Jamie turned to look at him fully, hazel eyes searching Sloane’s face for something he couldn’t name.
“You’re really confident, aren't you?” Jamie asked softly. “Not in a cocky way. Just...certain.”
“About some things.”
“About what?”
“About you. About us. About the fact that I’d fight anything that tried to hurt you. About knowing a good thing when I see it,” Sloane said instead.
Jamie opened his mouth, closed it, then turned back to the window. But his reflection in the glass showed a small smile, secret and pleased.
They turned into a parking lot, pulling up in front of a building painted in bright stripes of blue and yellow. The building squatted at the edge of town, all concrete and faded paint, the kind of place that had survived decades through sheer stubborn determination. Posters plastered the windows—birthday party packages, couple’s night specials, a disco ball promising “Saturday Night Fever.”
Jamie’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” Sloane killed the engine, watching his mate’s expression cycle through disbelief, confusion, and something that might have been delight.
“A roller rink? You brought me to a roller rink?”
“Problem?”
“It’s...” Jamie stared at the building, then at Sloane, then back at the building. “How did you even find this place?”
“Google’s very helpful.”
“You googled 'things to distract my disaster of a—'“ Jamie stopped, catching himself. “Things to do around here?”
“Something along those lines.” Sloane climbed out, rounding the car to open Jamie’s door. “We can go somewhere else if—”
“No.” Jamie’s laugh burst out, startled and genuine. “I haven’t been skating since I was twelve. My mom used to take me every Saturday.”
The memory softened his mate’s expression, something warm and bittersweet crossing his features. Sloane filed that information away, adding it to the growing collection of Jamie-facts he was hoarding. Along with his laugh. Worth it. Every second of planning, every mile driven, all of it worth that gorgeous smile.
Inside, the rink exploded with color and sound. Disco balls spun from the ceiling, throwing fractured light across the wooden floor. Neon stripes ran along the walls, pulsing in time with music that hadn’t been popular since the eighties. The air smelled of popcorn, floor wax, and that distinctive scent of rental skates that somehow existed in every rink everywhere.
Arcade games lined one wall, beeping and chiming. A snack bar occupied the far corner, offering pizza, fries, nachos, and other food that probably violated multiple health guidelines. Disco balls hung from the ceiling, throwing rainbow spots across everything.
Tacky. Wonderful. Perfect.
“Two admissions,” Sloane told the bored teenager behind the counter. “And skates.”
“Sizes?”
Jamie supplied his, size eight, and Sloane followed with a size twelve. The kid handed over brown rental skates that had seen better days, scuffed and worn but functional.
“I should warn you,” Sloane said as they claimed a bench. “I’ve never actually done this before.”
Jamie paused mid-lace. “You’ve never skated?”
“Nope.”
“Then why—” Understanding dawned across Jamie’s face, followed by something that made Sloane’s pulse kick. “You looked this up. For me.”
“Seemed better than sitting in your apartment replaying what happened.”
The gratitude in Jamie’s eyes almost undid him. Sloane focused on his skates, tugging the laces tight, giving Jamie space to process.
“You’re ridiculous,” Jamie murmured. “And kind of amazing.”
