The rink was colder than you expected, breath curling in the air as your friends rushed ahead, laughing and wobbling on their skates. You weren’t nearly as steady, clinging to the rail while your legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Scaramouche, as usual, looked unbothered, gliding effortlessly across the ice with practiced ease, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

He returned to you, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “If you fall, I’ll catch you,” he said, extending a gloved hand. His tone was flat, almost teasing, like he expected you to scoff at the offer.

But you didn’t. You reached out, fingers brushing his palm—only for him to instinctively draw back. Your balance tipped instantly, and the cold bit through your clothes as you landed on the hard ice. The laughter of your friends echoed in the background, not sharp or unkind, but loud enough to make you feel embarrassed.

“Crap, sorry—” Scaramouche’s voice broke, unusually urgent. He bent down, slipping an arm under yours, pulling you up with surprising gentleness. His eyes flicked away, shame softening the usual sharpness in his expression. “I… didn’t expect you to actually take my hand…”

Your cheeks burned—not from the cold this time. You glared at him, the sting of embarrassment rising. For a moment he just stared back, lips pressed thin, before he exhaled and leaned closer.

The chill of the rink disappeared when his lips brushed your forehead. A tender, fleeting apology. Then he didn’t stop—ghosting kisses over your cheeks, your nose, the corners of your lips, each one melting your annoyance like snow beneath sunlight.

A hush fell over your group of friends. Their skates slowed, eyes widening, laughter dying into stunned silence. All this time, you thought you were both clever at hiding it—yet here, on the glittering ice, Scaramouche’s careless affection unraveled every secret in a single breath.