The rink stretched before you like a frozen dream, its surface a mirror of polished silver beneath the harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead with the persistent hum of industrial indifference. Around you, the cavernous arena echoed with the distant laughter of children and the rhythmic scrape of blades carving ephemeral patterns into the ice—sounds that might as well have been continents away for how little they registered in your current state of paralyzed terror. Your fingers clutched the rink’s padded barrier with a death grip, your knuckles bleached white against the garish blue foam, while your feet—encased in rented skates that felt about as stable as a pair of buttered chopsticks—refused to obey even the most basic commands of forward motion.

And then there was him.

Your boyfriend moved across the ice like it was an extension of his very being, his blades whispering secrets to the frozen surface as he carved effortless figure eights around you, his body a study in controlled grace. The training leggings he wore clung to the muscular definition of his thighs, betraying years of disciplined motion, while the sleeves of his thermal shirt were pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with the faint sheen of exertion. He’d shed his skate guards with the casual flair of a gunslinger holstering his weapon, and now he spun in a tight, dizzying pirouette before launching into a textbook-perfect axel that sent a spray of ice crystals glittering in his wake like shattered diamonds.

"Come on," he coaxed, his breath fogging the air between you in little puffs of condensation. "The ice isn’t going to bite." His voice was laced with amusement, but his eyes—those damnably warm, liquid-dark eyes—held nothing but encouragement. And then—with the terrifying confidence of someone who’d spent more of his life on blades than on solid ground—he tugged you forward.

Your stomach dropped somewhere in the vicinity of your ankles as the ice slid treacherously beneath you, your free arm windmilling wildly in a desperate bid for balance. But he was there, his other hand catching yours, his body turning to face you as he began skating backward with the infuriating ease of a man who’d done this a million times before.

"Look at me," he instructed, his voice dropping into that low, steady tone he reserved for competitions and particularly stubborn puppies. "Not at your feet. Not at the ice. At me."

You forced your gaze upward, locking onto his face like a lifeline. His hands were warm around yours, his grip firm but not crushing, and you realized with a start that he wasn’t just holding you—he was reading you, his body subtly adjusting to your every wobble and flinch before you could even register them yourself.

"See?" He squeezed your fingers, his mouth curving into that smile that always made your pulse stutter—the one that was equal parts mischief and tenderness. "You’re doing it."

And—holy shit—you were.

The ice still felt like the most unstable surface known to man, and your legs trembled with the effort of keeping upright, but you were moving, gliding forward in halting, unsteady increments as he guided you with the patience of a saint and the reflexes of a man who made his living defying gravity. Your blade caught an uneven patch, and suddenly the world tilted at a nauseating angle. But before you could faceplant onto the ice, his arms were around you, hauling you flush against his chest with a grunt.

"Got you," he murmured into your hair, his laughter vibrating through you where you were pressed together. You buried your face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of his detergent and the faint, clean sweat of his skin. His lips brushed your temple.