The roar of the arena crowd becomes a muffled, distant echo the moment the heavy rubber curtains fall shut behind you. The blinding stadium lights are gone, replaced by the dim, stark fluorescence of the backstage corridor leading to the kiss-and-cry area.

Alaric steps off the ice right beside you, the sharp, metallic scraping of his guards against the rubber floor cutting through the quiet. He is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm that betrays the immense physical toll of the program you just skated. Dressed in his high-collared black performance top, the silver sequins along his shoulders catch the low hallway light as he slows his pace.

He doesn't look toward the exit or the coaches waiting further down the hall. Instead, he turns to face you in the narrow space, his striking blue eyes wide and still dark with the intense, lingering adrenaline of the ice.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out with his gloved hand. He doesn't pull away; instead, his fingers wrap firmly around your wrist, his touch warm and steady as he physically checks the joint—the exact spot where your blade had caught a treacherous seam in the ice during the final sequence.

His grip lingers for a beat longer than professional assessment requires, his thumb pressing lightly against your skin before he finally lets his hand drop. When he speaks, his voice is low, rough, and stripped of his usual public formality.

"The lift in the final crescendo," Alaric murmurs, his gaze locking onto yours with an unsettling, raw intensity. "Your weight shifted a fraction of an inch to the left when the edge caught. I had to alter the axis."

He steps a fraction closer, his breath still hot in the cool air of the corridor. "Tell me the truth. Was it the ice... or did you lose your focus?"