Breaking the Ice

Romance. 500 words, 2 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.

Leslie's fingers curled around the frost-slicked railing, her knuckles matching the white of the ice below. Each careful shuffle forward sent little sprays of shaved ice against her rented skates—size 7, still stiff with newness, or so she'd claimed when lacing them up. Behind her, Jared traced lazy figure-eights, though his ankle wobbled with each crossover.

"You're doing great," he called out, voice pitched just a touch too high. His designer jacket caught the rink's fluorescent lights as he carved to a stop beside her, one hand scratching at the back of his neck. "The trick is to, uh, keep your weight centered."

Leslie ducked her head to hide a smile. The YouTube tutorial playing faintly through his earbuds during their pre-skate coffee hadn't gone unnoticed. "Like this?" She let her knees buckle slightly, reaching for his arm with calculated clumsiness.

They circled the rink in tandem, a study in mutual deception. Leslie counted under her breath—one-two-three, one-two-three—but not for the reason Jared assumed. The familiar rhythm of a waltz jump tickled at her muscle memory, even as she manufactured another stumble.

A child shot past them, rainbow pom-pom hat streaming behind her like a comet tail. Jared's attempt at a smooth direction change became a pinwheel of arms, and Leslie's instinctive grab to steady him was far too practiced.

Their eyes met. Something shifted in the space between them, like the first crack in spring ice.

"I, uh—" Jared's laugh came out shaky. He tugged at his scarf, looking everywhere but at her. "You know those Instagram reels of people falling on ice?"

"Mm?"

"I watched about fifty of them last night. Figured I should know what not to do." His smile went crooked. "Though I'm pretty sure I just demonstrated most of them anyway."

Leslie's choreographed giggle dissolved into genuine laughter. "If it helps, I've been counting my three-turn positions while pretending to count my steps."

"Three-turn positions?"

She gestured at the open ice behind them, raising an eyebrow. Jared's nod carried the wonder of someone being let in on a secret. Moving to the center, Leslie felt the familiar surge of cold air against her cheeks as she gained speed. Her body remembered this dance: the gathering of momentum, the precise edge work, the moment of suspension. The pirouette unfurled like a flower opening, one rotation flowing into the next.

When she returned, Jared was shaking his head, snowflakes caught in his dark curls. "That was... I don't even have a word for that. Here I am, barely managing to stay vertical—"

"Hey." Leslie caught his hand, noting how his fingers were just as cold as hers now. "Being vertical is a perfectly respectable skating goal."

"Even if it's not exactly the smooth moves I was going for?"

"Especially then." She squeezed his hand, feeling the tremor of his laugh through their joined palms.

On an impulse, they both decided to drop all pretense. They leaned in for a kiss, and it became clear who had been pretending more.

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