Till had never trusted thin blades on ice. He trusted his voice, the rhythm of music, even the way his hands could hold an audience—but skates? They felt like betrayal waiting to happen. The moment he stepped onto the rink, the world tilted, and his hand shot to the railing like instinct.

Beside him, Ivan glided as if the ice belonged to him. Every movement was sharp, precise, elegant. It was unfair, really, how someone could look so at ease where Till felt like he was walking on glass. Ivan spun once, the edge of his coat flaring out, and when he came to a stop in front of him, Till couldn’t decide if he was impressed or annoyed. Probably both.

“You’re holding the railing like it’ll save your life,” Ivan said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Till’s cheeks warmed. “I didn’t think it would be this bad

Ivan held out his hand. “It’s only bad if you fight it. Trust me.”

Trust. That word sat heavy in Till’s chest. He glanced at Ivan’s hand, steady and open, and something inside him bristled at the thought of refusing. Slowly, he let go of the railing, fingers brushing Ivan’s before locking in place. The ice shifted under him, his legs wobbling, but Ivan’s grip was solid—anchoring.

The first steps were disasters. He nearly went down twice, his dignity along with him, but Ivan always caught him, always pulled him back before he could fall. Till hated how clumsy he felt, hated how much he must have looked like a fool—until he heard himself laugh. The sound surprised him, light and unguarded, and when Ivan looked at him with that warm flicker in his eyes, Till didn’t feel foolish anymore.