Chapter 16 #3
A little boy skates over to wave goodbye.
I crouch automatically to talk to him, and Calder's hand settles lightly against the middle of my back while I do.
The touch barely registers at first because it happens so often now.
It stays there while the boy explains, in great detail, that he only fell seven times today and that this is apparently a personal best.
"That's very impressive," I tell him solemnly.
"I know."
The confidence is breathtaking.
A minute later he skates away, and Calder's hand remains where it is for a second longer before disappearing.
Then he reaches the rink gate before I can and holds it open while I step through.
A moment later his hand brushes briefly against my waist, steering me around a pile of abandoned rental skates near the entrance.
The movement is small. Automatic. The sort of thing most people would never notice. Unfortunately for Calder, I notice everything now.
"You okay?" I ask once we're clear of the remaining families.
Calder glances over immediately.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
The suspicion arrives so quickly I have to bite the inside of my cheek.
"No reason."
His eyes narrow slightly. I look away before I laugh, because suddenly he looks exactly like somebody who knows he's being evaluated and has absolutely no idea why.
"You know Daniel's married, right?" I ask casually.
Calder nearly walks directly into a bench. I stop. He keeps walking. For three full steps.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
The response arrives so quickly it circles all the way back around to suspicious again. A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
"You're being weird."
"I'm literally just walking."
At that exact moment a child sprints through the hallway in socks.
Calder's hand immediately settles against the small of my back, guiding me out of the way before the collision can happen.
Then he realizes what he's doing. His hand disappears.
Too late. I glance pointedly at the space where it had been.
Calder looks away. Warmth spreads slowly through my chest. Not because I know what he's thinking.
Because he keeps doing things like that without seeming to realize it.
The hand at my back. The way he notices when I'm about to walk into something.
The way his attention snaps toward me whenever I laugh.
And then, the second he becomes aware of it, he acts like none of it happened.
By the time the last family leaves, the rink finally settles into silence.
Tiny skate marks carve uneven lines across the ice.
Abandoned gloves and sticker sheets still litter the benches.
Calder leans against the boards beside me while I finish stacking cones.
His hair is a mess. His hoodie sleeve is somehow covered in glitter.
He still looks faintly sharper around the edges than he did an hour ago.
"You survived."
"Barely."
I laugh, and his attention shifts toward me immediately. The movement is automatic enough that something tightens unexpectedly in my chest, because he keeps doing that. Every time. Like my laugh catches his attention before anything else.
"You were good with them."
Calder scoffs. "One of them used me as a braking system."
"That little boy would trust you with his life now."
"Questionable survival instinct."
"Still true."
The words settle between us, quiet and comfortable.
For a second Calder just looks at me, long enough that I become aware of it, long enough that something softens briefly in his expression.
Then he looks away. The moment disappears almost immediately.
Still, it leaves warmth behind, and somehow that feels far more dangerous.
We finish packing equipment together in comfortable silence.
Calder passes me tape before I ask for it when I reach toward the bag.
I hand him helmets automatically in return.
The rhythm between us feels strangely practiced already, like we've been moving around each other side by side for much longer than we actually have.
"You do this every weekend?" Calder asks eventually.
"Mostly."
"Why?"
I lean lightly against the boards beside him.
"Because somebody let me learn skating before competition had the chance to ruin it."
Calder goes quiet. The answer hangs between us longer than I expect it to. I stare out across the empty ice while absentmindedly twisting a piece of tape between my fingers.
"Competition changes things eventually," I admit.
The words still come easier around him than they should.
Not because vulnerability suddenly became enjoyable.
Because somewhere along the way Calder stopped making it feel dangerous.
"Everything gets measured after a while. Scores. Placements. Mistakes."
I shrug.
"But this?"
My gaze drifts toward the beginner rink. The scattered cones. The tiny skate marks. The abandoned sticker sheet somebody forgot on a bench.
"They still love it just because it's fun."
Calder follows my gaze. When he looks back at me, his attention lands with that same unsettling intensity it always does.
"And you like that."
I shake my head.
"I need that."
The correction leaves my mouth before I think about it, and something shifts briefly in Calder's expression. Not surprise, but recognition, like that answer explains something. He looks down at the tape roll in his hands for a second before lifting his eyes back to mine.
"You're different here."
A laugh slips out.
"You already said that."
"No."
His voice stays low.
Certain.
"I mean happier."
The words land harder than they should. For a second all I can hear is the quiet hum of the rink, the empty ice, the distant sound of somebody locking a door further down the hallway.
I look away first, toward the boards, toward the equipment bags, anywhere except him.
Because the annoying part is that I know exactly what he means.
The version of me that exists here has nothing to prove.
No judges. No rankings. No impossible standard waiting at the end of every session.
Just children who think skating three feet without falling deserves a celebration. Calder exhales quietly.
"I like seeing you like this."
The words arrive so naturally they almost sound accidental.
Everything inside me stills. When I look back at him, his jaw tightens slightly.
The reaction is brief, instinctive, like part of him wants to take the words back, or explain them, or soften them somehow.
He doesn't. That matters far more than it should.
The silence stretches, not awkward, just full.
Calder doesn't look away, doesn't laugh it off, doesn't pretend he never said it.
He just stands there watching me with more honesty than he usually allows himself.
Something settles heavily beneath my ribs—not panic, not even uncertainty, just the sudden awareness that Calder sees more than I ever intended him to, and instead of pulling away from it, he keeps stepping closer.