I don’t jump or spin—nothing dramatic. Just speed. Flow. A few quick turns. A deep edge. A small spiral that makes my arms extend without thinking. And for the first time all week, I feel like I’m breathing without permission.
When I slow down and glide to a stop, Weston looks at me like I just performed magic.
“Okay,” he says, quieter. “That was really, really good.”
I blink. “Weston.”
He points at me. “Artistry. I’m appreciating artistry.”
Asher glides up, expression neutral, but his eyes are softer. “You’re good.”
I swallow. “Thanks.”
Weston claps once. “I’m so glad I invited you.”
From the bleachers, Kai’s voice cuts sharp. “Weston.”
Weston cups his hands and shouts back, “She’s skating! Stop hovering!”
Kai’s glare could melt ice.
Weston turns to me, grinning. “Your brother loves me.”
“He does not,” I say.
“Deep down,” Weston insists. “Under the rage.”
Asher’s tone is a calm threat. “Weston. Give her space.”
Weston gasps. “Are you saying I’m too much?”
Asher doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
Weston looks personally wounded. A snort slips out of me—quick, quiet—and Weston whips toward me like he caught a rare animal on camera.
“DID YOU JUST LAUGH?”
I glare. “No.”
He points triumphantly. “She laughed. She likes us.”
My cheeks heat. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because “liking people” has felt dangerous for years. Like if I attach myself, I’ll become a burden. And yet here I am, surrounded by loud boys in skates, and the danger feels…manageable.
I catch movement on the far boards again. Grayson is still there, skating the perimeter. Not watching me. Not trying to join.
Just…present.
And there’s tension in it—like he wants to skate closer but is forcing himself not to. Like proximity is a choice he keeps refusing.
My chest tightens with something I don’t have a name for.
Weston suddenly skates in front of me, backward, hands out. “Okay. One more thing. What do you want from this?”
I blink. “From skating?”
He nods, oddly serious. “Yeah.”
I hesitate.
