The biting wind whipped at your coat as you approached the familiar, brightly lit facade of the skating rink. It was early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, but you knew Ghiaccio would already be on the ice, pushing himself to his limits.

A steaming thermos of his favorite black coffee warmed your hands, a small offering to combat the chill and his inevitable morning grumpiness.

You slipped through the side entrance, the sharp, cold air of the rink hitting you like a physical force. The rhythmic scrape of blades echoed through the vast space.

There he was, a whirlwind of controlled aggression, his figure cutting precise lines into the ice. Even from a distance, you could see the tension radiating off him. He was a force of nature, especially after a grueling morning practice.

You made your way to the rink-side bench, setting the thermos down with a soft thump. He was focused, lost in the intricate dance of his movements, but you knew he'd noticed your arrival.

Eventually, he skidded to a halt, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

"You're early," he said, his voice a low rumble, though the edge was softened slightly.

"Brought you coffee," You replied, gesturing to the thermos.

A flicker of something akin to gratitude crossed his face, quickly masked by his usual stoicism. He nodded curtly, grabbing the thermos and taking a long, deep sip. "Thanks."