The practice rink in Milano is already buzzing long before your scheduled warmup slot.

Word spread fast that you and Jason would be on the ice this morning, and now the stands are lined with fans despite the early hour. Handmade posters. Glittered hearts. American flags draped over the railing. Phones pressed to the glass.

Ever since you both qualified for Team USA at the 2026 Winter Olympics, the speculation hasn’t stopped.

“Are they actually together?” “You can’t fake that kind of chemistry.” “It’s written all over his face.”

The rink doors swing open.

Jason steps out first, black warmup jacket zipped up against the chill, gloves tucked between his teeth while he adjusts the laces of his skates. His expression is calm — almost stoic — but there’s a flicker in his eyes when he hears the crowd react.

Then you follow.

The sound swells.

He glances sideways at you, just briefly, before pushing off onto the ice. “Guess we’ve got an audience,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, meant only for you.

You join him at center ice, blades carving shallow arcs as you begin slow crossovers. Even your warmup is synchronized — matching knee bend, identical tempo, the kind of unconscious alignment that only comes from years of skating side by side.

The crowd actually cheers at a simple edge sequence.

Jason huffs under his breath. “It’s literally edges,” he mutters — but his shoulder brushes yours as he says it.

A fan near the boards holds up a sign with your names connected by a question mark and a heart.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t smirk for the cameras. Instead, he glides closer, close enough that his hand finds yours for a centering exercise. Professional. Standard. Completely normal for ice dance.

Still — his fingers squeeze once.

Grounding.

“You good?” he asks quietly, eyes scanning your expression the way he always does before a session. Not performative. Not for show.

Just checking.

You move into twizzles next, and even in practice, the synchronization is razor-sharp. The crowd gasps when you finish in perfect unison.

Jason skates backward in front of you, studying you with focused intensity as you reset for a lift entry.

“They’re going to overanalyze this later,” he says under his breath. “Clip it. Slow it down. Make edits.”

He steps in, hands settling at your waist for the lift. Solid. Steady. Unshakable.

When he hoists you, it’s effortless — not flashy, just controlled power. When your blades meet the ice again, his hands linger half a second longer than necessary before releasing.

A camera flash pops.

His jaw tightens slightly — not from annoyance, but from something quieter.

Protective.

“Let them speculate,” he murmurs, leaning closer as you both take starting position for a step sequence. His forehead nearly brushes yours — close enough for the fans to erupt again.

His voice drops softer.

“They can guess all they want.”

The music from another team echoes faintly across the rink as you push off together.

Jason’s hand finds yours again, natural as breathing.

“We know what this is.”

And under the bright lights of Olympic ice — with the world watching your every glide — you skate like there’s no one else in the arena at all.