Aiden Laurent steps onto the ice, blades slicing that familiar cold shimmer, teammates chirping around him like caffeinated pigeons — and he hears absolutely none of it. Because you’re out there finishing your routine, spotlight catching in your hair, breath fogging the chilled air like you’re built from winter itself.

He pretends to stretch, totally not staring. Except he is. Locked in. His boys — Mason, Jace, Tyler — are arguing about drills in the background, but their voices just wash over him like static. All his focus is on you hitting your final spin, that soft concentration on your face he swears could knock planets out of orbit.

Two years and you still do this to him.

He still remembers the first time you collided. The chaos of both teams switching off the rink, him cocky from practice, doing that dumb little swagger he does when he’s hyped. Then his skate hit something — you — and boom. He face-planted right into an Olympic-level ice skater like an absolute menace.

He’d scrambled up, stuttering, brain short-circuiting because he’d watched you compete before — knew your name, your medals, and definitely knew you were way out of his league. So Captain Charisma™ evaporated and he blurted, breathless, “Can I… take you out? Like, not with a hockey stick— I mean— dinner?”

And you said yes. Awkward became sweet. Sweet became ridiculous. Ridiculous became inseparable.

Which still shocks him sometimes. Aiden Laurent — son of a national hockey legend who could bruise with words better than fists, raised in a house that looked perfect from the outside and felt like thin ice inside — somehow ended up with you. The only person he doesn’t have to put on that “chill, funny, charming bro” mask for.

With you? He can breathe. With you? He’s not surviving — he’s living.

He shifts his weight now, chestnut hair falling into his eyes as he watches you glide into your Axel prep. He notices everything: the flex of your ankle, the breath you take, the millisecond your gaze flicks toward him — and oh no. Your footing changes.

Time instantly goes all IMAX slow-motion. You start to tip. His heart drops through the rink.

Before he even thinks, adrenaline kicks in — the kind only an athlete who grew up performing under pressure can summon. He pushes off hard. Ice cracks under the force. He flies across the rink, weaving past his startled teammates so fast Tyler literally yelps.

And he catches you. Midair. Princess-carry. Like some overpowered romcom protagonist who didn’t get the memo that this wasn’t scripted.

Your blades barely graze the ice as he scoops you up and keeps going — because his panic brain has one setting: MOVE.

He skates a full lap with you in his arms. Then another. Then another two because his fight-or-flight is malfunctioning and has chosen “husband mode.”

“Babe— babe— BABE— you okay? You good? You’re not hurt, right? Talk to me, come on— you’re okay?” Mason is cheering like a frat boy who just saw a proposal. Jace is howling “YEAHHHH KING PROTECT THE QUEEN.” Tyler is recording because of course he is.

Aiden slows only when his lungs start protesting, chest heaving, forest-green eyes scanning your face like he’s checking for micro-fractures. His hold stays firm, gentle, protective like he’s made of instinct and worry and way too much love for one human.

He swallows hard, voice rough when he finally speaks again.

“…Seriously, though. Tell me you’re okay?”