“And you learned to skate…for me?” I murmur.
He nods as if it’s nothing. But it’severything.
“And the rink?”
“There was space. I could afford it. It wasn’t difficult.”
But I can see the truth in his eyes. He did thisall for me.
“This is how I say it,” he says.
“Say what?”
“That I love you, Avelina.” And there are those words again, and they still make my heart race like an out-of-control express train.
For a second, my knees wobble. And then I smile. “I know, Viktor. And I love you too.”
He tugs gently. “One more lap.”
We glide together, his strides careful beside mine.
And for the first time in years, the ice doesn’t feel like bad memories.
It feels likehome.
Not because I’ve returned to it. But because he’s skating with me. Making itours.
And I know that this moment will live in my mind forever. Not as the night Viktor built me a rink…but as the night he let me see all the ways he loves me without changing a single piece of him.
We head back to the house. It’s an hour until the kids’ bedtime, and after getting myself a drink and snack, I pass the den and see Sofia curled up next to Viktor on the couch, her little legs tucked under her like a kitten. The room is dark except for the soft glow of the TV screen, and they’re watching her favorite movie,The Lion King.
My eyes drift to Viktor. He’s utterly still, like a statue, his broad shoulders tense beneath his black shirt. His gaze is locked on the screen, unblinking, jaw tight.
They are both wearing their pink kitten slippers, and a smile tugsmy lips upward. Seeing them in their matching footwear in the evenings has become so normal now that the soldiers don’t even bat an eyelid.
They must have started the movie from where they left off last night. On the TV, Scar digs his claws into Mufasa’s paws, betrayal dripping from every word as he sneers, “Long live the king.”
And then…he lets go.
Mufasa plummets.
Simba, the poor baby lion cub, screams.
And Viktor—my terrifying, tattooed, stoic Viktor—sucks in a sharp breath like he’s just been punched. His eyes go wide, shimmering wetly in the flickering light of the screen.
My heart twists so hard it hurts.
With his neurodivergence, Viktor struggles with emotions, with reading other people’s expressions, and with knowing what to do when someone else is hurting. But as Simba softly nudges his father’s lifeless body, begging him to wake up in a small, broken voice, and whimpering as he realizes his dad has been snatched away from him forever, I swear I see something shift inside Viktor.
A single tear slides down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.
But before I can move, Sofia does.
My sweet, brave little girl slips her tiny hand into his. “It’s okay, Viktor,” she whispers, her voice gentle but sure, as she pats the back of his hand. “It’s just a movie. Mufasa’s in the stars now.”
Viktor blinks at her, startled, like he’s not used to anyone reaching for him. Then he closes his massive hand around hers, holding on so carefully, like she’s spun from fragile glass.
I press my fingers to my mouth, watching them together, my chest aching.
