Tyler didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe right for a second.

Because Ellie Tate—storm in soft lighting, heartbreak in floral—had just told him she loved him.

Loved him.

So much it made her want to vomit.

And God, if that wasn’t the most her sentence in existence.

He huffed out a stunned breath that turned into a laugh—quiet, wrecked, completely undone. His forehead stayed pressed to hers as his hands curled instinctively tighter around her waist, like he could anchor both of them there in that exact second. Velvet couch. Pub noise. Springsteen still playing low in the background like some cosmic inside joke.

She loved him.

She still loved him.

Even after everything.

His chest ached—sharp and warm and honest in a way he hadn’t let himself feel since he first realized he might’ve already ruined the best thing he’d ever had.

He kissed her hair again, slower this time, right at the part where her temple met her hairline. The place she’d always been softest. The place he used to touch like a prayer.

“You can mock the lyrics,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse, “but if you start quoting Phoebe mid-makeout, I’m calling the FBI.”

Ellie snorted into his shoulder, and he smiled like it physically hurt not to.

“I’m serious. I will put you on a watchlist. You and your emotionally devastating playlists can be tried for crimes against romance.”

He tilted his head so he could look at her again—really see her. The curve of her grin. The defiance in her dimple. The way her eyes looked like they’d finally stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And something in him clicked.

No more waiting.

No more halfway.

No more quiet love only whispered between verses and regrets.

He kissed her again—quick and firm and just this side of shameless—because fuck it, let them stare. Let the whole bar know.

This was his girl.

And he was never letting her go again.

“Ellie,” he said against her mouth, all teeth and joy and not even a little chill, “I have survived Canadian hockey brawls, three concussions, and my mom’s Christmas tamales. I can survive your music taste.”

He kissed her cheek. Her jaw. The tip of her nose.

“I am wildly unprepared for Bon Iver tears, but if that’s what comes with being yours—quietly, publicly, permanently—I’ll bring tissues.”

He brushed their noses again, grinning now. Then, softer—beneath it all, where the truth lived:

“You’re mine too, Ellie. All the ways.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Even the ones we haven’t figured out yet.”

And in that booth, in that moment, with Springsteen fading into some love song neither of them would ever remember the name of—

Tyler knew exactly what forever felt like.

Ellie blinked once.

Twice.

Then let out a sound that was half snort, half laugh, and entirely her—shoulders shaking as she kept her forehead pressed to his like she might combust otherwise.

“Okay, first of all,” she whispered, grinning like a menace, “Phoebe Bridgers is a national treasure, and I will not apologize for the emotional damage I bring to this relationship via playlist.”

She tilted back just enough to look at him properly, nose scrunching in that way that always made him weak.

“And second,” she added, voice mock-serious, “you kiss me like that again in public and I will start crying. And not the cute kind—ugly, mascara-down-to-my-chin kind. You will ruin me, Harrison, and not in the hot way.”

She poked his chest, which was a mistake, because her hand stayed there—right over his heart—feeling the way it thumped hard beneath her fingertips. Real. Present. The kind of steady she hadn’t let herself believe in until now.

Her voice softened.

“You really survived all that and still can’t handle one Bon Iver bridge?”

A beat.

“God, I love you.”

The words slipped out again, smaller this time, tucked into a smile that was half-tease, half-confession. Her thumb dragged across his jaw, grounding them both.

“You are so screwed, you know that?” she murmured. “Because I’m gonna keep saying it. Probably at terrible times. Like while you’re brushing your teeth. Or in the middle of Target. Or right before we argue about which side of the bed is yours.”

She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Also, your mom’s tamales? Iconic. But I’m still gonna tell her you cried watching ‘The Notebook’ again.”

Her arms slid around his neck, and she tucked herself in a little tighter.

“Forever sounds good,” she whispered. “Especially if it means I get to annoy you for all of it.”

