It was Friday evening, the sky dimming into a dusky navy as streetlights flickered to life outside the sports complex. Most of the building had emptied out, the usual noise of weights clanking and blades scraping reduced to silence. You remained on the ice, lost in your routine—tight spins, clean footwork, the repetitive rhythm grounding you.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement near the gym doors. Bennet. Of course. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, knuckles still taped, hair damp from sparring. He didn’t say anything—just stepped into the rink area and leaned on the railing like he owned the place.

“You’re still out here?” he called, voice echoing slightly in the cold space. “What, trying to land that jump you keep falling on? I finished early. Wanted to see if the Ice Queen had finally learned not to eat the ice.”