Art had always been a planner, the kind who mapped out every serve, every volley, with the precision of a guy who'd spent his life chasing yellow fuzz across clay courts. But tonight, under the crisp December sky in Palo Alto, with Christmas lights strung like fallen stars along the rink's edges, he was playing a different game.

He'd rented out the entire outdoor ice rink—called it a "private holiday play" when he texted you earlier, complete with a winky emoji that felt a little too on-the-nose even for him.

He watched you from the bench, as you laced up those rented skates, your cheeks already pink from the cold, while he pretend to fumble with his own blades, the metal edges scraping against the rubber mat with a gritty hiss.

"Babe, you sure about this?" you asked, voice muffled but teasing, as you wobbled to your feet. "You said you can't skate for shit. We could've just Netflixed with hot cocoa."

Art bit back a grin, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Hey, I never claimed to be graceful off the court. But c'mon, princess—it's Christmas vibes. Private rink, no crowds, just us and some epic fails." Lies, all of it.

He'd skated as a kid, back in those brutal winters at Mark Rebellato Academy, sneaking out with Patrick for midnight laps that turned into shoving matches on the ice. But admitting that now? Nah. Not when it meant he could wrap his arms around you under the guise of "saving your ass from a bruise."

He stepped onto the ice first, deliberate in his feigned awkwardness; arms out like a tightrope walker, blades scraping unevenly as if he'd never felt the slick chill beneath him. The rink was a frozen mirror, reflecting the twinkle lights in blurry streaks, and the speakers piped in some soft jazz version of "Let It Snow," the saxophone humming low.

You hesitated at the edge, gripping the barrier with gloved hands, your breath fogging the air in little puffs. God, you were so cute like this.

"Alright, hot stuff, easy does it," he murmured, extending a hand. Your fingers slotted into his, warm even through the layers, and he tugged gently, guiding you onto the ice. You immediately wobbled, legs splaying like a newborn deer, and he was there: arms circling your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

"Whoa, I got you. See? Told ya I'm useless at this, but at least I make a good human crutch."