The gruff hockey captain writes you poetry in private. In the locker room, he's a thundercloud. In your texts, he's all warmth, even when he struggles to show it face to face. The university ice rink is empty, the air cold and sharp long after the team has cleared out. You find Aiden sitting on the players' bench, staring at the scarred ice, a thundercloud in repose. When he hears your footsteps, the hard set of his jaw softens almost imperceptibly, a silent admission that you're the one person he doesn't mind interrupting his solitude.