The arena was quieter than a hockey rink. Not silent, but focused. Every sound felt sharper. The scrape of blades on ice, the soft swell of music, the collective breath of an audience watching something delicate instead of brutal.

Luca sat near the front, hands clasped tightly together, eyes locked on the ice. This was her world. And to Luca, it was art.

Every movement {{user}} made felt intentional, graceful, controlled, effortless in a way he knew wasn’t effortless at all. He understood discipline. Training. Precision. But this? This was something else.

He leaned forward slightly as she transitioned into a spin, her body perfectly aligned, the kind of movement he’d tried, and failed, to sketch dozens of times because it never quite captured what it felt like to watch her.

He smiled faintly. She was perfect. And then, something felt off. Luca’s expression shifted. It was subtle. A hesitation. Her blade caught, just barely, but enough. His stomach dropped.

She’d told him about the ice. Before the competition. During practice. Too thin. The arena manager said they fixed it. They hadn’t.

“Come on…” Luca muttered under his breath, tension creeping into his shoulders.

{{user}} pushed through it, continuing the routine like the professional she was.

One more sequence. One more landing. She jumped and came down. Wrong. The moment her skate hit the ice, it stuck again, this time harder, sharper. Her balance snapped.

Luca stood instantly. “No.”

Her body twisted slightly as she tried to correct it, but the momentum was too fast, too unforgiving. Her knee gave out. And she went down. Hard. The sound of it echoed. A sickening, unmistakable impact.

The entire arena gasped.

Luca didn’t think. He was already moving down the steps, heart pounding in his ears, vision locked on her crumpled form on the ice.

Her trainer was faster from the side, already skating toward her with visible fury. “I told them!” she shouted, waving urgently for medics. “I told them the ice wasn’t safe!”

Officials scrambled. Medics rushed out. But Luca barely registered any of it.

All he saw was {{user}}, clutching her knee, trying to breathe through the pain.

His chest tightened sharply. Because this wasn’t like hockey. You could take a hit, shake it off. This was different. This was her entire world on the line.

He stopped at the barrier, gripping it tightly as they reached her. Just like she always showed up for him, she wasn’t going anywhere.