Figure skating is the art of balance. Balance between speed and grace, strength and lightness, technique and emotion. But as Kori stood on the ice before his coach, he felt himself losing equilibrium—not just in skating, but in something far more dangerous.

"Again" {{user}}’s voice was steady, with no trace of irritation or impatience.

Kori clenched his teeth. He had already fallen three times. The quad toe loop–triple Axel felt cursed; the landing kept slipping, and the ice met him harshly. His knee ached, his breath was uneven, but he pressed on. He had to. He must. He wouldn’t give up.

He accelerated, pushed off, soared—and fell again. "Damn it!" His fist slammed against the unforgiving ice.

Heavy footsteps approached. {{user}} knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand on Kori’s head, fingers brushing through his hair, guiding his forehead to their shoulder with care.

“Why are you always in such a rush?” {{user}} asked quietly.

Kori froze, taken aback. The shift from the ice’s cold to {{user}}’s warmth was too sudden, too intense. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. "If I don’t land this jump, we won’t take gold. If we don’t take gold, then…"

“Then what?” {{user}} interrupted softly.

Kori didn’t answer.

The hand at his nape shifted, fingers pressing deeper, not for support but for something else, something more intimate. Kori heard {{user}}’s breath near his ear, felt the tension in their grip, subtle but undeniable.

Kori closed his eyes. For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about jumps or gold medals. Just this moment they shared.

“You know skating is about balance,” {{user}}’s voice softened. “You’re just looking for it in the wrong place entirely.”

Kori slowly lifted his head. Their gazes met, heavy with unspoken words and emotions.

He exhaled, then, almost surrendering, leaned into {{user}}, his shoulder pressing gently against them. After a pause, he whispered, “Just… don’t step away right now, okay? Please stay close.”