"Come on," I say. "When's the last time you did something just for fun?"
She considers this, chewing on her bottom lip. "Okay. But if I break something, you're explaining it to Dr. Mills."
Twenty minutes later, we're in the backyard. The rink Chase had built when they moved in is perfect: smooth ice lit by the floodlights mounted on the house, cold enough that our breath fogs in the air.
Maya's wearing my old skates with three pairs of socks stuffed inside to make them fit. She's bundled in a puffy jacket and one of my beanies, looking nervous and excited at the same time. I have to resist the urge to pull her close to me.
I lace up my skates and step onto the ice before offering my hand to help her on.
"Okay," she says, gripping my hand tight. "How do I?—"
Her feet slide out from under her immediately. I catch her before she falls, pulling her against my chest, and the contact sends heat through me despite the freezing temperature.
"Not like that," I say.
"Helpful, thanks."
I keep one arm around her waist and guide her onto the ice properly. She's clinging to me like I'm the only thing keeping her upright, which, to be fair, I am, and I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch.
"Bend your knees a little," I say, trying to focus on teaching instead of how good she feels pressed against me. "Keep your weight centered."
"I am centered."
"You're not, you're—" She slides again, and I catch her, my hands gripping her waist firmly. "Okay, let's just try moving forward."
For the next thirty minutes, I basically drag her around the rink while she alternates between laughing and swearing. She falls four times despite me holding her, and each time she gets up more determined, more flushed, more beautiful.
"This is impossible," she says after the fourth fall. "How do you make this look easy?"
"Practice. I've been skating since I was a kid."
"Show-off."
Movement in the window catches my eye. Emma and Chase are watching from the kitchen, both smiling. Max has joined them on the windowsill, tail flicking in judgment.
"We have an audience," I tell Maya.
She glances back and waves, nearly falling again.
"Eyes forward," I say. "Look at me, not them."
She does. Her brown eyes lift toward the floodlight, lit with laughter that softens her whole face. She’s never looked more beautiful, never looked more alive.
"You're staring," she says.
"Can't help it. You’re stunning."
"Smooth talker." But she's smiling, that soft smile that's just for me.
We make it around the rink twice without her falling. By the third lap, she's getting the hang of it, still clinging to me but moving with more confidence, trusting me to keep her upright.
"See?" I say. "You're doing it."
"I'm literally holding onto you for dear life."
"Still counts."
We come to a stop in the center of the ice. She's breathing hard, face flushed, grinning up at me with such unguarded happiness that my chest tightens.
