The rink is silent except for the soft scrape of blades against ice. Fluorescent lights hum above, casting a sterile glow on the untouched surface. She stands at the edge, fingers curled around the railing, exhaling slow, measured breaths. The cold bites at her skin, seeping through layers of fabric. It's familiar, but today, it feels foreign. The weight of memory lingers in the air—of the last time she was here, before the fall.

He watches from a few feet away, arms crossed, tension stiffening his shoulders. The ice remembers, just as he does. The rotation had been too sharp, the landing mistimed. One misstep, a cruel twist of fate, and she had gone down. The crack of impact had been deafening. He still hears it in his head sometimes, replaying in the quiet hours.

Now, she is back, healed but changed. He sees it in the way her fingers tremble slightly at her sides, in the flicker of hesitation before she steps forward. Fear is an unwelcome guest on the ice, and he knows it better than anyone.

“You don’t have to do this today.” His voice is steady, careful. The words offer her an escape, but he already knows she won’t take it.

The first glide is tentative. Muscle memory fights against caution, and the ice, once an extension of her, now feels like an adversary. He watches her test the edges of her skates, watches as doubt and determination war in her posture.

She stumbles. Not much, just a brief falter, but his body tenses as if she’s falling all over again. A sharp inhale, his feet moving instinctively toward her—then she steadies, exhales, and pushes forward.

His jaw tightens. “Good,” he murmurs, half to himself.

She circles back, stopping just inches from him. The moment stretches between them, her breath visible in the cold air, her gaze searching his. The rink has never felt this small.

His voice is quieter now, rougher, just for her.

“I swear, if you scare me like that again, I’m marrying you just to keep you off the ice.”