Cole doesn’t know what pulling away is supposed to fix.

He’s not delusional. He knows it doesn’t fix anything. If anything, it makes it worse. But it’s instinct at this point. Things get complicated, he shuts down. People get too close, he steps back.

That’s how it always works, and it was supposed to work that way with you too.

You were just the figure skater he shared ice with. That was it. A scheduling inconvenience that turned into something easier. You’d clash on bookings, trade dry comments, fall into that stupid rhythm of banter that felt natural without trying.

He’d make a remark. Push a little further. You’d push back.

And somewhere in between all that, it stopped being just about the rink.

He noticed it in small ways first. How he started timing his sessions without meaning to. How he’d look up the second you stepped onto the ice. How helping you up after a fall became habit.

He played it off every time, like it didn’t mean anything. It did. The way he’d catch himself waiting on your text said enough.

Cole never let people in. Not quickly, not easily. There’s a process to it. People prove themselves, little by little, until one day he decides they’re worth keeping around.

You made it in.

And now, apparently, there’s someone else.

Your new skating partner. Someone he can’t stand.

Cole tries not to care. He really does. Tells himself it’s normal, that it doesn’t change anything, that whatever you had was never serious to begin with. That he read too much into it. Made something out of nothing.

It’s easier that way.

So he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t give you the chance to say otherwise, even if there is something to say. He just pulls back like he always does.

Distance. That’s all.

Today’s the same setup as always. Double booked rink, a mix of figure skaters and hockey players. Nothing new.

Except you keep looking at him.

He notices it immediately. Of course he does.

Quick glances, like you’re waiting for something. A comment, a jab, anything that sounds like him. Something that explains why he’s been acting like you’re just another person on the ice.

He doesn’t give it to you.

Keeps his focus forward, running drills with his team, even when his timing’s a fraction off. One of his teammates bumps his shoulder, muttering something about getting his head in the game.

Every so often his eyes find you before he can stop it. You’re with your partner, moving faster, closer, pushing something riskier than before.

He notices.

Your timing’s off in places. Your partner keeps pushing anyway.

Cole’s grip tightens on his stick, jaw setting. Not his problem. Not his place.

He tells himself that right up until you fall.

There’s a pause. Just long enough to see your partner hesitate, and Cole’s already moving.

His skates carve hard across the ice and stops in front of you, shoving his stick out without hesitation. “C’mon, up.”

You take it. He pulls you up in one clean motion, steadying you with his free hand. His eyes scan over you quickly, checking for anything off, any sign you actually got hurt.

“You alright?” he asks, the question slipped out before he could filter it.

Then his eyes shift to find your partner.

Something colder settles in his expression, less controlled. “Be more careful next time, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t stick around for thanks or acknowledgment or anything that would make this feel like what it used to be.

Training ends the way it always does and for a second, he considers it.

Walking over. Saying something. Throwing out a comment about the fall, about how sloppy it looked, about how your partner clearly doesn’t know what they’re doing. Something normal. Something that sounds like him before all of this.

Instead, he exhales, leaning back slightly as he checks the time on his phone like that’s more important. Like that’s the reason he’s not getting up.

It’s late. That’s enough of an excuse.