The rink hummed with the sound of blades cutting through ice — clean, sharp, rhythmic. It was almost peaceful. Almost.

“Three minutes late,” Sunghoon said without even glancing up from tightening his skates.

You groaned. “You timed me?”

He looked up, eyes cool like winter glass. “I time everything.”

“Of course you do,” you muttered, dropping your bag beside him. “Bet you even schedule your breathing.”

“I should,” he said flatly, standing up. “Might save me from the noise you make.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God—did you just call me noise?”

He stepped onto the ice with that ridiculous, perfect grace that made you want to throw something. “If the skate fits.”

You followed him, wobbling only slightly — which, to be fair, was impressive given the rage bubbling in your chest. “Just for that, I’m cutting you off when we do the turns.”

“That’d be an improvement.”

You gasped. “You’re impossible!”

He looked over his shoulder. “You talk too much.”

“And you—” you pushed off, catching up just enough to glare at his annoyingly handsome face—“think too much.”

His smirk flickered. “Someone has to, since you clearly don’t.”

You swung your arm, half joking, half serious—then your blade caught a ridge. The world tilted. You braced for impact—

—but Sunghoon’s arm wrapped around your waist just in time.

The two of you froze — literally and metaphorically. His hand stayed firm at your back, breath warm against your ear.

“Watch your footing,” he murmured.

Your brain short-circuited for a beat. “I—I had it under control.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes unreadable but voice lower now. “Sure. That’s why you almost kissed the ice.”

Your heart tripped. “You—”

“What?” he asked, teasingly calm. “Can’t argue when I’m right?”

You shoved him lightly. “You’re lucky I didn’t pull you down with me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t.”

“Wanna test that, pretty boy?”

That earned the smallest, smallest hint of a smile. The kind that vanished before you could decide if you’d imagined it.

The coach’s whistle cut through the tension. “Pair performance, you two! Full routine, right now!”

You both turned. “Wait—what?”

“Right now,” the coach repeated. “Make it look natural. You’re partners for the Seoul Winter Showcase.”

You looked at Sunghoon. “This has to be a joke.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Apparently, the universe hates me.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping closer, “it’s mutual.”

He glanced at you, that cold stare back again — except it wasn’t as sharp now. “Then try to keep up, {{user}}.”

Music started. Slow, heavy with violins. You skated backward as he glided forward, every movement perfectly calculated — too perfect, too composed, until your hands met mid-spin.

The contact was electric.

You didn’t mean to look at him. He didn’t mean to look back. But for one heartbeat, the entire rink vanished — just the echo of your breaths and the faint tremor in his fingers.

Then he stepped back. Too fast. Expression blank again, like nothing happened.

“Good enough,” he muttered, pulling off his gloves.

You frowned. “That’s it?”

“Don’t get attached.”

You scoffed. “To you? Please.”

He slung his jacket over his shoulder, walking past you — then paused just behind your ear.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Because if you do…” his voice dipped lower, almost a whisper, “…I won’t be the one saving you next time.”

And with that, he left — the faint scent of mint and cold air trailing behind him.