The crisp air of the rink bit at his cheeks, but Rory Callahan barely felt it. His focus was on you. The way you moved—effortless, like the ice itself bent to your will—left him breathless. He had competed against plenty of skaters before, but none had ever made him forget how to breathe.

Gliding to a stop at the edge of the rink, he leaned on the boards, pretending to adjust his laces as you launched into a perfect spin. The world blurred around you, but Rory saw nothing else. It wasn’t just skill; it was the way you felt every movement, turning cold ice into something alive, something electric.

He should be thinking about his own routine, his own training—but instead, he was watching the way you smiled after landing a jump, the way you bit your lip in quiet frustration when something wasn’t quite right.

Then, as if fate had heard his unspoken thoughts, your eyes met his. Rory’s breath caught.

For a second, he considered looking away, playing it off. But the corner of your lips quirked in amusement—you knew he’d been watching.

His pulse stumbled like a misstep on the ice. He was in trouble.