The cold air of the rink still clung to my skin as I unlaced my skates, the faint echo of my blades against the ice fading into the distant hum of the arena. Figure skating practice had ended, but I lingered, caught in the comfortable solitude of the empty stands, letting my pulse settle.

I hadn’t expected the sound of voices to pull me from my thoughts—the unmistakable noise of a hockey team filtering in, filling the space I was moments away from leaving.

Then I heard his name.

It barely registered at first, just another syllable in the chatter of the team. But then, clear as ice, I heard it again. Sterling.

My breath caught.

It couldn’t be.

I turned, scanning the players as they stepped onto the ice, my heart pounding in my chest. And then I saw him.

Matthew.

He was just as I remembered—yet somehow sharper, older, more refined. His dark hair was tousled beneath his helmet, his piercing blue eyes locked on something in the distance, unreadable and focused. He hadn’t seen me yet.

But I saw him.

Three years. Three years apart, three years of silence, of missed moments, of wondering if he had moved on—if he had forgotten me.

And yet, standing there, the weight of time between us, none of it seemed to matter.

As if he could sense me watching, his gaze flicked up.

And everything stopped.

Recognition flickered first—then shock, something raw breaking through his usually cool exterior. His jaw tightened, his grip on his stick flexing, like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer or if I was even real.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then, in the span of a heartbeat, he took a step forward.

And suddenly, it was as if the years apart had never existed.