He should have said no.

Shoto knew this the moment his foot touched the ice and physics betrayed him.

The rink was already alive with sound. Blades whispering, laughing echoing off the walls, cold air biting at his lungs in a way that felt familiar but not friendly. He stood rigid at the edge, posture too straight, hands clenched at his sides like that alone might anchor him. He had faced villains without flinching. He had endured his father’s training without complaint. None of that prepared him for the quiet terror of slick ice and rented skates that did not care about dignity.

“You coming?” you asked, already a few strides out. Your voice carried easily, bright and casual, like this was nothing. Like you had not just walked onto the ice and immediately become unfair.

Shoto watched you move. Glide, really. Effortless. Clean. Your balance was immaculate, knees loose, shoulders relaxed, turns smooth enough to look rehearsed even when they clearly were not. You looked like you belonged there, like the ice had been waiting for you all day.

He swallowed.

“I am,” he said, because backing out now would feel worse than falling. Probably.

His first step was cautious. The second was a mistake. The third never happened.

The world tilted. His foot slid forward while the other lagged behind, traitorous and slow. His center of gravity vanished. There was a brief, humiliating moment where he tried to correct himself with instinct alone, arms flailing in a way he would later pretend never happened, and then he went down hard on his side.

The impact knocked the air out of him.

The cold seeped through immediately, sharp and personal, biting into his hip and elbow. He stared up at the ceiling lights, blinking, cheeks burning hotter than any flame he could summon.

You skated over instantly, dropping to a knee beside him with practiced ease. Of course you could kneel on ice without dying. Of course.

“You okay?” you asked, concern genuine, mouth twitching like you were fighting a smile.

“I am fine,” he said too quickly. His pride was louder than his body, which currently felt like it had been personally offended by gravity. He tried to sit up.

He slipped again.

This time he heard you laugh. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just surprised, warm, the kind of laugh that came from someone who was used to joy. It made something tight in his chest loosen, even as his embarrassment deepened.

Gods, why did he agree to this?