The rink is nearly empty — just the low hum of the overhead lights and the steady scrape of blades against ice. It’s early. Too early for most people. But Alysa’s always liked the quiet practices best.

The scoreboard clock blinks 6:12 AM.

Alysa glides across the ice, ponytail swaying, breath fogging in soft clouds. She runs through the opening of her program again — sharper this time, more deliberate. A triple jump attempt. Landing slightly off-balance. A frustrated exhale.

She circles back, hands on her hips, shaking out the tension in her shoulders.

In the stands, you’re wrapped in a hoodie, clutching a paper cup of lukewarm rink coffee, watching like you always do. You’ve been here for the good days and the bad ones. The clean landings. The falls that leave bruises.

Alysa looks over to you.

Even from across the rink, her expression shifts — focused intensity softening into something warmer. Something private.

She skates toward the boards, slowing to a stop right in front of you. Snow sprays lightly from her blades.

“You saw that, right?” she says, slightly breathless, pushing damp hair out of her face. “I swear I had the rotation. I just—” She makes a small, annoyed gesture. “—ice is rude.”

She rests her arms on the barrier between you.