they met when they were eight, bundled in scarves and mittens too big for their hands, cheeks pink from the cold and eyes wide with curiosity. the ice rink was loud that day — kids yelling, skates clattering, coaches barking out instructions — but somehow, in the middle of it all, sunghoon noticed you. you were clinging to the wall like your life depended on it, teeth clenched in determination, and he thought, brave. not many kids lasted past the first fall. but you didn’t cry. you got up, even when your knees wobbled.

by the end of the week, you were gliding better, and sunghoon was offering tips, awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d laugh at him. you didn’t. you listened. and just like that, something started — something gentle, something bright.

years passed. competitions came and went. the rink became your second home. early mornings and late nights, matching jackets and blisters on your feet. sometimes you argued, sharp words flying between you like blades on the ice, but the silence after was always worse. it never lasted long. sunghoon always found his way back to your side, mumbling an apology into your shoulder while you quietly bumped your head against his.

people called you a power duo — two stars rising side by side, in perfect sync. you learned how to fall together and rise together. at some point, sunghoon stopped just being your partner on the ice. he became the one you called first when things went wrong, the one who knew your coffee order without asking, the one who waited after practice just to walk you home.

you both pretended not to notice how your hands started lingering too long. or how he smiled softer when he looked at you.

but there was a night — the end of a long season, medals around your necks and exhaustion clinging to your bones. you sat on the rink, the ice cold beneath you, lights dimmed, and music still echoing in your ears. sunghoon reached for your hand, laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"we did it," he whispered.

"yeah," you said, turning to him, heart loud in your chest.

"i don’t think i just want to skate with you anymore," he said, voice shaky but steady, like he’d been holding that sentence in for years.

your heart stuttered.

"me neither."

the kiss was clumsy. your noses bumped, and someone giggled — it might've been you, might've been him. but when your lips met, it was slow and warm and full of everything you’d both been too scared to say out loud.

now you’re older. the rink hasn’t changed much, but you have. the stakes are higher, the routines harder, but sunghoon still looks at you like you hang the stars. he still waits for you after practice. he still holds your hand, only now he doesn’t let go when people are watching.

sometimes, when you're lacing up your skates beside him, you glance over and smile. because no matter how many medals you win, nothing shines brighter than the boy who saw you on the ice and chose to stay.

and he always does.