Chapter 19 #2
It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s just skates.
And laces. Parts you need to ice skate. Yet every tiny touch, each movement sends a shock of electricity across my flesh like I’ve been hit by lightning and my brain has apparently decided to clock every single point of contact like it’s important information I’ll need for a test later.
He leans in a little closer to secure the top, his shoulder brushing the inside of my knee, sending a flutter of awareness straight up my spine.
“Too tight?” he asks.
“No,” I say, maybe a fraction too quickly. “It’s fine.”
He glances up again, something flickering in his expression like he’s not entirely convinced, but he nods anyway and ties it off neatly.
“Other foot.”
I shift, a little more aware now, and lift my other leg. He repeats the process, just as steady, just as careful, like this is all part of his routine.
Except it doesn’t feel routine.
Not when his hand slides along my ankle again, and he steadies me without thinking. Not when I can feel the warmth of him even in a place that’s all cold air and ice.
When he finishes, he gives the laces a final tug, then taps the front of the skate lightly.
“Alright,” he says, leaning back just enough to look at me properly. “You’re officially equipped.”
“Great,” I say. “Hopefully it helps?”
His mouth curves, slow and knowing.
“You’ll be fine.”
I look out at the now-empty stretch of ice, then back at him.
“It's been awhile, and I do know how to skate, I just don’t want you to regret asking me to do it.”
“Not a chance,” he says, already pushing to his feet and offering me his hand.
I hesitate for half a second—long enough to acknowledge that this is a choice—then I slide my hand into his. And the same quiet surprise that hit me the first time, hits me again.
His hand is warm, steady…and surprisingly, not rough.
Not even a little. I don’t know what I expected, exactly.
Something calloused, maybe. Worn down from sticks and ice and all the things that come with being him.
But his grip is smooth. Strong and firm, but also gentle.
It’s such a small detail, but it catches me off guard all over again, and for a second I just stand there, blinking at our joined hands like they’ve personally betrayed my assumptions.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s do it,” I say, because that’s apparently who I am now.
His thumb shifts slightly against mine, grounding. “I’ve got you.”
And the annoying part? I believe him.
He steps backward onto the ice, still holding onto me, guiding me forward with an ease that makes it feel less like I’m about to fall on my face and more like I’ve been doing this all along.
The cold bites at first, sharp and immediate, and then my feet wobble, uncertainty kicking in.
Muscle memory teases, challenges me to remember the last time I did this, like really did this, and I come up short.
But Ty’s hand stays wrapped around mine, his presence close, steady, keeping me anchored.
In no time at all, the flurry in my chest settles. I lean into the smooth cadence of the glide. The quiet—or almost quiet—settles in around us. It feels like the morning after a snowstorm, the world softened, blanketed in peace. Like the ice is holding you up, carrying you, if you let it.
And it feels…like freedom.
“Oh,” I breathe, a small laugh slipping out as my skates find their rhythm. “This is not terrible.”
“High praise,” he says, already moving us farther out.
I glare at him. “Don’t get used to it.”
And then, out of nowhere, music kicks on overhead, and I come to a full brake on my skates. It takes a moment for the song to register, but when it does, I start laughing. Full, immediate, can’t-help-it laughter that echoes just a little in the open space.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Ty’s brows pull together, confused but amused. “What?”
I shake my head, still laughing. “Did you pick this song?”
He glances up like he’s just now registering it, then back at me. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it,” I say, still smiling. “I didn’t make you out to be a fan of the song ‘Clean.’”
He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks curious. “Why?”
Before I can answer, he tugs gently on my hand, pulling me closer. My balance wobbles for half a second before I instinctively step in, and suddenly, there’s not much space between us at all.
And I’m more than okay with it.
He’s skating backward now, one hand still wrapped around mine, the other hovering near my waist like he’s ready to catch me if I decide to ruin both our lives by falling.
Which, frankly, feels likely.
“Come on,” he says, softer this time. “Why do you like it? Tell me.”
I swallow, trying very hard to focus on the question and not the fact that I can feel the heat of him even in a cavernous room made to be cold.
