Steven’s POV

  The indoor rink hit us with cold the second we stepped inside.

  Sharp and clean, like winter had been bottled up and released all at once.

  The sound of blades slicing over ice echoed through the rink, mixed with faint music humming through the speakers. Aqua’s eyes widened immediately, her whole face lighting up like she’d just walked into something magical.

  “This place…” she breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I thought you might like it,” I said, trying not to sound too proud of myself.

  We rented skates, and that’s when my confidence officially died.

  I shoved my wallet and my phone into one of the little lockers by the skate counter—anything breakable, anything I didn’t want to sacrifice to the ice—then pocketed the key like that made me a responsible adult.

  I laced mine up, stood, and immediately questioned every life decision I’d ever made.

  “Okay,” I muttered. “I’ve got this.”

  I did not have this.

  The moment my skates touched the ice, my legs decided they were no longer on speaking terms.

  “Whoa—whoa—!” I flailed, arms windmilling as I grabbed the rail like it owed me money. A couple of kids zipped past me effortlessly, which honestly felt like a personal attack.

  Aqua stepped onto the ice beside me.

  And she didn’t wobble.

  Didn’t flinch.

  She just… moved.

  Smooth. Balanced. Like the ice recognized her.

  I stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She glanced back, concern flickering across her face. “Are you alright?”

  “I—yeah—totally—” I tried to take one step forward.

  I went down.

  Hard.

  The ice was colder than my dignity.

  Aqua gasped and crouched beside me instantly. “Steven!”

  “I’m fine,” I said quickly, face burning. “I just… needed to test gravity. For science.”

  Her smile twitched like she was trying not to laugh.

  Somehow that made it worse and better at the same time.

  I tried again.

  I fell again.

  Aqua tried to help me skate as much as she could, but apparently… I wasn’t built for balance.

  At that point, even I had to admit defeat.

  “You skate,” I said, breathless, laughing under my breath. “I’ll… admire from a safe, upright position.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “You’re not,” I said softly. “I’ll be right here. Promise.”

  After a moment, she nodded.

  And then she pushed off.

  I forgot to breathe.

  She glided across the ice like she belonged to it—long, fluid strokes, turns so smooth they barely disturbed the surface. Not flashy. Just natural.

  Like she’d done this her whole life.

  I watched from the sidelines, something warm blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the heater.

  I slipped off my skates, tugged my shoes back on, and headed to the concession stand—still glancing back at her every few steps just to make sure she was real.

  Two hot cocoas.

  Extra whipped cream.

  When I returned, she was sitting on the bench, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

  “For you,” I said, handing her one.

  She wrapped both hands around the cup immediately. “It smells wonderful.”

  We sat side by side, watching the ice while steam curled between us.

  For a moment, neither of us spoke.

  It wasn’t awkward.

  Just… quiet.

  Comfortable.

  “I like watching you skate,” I admitted. “You make it look easy.”

  She looked down at her cup. “It reminds me of when I read about it.”

  I blinked. “Reading?”

  She nodded. “Books teach me how the world works. People. Places. Feelings. I have read about ice. About winters. I suppose my body remembered before my mind did.”

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  “That’s… actually really cool,” I said honestly. “I read a lot too. Mostly fantasy stuff.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You like stories?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “They make things feel possible. I like the stories where having powers plays a big part in it. Where you have these cool abilities to help those around you and make the world a better place.”

  She smiled at that. “Helping others makes me feel good too.”

  Then, after a pause, she asked softly, “Your parents… are they like that?”

  “Like what?” I asked, even though I knew.

  “Always working,” she said. “Always… occupied.”

  My throat tightened slightly. “My dad is. My mom works too, but she makes time for us.”

  Aqua’s gaze stayed calm, but something in her eyes looked distant for half a second. Like she was looking at a memory she didn’t like.

  “My parents work,” she said. “Always. They have government positions. They are… needed.”

  “So they’re never home?” I asked.

  “Rarely,” she said simply.

  Then, quieter: “That is why my brother is my guardian.”

  I turned toward her fully. “Your brother basically raised you.”

  “In many ways,” she said.

  I didn’t know what to say for a second.

  Because suddenly her calm made more sense.

  If no one was there to soften the world for you, you learned how to soften yourself.

  “My mom’s different,” I said, voice rougher than I meant. “She’s… kind of my center. Like if she’s okay, I’m okay.”

  Aqua watched me like she was filing it away. Like it mattered.

  “That must be comforting,” she said softly.

  “It is,” I admitted. “I don’t… I don’t always realize it until I think about not having it.”

  Aqua nodded once, slow and understanding, and took another sip of cocoa.

  The rink music hummed faintly behind us.

  The ice glittered.

  And for a minute, the world felt small enough to hold.

  By the time we left, the sun was sinking low, the sky painted in soft oranges and pinks like the day didn’t want to end either.

  “Café?” I asked, nodding toward town.

  Aqua smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  We walked back together, hand in hand, steps slower now. No rush. No nervous energy anymore—just that easy, settled feeling that comes after a really good day.

  The bell above the café door chimed softly as we stepped inside, and the warm smell of tea and sugar wrapped around us like comfort.

  I led us straight to the booth by the window—our booth now, somehow.

  I went up to the counter and came back with two hot green teas, setting one in front of Aqua before sitting down across from her.

  Aqua lifted the cup with both hands and inhaled the steam like it was something she could keep.

  “This,” she said softly, almost pleased with herself, “has become my favorite hot drink.”

