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The rink was colder than she expected.

Rowan exhaled, watching her breath curl into the air like a ghost, then pulled her gloves tighter as if that would help her fingers stop tingling. The sound of blades on ice echoed off the high, domed ceiling, soft and distant. Pop music from over a decade ago crackled through ancient speakers, warping at the high notes, but the charm of it—the old-school vibe, the holiday lights strung across the rafters—worked.

She pushed off the wall with practised ease, skating into the open with all the nonchalance she could summon. Her blades moved cleanly across the ice as if she belonged here, and this didn’t make her nervous. Like she hadn’t spent the last fifteen minutes pretending she wasn’t watching him.

Mason was a few yards away, clinging to the wall like it might suddenly abandon him. His skates looked too new, his stance too stiff, and every couple of steps, he flailed just slightly before recovering. It should’ve been not very comfortable. For anyone else, it might’ve been.

But it was Mason.

Which meant he was a mess—and somehow still charming.

She let a smile creep across her face, slow and lazy, then picked up a little speed and skated a wide circle around him.

“You know,” she said as she passed, her tone bright and teasing, “this would be a lot more romantic if you didn’t look like you were preparing for battle.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. But his eyes followed her, warm and wide and full of that quiet intensity she still wasn’t used to, like she was something rare. Something to hold gently.

Rowan arched a brow, half-spinning to skate backwards, facing him. It wasn’t a perfect move but smooth enough to earn his undivided attention. She flashed him a grin as she slowed her pace, letting him enter her orbit.

“I’m just saying,” she added with mock thoughtfulness, “you’ve got lead-in-the-school-play energy. But you’re giving off major baby-deer-on-ice vibes.”

Still no reply.

He always gave her just that crooked, barely-there smile when she said something that surprised him.

Rowan circled him again, slow and deliberate. It was playful, but it wasn’t just that. Something else threaded through her—something nervous, electric, and dangerous. She wasn’t used to this. Flirting without armour and being soft without the edge.

“Tell me the truth,” she said, stopping before him. Her breath rose between them, a thin cloud of fog. “You brought me here so I’d catch you every time you almost eat it, didn’t you?”

He still didn’t speak. But she caught the edge of his sleeve when he slipped—just slightly, a quick jerk of his footing—before she even thought about it.

Their hands didn’t quite touch. But they didn’t need to.

The contact sent something sharp and warm straight up her spine.

She didn’t let go right away. And he didn’t pull away, either.

“You’re lucky I’m a natural,” she murmured, half to herself, half to him.

Then, finally, she pushed off again—giving herself space, but not too much. Her blades moved faster this time, carving soft curves into the ice. She felt him behind her, slow but steady. Trying. Watching. Following.

She liked that.

She looked over her shoulder and called, “You’re doing better.”

And then, with a smirk: “You’re just saying that because I can skate backwards.”

She didn’t need to hear him say anything. She already knew what he was thinking.

Because he looked at her like she was gravity.

And Rowan Starling?
She was dangerously close to letting herself fall more than she already had.

He was going to die.

Not in a poetic, Shakespearean tragedy sort of way. No, this was going to be far less dignified. More like: boy meets ice, ice meets boy’s tailbone, and dignity is lost in the crossfire.

Mason clutched the rink wall like it was the last lifeboat off the Titanic, his knees doing this weird involuntary wobble thing he was trying to pretend was just… rhythm. Yeah. Rhythm.

He could feel her watching him. Rowan, circling like some smug celestial body, just effortlessly skating backwards like a cool girl in an indie movie who definitely didn’t have a crush on the disaster clinging to the barrier like it owed him money.

And yet—somehow—she was smiling at him.

God help him.

“You know,” she teased, skating past with all the elegance of someone who had not recently googled “can you get a concussion from standing still on ice,” “this would be a lot more romantic if you didn’t look like you were preparing for battle.”

He opened his mouth to reply. Closed it. Focused instead on not reenacting Bambi’s origin story.

She was skating backwards now. Showoff. Beautiful, terrifying showoff.

And yet, when she grinned at him like that, the kind that curled up at the corners and made him feel like maybe she saw him—he forgot, for a moment, that his entire body was made of panic and regret.

