Tyler groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face before shooting her a look that was all mock offense and barely-contained laughter. “Wow. You come here with coffee and insults? I see how it is. One near fall and suddenly my entire legacy’s on the line.”

He shook his head, grinning. “For the record, that stop was intentional. Style points. The kids need to see what not to do, you know? Builds character.” He took a sip of his coffee like he was reclaiming dignity with caffeine alone, then glanced sideways at her. “And I am that charming. You’re just immune at this point, which honestly feels unfair.”

Her shoulder brushed his, and he tilted his head just slightly toward her, the faintest smile ghosting over his mouth. “You’re lucky I’m humble enough to share donuts with my harshest critic,” he said, glancing down at the bag. “You call it strategy, I call it quality control. Someone’s gotta make sure the baker’s work meets regulation standards.”

The air between them was cool and alive, every breath a little puff of white against the low light. The rink had mostly emptied, but the world still hummed—soft music from an old radio, the dull scrape of a broom across the far end of the ice, the faint hiss of the coolant systems underneath. It all blended into something that felt steady. Familiar.

When she said the kind I could get used to, his grin slipped into something gentler, quiet pride flickering behind it. “Yeah?” he murmured, watching her from under the messy fall of his hair. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

She teased him about being likable, and he huffed out a laugh. “Dangerously close? C’mon, Tate, I passed that line months ago. You’re just in denial.” He leaned back against the bench, his skates clicking lightly against the boards. “And if liking me means donuts and banter, well… I’ll try to live with the burden.”

Her whisper about snacks made him smile wider, the kind that reached his eyes. “You take snacks seriously,” he said, voice low, amused. “That’s one of your best qualities. That and your very specific talent for making me feel like I’m both a delinquent and a domestic dream in the same sentence.”

When she mentioned him ruining her coffee ratios, he chuckled softly. “Yeah, well. You ruin my mornings too, if it makes you feel better.” He nudged her with his shoulder, warmth edging into his voice. “Can’t exactly go back to quiet after this. Guess we’re both stuck.”

She joked about his next move, and he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Motivational speech portion, huh?” His smirk returned, lazy and familiar. “Nah. I think I’ll skip the pep talk today. I’m already ahead of schedule on being soft, remember?” He looked down at her cup, still warm in her hands. “Besides, I’d rather stay right here for a bit. You make the ice feel less cold.”

Her last words—you’re kind of my favorite version of real too—hung there between them, softer than air. Tyler’s grin faltered into something smaller, fonder. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess we’ve both got a type then.”

He turned the coffee cup slowly between his hands, watching the swirl of steam rise and vanish in the air, then looked back at her with that same mix of teasing and tenderness that was becoming second nature.

“Low blood sugar,” he repeated, his voice roughened by the smile pulling at it. “Sure, Tate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

And even though the world outside the glass kept moving—the hum, the scrape, the sound of a broom catching ice—he didn’t. He just sat there, skates tapping faintly against the floor, looking at her like she was the one steady thing in a place built to keep moving.

She tossed him a look over her shoulder, half teasing, half soft. “And I’m not immune,” she said lightly. “I’m just… well-trained. You’ve had plenty of practice.”

When he mentioned quality control, she rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her mouth. “Oh, please. You’d fail any bakery inspection,” she said, holding up the bag. “There’s no way you’d pass the ‘don’t eat the evidence’ test. You’re a liability, Harrison.”

The sound of the rink faded around them — a few last voices echoing off the boards, a kid shouting a rushed goodbye — until it was mostly just them and the hum of the lights. She watched him for a moment, that lazy grin softening into something quieter, steadier.

When he said he wasn’t planning on going anywhere, her chest tightened in the best way. She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, and murmured, “Good. ‘Cause I kind of like you right where you are.”

He called her in denial, and she gave a small scoff, pulling on her coat. “Denial’s a perfectly acceptable coping mechanism. Especially when you’re this smug about being likable.” She looked at him as she said it, her eyes giving away the affection her tone tried to hide. “You can live with the burden, though. You wear it well.”

