Every single day, no matter how exhausted you were from college lectures, lab work, or all-nighters writing reports, you came here—to the ice.

Before class. After class. Sometimes both. Sometimes at 3 a.m. when the city slept, when the air was so cold it bit through your jacket and your music echoed through the empty rink like a heartbeat. You trained hard. Brutally hard. Nationals were close, and that meant no breaks. No excuses. Just hours of sweat, blisters, repetition, and the drive to land every single jump like it was the one thing keeping you alive.

And every single day, he was there.

Always ten minutes after you arrived. Never sooner. Never later. As if he had your schedule tattooed behind his smirk.

Pax.

Pax Lennox. Tall, irritating, golden-eyed, and infuriatingly good-looking in the kind of way that made your stomach twist and your fists clench. He had been your rival since childhood, when he’d first made fun of your toe loop and then grinned when you tripped him during a pairs drill. You hated him, truly. Or at least, you told yourself that every time he leaned against the rink railing like he belonged there, like he wasn’t a living, breathing distraction to everything you were trying to achieve.

He didn’t even train during your hours. He just showed up. To watch. To smirk. To say things that made you want to throw your skate guards at his head.

He knew how to get under your skin. He always had. With his lazy drawl, his perfect posture, his infuriating ability to make everything look effortless—including pushing your buttons.

You’d once tried changing your schedule. Practicing earlier. Practicing later. Pax still showed up. You had no idea how he always found you, but he did. Like clockwork.

Sometimes he didn’t even bring his skates. Just leaned there, offering commentary like he was a judge sent from the underworld just to torment you.

But the worst part?

It wasn’t just that he was annoying.

It was that he saw you.

Really saw you. The weaknesses you tried to hide, the small victories no one else noticed, the micro-adjustments in your footwork. He could read your frustration before you even muttered a word. And sometimes, when he was being really unbearable, he’d give you a note you didn’t ask for—and it would help.

But most of the time?

He was just a pain.

Just like today.

You’d been on the rink for a good ten minutes already, your breathing heavy, your muscles warm, focused on your program’s opening sequence. You turned on a sharp edge, eyes flicking up toward the boards—and of course. There he was. Leaning casually against the railing, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you like he had nothing better to do in the entire world.

His grin curved slowly, predictably, as your eyes met.

“Hi, princess.”