“I’m just saying,” she added, still circling him like a shark in figure skates, “you’ve got lead-in-the-school-play energy. But you’re giving off major baby-deer-on-ice vibes.”

He gave her that slow, crooked smile—the one he reserved for moments when he was both dying internally and slightly enchanted. Which, lately, was every time she looked at him for longer than three seconds.

“I’ll have you know,” he said, finally, voice strained with effort and sarcasm, “this is how I flirt. It’s part of my process. Step one: look helpless. Step two: fall into your arms. Step three: emotional vulnerability. Step four: marriage?”

And right then—of course—he slipped.

Not fully. Just one of those quick foot jerks that made your stomach do that drop tower ride at a theme park thing. His arms flailed, legs buckled, and he may or may not have made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a very dignified gasp—which, of course, he immediately pretended hadn't happened.

Rowan caught his sleeve.

Not his hand. Not exactly.

But it was enough.

And when she didn’t let go right away, he forgot every law of physics and motion and pride.

“You’re lucky I’m a natural,” she murmured.

He wanted to say something cool. Something flirtatious. Instead, his voice came out a little dazed. “Lucky’s… one word for it.”

She skated off again, like she hadn’t just saved his actual life and definitely hadn’t just made his heart skip the kind of beat that required CPR.

He followed. Wobbly. Determined. At war with gravity and losing, but dammit—he was trying.

“You’re doing better,” she called over her shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said, then added, louder, “My spine and I aren’t on speaking terms anymore, but I’m glad you’re impressed.”

A pause. Then, just loud enough for her to hear:

“I’d say something smooth about how you’re dazzling or whatever—but if I open my mouth again, I’m probably gonna faceplant.”

Still, he kept following her. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because maybe she was gravity.

But Mason Hayes?
He was already falling.
And honestly?
It felt kind of worth the bruises.

He delivered his lines as though they were wrapped in layers of effortless humour—“My spine and I aren’t on speaking terms.” “You’re dazzling.” Each phrase flowed from his lips like a thin veil, a fragile barricade erected to conceal the storm churning just beneath the surface of his composure.

Rowan absorbed every nuance, her heart serving as a vessel for his unspoken struggles.

This time, she felt the weight of his unworthiness and didn’t want to add to it. She refrained from peppering her response with her trademark teasing sarcasm or that familiar, playful smirk she usually wore as armour against the vulnerability of closeness. In his clumsy, awkward way, Mason navigated a labyrinth of emotions, stumbling along like a puppy on slick ice, desperately hoping to stand tall.

Instead of filling the silent space between them with her usual clever quips, she pushed off with precision, gliding across the ice in a gracefully smooth arc, her approach slow and deliberate. Her gaze remained steady, warm, and unwavering as she drew nearer to him. When she came to a halt just in front of him, his surprise lit up his features, and there was a spark of disbelief in his eyes as if he thought she would always be just outside his reach. Chasing her was the only way he had ever hoped to keep her close.

Without a single word, she extended her hands toward him, her fingers grazing the cool fabric of his gloves with gentle tenderness. This gesture was devoid of jest; it was neither a playful challenge nor a mocking move. It was an honest offering, a simple connection.

The warmth of her touch seeped into his skin, creating an anchor amidst the swirling chaos of his thoughts: It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.

Then, with a quiet surge of confidence, she began to skate backwards, her movements fluid and steady, each glides a silent promise that urged him forward. For a brief moment, he faltered, his skates wobbling beneath him as uncertainty threatened to send him spiralling. Yet she attuned herself to his rhythm, synchronising with his faltering steps, her presence coalescing around him as they forged a circle together on the glimmering ice.

No clever remarks danced on her lips this time. She avoided locking eyes directly with him, allowing the moment's weight to linger between them. But she didn’t release her grasp when his fingers instinctively tightened around hers, a subtle yet profound signal of his need for support.

Not this time.

Because while he teetered perilously close to the edge of collapse, she stood resolute and unwavering, committed to being his steadfast ally. She wouldn’t allow him to fall alone on that ice.