As he teased her about being both a delinquent and domestic, she pressed a hand to her heart, feigning sincerity. “I take pride in range,” she said. “Someone has to keep you humble while also enabling your donut addiction.”

When he said she ruined his mornings, she smiled down at the coffee cup in her hands. “Guess we’re both terrible influences,” she said softly. “Lucky for you, I’m okay with that.”

He mentioned staying put, and she nodded toward the ice with a faint grin. “Well, if you’re skipping the pep talk, then we should probably move before they kick us out for loitering.” She glanced at him, eyes bright. “Come on, soft guy. Let’s walk before your ego freezes to the bench.”

As he got up, she tugged gently on his sleeve, her voice turning quieter. “So… next game’s tomorrow, right?” She hesitated for a heartbeat, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “You want me to come?”

The question came out simple, but it hung in the air like something heavier — not because she doubted the answer, but because it still felt surreal to ask it. To be here, to be his.

When he looked at her, she smiled, small and shy around the edges. “I promise not to bring donuts this time,” she teased softly. “Just coffee. And maybe a sign that says go soft guy if I’m feeling brave.”

Then, because she couldn’t help it, she reached up and smoothed the edge of his jacket near his collar, her hand lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “You’ll do great,” she said, her tone gentle but sure. “You always do.”

She tilted her head, that playful spark returning to her smile. “Now, come on. I’m starving, and you owe me breakfast for emotional support duty.”

Tyler groaned under his breath, but there was no real fight behind it—just that familiar mix of amusement and disbelief she always pulled out of him. “Well-trained, huh?” he echoed, a smirk creeping across his face. “You make it sound like I’m a bad habit you can’t kick. Which—fair—but I like to think I come with better side effects.”

When she threw the “liability” comment his way, he let out a low laugh that echoed off the boards. “A liability? That’s harsh. I prefer ‘hands-on learner.’” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “And for the record, eating the evidence is part of my charm. Every good baker needs a taste tester willing to risk it all.”

The rink had gone quiet around them—just the hum of the lights overhead and the faint hiss of the ice machines. The cold air nipped at his neck, but it didn’t bother him. Not with her this close.

Her reply to him not going anywhere made something warm crawl up the back of his throat, something that didn’t quite fit into words. He looked at her then—really looked—taking in the curve of her smile, the way the light caught the tiny frost in her hair.

“Good,” he said softly, voice low enough that it barely carried past the sound of the lights. “’Cause I like me right here too.”

When she threw the “smug and likable” jab his way, he scoffed, shaking his head. “Smug? Nah. That’s confidence, Tate. It’s called charisma—look it up.” His grin turned lazy as his eyes flicked over her face. “But I’ll take the compliment. Being your favorite bad influence is exhausting work.”

She joked about keeping him humble, and he pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Donut addiction? You say that like it’s not my most consistent personality trait. Don’t act like you don’t love it when I show up smelling like sugar and poor decisions.”

When she said they were both terrible influences, he chuckled quietly, leaning back a little as his skates clicked softly against the boards. “Guess we deserve each other then,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Her next comment about walking before his ego froze earned her another laugh. “See, this is why we work,” he said, standing and stretching, his breath visible in the cold. “You keep me humble, and I keep you entertained. Balance.”

He stepped carefully toward the bench where his gear sat, the hollow sound of his blades tapping against the rubber mat echoing faintly through the quiet rink. Sitting down, he unstrapped his skates, trading them for a pair of worn brown boots that looked like they’d seen one too many winters. The switch felt grounding—back to solid floor, back to earth after all that gliding weightlessness. He grabbed his stick from where it leaned against the wall, spinning it idly between his fingers as he stood.

She tugged on his sleeve then, and he stopped—halfway between teasing and softening again. Her question hit him in that quiet place behind his ribs, the one that always caught him off guard.

He looked at her, slow smile spreading. “You really gotta ask?” he said, voice warm with disbelief. “Yeah, Tate. I want you there. I always do.”

