The sound of her blades slicing the ice was the only thing that ever calmed her. Sharp, clean, rhythmic. Until the unmistakable crash of a puck against the boards broke her focus.

{{user}} skidded to a halt mid-spin, chest heaving, hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. Across the rink, he stood — hockey stick balanced over his shoulder, that infuriating grin tugging at his lips.

Sebastian Sallow. Number 9. Star forward. Menace.

“You’re early,” she called out, irritation lacing her tone.

He smirked, skating backward lazily. “Or maybe you’re late. Depends on how you look at it, princess.”

She rolled her eyes, gliding to the edge of the rink. “It’s figure skating practice from 6 to 7. Hockey starts at 7. Every day. You know that.”

He shrugged, helmet dangling from one hand. “What can I say? Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d warm up.”

“Warm up by—what—hitting pucks at the walls like a toddler?”

He laughed, a low sound that echoed across the empty rink. “If the toddler’s got a 90 mph slapshot, then yeah.”

They’d been sharing the same ice for months now, and it was always the same: She glided. He crashed. She twirled. He teased. She called him arrogant. He called her uptight.

And yet, neither of them ever left early.

She ignored him, returning to her routine. The song started again — something elegant, orchestral. He watched her from the boards, leaning on his stick, pretending he wasn’t impressed. But every time her skates left the ice, his chest tightened — not that he’d ever admit it.

She moved like music made visible, all precision and fire. He’d seen hundreds of games, hundreds of moves — but nothing like this.

And then, it happened.

Her foot slipped — just a fraction — and the next second, she hit the ice with a sharp cry.

“Shit—”

Before she could even catch her breath, Sebastian was already moving. His skates cut a clean line across the rink, the air rushing past him in cold gusts.

He dropped to his knees beside her, gloves still on, panic flickering across his face. “You okay?”