Mason Hayes had made a mistake.

Well. Several.

First, agreeing to skate at all. That had been mistake number one. He didn’t know what brand of delusion made him say “Sure, sounds fun” like he hadn’t once sprained his wrist getting off a moving escalator.

Mistake number two? Letting her see him like this—like Bambi’s lesser-known, less-coordinated cousin. A little more eyeliner and he’d be a Tim Burton character.

And then, the third and final mistake: reaching for her hand.

Because now he couldn’t let go. Physically or emotionally.

She was standing in front of him, balanced and graceful like she belonged on a music box, and he was thinking—unhelpfully—about the last time her hands had been on him. What it had meant. What it had broken open in him. What it still did.

She was too close.

She wasn’t close enough.

His knees wobbled.

He tried to play it cool.

“Okay,” he murmured, voice tight as he adjusted his stance with all the finesse of a baby giraffe attempting ballet. “This is fine. I’m fine. Just…defying physics and personal history at once. Casual.”

His hands were in hers—somehow—and that should’ve helped. But it didn’t. Because now she was skating backwards, leading him, and that should’ve been romantic. Probably was romantic. In a normal moment. But his left foot was conspiring with his right foot to launch him into a public humiliation montage, and she was looking at him like he was worthy.

Which was unfair.

He hadn’t earned that look.

He hadn’t earned her.

God, she was steady. Like she’d been born on ice. Like gravity bent itself slightly to please her. Meanwhile, he was out here trying to pretend his limbs understood cooperation.

One slip—just one—and he nearly took them both down. He gasped.

Loudly.

Like a whole drama major choking on their dignity.

She didn’t laugh.

She didn’t tease.

She just steadied him, fingers tightening slightly, grounding him in a way that burned more than the cold air around them.

It hit him, suddenly and with force:

She wasn’t laughing because she knew. She’d seen through the jokes and the banter, past the aloof posture and the layered sarcasm. She knew how hard he was trying. Not just to stay upright. But to be enough.

He swallowed thickly.

“Okay,” he said again, voice lower now, breath fogging between them. “So if I fall, we agree—you go down with me. That’s just good stage partner etiquette.”

His lips twitched up at the corners. Not a full smile. Something gentler.

Something real.

“I’m not trying to be dramatic,” he added, “but my dignity is hanging by a thread, and it’s cold out here, and you smell like cinnamon or witchcraft or something equally distracting, and frankly I think this entire rink is out to get me.”

He paused.

“Also I like you. A lot. In case that wasn’t obvious between the panicked flailing.”

His skates shifted again—traitors, both of them—but she adjusted with him, like it was easy. Like loving him might be.

He looked down at their hands, then up into her eyes.

And for just a second, Mason Hayes stopped overthinking. Stopped calculating how to be smooth or charming or worthy.

He just…held on. And let her lead.

Because Rowan Starling wasn’t someone you caught.

She was someone you kept pace with.

If you were lucky.

Rowan didn’t miss a beat.

Not when he gasped like someone had unplugged his dignity. Not when he monologued about cinnamon and witchcraft and the rink being possessed. Not even when he confessed—awkward and stumbling—that he liked her.

She kept skating backwards, calm and steady, hands still in his. Letting him flail and letting him speak.

And when he was finally quiet—when he looked up at her like she was the axis of the whole goddamn planet—then she struck.

“Okay, one,” she said, her tone bone-dry but a little too fond of being mean. That’s not stage partner etiquette. That’s a survival instinct.”

She adjusted her grip just slightly like she was grounding them both.

“And two,” she continued, “you’re forgetting something very important.”

He blinked. Cautious.

She arched a brow.

“I’m your girlfriend,” she said simply, like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “Which means if you fall, I don’t fall with you. I'll catch you. I stabilise. I issue firm but loving commentary on your life choices while preventing bodily harm.”

A beat.

“That’s good girlfriend etiquette, Hayes. Keep up.”

She didn’t smile, but the corners of her mouth twitched—just enough to undo him.

“And as for the rest of that word vomit you just spilt—” she added, glancing down at their hands before looking him dead in the eye, “I’ll take the cinnamon. I’ll even take the witchcraft. But if you call me distracting again while we’re trying not to die, I will let go.”

