For as long as Alexandra Bloomberg could remember, Shane Hollander had always been there. Her earliest memory of him was fuzzy around the edges, like something borrowed from a home video she'd watched too many times. She was four, perched on the steps of her parents' summer house in the Hamptons, swinging her legs in pink jelly sandals that stuck slightly to her skin in the heat. Her mother's laughter drifted from the patio—bright, familiar, intertwined with another woman's voice.

She remembered looking up and seeing him first—not his mother, but him. A boy her age, all elbows and knees, dark hair sticking up like he'd run his hands through it one too many times. He was holding a juice box with both hands, straw already bent, staring at her like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to speak.

Shane hid behind his mother, a bit frightened but curious.

And he did. He stayed through scraped knees and shared summer holidays, through sleepovers where they'd build pillow forts in the living room and swear they heard ghosts. He stayed when Alex cried over her first crush at thirteen, curled on her bed with mascara smudged under her eyes, Shane sitting cross-legged beside her with a tub of Ben & Jerry's balanced precariously between them. He stayed when she left for Paris at sixteen with her mom, when the distance should've thinned something between them but never did. He stayed through late-night calls and half-asleep confessions, through her doubts about living up to her mother's name, and his quiet fear of not being good enough once hockey stopped being a game and started becoming a career. By the time adulthood settled around them, it felt like a given. Alexandra and Shane. Shane and Alex. Them against the world. Their parents certainly thought so.

Alex was eighteen when she officially launched Bloomberg Atelier, her first independent fashion line—luxury tailoring with sharp silhouettes, sophisticated haute couture and old-money restraint, the kind of clothes that whispered power instead of shouting it. The launch party was everything it was supposed to be: champagne flowing, editors nodding approvingly, her mother's proud hand resting on the small of Alex's back like a seal of approval. Shane was there too, rookie year looming over him like something fragile and electric. He looked out of place in a suit but wore it anyway, because Alex had picked it out.

That night, after the guests had gone and the city lights hummed softly outside her apartment windows, they sat on the floor with takeout containers between them. Alex kicked off her heels with a sigh, leaning back on her hands.

There was a pause. Shane poked at his noodles, then glanced up at her.

She studied him for a moment, searching for an ulterior motive underneath those nerves, finding neither. Just Shane. Although nervous, he was familiar and safe.

That was it. No spark, no grand realization. Just an agreement. They loved each other. They always had. But it was the kind of love built from shared history and comfort, from knowing exactly how the other took their coffee and what movie they put on when the world felt like too much. It wasn't fire. It wasn't consuming. And they both thought that was enough. After all, it made their parents happy. And for now, that seemed like reason enough.

Shane's head falls back, throat exposed, eyes shut tight.

Alex grins, leaning forward, hair brushing his chest.

When his orgasm finally overtakes him, it's fast and overwhelming.

She slips off him, collapsing onto the mattress beside him. They lie shoulder to shoulder, skin still warm.

He turns onto his side, something soft settling into his expression. He leans in and kisses her, slow and sweet.

The arena was loud in the way only playoff losses were—sharp, stunned, disbelieving.

Shane stayed where he was for a moment after the final buzzer, helmet still on, shoulders rising and falling, hands on knees as he stared down at the ice.

Across the rink, Rozanov laughed with his teammates.

Alex's gaze flicked back to Shane just as he finally lifted his head. Their eyes met briefly. He offered her a small, apologetic smile.

She smiled back, steady and supportive.

Later, as the Canadians filtered off the ice and the crowd slowly thinned, Alex stayed where she was, watching the space Shane had occupied only minutes earlier.

This was part of the deal, she reminded herself. Hockey was brutal. Careers were fragile. Losses happened.

Still, she couldn't shake the thought that something else had shifted tonight in those final handshakes when she saw Ilya say something to Shane in the middle of the ice.

Shane falls onto the couch, exhaling sharply.

His grin widened and he took her hand, leading her towards the bathroom.

Six months later, Los Angeles buzzed with champagne nerves and camera flashes. Shane sat at one of the long, linen-draped tables as Alex stood behind the media. The NHL Draft unfolded predictably—until it wasn't.

With the first overall pick... The name echoed through the room, applause swelling instantly. Alex clapped politely as Ilya Rozanov stood, sharp confidence and effortless ease, already wearing the smile of someone who knew this was always going to happen. Boston's table erupted. Cameras swarmed.

Alex glanced at Shane. His expression was neutral. Too neutral.

And with the second overall pick... This time, the applause felt different—warm, congratulatory, but edged with something quieter. The Montreal Canadians logo flashed across the screens. Shane stood when prompted, shook hands, smiled for the cameras. Second pick.

Alex watched his jaw tighten just a fraction as he posed with the others, showcasing their jerseys. Shane's shoulders squared, smile polished to perfection. She knew that look. The one that said I'm fine when he wasn't. During the photos, she could tell—he wanted more than the jersey. He wanted the comparison. He wanted, just once, to come out ahead. On top of Ilya.

Afterward, when his parents were pulled into conversation with the Montreal rep, Alex found herself standing alone with him at one of the tall cocktail tables near the edge of the room.

He didn't answer. Instead, his gaze drifted upward, drawn to the balcony overlooking the floor. Alex followed it instinctively. Ilya stood there, leaning casually his side against the railing. His attention wasn't on the Boston's rep. It was on Shane.

The moment stretched—silent, taut, electric. Something unspoken passed between them, something Alex couldn't quite name but felt anyway, sharp and unsettling.

She looked back at Shane.

He blinked, like he'd been pulled back into his body. His expression smoothed over immediately, that familiar composure sliding back into place. He turned to her and offered a small smile—convincing enough to fool anyone else.

He leaned in and kissed the side of her head, warm and familiar, a gesture meant to reassure both of them. Alex smiled back, accepting it, even as something uneasy settled in her chest.

That night, Shane was restless beside her. Alex surfaced from sleep slowly when the warmth of the bed was disrupted by movement. Fabric rustled. A familiar weight shifted away. She cracked her eyes open just in time to see him sitting on the edge of the mattress, tugging on his socks with unnecessary care.

He glanced back at her, already halfway dressed.

It was reasonable. Shane had always worked things out through motion, through exhaustion. Still, something about the way he didn't quite meet her eyes made her chest tighten.

Once he was dressed, he leaned down to kiss her goodbye. It was brief and gentle. Alex returned it, but hesitantly, her body awake now even if her mind wasn't fully there yet. As he pulled back, she reached out, fingers curling around his hand.

He paused at the sound of his name.

He stilled for a second. His eyes were looking anywhere but her own.

She searched his face, finding nothing sharp—just distance.

He brushed his thumb over her knuckles before letting go. Alex watched him walk down the hallway, the low light catching his shoulders as he disappeared into the shadows. The door clicked shut behind him, quiet but final. She lay there for a long moment afterwards, staring at the darkened doorway where he'd been. The bed suddenly felt too big without him.