"Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth," he instructs, his thumb tracing a slow circle against my temple. "It warms the blood vessels and stops the freeze faster."
I obey, pressing my tongue upward while glaring at him with all the indignation of a betrayed warrior.
"Traitor blood vessels," I mutter.
He smiles. Soft. Private. The kind of smile that is not performing for anyone, that exists solely in the space between two people standing too close on a winter sidewalk with ice cream on their lips and warmth pooling in the gaps between their fingers.
The brain freeze fades, retreating as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind a dull ache and the pleasant realization that Etienne's hand is still cradling the side of my face.
"Better?" he asks.
"Marginally." I sniff with mock dignity. "My pride may never recover."
He drops his hand, and I miss the contact instantly, the absence of his warmth registering like a draft through an open window.
"Do you want another ice cream?" he offers.
The temptation is real. My taste buds are screaming yes while my temples are screaming absolutely not, and the resulting internal conflict plays out across my face in what I imagine is a deeply entertaining display of indecision.
"No," I decide reluctantly. "If I keep coming here I will get tired of it too quickly, and I refuse to ruin this for myself. This place is sacred. I need to ration my visits to preserve the magic." I look up at him, the idea forming as I speak. "So why do we not just come more often? Together? Make it a regular thing?"
The suggestion leaves my mouth before my brain has a chance to review it for implications.
A regular thing. Together. As in, repeated dates. As in, a pattern. As in, the kind of commitment that goes beyond a single Friday afternoon and plants roots into future Fridays that stretch out ahead of us like a promise neither of us has officially made.
Etienne smirks.
Not a full grin. That barely-there upturn at the corner of his lips that I have learned to read like a private language, the expression that means he is pleased but too composed to broadcast it.
"Okay," he says simply.
He holds out his hand.
I take it, threading my fingers between his, and we resume walking down the lamp-lit street with the easy rhythm of two people who have done this a hundred times before, even though this is the first. His cedar and pine scent mingles withthe lingering sweetness of soft serve in the cold air, creating a fragrance combination that my brain will probably associate with happiness for the rest of my life.
"So," he begins, his voice settling into that conversational cadence that tells me he is genuinely curious and not just filling silence, "you really like desserts?"
"Guilty." I sigh with the dramatic weight of a confession. "I have a sweet tooth that could qualify as a medical condition. Cakes, pastries, ice cream, anything with chocolate, anything with frosting, anything that would make a nutritionist weep into their celery juice. It is my fatal flaw. My Achilles heel. My delicious, sugary downfall."
I pause.
The shift from playful to serious happens in the space between one footstep and the next, the levity draining from my voice like water through cupped hands.
"But I actually have to slow down if I want to audition for the figure skating team."
Etienne glances at me, his brow lifting slightly.
"Coach Lizzy has been on me about trying out," I continue, keeping my gaze forward because looking at him while talking about my ambitions makes me feel too exposed, like standing on a stage under a spotlight with no choreography prepared. "She really wants me to go for it. And I told her I would prep, which means I have to lock in. At least for four weeks. Strict diet, disciplined training schedule, no more spontaneous soft serve detours. Well. Maybe fewer spontaneous soft serve detours."
He nods, his thumb tracing a slow pattern against the back of my hand as we walk.
"What does that entail for a figure skater? The training."
"A lot." I tick the items off mentally. "Cardio conditioning, flexibility work, on-ice practice at least five times a week if I can get the rink time. Strength training focused on my core and legsbecause the jumps require explosive power from the ground up. Off-ice ballet for the artistry components, because figure skating is half athletics and half performance art, and the judges care about both equally." I exhale, the breath forming a cloud in the cold air. "It is also tricky because figure skating can be solo as well as partnered. I am not sure which division Coach Lizzy wants me to aim for, and if it is pairs, I will need a partner to train with. Which I do not have."
"Can Raphaël help?"
I blink, turning to look at him.
