"I'll teach you. Or at least keep you from face-planting in front of the figure skating club." She glances at where several girls are watching us with obvious interest. "Pretty sure that would go viral."
I look at her outstretched hand like it might be a trap.
"I don't need?—"
"Sebastian." She says my name for maybe the second time ever, and hearing it from her does something strange to my chest. "Just take my hand. The sooner you can skate like a functional human, the sooner this date is over."
Logic I can't argue with.
I release the boards and take her hand.
Her fingers are cold from the ice, callused from work, smaller than mine. The moment our hands connect, something electric passes between us. I see her feel it too, the slight widening of her eyes, the quick inhale.
Then she's pulling me forward onto the ice.
"Bend your knees," she instructs. "Keep your weight centered. Don't fight the motion."
"Easy for you to say."
"I've been skating since I was six. My hometown has an outdoor rink. Free ice time was the only entertainment we could afford." She demonstrates the basic stride. "Push off with one foot, glide with the other. Like this."
She makes it look effortless. Graceful.
I try to copy her and nearly fall. Her grip on my hand tightens, steadying me.
"Less thinking. More feeling." She snaps at me.
"I don't do feelings."
"Clearly. Now try again."
We spend the next twenty minutes like that. Her teaching, me failing, both of us pretending the hand-holding is purely functional. I fall twice more, she catches me both times with surprising strength for someone so much smaller than me.
"You're overthinking it," she says after my third near-disaster. "It's just ice. It can't hurt you."
"It absolutely can hurt me. Ice is frozen water. Water is dangerous."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm practical."
But I'm also improving. Slowly. By the thirty-minute mark, I can make it halfway around the rink without clutching her like a lifeline.
"See?" She sounds almost pleased. "You're not completely hopeless."
"High praise from Isla Monroe."
"Don't get used to it." She replies quickly.
We skate together, her movements fluid beside my stilted ones and here's the thing I didn't expect, it's not completely terrible. Yes, I'm bad at this. Yes, she still hates me. But there'ssomething almost peaceful about it. The rhythm of skating. The cold air. Her hand in mine.
"Why'd you stop?" she asks suddenly.
"Stop what?"
"Skating. After you broke your wrist. Most people would try again."
I consider lying. It would be easier. But something about this moment, the ice, the sunlight, the way she's looking at me with actual curiosity instead of hatred makes me tell the truth.
