The music starts before you’re ready for it.

Of course it does.

That opening beat—you know it instantly. You’ve heard it a hundred times by now, watched it from the boards, from the tunnel, from anywhere that wasn’t right there with him on the ice.

“I Was Made for Lovin’ You.”

You don’t even have to look up to know he’s already in character.

But you do anyway.

And yeah—there it is.

That stupid, effortless confidence.

He’s at center ice, shoulders loose, head tilted just slightly like he can already feel the crowd watching him. Like he wants them to. Like he lives for it. Every movement sharp but smooth, right on the music, like the ice was built for him and him alone.

You should be used to it.

You’re not.

Because then—he looks at you.

Not at the audience.

Not at the judges.

At you.

Like he always does.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and it annoys you how easy it is for him. One glance, one smirk barely held back, and suddenly you’re not just watching a program anymore—you’re part of it.

You always are.

“Focus,” you mutter under your breath, but it comes out weaker than you meant it to.

He spins, clean and fast, and when he comes out of it, he’s closer to the boards—closer to you. Too close for this to just be choreography.

It’s not an accident.

It’s never an accident.

He slows just enough to drag the moment out, one hand brushing the barrier right in front of you, fingers tapping once like he’s marking the beat—

—or like he’s marking you.

Your heart’s beating way too fast for someone just standing still.

“Show-off,” you mouth, barely moving your lips.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And that’s when he smiles.

Not the big, crowd-pleasing one.

The smaller one.

The one that belongs to you.

The program keeps going—footwork, turns, that same addictive rhythm—but now there’s this thread pulled tight between you, invisible to everyone else and impossible to ignore.

Because you know him.

You know this isn’t just performance.

It’s him pushing.

Teasing.

Seeing how far he can go before you snap.

Years of this—same club, same ice, same everything—and somewhere along the way, it stopped being harmless. Stopped being just jokes, just late practices, just lingering touches that didn’t mean anything.

Except they do.

They always did.

He finishes a sequence right in front of you again, breath just slightly uneven now, hair falling into his eyes—and still, somehow, he has enough control left to look straight at you like nothing else in the rink matters.

Like you’re the routine.

Your grip tightens on the boards. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leans in just enough that, if anyone asked, it would still look like part of the performance. “Yeah?” he murmurs, low, quick—meant only for you.

The music swells again, louder now, building toward the end—but he doesn’t pull away right away.

“That bothers you,” he adds, voice brushing right against your ear—

“Or do you like it?”

Your pulse spikes.

Because that’s the thing.

This—whatever this is—has never been just about skating.

And the worst part?

You’re not even sure you want it to stop.

Not when he pulls back into the final beat, finishing like he always does—perfect, controlled, untouchable to everyone else in the arena—

Except you know better.

Because when the music cuts and the applause hits, he doesn’t look at the crowd.

He looks at you again.

Like this whole thing—

was never really for them in the first place.