You weren’t supposed to get attached. You were hired to design Kat’s new program, to push her past her limits, to help her rediscover the fire she’d been burying under fear and self-doubt. But the more time you spent together on the rink, the harder it became to ignore the tension crackling in the air.

“Again,” you said firmly, watching as Kat attempted the step sequence you’d laid out.

She stopped midway, frustration clear in her sharp exhale. “You’re asking for too much. I can’t—”

“You can,” you cut in, skating toward her. “You’ve got the technique, Kat. You just don’t trust yourself.”

Her glare could have cut ice sharper than her blades. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one out here falling on your face.”

You softened, lowering your voice. “No. But I am the one who believes you won’t.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Her chest rose and fell quickly, eyes burning into yours. Then, without thinking, you reached for her hand, guiding her back into position.

“Feel the music,” you whispered. “Don’t think about the landing. Just… let go.”

Kat’s body moved instinctively with yours, her steps aligning perfectly as you skated together across the rink. When the music swelled, she spun with flawless grace, her eyes locking with yours as though she’d finally let the fear slip away.

When the sequence ended, she was breathless, flushed, and trembling—not from exhaustion, but from something else.

“You make it sound so simple,” she said softly.