Almost, Always

XI

I stopped. The ice groaned under the sudden halt of my blade. "You don't know what I'm thinking."

He tilted his head, still smiling, but gentler now, persuasive, coaxing. "Maybe. Or maybe you're dying to tell someone and just don't know it yet." His tone wrapped itself in warmth, in comfort. "You can, you know. With me."

The problem wasn't the words. It was how much he sounded like he meant them.

The ice felt thinner beneath me. I hated how carefully his voice wrapped around the silence, as if he were trying to convince me he wasn't dangerous.

His gaze softened. He drifted closer, blades slicing lazily against the ice, circling me as if it were natural. "You remind me of someone," he said.

I didn't answer.

He went on anyway. "When I was younger, I used to skate with a girl. Not for long. A few seasons, maybe. She was better than me—faster, sharper. She hated it when I said that, but it was true." A small laugh left him. "She moved like she had something to prove, like every jump had to be perfect or it didn't count at all."

My throat tightened.

"She never said much," Adam added, glancing at me through his lashes. "But when she was on the ice... You could read her like a book. Every thought she tried to bury showed up in the way she moved." His voice dipped lower, gentler. "The way you're dancing on the ice right now reminds me of her."

The words struck too close. My breath hitched, fogging the air between us.

I turned on my blade sharply, cutting toward him. "Wait." My voice was thin, sharper than I meant it to be. "You were that boy?"

Adam's smile curved, slow, like he'd been waiting for me to piece it together. He didn't answer right away, just coasted a circle around me, the sound of his blades steady, unhurried.

Finally, he said, almost tender, "So you do remember."

The ice seemed to tilt beneath me. The boy who'd been a shadow on the edge of my childhood rink, clumsy and infuriatingly persistent, had grown into this—this clever, smiling creature who looked at me like he already knew every secret I thought I'd buried.

I hated the way my chest tightened. I hated the fact that part of me had always wondered what had happened to him.

The worst part wasn't that he remembered. It was that some traitorous part of me did too—the races, the falls, the way he'd laughed when I refused to accept less than perfect.

Adam leaned closer, blades whispering against the ice, his voice a low thread meant only for me. "You never liked skating alone. You'd push yourself harder, but your eyes—" His smile softened. "Your eyes always searched for someone to keep up. Even if you'd never admit it."

"But that was a long time ago."

"Not long enough," he countered. "Look at you now. Same fire. Same sharp edges. Still trying to bury everything you feel in every turn, every jump, every breath." His gaze caught mine, steady, persuasive. "But I can see it. I've always seen it."

"I don't need you to see me," I said, sharper than I meant.

He only smiled. "Maybe not. But you can't stop me from looking."

He didn't let me skate away. Every curve I traced, he matched; every turn, he folded into. His shadow pressed close against mine, seamless, as though he'd memorized my rhythm long before I knew he was there.

The scrape of his blades was steady, unrelenting, as if he was telling me, 'You can run, but I will follow you.'

I spun into a sharp glide, hoping to break him off, but when I slowed, he was still there, breath faint in the cold air, eyes burning with quiet recognition.