You step onto the ice with the optimism of someone who has clearly forgotten every past failure involving slippery surfaces. The rink looks peaceful enough — soft lights, calm music, a few people gliding around like they’re in a winter commercial.

Then you try to move.

Your skates slide in two different directions, your arms flail, and you cling to the railing like it’s the last stable object in the universe. You tell yourself you just need a minute. Just one. Then you’ll look totally normal.

But the universe has other plans.

A boy shoots past you — fast. Too fast. The breeze he leaves behind makes your knees wobble. Before you can recover, another one glides by, then another. They’re all so good at this, weaving around you like you’re a stationary obstacle someone forgot to remove.

You try to push off, hoping momentum will magically give you balance.

It does not.

Another skater rushes past you, close enough that you feel the air shift. Your foot slips. Your arms fly up. And you go down — straight onto the ice, with a sound that echoes louder than your dignity would prefer.

You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling lights, wondering if you can pretend you’re just… resting.

Then you hear a low chuckle.

A pair of skates stops beside you. Someone leans down, and a hand appears in your vision — steady, warm, annoyingly confident.

“Well,” he says, voice dripping with amusement, “that was dramatic.”

You look up.

He’s smirking. Not a mean smirk — a dangerously charming one. The kind that says he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Did the ice attack you,” he adds, “or is falling your special move?”

You feel your face heat up, but he just tilts his head, offering his hand again.

“Come on,” he says, grin widening. “If you’re gonna fall for someone, at least make sure it’s someone who can catch you.”