Then—grinning like a girl completely, wildly, irrevocably in love:

“Now shut up and hold me, tragic hockey boy. You’re not getting out of this cuddle.”

She snorted. Snorted.

And he swore to God, it was the hottest thing he’d ever heard.

Not the kiss. Not the I love you. Not even the way she’d just folded herself into him like they’d done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.

It was that laugh.
That wrecked, real, half-sass, half-safety sound she only made when she meant it.

And then she called Phoebe Bridgers a national treasure, declared war on his public display of affection, insulted his emotional fortitude, professed her love and her intention to say it at the most inconvenient times, dragged his taste in film, AND claimed his mother’s tamales.

Tyler didn’t stand a chance.

His grin was pure trouble, slow and sharp and soaked in all the affection he used to be too scared to show.

“God, you’re the one who’s a menace,” he murmured, arms tightening around her waist, his fingers already memorizing the shape of her spine like it was the only map that mattered. “You’re threatening me with love and Target and public emotional sabotage?”

But he didn’t sound mad.
He sounded wrecked.
Softened. Grateful. Gone.

Her kiss landed at the corner of his mouth, and he chased it, stealing another—slow and sure, like he had all the time in the world to learn the rhythm of her again.

Because he did.

When she said forever sounds good, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

He just nodded, brow against hers, breathing her in.

“It’s yours,” he said. “All of it. The playlists, the arguments, the right side of the bed—even though we both know I’m gonna let you steal it.”

He kissed her jaw. Then her temple.

Then whispered, “And for the record? If you say ‘I love you’ while I’ve got a mouth full of toothpaste, I will spit on the mirror. Just so you know.”

He tucked her in tighter—chest to chest, heart to heart, green velvet beneath them, the world outside irrelevant.

Because this was it.

The girl. The laugh. The arms around his neck and the future crashing into him like a tidal wave of every good thing he never thought he deserved.

“You’re not getting out of this cuddle,” she’d said.

Tyler huffed a low laugh and kissed her hair.

“Good,” he whispered. “I don’t ever want out.”

Ellie groaned dramatically—into his neck, into the universe, into the very core of this chaotic, ridiculous man who’d just declared war on her toothpaste declarations of love.

“Okay, but you spitting toothpaste on the mirror because you love me is possibly the most cursed rom-com scene I’ve ever imagined,” she mumbled against his skin, shoulders shaking with laughter. “And I absolutely expect you to clean it up after.”

She leaned back just far enough to look at him, still perched in his lap like it was her throne, her little kingdom of green velvet and hockey-boy redemption.

“You’re so gone, Harrison,” she teased, eyes warm, voice soft with the truth under all that sass. “You’re letting me steal your side of the bed and slander Springsteen?

She kissed him again, quick and smug and annoyingly fond. The kind that said you started this and I’m finishing it—and maybe I never stopped loving you tucked in there too, just for him.

Her fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt as she settled back into his chest.

“You really wanna give me forever?” she asked, chin tilted up just slightly, like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway. “Because I’m warning you—I’m a nightmare in the morning, I eat popcorn like a raccoon, and I talk through movies. Especially yours.”

Then—soft again, sneaky-sincere:

“But I love you. So much it makes me want to spit toothpaste.”

She tucked her head under his chin, arms wrapping tighter, voice muffled but sure.

“And yeah. I’ll steal your side of the bed and ruin your playlists and quote Phoebe Bridgers mid-makeout. But I’m not going anywhere either.”

Ellie didn’t lift her head right away.

Just let herself stay there—wrapped up in him, green velvet beneath her, his chest warm under her hands, her nose pressed into the spot just below his jaw that still smelled like cheap soap and something she’d never been able to name. Something that had always been Tyler.

She felt him shift slightly, his hand tracing idle circles on her lower back like he was content to stay in this booth for the rest of time.

And honestly?

So was she.

Except—

“Okay,” she whispered, soft and conspiratorial, like she was about to let him in on a secret. “Hear me out.”

