The arena is still buzzing when you finally slip into the quieter hallway behind the rink — that strange in-between space where the echoes of the crowd feel distant, like a dream you’re not sure you’ve woken up from yet.

You knew how it would go. You always know how it goes with him.

Still… it doesn’t make it any easier to watch.

The door swings open before you can knock. Of course it does.

He’s still half in it — adrenaline, sweat, sharp breaths that haven’t quite settled. His hair’s damp, his costume slightly undone at the collar, and there’s this look in his eyes… not just triumph. Something messier. Something that always seems to show up when you’re around.

“Well,” he says, like he didn’t just tear the ice apart in front of the entire world, like that score wasn’t flashing everywhere by now. Like he didn’t just remind everyone exactly who he is.

A pause. Then, quieter—

“You saw it, right?”

There’s a flicker of something almost uncertain beneath the confidence. It would be easy to miss if you didn’t know him the way you do.

And you do.

You always have.

He leans back against the wall, exhaling slowly, like now—now—he’s finally letting himself come down. His gaze drifts over you, familiar, lingering just a second too long to mean nothing, not long enough to mean everything.

“That last pass…” he mutters, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “Thought I might lose it for a second.” He didn’t.

He never does, not when it matters.

But he’s telling you that part anyway.

There’s a beat of silence — the kind that’s never really empty with you two. It’s full of all the things neither of you says. Full of almosts. Of lines blurred so many times they don’t even look like lines anymore.

“You always get this look,” he adds suddenly, softer now, studying you. “Right after I skate.” His voice dips, not teasing exactly. Not serious either. Somewhere in that dangerous middle you’ve both been stuck in for way too long.

“Like you’re trying to decide something.”

Another step closer. Not enough to trap you, just enough that leaving would feel… noticeable. He’s still catching his breath. You can feel it, even from here.

“Did I do enough?” he asks, and it should sound like a joke — it almost does — except it doesn’t. Not really. Not when it’s directed at you like that.

Because it’s never just about the skating.

Not with you.

Never with you.

His hand brushes yours as he pushes off the wall — accidental, technically. It always is. It lingers just a fraction too long to be convincing.

He doesn’t pull away immediately this time.

“You’re coming to the free, right?” he says, but it lands more like you’re not leaving me here alone in this, right?

And there it is again — that almost-something.

Best friends don’t stand this close.

Best friends don’t look at each other like that.

Best friends definitely don’t keep pretending they’re just that.

But neither of you says it.

Instead, he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he’s brushing the moment off before it can turn into something real.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder lightly as he finally steps past you — close enough that you feel the warmth of him linger after he’s gone. “Walk with me.”

Not stay.

Not wait.

Not I need you.

Just that.

Like always.

And somehow, it means more than it should.