ANMELDENThe apartment doesn't just feel empty once she's back in it alone.Mia stands before the open wardrobe, her fingers hovering over a silk blouse she's decided to leave behind.In September, this space felt like a temporary camp. Now, she knows the exact creak of the floorboards and the way the winter light hits the kitchen tile at noon.She knows she'll be back, but that knowledge does little to settle the strange, restless thrumming in her veins.The suitcase on the bed is a chaotic mosaic of her life in Canada—specialty chocolates, maple syrup in a bottle shaped like a leaf, and the ridiculous collection of stuffed animals she's amassed.She lines the plush toys up with a solemnity that borders on the absurd, her heart tightening as she decides which ones get to see Milan and which ones have to stay behind to guard the silence.Then, her phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a face that has become her favorite kind of trouble.Elias. Video Call.She swipes to answer, her thumb ling
The dessert arrives without being ordered.The owner sets it down between them—two small glasses of panna cotta, the cream set just enough to hold its shape, a dark cherry compote pooled at the base, the whole thing trembling slightly from the walk across the restaurant.Elias looks at it, then at Mia."I watched you almost order it twice," he says. "You kept reading the description and then ordering the sea bream instead."She stares at him. "I do that.""I know you do that." He slides one glass toward her. "You always read the dessert description first, even when you say you don't want dessert, and then you spend the rest of the meal occasionally looking at that section of the menu.""That's—" She picks up the glass because there's nothing else to do. "That's a very specific observation.""I pay attention." He says it simply, without making anything of it. "Try it."She does. The cream is cold and barely sweet, the cherry compote sharp enough to balance it, the combination more inte
The restaurant Mia chooses is tucked away in the back half of Little Italy, far beyond the tourist traps with their flickering candles and English menus. This place is narrow, smelling of dried bird's-eye chilis and fermented citrus—a room that feels like a secret.Calabria is the toe of the Italian boot, a region that met the challenge of a harsh sun by infusing every bite with fire."This is the spicy part of Italy," Mia says, her eyes dancing with a wicked sort of mischief as she watches him settle into the wooden chair.Elias shifts, his large frame making the small table feel intimate, almost private. He meets her gaze, his gray blue eyes tracking the playful curve of her lips. "How spicy are we talking?""You'll see." She opens the menu.He had volunteered for this, a fact she intends to hold over his head.When the owner arrives, Mia slips into Italian. The man's eyes widen, flicking toward the massive Canadian athlete before he nods with a knowing smirk. He brings bread and di
Later a day as the usual practice grind winds down, Lucas peels off his heavy gear. "Hey, Elias! You up for that new steakhouse tonight? Their Angus cuts are absolutely legendary."Elias, whose eyes are currently anchored to his phone screen, finally looks up. He shakes his head with a sharp, cut-and-dry finality that leaves zero room for negotiation."Not tonight," he says, his voice dropping into that cool, decisive tone. "I've already got plans with Mia.""Right." Lucas exhales. "Obviously. Tragic timing, the two of you."Elias doesn't respond to this.He returns to the conversation thread on his screen. Her last message is twenty minutes old—she'd gone to meet with Professor Williams about the research project, final discussion before the holiday.One day.The number sits in him like a pebble in a boot—not preventing movement, just making every step a small reminder.The gap between knowing this and feeling it is what he can't entirely manage. They saw each other yesterday, and al
The replica locker room is the last stop before the closing announcement echoes through the building.It's a faithful reconstruction—the long rows of stalls, the numbered hooks, the rubber floor, the particular smell of equipment that exists in every hockey facility and apparently also in their museum versions.Elias positions himself in front of Mia."When I was fifteen, I came in after a bad training session. I sat on that bench over there for an hour.""There was an old caretaker who came through. He pointed at the entrance to the room and said—every champion who ever came out of here sat in here first and wondered if they were enough."Mia listens without filling the space."He said doubt isn't the problem. Being beaten by it is." Elias looks at the bench, then back at her. "I've thought about it a lot since. Whether I'm being honest about the difference—whether I'm pushing through something real, or just running from something I haven't addressed.""And?""And I think I've learne
The interactive zone has a goaltender simulator, and Mia decides this is a reasonable thing to attempt.She stations herself in front of the virtual net.The animated forwards begin shooting. She moves. She misses. She moves again, faster, with increasing commitment, and misses again.Elias watches.He watches for considerably longer than is strictly necessary, because watching Mia be determined about something she has no natural aptitude for is one of the more compelling things he's encountered in recent memory.He covers the lower half of his face with his hand and finds something very interesting to look at on the wall to his right."Goaltenders carry twice the equipment weight of any other position," he offers, in a tone of genuine helpfulness. "The protective gear is specifically designed to fill the net with your body. Yours is—""Don't say it.""—proportionally optimized for other activities."She misses three more consecutive shots, executes what can only be described as an em







