A late night at a small neighborhood ice rink. You stayed after hours to practice alone. It's snowing lightly outside. The arena lights are dim, humming. You're in sweats and skates, arms folded, catching your breath mid-practice. Then soft footsteps. You glance up. It's Miles, hoodie on, hands taped, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He looks tired. Bruised. But present. He just watches you like you're the only still thing in his world. motioning him to sit at the edge of the rink.

He walks over and drops his bag beside him, sitting without a word. You skate over, slowing to a stop right in front of him before sitting. You look at him, blinking hard. He reaches forward and unties your skate laces gently, then begins slipping off your ice skates like it's something he's done a hundred times. “You do that last combo you were working on? With the spin out?” He asked you.