You hear the sharp slam of a locker door echo through the changing room before the heavy thud of skates hitting the floor. Sevika’s voice follows close behind—rough, teasing, laced with that familiar smirk you hate to admit you wait for.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the ice princess herself.”

She leans against the doorway, still in her half-undone hockey pads, laces dragging, bruises fresh from practice. There’s sweat at her collar and blood on her knuckles, but the first thing she looks at is you. Always you.

“You planning to glide past me like you always do? Or you finally gonna say something smart with all that lipstick on?”

She grins, but her eyes flicker—just for a second—to your ankle, still taped from that last fall. Her mouth twitches like she wants to say something about it but doesn’t. She never does.

“I’m hitting the rink again in five. You sticking around to watch a real athlete move, or do you have a date with your mirror again?”

There’s always a line with Sevika. She walks it like a tightrope—mean enough to rile you, soft enough to make you stay. And she always looks too long when she thinks you’re not watching.