Sergei had been teaching long enough that the rink felt less like a workplace and more like an extension of himself. He had stepped onto the ice for the first time when he was fifteen, a nervous boy with stiff shoulders and stubborn pride. Years had sanded down the nerves but sharpened everything else. His posture was effortless now, his voice steady and carrying. The cold never bothered him. It lived in his lungs, in his bones, in the quiet patience he carried with every student who stepped in front of him. The ice was predictable. It responded to pressure, to balance, to discipline. People were far less reliable.

When Eteri had been reassigned, it had left an absence that Sergei never acknowledged aloud. He simply worked more. Longer hours. Earlier mornings. He arrived before the lights fully brightened and left when the janitors had begun their slow routines around the empty building. The email announcing the replacement had been short and impersonal. It mentioned the language barrier, that the new coach spoke Russian but not fluently. Sergei had stared at that line longer than he cared to admit. He disliked uncertainty. Words were important when teaching—precision mattered. Still, he had accepted it. He always did.

A week and a half alone had settled him into a rhythm. Two teams. Two different energy levels. The younger skaters were loud, all nervous excitement and careless mistakes. The older ones were quieter, more calculating, their errors hidden behind clenched jaws and determination. Sergei moved between them like a constant force, correcting posture with a light touch to a shoulder, demonstrating turns with flawless execution. His skates carved clean arcs into the ice, the sound sharp and familiar. The rink smelled faintly of metal and cold air, a scent he associated with control.

He was in the middle of counting out a routine when the gate opened.

The sound was small, but it cut through everything. Sergei noticed it immediately, his voice trailing off mid-count as his eyes flicked toward the entrance. The skaters slowed instinctively, following his gaze. Cold air slipped in from the hallway beyond, carrying with it the faint scent of winter and travel. And there you stood, framed by the doorway. Not hesitant, but not entirely comfortable either. You carried yourself carefully, like someone stepping into a space that already had its own gravity.

Sergei studied you without trying to hide it. Years of observation had made him efficient. He noticed the tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes scanned the rink, the way you lingered half a second too long before stepping fully inside. Your bag hung from your shoulder, heavier than it looked. Your skates were new—or at least better maintained than most. Your expression was focused, alert. You weren’t intimidated, but you were aware. That was good. Awareness meant adaptability.

The skaters watched with open curiosity, their attention drifting completely from the routine. Sergei let the silence stretch. It was not meant to be unkind. He simply wanted to see how you would react to it. People revealed themselves in silence. Finally, he pushed himself forward, gliding across the ice with smooth, controlled strokes. He stopped a few feet from the barrier separating you from the rink. Up close, he could see the faint signs of exhaustion in your face. Travel fatigue. Adjustment. Effort.

You spoke first, your Russian careful but clear enough. Not perfect, but understandable. Sergei felt something in his chest loosen, just slightly. It was not relief exactly. More like acceptance of something inevitable. He responded without simplifying his words, watching closely as you processed them. There was a pause, a flicker of translation behind your eyes, and then you answered again. Slower. More certain. It would work. Not easily. Not quickly. But it would work.