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“Shut the fuck up,” I whisper to the night.

I can’t look away.

She glides across the ice with a kind of freedom I’ve never seen in her before. Not the disciplined athlete performing for judges. Not the Ice Princess posing beneath studio lights.

Just Artemis.

No cameras. No audience.

And she’s fucking smiling.

Something tightens in my chest.

I tap the spot where it aches, silently ordering it to get its shit together.

Artemis spins, her ponytail sweeping behind her as snow catches in her hair. For a moment, it looks like she’s wearing a crown made of ice.

Then she moves again, dancing beneath the moon like she belongs among the stars.

Fuck.

I sound like a lovesick teenager with a fucking poetry fetish.

And then the melody returns.

The one I’ve been trying to finish for two days. The one that refused to come together until now.

With every movement, another piece falls into place.

I finally understand why.

It’s not some miraculous creative breakthrough.

It’s her.

The little nightmare is the reason I’ve started writing again.

I shake my head.

I’m so fucked.

“Fuck.”

I really look at her.

She spins faster, her blade whispering across the ice, and for the first time in years, I forget about my duty to the fans. The nightmares. Everything.

I simply watch her dance beneath the moon, surrounded by snow, looking more peaceful than I’ve ever seen her.

For the first time since crash-landing into my life, Artemis doesn’t look guarded. She isn’t cold or armed with sarcasm and sharp edges.

She looks alive.

Like the world has finally stopped demanding something from her.

I know that feeling. Or at least, I know what it means to spend your life searching for it. Growing up, I looked for places where nobody could find me. Shelters. Train stations. Back alleys. Anywhere I could disappear long enough to breathe.

I used to think belonging meant finding somewhere that would let you stay.