A pause.

“Momentarily.”

And then, softer—almost too soft to hear:

“But I like you, too.”

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just steady. Just real. She kept skating. And he kept holding on. Because Rowan Starling didn’t need to be swept off her feet. She just needed someone who wouldn’t let go.

Girlfriend.

She said—she actually said—girlfriend.

Not in a hypothetical, joke-adjacent way. Not like, “I guess I’m your emergency contact now, lol,” or “Tell people I’m your girlfriend so I can steal your fries.” No. This was Rowan Starling. Dead serious. Ice-skating backwards like some magical frost queen, hands wrapped around his like she meant it, and casually declaring herself his girlfriend while he was out here just trying not to die on skates.

His brain went static.

Girlfriend.

His.

Rowan Starling was his girlfriend.

Mason blinked. His whole soul did that Windows blue screen of death thing. He was going to need a system reboot and possibly a church choir.

Is this what cardiac arrest feels like?

She kept skating. He kept flailing. Somewhere in the middle, he was pretty sure he blacked out from joy.

“Cool,” he managed, voice cracking on the single syllable like a preteen boy seeing ankle for the first time. “Cool, cool, cool. That’s. That’s so—casual. Yep. No big deal. Just—just gonna go ahead and rank that above oxygen and winning a Tony.”

Internally, he was screaming.

He’d dreamed about this—middle school Mason, awkward and notebook-scribbling, would’ve combusted on the spot. He used to imagine it so vividly: Rowan Starling leaning in across a cafeteria table or a prop table backstage and calling herself his girlfriend like it was obvious, like it had always been true.

And now it was.

And she was still holding his hands like they were tethered to something solid, even as he wobbled dangerously to the left.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, looking down at their entwined fingers like they were sacred. “I’m dating out of my league. I should be monitored. Someone should revoke my license to be this lucky.”

Then—because his knees were staging a violent protest and his skates had the audacity to tilt inward at the same time—he tipped forward.

“NONONO—”

And down they went.

Not gracefully.

It was not a cinematic fall with wind-blown hair and strategic lighting.

It was a limbs-everywhere, Mason-trying-to-break-her-fall-but-definitely-making-it-worse kind of collapse.

They landed in a heap. Her elbow jabbed into his ribs, his scarf got tangled somewhere in the mess of her ponytail, and his knee might’ve temporarily left the chat.

But he was laughing. Winded and sprawled and laughing.

“Okay. See. That was just to prove a point,” he wheezed, face flushed with cold and joy. “I fall, you catch. Very ‘good girlfriend etiquette.’ Ten outta ten, no notes.”

He looked up at her from the ice, breathless, half-laughing, limbs askew like a marionette dropped mid-performance. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, heart thudding with the shock of impact and the much bigger shock of her.

Still holding his hand.

Still here.

He swallowed, tried to speak, failed, then tried again—voice wobbling somewhere between flirty and shell-shocked.

“So, um… do boyfriends get hazard pay? Or is that covered under the emotional labor of dating someone with zero ankle coordination?”

A beat.

Then, softer—like the words were brand new in his mouth, but he didn’t want to let them go:

“I mean. I’m your boyfriend. Right?”

He blinked at her, something wide and terrified flickering behind the grin he barely managed to hold onto.

Say yes. Say yes, say yes, say yes—

“I just—feel like I should officially know. Before I start cashing in on cocoa and, you know, heroic cuddles. For medical recovery purposes.”

He attempted to prop himself up, wincing dramatically and flopping back down like his spine had simply opted out of the day.

“Okay, no, I live here now,” he announced to the sky, deadpan. “This is my home. I skate. I fall. I cling to my insanely beautiful girlfriend and accept my fate with dignity.”

A pause.

Then, looking at her again, his smile softened—less performative now, more real. Earnest in that quiet, devastating Mason way.

“Seriously, though… if it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to stay right here a little longer.”

He squeezed her hand. Just once.

“Just... holding on.”

Because he was her boyfriend.

And somehow—against every odd in the universe—he got to be.

