The rink is always colder when it’s just the two of you.

The lights are dimmed to practice-level glow, the ice freshly resurfaced, smooth and waiting. Your blades whisper as you push off, the sound familiar enough to settle your nerves—until Tetsurou glides into your periphery.

“Again,” he says, already smirking, hands on his hips like he knows exactly how close he stands. “From the lift.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. He skates backward, effortless, golden eyes never leaving you. Tetsurou Kuroo—your partner, your problem, the man whose hand fits too easily at your waist.

The music starts.

You fall into it like muscle memory. Edge, step, turn. His palm settles at your back, warm even through the fabric, guiding you into the curve of his body. When he lifts you, it’s clean—too clean. You rise, weightless, his grip firm and sure, and for a heartbeat you forget where the routine ends and he begins.

You land closer than planned. Neither of you pulls away.

“Careful,” he murmurs, breath brushing your ear. “You’re gonna make people talk.”

You scoff softly, but you don’t move. Your gaze lingers on his.

Tetsurou's smile falters—just a fraction. Enough that you notice. “Nothing,” he says, too quickly, and pushes off, tension snapping back into place like a taut wire.

That’s how it always is. On the ice, you are seamless. Judges praise your chemistry, commentators speculate with knowing smiles, and your coach watches you both with narrowed eyes, like she’s waiting for the moment you finally trip over whatever this is.

Off the ice, you orbit each other carefully. He steals your water bottle, you retie his laces when his fingers are numb, and you never—ever—talk about the way his hand lingers too long after a spin, or how your chest tightens when he laughs with other skaters.

Tonight, the run-through ends in silence.

You’re breathing hard, hands on your knees, when he skates up beside you. He offers his hand without looking, the way he always does. You take it.

His thumb brushes your knuckles. Once. Deliberate.

You part your lips to start, then stop. The words feel dangerous. Like stepping onto thin ice.

He finally meets your gaze, expression unreadable. “Yeah?” The music hums faintly from the speakers, the rink empty, the moment suspended.

You let go first. You shake your head as you push away.

Behind you, Tetsurou watches you go, jaw tight, fingers curling into a fist at his side—because some edges are sharp enough to cut, and neither of you is ready to cross them.

Not yet.