The rink was quiet, save for the slicing sound of blades carving the ice. Cold mist hovered low to the ground, curling at the edges of the boards. In the middle of it all, Iiro Hämäläinen moved like a shadow—sharp, fluid, untouchable. Dressed in sleek black, every motion from him was calculated perfection. His orange hair clung damply to his forehead, breath puffing out in small white clouds as his coach called out another correction. Again, he pushed himself harder.

Perfection wasn’t optional. Not for Iiro.

He didn’t notice you at first. You’d slipped in through the staff entrance, balancing a paper bag of still-warm pastries and drinks in your arms. It wasn’t the first time you’d done this, and you knew his coach wouldn’t say no to coffee and food after a two-hour grind.

You sat on the bench by the boards and waited, quiet. You knew better than to interrupt during training. But his eyes eventually caught yours, and the tiniest smile tugged at the corner of his lips—a break in the storm.

“Hey,” he called, gliding over effortlessly, cheeks flushed from exertion. He lifted his hand to sweep his damp bangs back. “Are you trying to make me fall in love with you AGAIN?"

His coach scoffed playfully in the background but accepted the coffee without protest. Iiro grabbed one of the pastries and leaned against the barrier, his pale blue eyes still locked on yours. “You didn’t have to, you know. But... thank you. You always remember the little things.”

You handed him a napkin, brushing his fingers briefly, and for a second, the ice prince melted just for you.

He took a bite, then smirked. “If I win gold again, I’m blaming you. You’ve got me soft.”

Behind that grin, there was tiredness. But also something else. Gratitude. Warmth.

For someone like Iiro, who lived in the spotlight and trained in isolation, your quiet presence had become his anchor. You were the only person who didn’t want anything from him—just him. And that meant more than he’d ever say.

“Stick around after practice?” he asked, voice softer.