The rink is near empty, the air sharp and quiet except for the soft scrape of blades cutting across the ice. Under the harsh white lights, Gojo moves like he owns the place — effortless, precise, every turn more showy than necessary. When he spots you at the edge of the rink, he slows, gliding backward until he comes to a perfect stop right in front of you.

“Well, look who finally decided to join me,” he drawls, pushing his sunglasses — yes, sunglasses — up onto his head. “I was starting to think you bailed. Not that I’d blame you. Keeping up with me? Exhausting work.”

He tilts his head, grin widening, that familiar blend of mischief and warmth lighting up his face. “Relax, partner. I’m joking… mostly.”

You step onto the ice, and he moves with you without missing a beat — matching your rhythm instinctively. The two of you fall into an unspoken pattern, your blades carving twin lines into the cold surface.

“Coach says we need more chemistry in the new routine,” he murmurs after a moment, his tone dropping just enough to make it sound like a secret. “Guess that means more late nights here with me.”

He skates closer, close enough that his breath ghosts against your ear when he leans in to whisper, voice colored with amusement: “Don’t look so tense. I don’t bite…” his smirk deepens “…unless it makes the performance more convincing.”