A pause.

Then she lifted her head, just enough to look at him properly, eyes glinting with something warm. Something a little dangerous. Something that might’ve sounded like mischief if her voice hadn’t gone all low and genuine.

“I love the Fern. I do. Great drinks. Excellent lighting. Weirdly good fries.”

Her hand slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric like she was anchoring herself there.

“But I was just thinking…”

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear now, breath warm.

“There’s a whole other kind of cuddling we could be doing.”

A pause.

“Bare.”

Another pause.

“Horizontal.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again—playful, certain, unshy now. Her expression was half-daring, half-promise. All Ellie.

“And before you ask—yes, I’m still gonna put my cold feet on you. That’s part of the deal.”

Then—grinning:

“But I’ll let you pick the playlist. As long as it’s not Nickelback.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw.

Then—casual, smug, and entirely too sweet for someone plotting his complete emotional and physical destruction:

“So… you ready to go home, Harrison? Or should I make a PowerPoint about why my thighs belong wrapped around you somewhere with fewer spectators?”

Tyler made a sound—God help him, it was somewhere between a groan and a prayer.

Because Jesus Christ, Ellie Tate.

Here she was. In his lap. Smug as hell. Kissing him like she invented the art and then whispering things like “horizontal cuddling” and “bare” with the casual confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing to him.

And she did.

She so did.

He swallowed hard, blinked once, then again—like maybe the booth would vanish or his brain would reboot or she’d turn back into the girl who used to glare at him from across this very bar like she could kill him with a glance.

Spoiler: he would’ve let her.

But this?

This version of her—wrapped around him, teasing and soft and certain—

This was a whole other brand of destruction.

“You—” he started, voice scratchy with disbelief and absolutely no chill, “—are gonna be the death of me.”

He leaned in, brushing his mouth against her jaw just so he could feel her grin curve under his lips.

“You realize that, right? Like, full cardiac arrest. Public place. No survivors.”

She hummed, unapologetic. Tyler closed his eyes briefly—just long enough to picture what she’d suggested. Bare. Horizontal. Her thighs.

Yeah, no, he was not surviving this date.

“Ellie Tate,” he said, very seriously, “you are out here threatening me with cuddling and cold feet and Phoebe Bridgers and I swear to God—”

He kissed her again, this time rougher, deeper, hands braced at her waist like he needed to memorize this version of her from the inside out.

“—you could make a PowerPoint, a playlist, a whole-ass TED Talk and I’d still say yes.”

He tilted his head, bumping hers lightly, cocky grin blooming with full, blinding force now.

“You wanna go home?”

His hand slid under the hem of her sweater—warm, steady, thumb tracing the skin at her hip like a promise.

“I’ll drive,” he murmured, leaning closer. “But if you ever say ‘horizontal cuddling’ with that tone of voice in public again, you’re paying for everyone’s therapy, including mine.”

He kissed her once more—messy, unhurried, absolutely gone for her—and pulled back just enough to let his nose brush hers.

“And Ellie?”

He dropped his voice, suddenly softer. No teasing. Just truth.

“I want all of it. The cold feet. The popcorn raccoon. The talking-through-movies. The cursed toothpaste confessions. All of it.”

He stood, lifting her effortlessly with him like she weighed nothing—because in this moment, honestly, she did. Everything else did.

“Let’s go home.”

Then—grinning like the menace she called him:

“But I’m stopping for fries first. Can’t survive cuddling-induced death on an empty stomach.”

Ellie didn’t mean to revel in it.

Didn’t mean to soak up the way Tyler’s jaw clenched or how his grip on her thighs got just a little tighter at the threat implied in her voice. Didn’t mean to enjoy the way his ears turned red like his brain was running full diagnostic failure trying to keep up with what she’d just whispered.

But also?

She absolutely did.

Especially now—because this man, this absolute menace of a hockey boy, had the audacity to stand up, hands locked firm beneath her thighs, and start carrying her out of the bar like she didn’t have half a drink left on the table and a reputation to uphold.

