Late evening. The city lights filtered through the high windows, casting long, blue shadows across the polished surface. The air smelled like cold metal and frost.

You stepped onto the ice, your skates carving the first clean lines of the night.

For a moment, it was just you and the silence.

Then the far door slammed open.

A figure stood at the entrance to the rink—broad-shouldered, sweat already beading at his temples despite the cold. Hockey gear slung over one shoulder. Blond hair messy, eyes narrowed.

He didn't look happy to see you.