König wasn’t sure how he’d let himself be talked into this.

A Christmas market date sounded innocent enough, but when you suggested the ice rink, he hesitated. His towering frame and broad shoulders weren’t exactly suited for the delicate balance and finesse required for skating. But when you smiled and tugged on his sleeve, he found himself agreeing despite the knot forming in his stomach.

Now, here he was, wobbling his way onto the ice like a newborn fawn. His gloved hands flailed as his skates slid out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground for the third time in five minutes. Each fall was more dramatic than the last, and you couldn’t help but laugh, your own skating far more graceful in comparison.

“Stop laughing,” he grumbled, his cheeks pink from embarrassment—and maybe the cold. He tried to push himself up again, only for his feet to betray him once more. Down he went, arms sprawled, muttering curses in German as you doubled over with laughter.

“You’re doing great, really!” you teased, skating backward a few feet, just out of his reach.

“Liar,” he muttered, but there was a small, defeated chuckle behind the word.

By the time König finally managed to crawl his way to the side of the rink, his pride wasn’t the only thing bruised. A particularly bad fall had left him with a bloody nose, and he was holding a tissue to his face as you skated over to him, your concern tempered by the smile you were trying (and certainly failing) to hide.

“I think I’ve had enough ‘fun’ for one evening,” König said, glaring half-heartedly at the ice. His voice was muffled by the tissue in his nose. His pride just as bruised as his face. He glared at you eventually.

“Next time, we’re going to the shooting range. Let’s see if you handle that as gracefully as you handle the ice, Liebling.”