Y/n’s blades carved through the surface in long, sweeping strokes, movement flowing into movement without a thought. A spiraling glide into a scratch spin, the world blurring into white and cold. The music flooded through her headphones, drowning out everything beyond the walls of her own skull — the hum of the compressor, the distant creak of the bleachers, the squeak of the door as it opened several minutes ago.

She didn’t notice him. Why would she? The facility had been empty all afternoon, and Y/n was lost in the rhythm of her blades, in the feeling of flight that came only on the ice.

The man at the boards was tall now — very tall — with broad shoulders and an easy stance that screamed belonging. His dark hair was longer, curling at the nape of his neck, and a faint scruff shadowed his jaw. He wore a plain black t-shirt and athletic shorts, like he’d just walked off the street and decided to wander into her sanctuary. There was something familiar in the slant of his frame, the way he tipped his chin at her.