The first time you see him again, it’s by accident.

Or maybe not.

It’s late spring in Ann Arbor, the kind of day where memory sticks to your skin like sweat—warm, restless, familiar. You hadn't meant to walk past the rink. Honestly, you didn’t even know it still held power over you. But suddenly, there it is: that curved roof, the scuffed concrete, the echoes of years spent freezing and falling and flying.

You’d long said peace to the past. You said it in the rearview mirror of your first car, on the bus out of town, in every ignored notification and unopened message.

But peace, you’re learning, doesn’t last.

You feel it before you see him—Luke. A shadow stretching long across the sidewalk, a voice behind you that's deeper now but still carries that boyish cadence.

“You always had a way of showing up when I least expect it.”

You don’t turn right away. You just close your eyes for a second, steady yourself. He still smells like something sharp and clean—ice and pine, maybe ambition. You open your mouth, and all that comes out is:

“It’s been a long way back.”

He chuckles, low and rueful. “You still say weird cryptic stuff like that?”

You finally look at him. His hair’s longer, curls skimming the collar of his hoodie. His posture is broader but still carries that slight slouch he always got when trying to seem like he wasn’t paying attention—when he was paying attention too much.

You think about the old days. Backpacks slung over one shoulder. Hiding beers behind bleachers. Big dreams scrawled in notebooks and kissed between curfews. The backward hats and forward hearts.

But his blue eyes—those damn blue eyes—they haven’t changed.

And they’re staring right through the distance like maybe they remember every line, every lie, every late-night drive down King Street.