The arena is colder than usual, but Rhett barely notices. He’s sitting alone in the back row, Rivermont jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, hands clasped loosely in front of him, knuckles still bruised from the last game. The noise of the crowd fades into the background the second you step onto the ice.

You’re all light and precision — the complete opposite of everything he is. Where he’s chaos and sharp edges, you’re quiet control. His eyes track every movement you make, unblinking, blue and sharp beneath the brim of his cap. He doesn’t smile, not really, but his jaw flexes — pride, tension, something he’d never say out loud tightening in his chest.

When you turn, your skates cutting a perfect edge into the ice, he exhales, slow and heavy. His hand curls into a fist against his knee, the sound of the crowd’s applause barely reaching him. He’s not thinking about them — he’s watching you, every second, every spin, every stumble you recover from.

There’s a flash of that possessive look in his eyes, the one that says he’d fight the world if it meant keeping you safe. But there’s something softer there too — the ache of someone who’s terrified to lose the only good thing he’s ever had.

When your routine ends and the arena erupts, Rhett stays still for a moment, chest rising and falling slow. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving the ice. He doesn’t cheer. He doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes says everything — you did it. And he’s never been prouder.