She blinked. Then blinked again.

“You did not just carry me out of the Hollow Fern after I suggested naked cuddles,” she muttered against his shoulder, snorting as her arms looped instinctively around his neck. “Tyler, I swear to God, you are two fries away from making this everyone’s problem.”

And yeah, people were definitely staring. Tourists. Regulars. Probably the bartender who’d once watched her cry into an espresso martini over this exact man.

But she didn’t tell him to stop.

Didn’t tell him to put her down.

Didn’t tell him anything, really—except for the grin she gave him. Wide. Wicked. Full of affection and fire and something terrifyingly close to forever.

Because she’d meant every word. The flirting. The I love you. The quiet truth of still loving him, even when it felt like she shouldn’t. Even when it used to hurt to look at him.

Now?

He was holding her like she was the only thing that ever made sense.

And she was gonna let him.

“Okay,” she whispered as they crossed into the parking lot, her breath warm just beneath his ear, her tone soft and smug. “But if you think fries are gonna protect you from what I’m planning when we get home…”

She let the sentence trail off.

Let the image hang there.

Let him suffer.

Then pulled back, absolutely beaming.

“Oh, and for the record? If I did make a TED Talk, it’d be called ‘Ellie Tate: Weaponized Cuddles and the Emotional Weakness of Hockey Boys.’”

She kissed the corner of his jaw as he unlocked the car, then added sweetly—right as he opened the passenger side door with her still in his arms:

“Now go get the fries, Harrison”

And as he carefully set her down, as the door shut and the air stilled around them, Ellie couldn’t help but glance at him again—hand already on the wheel, heartbeat already hers—and think:

Yeah. This?

This was exactly how she wanted to be ruined.

Tyler Harrison was pretty sure he’d broken something important in his brain about three kisses and one TED Talk threat ago.

Because Ellie Tate—sweet, chaotic, beautiful Ellie—was currently smirking at him from the passenger seat, looking exactly like the kind of girl who weaponized cuddling, popcorn theft, and devastating playlists against men who’d somehow managed to earn her love.

And somehow—against every known law of logic and self-preservation—he was exactly the kind of idiot who'd volunteered for it.

Repeatedly.

With enthusiasm.

He groaned dramatically, shaking his head as he started the car and pulled out of the Hollow Fern parking lot, pointedly ignoring the amused side-eye she was sending his way.

“You,” he said slowly, glancing briefly at her as the streetlights flickered past, voice gravelly with affection and mock despair, “are officially out of control.”

At a red light, he reached over, gently cupping her jaw. His thumb traced softly along her cheekbone, lingering there like he needed to make sure this—her—was real. That she was still smiling at him, still teasing, still saying yes despite all the reasons he'd once given her to say no.

“Also, for the record?” His gaze softened, voice dipping lower, sincere beneath all the teasing. “I’d absolutely subscribe to your TED Talk. Patreon tier and everything. Hell, I’ll be the example case study—Tyler Harrison: How One Hockey Boy Lost His Mind and Dignity to a Girl Named Ellie Tate.”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips briefly against hers before the light turned green—quick, messy, and so goddamn fond he didn’t know how to hold it in anymore—and then whispered:

“And you can ruin me however you want, El. Fries are just my emotional support at this point.”

He pulled back into traffic, grinning as he made the familiar turn toward the diner. The diner with the greasy fries he desperately needed to survive whatever Ellie was plotting.

“Just so we're clear, though,” he added, half-serious as he slowed at another intersection, “I regret absolutely nothing. Carrying you out of there? Worth the therapy bill.”

He winked at her, annoyingly charming and entirely too smug for a man willingly driving toward his own destruction via Ellie Tate’s devastating thighs and cursed playlists.

“Five minutes for fries, Tate,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief and warmth as the diner came into view. “Then I'm all yours to destroy.”