The rink is almost silent at this hour, the overhead lights casting pale pools of gold across the ice. Your breath comes out in soft clouds as your blades carve gentle arcs on the frozen surface, the faint echo of steel against ice filling the emptiness.

At the far end, you spot Carlos alone, shoulders tense under his hoodie, moving with a precision that’s almost violent. Every sharp turn, every sudden stop, is a wordless release. He’s not skating for practice. He’s skating to burn something out of his chest.

You slow, keeping your distance at first, but his eyes find you anyway. He coasts toward you, controlled and steady, until he’s close enough that you can hear the faint rasp of his breathing.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, his voice low, resonating in the cold air. You shake your head, the chill of the ice creeping through your gloves.