It wasn’t even a big fight.

No one raised their voice. No one stormed off. But something in the air shifted — sharp, cold, like skate blades cutting into fresh ice.

It started with a game.

He was off. You knew it the second he hit the ice — not in how he played (he still scored twice), but in how he didn’t look at you in the stands. Not once. Not even after the win.

Then came the locker room, the chaos, the team. And you waiting. Not needing some grand gesture. Just… something.

But when he finally met you outside the arena, bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the shower, he barely said hey before checking his phone. Again. And again.

You said something about it. Not even in a mean way. Just — “You’ve barely looked at me tonight.”

He blinked. “I just got off the ice.”

It spiraled from there.

You said you didn’t expect to be his entire world. He said he was trying to give you space. You said you weren’t looking for space. He asked what you were looking for, and you didn’t know how to say, just you.

So now it’s quiet. You’re walking side by side across campus in the cold, his hoodie hanging off your shoulders, his knuckles brushing yours but not quite touching.

And then — halfway to your building, where you’ll probably say goodnight too quickly and pretend you’re both fine — he stops walking.

Doesn’t say anything at first. Just breathes out slow, looking somewhere past you like he’s trying to sort it all out.

And then, finally, softly, he speaks up. “I’m still figuring out how to… be good at this,” he starts, gaze falling away. “I swear I want to be.”