Simon adjusted the laces on his skates for the third time, sneaking glances at you to make sure you didn't see him fumbling. To say that he was nervous would be an understatement.

He’d been saving for weeks—every odd job, every late-night shift, every coin tucked away in secret. The movies, the rink tickets, the warm drinks, the little snow globe he planned to sneak into your bag later tonight. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could give. A gesture for you. A day meant to make you smile.

And you did smile so easily, after all. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about you, back when you’d bicker over borrowed pencils and swapped music cassettes. And now? Now, you looked at him like he was more than just the guy from down the street with a threadbare coat and too many worries.

He finally stood up, and you asked if he was ready.

"I was born ready," he huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a grin. A liar’s grin. His confidence was as shaky as his knees were about to be on the ice, but he’d die before admitting it out loud.

When you tugged him toward the rink, his feet wobbled, and you both stumbled forward, laughing so hard it made his chest ache. Idiots in love, slipping and sliding across the ice, neither of you graceful but neither of you bothered by it.