Harlow stares at his hand like it’s a trick. “I can skate.”
Weston nods solemnly. “I know. This is for me. I need to feel useful.”
Harlow rolls her eyes but takes his hand anyway. The second her blades hit the ice, she changes. Not into a different person. Into herself. Her shoulders drop. Her breath deepens. She pushes off with a quiet confidence that makes the world look like it belongs to her for a minute. She glides. Clean edges. Smooth turns. No frantic energy. No performance.
Just…control.
Quiet.
Weston skates out behind her and immediately loses a bit of dignity.
Harlow doesn’t even look back. “You’re doing great.”
Weston points at her, offended. “That was sarcasm.”
“It was encouragement,” she replies, deadpan.
Asher steps onto the ice, effortlessly, and glides past Weston like a man who’s never been humbled in his life.
Weston yells, “Hale, you’re not allowed to be graceful in public!”
Asher doesn’t respond. He just skates.
I lace up and step onto the ice slower, letting them have their space.
Harlow circles the rink, building speed quickly. It seems like she’s finding her old rhythm again, less focused and more fun. It’s a beautiful thing to see, but it might just be that I keep finding myself thinking about just how beautiful the girl in front of me is.
A sense of pride fills me as I watch her.
Like I’m watching someone fight for herself in ways nobody actually gets to see, but that mean the most to her in their own ways.
Weston says something that makes her laugh, and I can’t help but think that I want to do that for her.Make her laugh. Make her smile. Not because I need all of her attention, but because for the few seconds that part of her peeks through, the dark cloud around her is a lot brighter.
She skates to the boards to take a break, and my body moves before my brain can be smart about it. I angle in her direction. Not too close. Not crowding.
Just…present.
Harlow rests her hands on the boards, breathing lightly. Her cheeks are flushed from cold and exertion, eyes brighter than I’ve seen them anywhere else.
“You look a lot more relaxed out here today,” I say, because apparently I’m incapable of not stating obvious truths.
Harlow glances at me. “I know.”
The bluntness makes my mouth twitch.
“Right,” I say. “Sorry. Forgot you’re allergic to compliments.”
“I’m not allergic,” she says. “I just don’t like unnecessary ones.”
I nod slowly. “So what kind are you okay with?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Compliments,” I clarify. “Necessary ones only?”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
Is it necessary to tell her she looks beautiful today?