She was going to kill him.

Not because he’d dragged her down in the most ungraceful fall of all time—not because her elbow was now deeply acquainted with his ribcage or because her ponytail had become a scarf casualty in his very dramatic collapse.

No.

She was going to kill him because of the way he was looking at her.

Still holding her hand. Still breathless. He was still sprawled on the ice like he’d just had a religious experience.

And maybe he had.

Mason Hayes was beaming, his face flushed, his limbs askew, and he was grinning like the world had handed him a gift with her name and then told him he was allowed to keep it.

She should’ve rolled her eyes.

Should’ve snorted, shoved him lightly, said get up, idiot—but she didn’t. She just stared down at him, heart pounding far too loud in her chest for how cold it was outside and how ridiculous this moment should’ve been.

Boyfriends don’t get hazard pay, he’d said.

Boyfriend.

And then, as if that hadn’t been enough of an emotional landmine:

“I mean. I’m your boyfriend. Right?”

The words echoed in her chest like they belonged there. And maybe they did.

Rowan blinked. Once. Twice.

She felt unsteady, but not in a way that was related to the ice.

He kept talking—because, of course, he did—filling the silence with jokes and dramatic proclamations, like if he didn’t make her laugh, he might combust. She watched him flop back to the ice like some tragic, lovable theatre ghost, and for one heart-stopping second, she forgot how to breathe.

Because this—him, here, like this—was real.

It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t posturing. It wasn’t performative.

It was Mason, unfiltered, unguarded, asking her to say yes to something that had already been true for weeks.

She exhaled.

Then, very slowly, she dropped to her knees beside him, ignoring the bite of the cold and the sharp edge of a thousand feelings she’d been dodging for far too long.

“You’re such a disaster,” she said, quiet and even.

He started to protest.

“And,” she continued, cutting him off, “yes. You’re my boyfriend.”

She said it like it was a fact. Like it had always been a fact. The sky was blue, the ice was cold, and Mason Hayes was hers.

Not just on the ice. Not just in this weird, wonderful, ridiculous moment.

Everywhere.

Rowan didn’t do labels. Not easily. Not without hesitation.

But this? This she didn’t need to question.

“And for the record,” she added, dry but warm, “you don’t get hazard pay. But you do get cocoa. And the cuddles. And probably my hoodie, if you stop being weird about this and get up off the damn ice.”

He looked at her like she’d handed him the moon.

She sighed, tugging gently at his sleeve.

“Come on, boyfriend. I’m cold. You’ve ruined the mystique.”

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Not even a little.

Because somewhere between the chaos, the cold, and the completely uncoordinated wipeout, Mason Hayes had said the thing she hadn’t known she needed to hear.

And she wasn’t going to let that go.

Not now. Not ever.

For half a second, Mason just froze.

Not from the ice, not from the cold seeping into his jeans, not from the fact that he was lying flat on his back like a cartoon character who’d slipped on a banana peel. No. It was something else entirely.

She said yes.

She said yes.

Yes, you’re my boyfriend.

A full beat passed before it hit him—and then:

“Oh my god,” he gasped, jerking upright like a man resurrected. “Oh my GOD. I’m her boyfriend. I’m—” He flung his arms wide like he might ascend off the rink. “EVERYONE, I’M ROWAN STARLING’S BOYFRIEND—”

Several skaters turned. A couple kids pointed. One guy clapped, uncertain if this was a proposal or a concussion.

Rowan made a noise like she wanted to hurl him into the sun.

Mason blinked. Reality caught up. Right. People. Loud. Outside voice.

He cleared his throat—too loud—then cleared it again, this time like a normal person. His whole face was red, but he was grinning so hard it didn’t matter.

“I mean. Uh. Cool. That’s—cool. That’s... chill.”

He gave an exaggerated nod, attempting to pull off suave while still half-on his butt. “Just. You know. Celebrating internally now. Very refined. Extremely composed.”

Rowan arched a brow.

He pointed at her, eyes wide. “Don’t judge me, you just made my entire existence canon.”

