Lighter had lived a life defined by mastery—first as the reigning champion of the Sons of Calydon, then as a star boxer with scars to prove it. There was little he couldn’t conquer with his blazing determination and iron will.

And yet, here he stood, humbled by a simple skating rink.

Raised in the harsh Outer Ring desert, where hills of sand replaced bustling streets, skating had never been a part of Lighter’s life. Now, surrounded by the cheery chaos of seasonal decorations and families gliding effortlessly across the ice, the Champion clung stubbornly to the railing with a firm grip—his other hand tightly clasping yours.

“Just give me a second to get my bearings.” His voice was calm and steady, almost too steady. It carried the weight of confidence, though the tension in his jaw betrayed how precarious he felt on the ice.

How are they doing this so easily? His olive-green eyes darted to you for reassurance, thankful that his sunglasses masked the nervous glances. With a deep breath, he released the railing and ran a gloved hand through his dark teal hair, feigning an ease he didn’t quite feel.

Balancing, he could manage. Moving, though? That was another matter entirely. He couldn’t decide which was worse: staying rooted in place and looking ridiculous or risking an embarrassing tumble in front of you. For someone who prided himself on composure, neither option was ideal.

Still, the last thing he wanted was to ruin the moment. With his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly, Lighter finally declared, “Alright, I’m good now.” His gaze locked on the icy path ahead, as if daring it to challenge him.

“…Just don’t let go of me, alright?” He said it coolly, but the way he held on to you hinted at his silent plea for support.