He glances up again, something flickering in his expression like he’s not entirely convinced, but he nods anyway and ties it off neatly.
“Other foot.”
I shift, a little more aware now, and lift my other leg. He repeats the process, just as steady, just as careful, like this is all part of his routine.
Except it doesn’t feel routine.
Not when his hand slides along my ankle again, and he steadies me without thinking. Not when I can feel the warmth of him even in a place that’s all cold air and ice.
When he finishes, he gives the laces a final tug, then taps the front of the skate lightly.
“Alright,” he says, leaning back just enough to look at me properly. “You’re officially equipped.”
“Great,” I say. “Hopefully it helps?”
His mouth curves, slow and knowing.
“You’ll be fine.”
I look out at the now-empty stretch of ice, then back at him.
“It's been awhile, and I do know how to skate, I just don’t want you to regret asking me to do it.”
“Not a chance,” he says, already pushing to his feet and offering me his hand.
I hesitate for half a second—long enough to acknowledge that this is a choice—then I slide my hand into his. And the same quiet surprise that hit me the first time, hits me again.
His hand is warm, steady…and surprisingly, not rough. Not even a little. I don’t know what I expected, exactly. Something calloused, maybe. Worn down from sticks and ice and all the things that come with being him. But his grip is smooth. Strong and firm, but also gentle. It’s such a small detail, but it catches me off guard all over again, and for a second I just stand there, blinking at our joined hands like they’ve personally betrayed my assumptions.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s do it,” I say, because that’s apparently who I am now.
His thumb shifts slightly against mine, grounding. “I’ve got you.”
And the annoying part? I believe him.
He steps backward onto the ice, still holding onto me, guiding me forward with an ease that makes it feel less like I’m about to fall on my face and more like I’ve been doing this all along. The cold bites at first, sharp and immediate, and then my feet wobble, uncertainty kicking in. Muscle memory teases, challenges me to remember the last time I did this, like really did this, and I come up short.
But Ty’s hand stays wrapped around mine, his presence close, steady, keeping me anchored.
In no time at all, the flurry in my chest settles. I lean into the smooth cadence of the glide. The quiet—or almost quiet—settles in around us. It feels like the morning after a snowstorm, the world softened, blanketed in peace. Like the ice is holding you up, carrying you, if you let it.
And it feels…like freedom.
“Oh,” I breathe, a small laugh slipping out as my skates find their rhythm. “This is not terrible.”
“High praise,” he says, already moving us farther out.
I glare at him. “Don’t get used to it.”
And then, out of nowhere, music kicks on overhead, and I come to a full brake on my skates. It takes a moment for the song to register, but when it does, I start laughing. Full, immediate, can’t-help-it laughter that echoes just a little in the open space.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Ty’s brows pull together, confused but amused. “What?”
I shake my head, still laughing. “Did you pick this song?”