“Where do I start?” I glance up, then away, then back again. “I like the symbolism of it, I guess. Starting over. Letting things go. The whole…being clean of something that held you back.”
He watches me with keen interest, hanging on to my every word, like he’s filing that away somewhere.
“And,” I add quickly, because I refuse to get too earnest about this, “it’s Taylor. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.
We glide a little farther, slower now, more controlled. Or maybe I’m just getting used to it.
Or maybe it’s him.
“Well, I like it,” he says after a beat. “It’s one of my favorite songs.”
“One of your favorites?” I repeat, because that feels like information I should have had sooner.
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Yeah.”
I squint in his direction. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
There’s a quiet beat between us, the music filling the space. I could get used to this. To him.
“And the restaurant?” he adds, almost casually, his voice low. “The one that makes those amazing crabcake sandwiches, where I saw you that time.”
“The one that has that playlist/Netflix/social media situation?” I frown slightly, trying to track where he’s going with that. “What about it?”
He tilts his head, studying me in that way that makes me feel like I’m missing something obvious.
“I figured you out. I saw your requests, Jewelsy.”
I turn to face him, ready to look shocked on principle alone, but it fizzles out before it gets there. Because honestly? If you know me, then my username isn’t exactly subtle.
“If I wanted to hide, I guess I should have picked something non-industry related, huh?”
“I liked your songs. You picked ones I listen to,” he says, guiding me through a small turn and keeping me steady without making a big deal of it. “On repeat, even.”
“I like that we have things in common.” I arch a brow. “Who would have thought?”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before lifting again.
“I did.”
And for some reason, standing here on the ice with him, hand in his, music echoing around us, everything is as it should be.
The song fades out, the last notes lingering just long enough to settle into the quiet before something slower replaces it.
There's the tinkle of piano keys as something familiar and cinematic begins to trickle through the speakers.
I tilt my head, listening for a second, and then I laugh, the sound slipping out of me before I can stop it.
“Okay,” I say, glancing at him. “Was this part of your playlist, too?”
Ty’s mouth curves, that easy, almost shy smile showing up like he’s been caught out in the best way.
“Believe it or not,” he says, “yeah.”
“You’re serious.”
He nods, guiding us into an easy glide, his hand steady in mine. “Sometimes I put classical music on to calm me down. It’s always worked.” A small shrug. “My mom used to do it when I was a kid.”
That melts something in me immediately.
“Really?” I ask, studying him a little more closely now. “Tell me more about her. You haven’t talked much about your parents.”
“Not much to say, really.” He exhales, not heavy, just thoughtful. “They’re in Canada. Divorced.” Another small shrug, but this one carries a little more weight. “That’s why Emma and I are so close. Parents split, kids get shuffled back and forth. So, you kind of just stick together.”
“That makes sense,” I say quietly as the music drifts around us, like it’s gently wrapping the moment up. I glance at him again. “Do your parents know? About…your therapy?”
He doesn’t pull away from the question, but he takes a moment to consider it.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I talked to my mom when everything started. She was…” He huffs out a small breath, almost amused. “She did that thing moms do where they try to make it better without really knowing how.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said she always knew I was a little different,” he goes on, gaze drifting for a second like he’s seeing it play out again. “But she thought it was a focus thing for me. Like I got too locked in on things.”
I nod slowly.
“She went to my school a couple times,” he adds.
“Asked if I could get extra time on tests. They’d noticed I was having trouble processing things as fast as everyone else.
” He shrugs lightly. “We were in a small town, and I don’t think anyone really knew what to call it then.
Classes were small enough that I got extra attention. ”
There’s a quiet honesty in that that lands somewhere deep.
“And I think,” he continues, voice a little quieter now, “that’s probably around when I started hiding it more. Masking is what Dr. Hale called it, where you’re just trying to keep up without anyone noticing.”
I watch him for a second, the ice carrying us forward in this slow, steady rhythm.
“Yeah,” I say gently. “That makes sense. If the world starts reacting to something, you figure out pretty quickly how to make it stop reacting. It becomes the safest option.”
There’s a subtle shift in his expression, like he didn’t expect me to meet him there quite so easily.
“Yeah,” he says again, softer this time.