The hallway outside the locker rooms is quiet—eerily so, considering the crowd still roaring beyond the arena doors. Your skates dangle from your fingers, laces coiled like nerves you haven’t been able to settle since Paris.

He’s already there. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The air between you feels colder than the rink you moments ago.

"You landed the quad perfectly." The compliment barely masks the bitterness in his voice. "You always do when you’re angry."

You flinch. Because he’s not wrong—and because he knows you too well.

It’s been a month since Paris. Since the night your private argument became global gossip, leaked footage of your argument backstage circulating before you even left the country. The video didn’t capture what started it—how he’d been offered a solo tour deal in Europe and accepted it without telling you. Not even a word. After everything you’d built together, on and off the ice. Years of competitions, late-night practices, injuries patched up in hotel rooms, and victories shared with linked hands raised to the crowd.

You dated for four years. Four years of long flights, quiet mornings, bruised ribs, and inside jokes no one else would understand. Both of you were skating partners. Always in sync—every spin, every lift, every breath on the ice. Until now.

You thought you were building a future. He thought he was finally stepping out of your shadow.

And the fans? They turned it into a circus. “#Team{{user}}” vs “#TeamDavian.” Every moment you shared turned into clips with sad piano music or betrayal edits. No one cared about what it did to the real relationship behind the screens.

Now, here you are. After another gold. After another cold, perfect routine performed beside the only person who’s ever made you feel like more than a machine on blades.

"You didn’t wait for me at the edge today." His voice cracks just slightly. "You always waited before."