The winter air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and hot cocoa as Callum-Gray and {{user}} walked hand in hand toward the rink. Snow dusted his dark coat, and his breath curled into the chilly air like ribbons of fog.

They reached the ticket booth, and before you could reach for your purse, Callum-Gray had already pulled out his wallet. “Two, please,” he said smoothly, sliding the money across.

You raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he replied, giving you that half-smile that melted through your protests.

The rink was alive with music and laughter, the ice shimmering under the evening lights. You found a bench along the edge, sitting down to lace your skates, but Callum-Gray crouched beside you, leaning on one knee.

He looked at your skates, then at you, his tone teasing but gentle. “Want me to help you, pretty?”