You didn’t fall for figure skating. You fell for the way he said your name.

It always sounded different on Rafe Cameron’s lips—softer, slower, like it meant something more than it should.

The rink was freezing, but around him, you were never cold.

Two years. Two years of chasing perfection just to see that look in his eyes—the one that lingered too long, that made your chest tighten and your thoughts blur. You weren’t stupid. You saw how he was with the others—brief corrections, distant smiles.

But with you?

He stayed.

“Again,” he’d murmur, stepping behind you, his hand settling at your waist. Not rushed. Not professional enough. His touch grounding you, sending warmth through your spine like a secret you weren’t supposed to keep.

And God—you needed that.

Needed the way he watched you. Needed the quiet praise, the almost-smiles, the inside jokes whispered when no one else was close enough to hear. It blurred every line that should’ve been clear.

You told yourself it was harmless.

But then there were the girls.

The way your chest twisted when he laughed with them, even if it wasn’t the same laugh. The way you pushed yourself harder, skating until your legs burned, just to pull his attention back to you—where it belonged.

Because it did belong to you. Didn’t it?

The night of the performance shattered that illusion.

The lights were blinding. The audience too loud. And when your blade slipped—when your body hit the ice—it felt like the world watched you break.

Humiliation burned hotter than the cold.

You barely made it off the rink before your vision blurred.

And then—

Him.

His hand pressed firmly against the small of your back, pulling you just a little closer than necessary. Protective. Possessive. His breath ghosted near your ear.

“Hey… don’t you dare look down.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Look at me.”

You did. You always did.

His eyes weren’t just reassuring—they were intense, searching, almost desperate to make you believe him.

“You’re still the best one out there. You hear me?”

Not one of. The best.

Something in your chest ached at that. Too full. Too much.

Because in that moment, it wasn’t about skating anymore. It wasn’t about failing.

It was about him choosing you—again and again in ways that felt too personal to be innocent.

Later, when the rink emptied and silence settled in, you stepped back onto the ice. Your body moved automatically, but your thoughts were loud, messy, dangerous.

Because you finally understood the truth.

This wasn’t just admiration. It wasn’t just ambition.

It was craving.

And when you noticed him still there—leaning against the barrier, watching only you, eyes dark and unreadable—

Your breath caught.

Because the way he looked at you…

…it didn’t feel like a teacher watching a student anymore.