Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm now apparently making them ice skate.

Anyagal is kindly prereading for me.

Come & Go

By the time I make it through the warren of half-dimmed hallways, it's pushing eleven.

I pass Lauren on her way out. Bleary-eyed and dragging, she nods but doesn't say a word. Sweat darkens her hairline and dampens her shirt. There's a noticeable hitch in her long-legged gait, as well as an ice pack taped around her shoulder. As bitchy as she can sometimes be, I feel for her, and I can't help but wonder how much harder she's going to push before rumor becomes reality and she drops out of singles.

Otherwise, the place is a ghost town. The locker rooms stand empty. The classes have long since dispersed. Even the usual late-night regulars have already packed up and gone home.

Being one of Katya's elite, normal business hours don't apply to me, however. I have the keycode if I need it, although by now, the security guy knows me well enough that he just waves me through when I drop by his office on my way in.

I halt in my tracks when I see the bright glow of the rink through the glass at the end of the hall. Annoyance pricks, too. I really wasn't planning on having to share the ice tonight. The last thing I want to do is explain why I'm here purging my demons. I debate turning back, reminding myself all over again that it's late and I ought to go home.

Then strains of music–a slow, sad piano melody–filter out into the corridor, and my feet move of their own volition. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tip my face to the ceiling and pause again outside the double doors. I pick up the hard thunk of blades hitting the ice, and curiosity wins.

A familiar black-on-black silhouette greets me, and my irritation, along with the nonstop mental carousel that drove me here to start with, simply evaporates.

Careful not to slam the door, I slip inside the arena just in time to catch Edward start his approach. His face–still absurdly good looking with its two-day scruff–is a mask of concentration. As he rotates down the ice, he looks like a coil winding up, tighter and tighter, readying for release. I hold my breath as his right leg draws back. A second later, it swings forward like a whip, and then he launches himself into the air in an explosive quadruple Salchow.

Edward's form and rhythm are perfect, and as he flies, my heart jumps with him.

No wonder Ty hates him.

Silently, propping my elbows on the boards, I watch the show. Chewing up the ice, Edward executes three more jumps, each one as flawless and powerful as the first. He falters landing the fourth–another quad, this one a Lutz–but he catches himself before he falls. It's not great, but all in all, it's a relatively minor wobble on a jump that most would kill to have in their repertoire. Nonetheless, as he circles around, his brows slam down, and he shoves a hand through messy hair before palming the back of his neck in tired exasperation.

"Fuck," he mutters, low and angry.

I clear my throat. "Underrotated."

Edward jerks around. It takes him a second to spot me, and when he does, I grin at the shock that flashes across his features.

"Jesus." Shaking his head, he immediately glides over, and a slow, creeping smile steals across his lips. "How long have you been standing there?"

"A while."

He skids to a stop, pulling up just in time to miss smacking the boards. When I don't startle or jump back, his eyes dance. "Long enough to see me bust my ass?"

I laugh and make a show of leaning over to examine his backside. A large damp spot darkens his right thigh. There's another on his left. "No, not quite, but I hate I missed that."

"Well, I'm not. It wasn't pretty." We stare at each other for a beat too long. Before I can reply, he asks, "So, what are you doing here?"

I shrug. "I could ask you the same."

"Fair enough." Long fingers bracket the top of the wall, drawing my gaze to the gothic lines that wind up his forearms and disappear beneath his shoved-up sleeves. When he squeezes the board, muscle flexes, and the ferryman's cloak seems to ripple across his skin. "Some nights, I don't sleep too well."

"Plus," he says, going on before I can ask, "I don't really feel like taking out my fellow skaters while practicing my jumps…" When I glance up, his jaw rolls, and his mouth flattens into a hard line. "Unlike some people around here."

My heart thumps, and I swallow.

"Thank you for that, by the way." Despite the cool arena air, warmth climbs my neck and cheeks and makes me fidget. "For the other day, I mean."

Topping me by a foot with the ice and his skates, Edward stares down at me. What he sees, I have no clue, but his voice abruptly softens. "You know, you don't have to keep thanking me."

"I'm not just talking about saving me from Ty."

His jaw rolls again, and as he glances away, focusing on something down the ice, his irises seem to flicker and darken. "That guy's a fucking idiot."

Okay, he's not wrong.

Although, the heat riding his tone catches me off guard. I guess the hatred's mutual.

"Wait," I say, teasing, and my brows hit my hairline. "I thought you said he was a basement-dwelling incel."

Edward's shoulders shake, and as he turns back, his expression clears. His lips twitch, and then he throws me a wry, lop-sided smile that makes my stomach flutter. "Yeah, well, he's that, too."

"But seriously, thank you for…" I trail off, and I swear, my cheeks might as well be on fire. "The other thing, too."

For the reminder of what it feels like not skating alone.

For giving me a few moments of normalcy.

For letting me forget.

Edward doesn't answer, other than a subtle drop of his chin, and I can't tell if he really gets it or not. Probably not. Either way, after another moment of silence, I smile and look out across the freshly resurfaced ice, pristine and gleaming. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," he says, so softly I barely hear.

I pull off my guards and toss them onto the nearest bench. Before my fingers can touch the gate, Edward swings it open and extends a hand. Muscle memory takes over, and without thinking, I clasp it and step out onto the ice. Despite the cold, his skin feels like a furnace against mine, and like the other day, his grip is firm and reassuring, yet somehow gentle.

Holding on feels so easy.

As soon as the gate clicks shut, the spell breaks, however. We look down at the same time, startled, and the sudden blankness of his features tells me it wasn't a conscious decision on his part either. Edward's Adam's apple bobs, dipping behind his quarter zip, and when he glances over, he gives me another wry smile as we simultaneously let go.

My skin tingles everywhere we touched.

"So, you didn't answer me before," Edward says, spinning around to face me as we stroke down the perimeter. "Why are you here so late?"

It's both unnerving and comforting skating beside him.

Before we hit the first turn, we fall into the same natural rhythm. As though we've skated together for years, Edward's pace and footwork mirror mine. Or maybe mine mirrors his. Again, I have nothing to blame but muscle memory and routine.

"Same as you," I tell him, shrugging. "Too much going on in my head. I like it when no one else is around and it's quiet. Although…" Grinning, I peer up at the speakers. Another piano medley, this one a little brighter, a little less sad, blares overhead. "I didn't take you for a fan of… Yiruma? I have to say, he doesn't quite fit the image you have going on."

Edward's face tips to the rafters. He laughs, and my traitor stomach flips again. "And just what image is that?"

"Really?" With a roll of my eyes, I motion to the ink on his shins, then his arms, and sweep a hand at his general person. "Oh, never mind. Like you don't know. You know exactly what I mean."

"I promise you, Princess, I have no idea."

When I roll my eyes again, he flashes me a row of pearly teeth before peeling off to execute a series of sharp crossovers and turns. As he angles back, watching–waiting–I huff and do the same. I glide off in the opposite direction, only for him to chase me, mimicking my step sequence as if in challenge. A giggle spills out, and we pick up speed and complexity, weaving back and forth in a tight serpentine pattern, trading lead and follower with each pass around the rink.

It's the most fun I've had skating in… months, and by the time he dares me to a lightning-fast shotgun spin, my whole face hurts from smiling.

.

.

.