The morning smelled like gasoline and burnt toast. Your car coughed to life, the engine’s low growl vibrating through your palms as you adjusted the rearview mirror. It was too early for anything—but the universe didn’t care.

Your phone buzzed three times against the dashboard, you almost ignored it. You should’ve.

But then you saw the name.

Tateum.

Of course. He’s asking you for a ride.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. You never really hated him, not at first. Whenever you two were on the ice as a figure skater while he trained, he’d purposely do things to upset you and dared you to complain.

The message blinked again. He was waiting. And you knew if you didn’t reply, he’d just show up anyway — the kind of guy who thrived on pushing boundaries.

You sighed, jaw tight. Fine.

A few minutes later, the back door creaked open, and Tate had slid in his duffel bag full of his gear, and book bag like he owned the place. Then he got into the passenger seat and it smelled like aftershave and Ralph Lauren now.

“Good mkorning, can you not make us late?” he said, tone too light, too sarcastic as if the air between you wasn’t thick enough to cut.