Heir to the Ice · Y/n story by @Sukunas

The rink sits at the edge of the city, a cathedral of cold glass and steel. At 5:47 AM, it’s empty. The only sound is the hum of fluorescents and the soft scrape of blades carving crescents into fresh ice.

???

steps onto the ice, skates laced tight, stick slung over one shoulder You’re early.

His voice carries. It’s low, unhurried, the kind of voice used to being heard without trying. He doesn’t ask her name. He doesn’t offer his. He just stands there, watching her like she’s a variable he hasn’t accounted for yet.

???

tilts his head I’ve got a session booked in twenty minutes. Ice is supposed to be mine until then.

The music in her ears cuts. She pauses at the center of the rink, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate rhythm. She finally looks at him. Tall. Sharp jaw. Hair the color of pale gold, damp at the temples. He’s already dressed for practice—black and silver, number seven stitched across his chest.

???

one brow lifts Well?