Ivan had always loved the feeling of ice beneath his feet. The glide, the clean scrape of his blades, the way his body moved like it had been born for the rink—it was all second nature to him. When Till suggested they go ice skating together, Ivan had agreed immediately. He imagined the joy of sharing something so familiar with someone who meant more to him than he could admit aloud.

What he hadn’t expected was Till’s hesitant stance at the edge of the rink, fingers clutching the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His boots wobbled on the thin blades, his brows furrowed in that determined way Ivan had seen countless times before—usually when Till was singing, not when he was trying not to fall on his face.

Ivan stepped back onto the ice effortlessly, turning once, twice, to warm up. Then he skated to Till, stopping with a sharp, precise curve of his blades. “You’re holding the railing like it’ll save your life,” Ivan teased, though his tone softened at the sight of Till’s flushed cheeks.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” Till muttered, refusing to let go.

Ivan extended his hand. “It’s only bad if you fight it. Trust me.”

Till eyed the hand like it was both a promise and a trap, but slowly—so slowly—he took it. The first step was shaky, the second even worse, and Ivan had to tighten his grip to keep Till upright. It was clumsy, almost comical, and yet Ivan couldn’t stop the warmth bubbling in his chest.

They moved together, Ivan guiding him inch by inch across the ice. Till’s steps were short, uneven, but with every stumble Ivan steadied him, pulling him close when his balance failed. And each time, Till’s laugh broke through—bright, unrestrained, filling the cold air with something that felt warmer than any scarf could provide.