  I smiled. “Green tea?”

  She nodded. “It just makes everything better.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I said.

  Aqua’s mouth curved like she was quietly pleased. “Mm-hm.”

  She took another sip, then added—so soft it almost didn’t count as a confession, “I like having it with you.”

  The way she said it made me smile so hard it almost hurt—like we’d accidentally created our first little tradition.

  We talked for a while after that—easy conversation that didn’t feel forced anymore. The kind that didn’t make me overthink every word before it left my mouth.

  Somewhere between sips and laughter, I started realizing how much we’d actually learned about each other in one day.

  Aqua loved reading—really loved it—like books weren’t just stories to her, they were how she understood the world. She liked doing community service, like helping kids in orphanages feel normal and seen. Her favorite color was blue, which felt unfairly perfect, and she liked swimming so much she said it like it was obvious, like everyone should. She liked the cold too—the kind of weather most people complained about. She said she had never seen snow before, but would like to someday… which I thought was cute.

  And suddenly a bunch of things clicked.

  Why she hadn’t been shaking as much when I first met her on the beach. Why the ice cream we had for dessert today made her eyes light up like it was treasure. Why the rink had felt less like “winter” to her and more like something special.

  I told her I liked reading too, just different kinds—fantasy mostly. The kind where the impossible still somehow made sense. I told her my favorite color was red. That reading was also an escape for me… from my boring life.

  She said it suited me, and I swear my brain stalled for a second just trying to process that.

  There was a quiet moment after that, and my mouth did what it always did when things got too calm.

  “So, uh… I should probably tell you something.”

  Aqua tilted her head, attentive. “Yes?”

  “I have a pet snake,” I blurted.

  She froze just long enough for my panic to spike.

  “But—okay—wait—before you panic,” I rushed on, hands lifting like I could physically stop her from being afraid. “His name’s Fang. And he’s actually really nice. He just kind of… judges silently. A lot.”

  Aqua blinked.

  Then, to my surprise, she smiled. “That is not what I expected you to say.”

  “He’s harmless,” I said quickly. “He’s the best—and honestly, the only good thing my dad ever gave me. Fang mostly just hangs out. Listens. Pretends not to care.”

  Aqua’s expression softened, like she wasn’t judging it at all.

  “I can see that,” she said gently. “You speak of him with affection.”

  I huffed a quiet laugh. “He mostly just stares at me like I’m disappointing him.”

  “That is still listening,” she said, completely serious.

  And that made me laugh for real.

  We stayed there longer than I realized—talking, laughing, letting the day settle between us like something fragile and good.

  Eventually the sky outside deepened, café lights reflecting softly against the window.

  “I had a really good day,” Aqua said, almost to herself.

  She smiled at me then—warm, genuine, unguarded—and for a second I forgot how to breathe.

  “Me too,” I admitted. “I’m really glad we did this.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “For showing me… all of this.”

  I shrugged, suddenly shy again. “I felt like I needed to.”

  “I’m glad you did,” she replied.

  She held her cup for a second longer, like she didn’t want to let the warmth go yet.

  Then she looked up again. “I… had a really good time today. Thank you.”

  My chest tightened. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I did too.”

  I hesitated, rubbing my thumb along the edge of my cup.

  “Hopefully we can… do this again,” I added. “Some other time.”

  Aqua’s smile went soft in that way that always made me feel like I was standing too close to something important.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”

  We finished our tea slowly, like neither of us wanted to be the one to say it was time.

  But eventually the café grew quieter, the street outside darker.

  I stood first, even though I didn’t want to. “I should probably walk you back.”

  She nodded and stood with me.

  Outside, we crossed the street together and climbed the stairs to her apartment in a quiet that felt… full.

  At her door, we stopped.

  “Well,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. “Today was… really great.”

  She looked up at me, eyes soft. “It was.”

  “I’ll… see you tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  That made me smile.

  “Goodnight, Aqua.”

  “Goodnight, Steven.”

  She hesitated—then leaned in and kissed my cheek.

  It was brief.

  Gentle.

  But it stayed with me.

  I watched her head inside, turning once at the door to wave back at me shyly before closing it.

  Knowing she was safe, I started walking home.

  The night air had cooled, and the streetlights made everything look softer than it probably was. I took the long way on purpose, like if I walked slow enough, I could keep the day from ending.

  The hill up toward my house always felt longer at night. The driveway curved ahead like a ribbon disappearing into dark trees, and my thoughts filled the quiet—Aqua’s laugh in the photo booth, the way she held her tea like it was comfort, the little nod in the grocery store when that lady called us a cute couple.

  I smiled to myself.

  And then I smelled something burning.

  I slowed, sniffing again.

  At first my brain tried to make it normal. A campfire. Someone grilling. One of the neighbors burning leaves even though they weren’t supposed to.

  But the scent was too thick. Too sharp.

  Wrong.

  I looked up the hill.

  The sky above the trees didn’t look like night anymore. It pulsed with an ugly glow—orange, but stained darker at the edges, like the light itself was bruised.

  Smoke rolled upward in heavy waves. Not gray. Not soft. Thick and black, swallowing the stars.

  My stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling.

  No.

  I broke into a run.

  My feet hit gravel, then pavement, then dirt again as the driveway rose. The world narrowed to my breath and the thud of my heartbeat and that growing light.

  Faster.

  Please—

  And then I cleared the last bend.

  And I saw it.

  Our home.