Then, with a dramatic groan, he hauled himself up with the grace of a very elegant baby deer—if baby deer wore thrifted scarves and were madly in love. Once upright, he reached for her hand again—like he’d earned it now. Like it was some sacred talisman he wasn’t about to risk dropping.

“Okay,” he said, breath still fogging, voice still a little giddy and breathless. “Cocoa. Cuddles. And your hoodie, which, just to be clear, I will wear like a badge of honor and possibly sleep in every night until graduation. A hoodie for a hoodie, obviously—since someone already stole mine.”

He shot her a look that was half mock-scandalized, half smitten.

“I’m just restoring balance to the universe.”

They stepped off the rink, skates clacking awkwardly on the rubber mat. His hand stayed locked with hers, thumb brushing back and forth in a silent loop.

Internally, Mason was still screaming.
Boyfriend. He was the boyfriend.
Middle school Mason—braces, tragic haircut, hiding poems behind math homework—would never believe this.

Externally, he tried to keep his cool as they reached the cocoa stand.

“Two,” he told the vendor with excessive calm, pointing with flair. “For me and my incredibly intimidating and heartbreakingly attractive girlfriend.”

He turned to Rowan, eyes dancing, voice dropping just for her.

“You’re sure I don’t get hazard pay? Because I’m fairly certain I suffered a heart attack back there.”

He nudged her lightly.

“Worth it.”

And under the twinkling lights, clutching cocoa and clutching her hand tighter still, Mason Hayes looked at Rowan Starling like she was gravity.

And he was done pretending he wanted to float.

She should’ve been embarrassed.

Mortified.

Because Mason Hayes had just announced—yelled—to half the ice rink that he was her boyfriend. With full arm extension. With gusto. Like he was leading a musical number, no one else had rehearsed for.

And yet, instead of sinking through the ice or pretending not to know him, Rowan just… watched him.

With her whole heart on fire.

He looked so stupid. So earnest. She was incredibly proud that something she hadn’t realised could mean much. And it hit her—in the chest, in the gut, in every soft part she’d spent years pretending didn’t exist—that he wanted this. Not the status. Not the idea.

Her.

God, he wanted her.

He was flushed and winded, grinning like he’d just won the lottery, and all she could do was stand there, her heart beating so loudly that it drowned out the music playing overhead.

She managed a noise—somewhere between a groan and a laugh—as skaters turned and pointed and clapped like they were extras in a sitcom, and this was the punchline. But Mason didn’t even blink. He just nodded like a lunatic, trying to play it off as “refined” while sitting squarely on his butt.

She should’ve made fun of him.

She should’ve told him to shut up.

Instead, she just looked at him. Looked.

And there it was.

The thing she hadn’t let herself say.

She was in love with him.

Like—stupid in love.

Not the version she’d trained herself to want: polished, perfect, calculated. No, this was messy, unplanned, and so loud it drowned out logic. He’d short-circuited every defence she’d built up since middle school and just waltzed right through the parts of her she thought she’d locked up tight.

He stood again—barely—and reached for her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Rowan?

She didn’t hesitate.

She laced her fingers through his and held on.

Because maybe she was intimidating. Maybe she was hard to read, hard to hold, and sometimes too much.

But Mason Hayes had never once backed away.

Not when she was sharp.

Not when she was soft.

Not even now, when her heart was so visible, did she feel practically translucent.

They stepped off the ice, his hand still in hers, and she let herself be pulled along, quietly floored by the fact that this feeling, this boy—was real.

At the cocoa stand, he ordered like he was starring in his rom-com, voice all flair and ridiculousness. And she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t scoff. I just stared at him, completely smitten.

He turned to her with that look—that look—and asked about hazard pay.

She didn’t answer right away.

She reached for her cocoa, bumped his shoulder with hers, and gave him the smallest, softest smile she’d ever allowed in public.

“I’ll pay you in hoodies,” she murmured.

And then, quieter:

“And maybe a little less emotional repression.”

He squeezed her hand. She let him.

As they stood under the lights, hot drinks warming their frozen fingers, Rowan Starling looked at Mason Hayes like he was in the safest place in the world.

And for once, she didn’t feel the need to hide it.