The corner of his mouth lifted when she mentioned the sign. “If you actually bring one that says go soft guy, I’ll retire on the spot,” he said, laughing quietly. “Can’t compete with that kind of public humiliation.”

When her hand brushed his jacket, though, his grin faded into something smaller, steadier. He met her eyes and held them, every bit of noise around them slipping out of focus. “Hey,” he murmured, the teasing gone for once. “You showing up? That’s already enough.”

He didn’t say the rest—the you always are. Didn’t have to. It sat there between them anyway, clear as the frost in the air.

Then he caught her last line, and the crooked smirk came right back. “Breakfast, huh?” he said, nudging her with his elbow. “You mean second breakfast, since you definitely already had one donut on the way here.”

He started walking toward the exit, his stick resting easily over one shoulder, his free hand brushing against hers before finding it fully. “Fine,” he said with a grin, squeezing once. “I’ll pay. But only because emotional support apparently costs extra around here.”

He glanced over, his voice turning softer as they reached the doorway. “And, for the record, Tate?” He paused just long enough to make her look up at him. “You’re the best kind of hungry I’ve ever been.”

Ellie’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it, soft and bright in the cold. “Better side effects?” she echoed, pretending to think it over as she zipped her coat. “You mean the constant sarcasm and inflated ego? Yeah, those are definitely… charming.” She bumped her shoulder against his as they walked, her grin giving her away. “Fine. You can stay. But only because the withdrawal symptoms might be worse.”

When he claimed to be a “hands-on learner,” she arched a brow, playing right into it. “Uh-huh. Hands-on, meaning ‘can’t keep your hands off free food.’ You’re not a taste tester, Tyler. You’re a thief with a good smile and selective morals.”

The warmth in his voice when he said good, ‘cause I like me right here too sent something fluttering through her chest she didn’t want to analyze too closely. She just smiled, brushing her fingers over the back of his sleeve as if to ground herself. “Yeah,” she said lightly, but the softness in her tone gave her away. “I guess I do too.”

When he called it charisma, she let out a snort, shaking her head. “Charisma? That’s one word for it. The dictionary definition probably involves chaos and donut crumbs, but sure—charisma works.” She tilted her head up at him, eyes glinting. “And you don’t keep me entertained. You keep me mildly concerned and slightly over-caffeinated. There’s a difference.”

His line about smelling like sugar earned him an eye roll, though she couldn’t hide her grin. “You’re lucky that combination weirdly works for you,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “Most people can’t pull off ‘human cinnamon roll who could also fight someone in a parking lot.’”

As he bent to change his skates, she leaned against the wall, watching him with that familiar fondness that always sneaked up on her. He never really knew what he looked like in moments like this—quiet, real, his hair falling into his eyes while he tried to act like she wasn’t watching. It made her chest ache in the sweetest way.

When he told her he wanted her there, her smile spread slowly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Okay,” she said simply, a little breath catching on the word. “Then I’ll be there.”

And when he teased about the sign, she grinned up at him. “No promises. You underestimate my commitment to public embarrassment.”

He looked at her again then, saying you showing up’s enough, and she felt it all the way down to her ribs. Her voice was softer when she answered. “Good,” she said. “Because I like showing up for you.”

She let him get a few steps ahead before she caught his jab about the donut, her brows lifting in mock offense. “Excuse me,” she said, feigning indignation. “That wasn’t breakfast. That was survival. There’s a difference.” She fell into step beside him, slipping her hand into his when he reached for it. “I meant a real breakfast. You know, one that involves actual food groups.”

Her smile turned playful. “You’re buying, remember? So I expect something fancy. Like pancakes. Or an omelet that costs too much.”

When he said that last line—you’re the best kind of hungry I’ve ever been—she stopped for half a second, blinking up at him. Then, her lips curved into a softer smile, her voice quiet but teasing. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m never letting you leave the rink again.”

She tugged his hand gently, guiding him toward the door with a look that was pure warmth. “Come on, soft guy,” she said, her grin tipping up. “Let’s go feed your ego and your stomach before you start reciting poetry.”