

I reach for my coffee, take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle inside me. Maybe I don’t have to have everything figured out just yet. Maybe it’s okay to let the question sit a little longer, to feel it out, to trust that the right moment will come.

Deep down, I know that every morning I wake up beside her, the answer feels a little clearer. It’s not about timing or waiting for the perfect moment. It’s about making her feel safe, making her feel loved, showing her that she’s everything I need.

As the sun begins to rise over the lake, casting light across the water, a quiet certainty settles over me. This season, there’s more than just hockey to focus on. And possibly, before the first puck drops, I’ll be ready to ask her to take that next step with me.