My voice comes out somewhere between a squeak and a whisper, which is embarrassing, but I can't seem to find my normal register. Not when I'm standing at the entrance of Oakridge Hollow's ice skating rink and staring at what can only be described as a winter fairy tale brought to life.
Elias grins beside me, that boyish, sunshine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than his twenty-nine years.
"Surprise?"
Surprise doesn't begin to cover it. Shock, maybe. Overwhelm. Complete and utter disbelief that this is actually happening.
The rink stretches out before us like a frozen mirror, the ice gleaming under thousands—thousands—of fairy lights that have been strung across the ceiling in swooping arcs and cascading waterfalls.
They're everywhere, twinkling like captured starlight, transforming what I remember as a fairly standard municipal ice rink into something out of a romance novel. The kind of scene that only exists in Hallmark movies and daydreams.
The usual fluorescent overhead lights have been dimmed, leaving the space bathed in the warm, golden glow of all those tiny bulbs. It's like standing inside a snow globe filled with fireflies.
Valentine's decorations accent every surface—paper hearts in shades of red and pink dangle from the rafters on invisible strings, rose petals have been scattered along the boards surrounding the ice in careful patterns, and someone has set up actual flower arrangements at regular intervals around the perimeter.
Red roses, pink peonies, white baby's breath—all arranged in crystal vases that catch the fairy lights and throw tiny rainbows onto the ice. The scent hits me next: fresh pine from small potted trees positioned near the entrance, the crisp clean smell of ice, and underneath it all, something warm and spiced that draws my attention to the far corner.
A full refreshment station has been set up where the concession stand usually operates. I can see steam rising from what appears to be multiple warming vessels, and the rich aroma of hot cider and chocolate mingles with something more complex—coffee. Good coffee.Reallygood coffee. The kind that makes my professional instincts sit up and take notice, the kind that smells like it was roasted within the last week and ground within the last hour.
"Elias." I turn to look at him, searching for words that feel adequate and finding none. "This is... how did you... I mean..."
"The rink owner owed me a favor," he says with a casual shrug that doesn't match the pride gleaming in his amber eyes. "We pulled his kid out of a car wreck last year—bad situation,fire started in the engine compartment. He's been trying to pay us back ever since, but firefighters don't exactly accept cash rewards. When I told him I needed the rink for a private date, he practically threw the keys at me. And the decorations—" He gestures vaguely at the fairy-light wonderland surrounding us. "—the guys at the station helped. Turns out firefighters have very strong opinions about holiday aesthetics. There were spreadsheets involved. Arguments about color temperature."
He organized all of this. For me. A private skating rink transformed into a Valentine's paradise, complete with spreadsheets and color temperature debates, just so we could have a date without crowds or interruptions or the constant awareness of being watched.
I don't know what I did to deserve this. Any of this. These men who keep doing impossibly thoughtful things like it's nothing, like I'm worth the effort. Like I'm worth renting an entire ice rink and stringing thousands of fairy lights.
"Come on." Elias takes my hand, his fingers warm and calloused against mine. "There's someone I want you to meet."
He leads me toward the refreshment station, and as we get closer, I realize there's someone working behind the counter—a woman with silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her movements precise and practiced as she arranges an impressive array of cups and equipment. She looks up at our approach, and I'm struck immediately by her presence. There's something regal about her, despite the simple apron she's wearing. Something that speaks of experience and wisdom and a life fully lived.
And her scent—it catches me off guard. Omega. She's an Omega, older than me by at least two decades, carrying the distinctive sweetness of our designation layered with notes of cardamom and orange blossom and something earthy that speaks of distant places.
"You must be Rosemarie." Her voice is warm, accented with something I can't quite place—Mediterranean, maybe, or possibly Middle Eastern. "Elias has told me so much about you. I'm Safiya."
The name hits me like a physical jolt.
"Safiya," I repeat, my mind already racing through memories. "As in... the Safiya Sunrise?"
Her eyes light up with genuine delight. "You know it?"
"Know it?" I laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. "I made it constantly at the roastery. It was one of our most requested drinks—the cardamom and orange blossom combination with the honey foam? It was practically my signature piece for a while. Customers would specifically ask for it."
Safiya's smile widens, something almost shy crossing her features despite her obvious confidence. "Yours truly," she admits, gesturing to herself with a small flourish. "They named it after me because it had sold out and been a viral hit for... oh, far too long. This was years ago, mind you, before I started touring. Back when I was a barista myself, still learning the craft."
I'm standing in front of a legend. An actual legend of the specialty coffee world. A woman whose drink I've made hundreds of times without ever knowing the story behind the name.
"You travel now?" I ask, unable to keep the wistfulness from my voice. "Around the world? Discovering different coffee cultures?"
"For the past twenty-five years," she confirms, moving behind her station with the fluid grace of someone who's spent a lifetime perfecting their craft. "I've been to every continent, studied under masters in Ethiopia and Colombia and Vietnam and Turkey. Every culture has its own relationship with coffee, its own rituals and traditions. I've made it my life's work to learn them all and share what I've discovered."
The longing must show on my face, because her expression softens with understanding.
"You'd love to travel too," she says. Not a question.
"I would." I try to keep the bitterness from my voice, but some of it seeps through anyway. "But the restrictions against Omegas traveling alone are... harsh. Especially without pack documentation. It's nearly impossible to cross certain borders, and even domestic travel can be complicated without the right paperwork."
Safiya's eyes sparkle with something knowing. "And how do you think I managed it?"
