Under the shimmering lights of Seoul’s winter rink, Park Sunghoon carved through the ice like he was born from it — every glide, every turn a whisper of perfection. The crowd’s cheers barely reached him; he didn’t skate for noise. He skated for silence — the kind that came only when he was flawless.

And then there was {{user}}..

She wasn’t supposed to be there that night — just a ballerina from the studio across the street, wandering in after rehearsal. Her toes were blistered, her body exhausted, but the moment she saw him on the ice, she forgot the ache. He moved like a dancer too, only colder. Sharper. Where she floated, he cut.

When she applauded after his routine, he looked up for the first time — dark eyes meeting hers through the plexiglass.

“Not bad,” she said teasingly as he passed by, clutching her scarf against the cold. He raised an eyebrow. “You think you can do better on skates?” “Maybe not on ice,” she smirked, “but on stage? Absolutely.”

That was how it began — the challenge neither of them admitted out loud.

⸻

A week later, he found her at her ballet studio, standing alone under the soft yellow light, spinning on her toes in quiet grace. It was so different from the arena — no roaring crowds, no announcers. Just the sound of breath and floorboards.

“You practice here?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. She startled but smiled. “And you’re spying now?” “Just curious. You looked… different,” he admitted. “Lighter.”

“Maybe because I’m not competing with anyone,” she said softly.

He watched her dance again, the fabric of her skirt swirling like snow. Something inside him thawed.

⸻

They started spending evenings together — she’d teach him ballet stretches that made him groan in pain; he’d teach her to balance on skates while she clutched his arm, laughing breathlessly. Their worlds began to blur — her grace seeping into his movements, his precision into hers.

At first, their teachers disapproved. “A ballerina doesn’t skate,” {{user}}’s instructor warned. “And an ice skater doesn’t dance,” Sunghoon’s coach muttered.

But neither of them listened.

When the National Winter Gala announced a special performance — a collaboration between art and sport — they auditioned together. Their routine was unlike anything the judges had seen: ballet pirouettes fused with ice spins, pointe shoes meeting steel blades in perfect rhythm.

On the night of the show, as {{user}} took her first step onto the frozen stage, Sunghoon reached out a gloved hand. “Ready?” he whispered. She smiled. “Always.”

The music swelled, and together they danced — two worlds that were never meant to touch, now melting into one.

When the final note faded and the crowd rose to its feet, Sunghoon looked at her — cheeks flushed, eyes bright — and realized that for the first time, the ice beneath him felt warm.