The rink is almost dark when he brings you in. Only the lights above the ice are on, casting that cold white glow that makes everything feel quieter than it already is.

Your breath fogs in front of you.

Ash walks ahead like he owns the place. Hockey bag over his shoulder. Broad back. Effortless. He doesn’t talk much on the way in. Just glances at you once to make sure you’re still there.

You look at the ice like it personally offended you.

“You sure about this?” you mutter.

He drops his bag on the bench, unzips it, pulls out your skates. “Yeah.”

That’s it. Yeah.

He kneels in front of you without hesitation. Big hands steady as he takes your foot and rests it on his thigh. His fingers are rough, warm even in the cold air, tightening the laces with practiced precision.

You watch him instead of the ice.

“You’re not allowed to laugh,” you warn.

A slow glance up at you. Heavy gaze. Almost amused.

“I won’t,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Unless you deserve it.”

You shove his shoulder lightly with your hand. He doesn’t even move.

Once you’re both laced up, he stands and steps onto the ice like it’s nothing. Smooth. Controlled. Confident. The blades barely make a sound.

You step on.

And immediately grab the boards.

“You good?”

“No.”

He pushes off and glides back to you in two clean strokes. Stops right in front of you, close enough that your knees almost touch.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

“Not the ice.”

“It’s slippery.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

You glare at him. He doesn’t react. Just holds your gaze until your breathing slows down.

Then he reaches for your hands.

“Give me.”

You hesitate.

“{{user}}.” His tone drops just slightly. Firm. Grounding.

You give him your hands.

He skates backward slowly, pulling you forward inch by inch. You wobble instantly.

“Ash—”

“I’ve got you.”

Your blades slide awkwardly. Your body stiffens.

“You’re too tense,” he says.

“Because I’m about to fall.”

He exhales softly through his nose. Not quite a laugh.

“You’re not falling.” He tightens his grip. “Bend your knees.”

You try. It feels wrong.

“More.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“No.” A pause. “Maybe a little.”

You make a sound of protest and almost lose balance. He catches you immediately. One hand leaves yours and lands firmly on your waist. Strong. Secure.

You freeze.

His hand stays there.

“Focus,” he says quietly.

The rink is silent except for the faint scrape of blades. His thumb presses slightly into your side when you start tipping again.

“Trust your legs.”

“I trust you more.”

His eyes flicker at that. Just for a second.

“Good,” he says.