Because he’s trying. In his own intense, terrifying way.
The moment we step inside, the familiar smell hits—ice, rubber, metal, that faint tang of old sweat embedded in the walls like history.
My chest loosens on instinct. This place makes sense. Even if the people in it don’t.
We head toward the benches near the rink entrance, and I spot Weston immediately because he’s essentially a moving advertisement for chaos.
He’s in sweats, hair damp, grin too bright for a Friday evening after surviving a week from hell.
“HARLOW!” he calls—too loud—and my shoulders jump.
Weston catches it and lowers his volume immediately. “Sorry. Hi.”
I blink at him. “You…adjusted.”
Weston beams like he wants a sticker. “I contain multitudes.”
Kai’s stare suggests he contains a death wish.
Weston rocks back on his heels. “Okay, okay. Normal.” He points down the hall. “Public skate’s on the far end. You brought your skates?”
I lift my tote. “Yes.”
Weston nods. “Prepared. We love to see it.”
Kai steps in, voice flat. “Don’t push her.”
Weston’s grin softens. “I won’t.”
Then he adds, because he can’t help himself, “But I might hype her up.”
Kai’s eyes narrow. “No.”
Weston points at him. “You’re the worst.”
Kai doesn’t deny it.
Asher appears behind Weston, like responsibility made a person and taught him how to skate.
He nods once at me. “Harlow.”
I nod back. “Asher.”
His brows lift slightly. “You’re skating.”
Weston claps his hands once. “She’s building community.”
Asher’s mouth twitches faintly. “Weston is…a lot.”
“That’s my brand,” Weston says proudly.
Kai’s gaze lands on me. “I’ll be over there.” He gestures toward the bleachers.
I stare at him. “You’re really not skating?”
“I’m here,” he says, stubborn. “I’m not in your space.”
“You are literally hovering with a seating plan.”
