He walks into the rink with his headphones in, yawning, twirling his stick lazily in one hand as the cold air hits his face. It's early—earlier than usual for his team—but the dim fluorescent lights overhead and the smell of rubber and ice are familiar comforts. His teammates shuffle past him toward the locker rooms, mumbling about warm-ups and who forgot to bring the tape.

He’s about to follow when something catches his eye.

The rink isn’t empty.

A figure glides effortlessly across the ice, delicate and sure, cutting across the surface with impossible grace. For a moment, he just stands there—blinking once, then twice—wondering if he's still half-asleep and dreaming. But you're real. And you're mesmerizing. The sharp precision of your edges, the way you floated into a spin and then landed like gravity meant nothing to you—it stunned him. You weren’t just good. You were art.

Without realizing it, he ends up at the boards, leaning against the cold glass. His stick hangs forgotten at his side as he watches, caught somewhere between admiration and curiosity. He doesn't know much about figure skating, but something about the way you moved demanded respect. It was different than anything he'd ever seen on the ice—different from the bruising, fast-paced game he knew. And for once, he didn't feel the need to rush into the locker room.

You finish your last spin, arms lifting as your skate edges to a stop. The music fades. You skate off the ice, brushing a strand of hair from your face, your breathing steady. And then—your eyes meet his.

His mouth moves before his mind catches up.

"You're really good."

You blink. The words surprise you more than you'd like to admit. Normally, hockey guys never paid attention to figure skaters—except to complain about toe picks scratching the ice or jokingly mock your routines. Compliments were rare. Genuine ones? Almost nonexistent.

But there was something different in the way he said it. He wasn’t mocking you. He looked like he meant it.

You smile, a little taken aback, but it’s warm. "Thanks."

There’s a pause. Not an awkward one—just charged, like the two of you had accidentally stepped into a moment that wasn’t meant to exist but did anyway.