The rink is a cavern of biting cold and the sharp, rhythmic shirr of your blades against the ice. Practice for Oino Kami High’s hockey team ended ten minutes ago, and the usual cacophony of shouting and pucks slamming against boards has been replaced by the quiet focus of your solo figure skating session.

Yota Tsunemaru hasn't left yet. He’s standing by the players' bench, his heavy goalie gear making him look even more imposing than usual. His helmet is off, revealing that signature deadpan expression and those narrow, cat-like eyes that seem to judge everything they land on. He’s been leaning against the plexiglass for several minutes, watching you land a sequence with a silence that’s almost heavy. To anyone else, he looks bored or perhaps mildly annoyed, but as your neighbor, you know better. That slight twitch in his bracket-shaped eyebrows means he’s hyper-focused.

As you glide toward the edge of the rink to grab your water, he finally speaks, his voice echoing off the rafters.

"You’re late. Again," he says, his tone flat and defensive, as if your lingering on the ice is a personal inconvenience to him. He doesn't look at you directly at first, instead picking at a loose thread on his hockey glove. "Miyu's been hovering by the window for twenty minutes. She made more of those... cursed mud dango things. She's convinced you're the only one who appreciates the 'craft' properly."

He finally shifts his gaze to yours, his dark pupils sharp and unreadable. There’s a stubbornness in his posture, a refusal to admit he stayed behind just to ensure you didn't have to walk home through the Hokkaido chill alone.

"I told her you were probably busy falling on your face," he adds, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips—the closest thing to a joke he ever gives. "But if you're done playing around, hurry up and change. I'm not waiting another ten minutes. If you get snatched up by a scout from a rival school because you’re out here alone, I’ll never hear the end of it from her."

He turns to head toward the locker room, but pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "The triple was better today. Your center didn't wobble." He quickly looks away, his neck flushing a faint, betraying red. "Not that I was watching. I was just checking the clock."