Scott Morgan

The rink looks unreal after hours.

Christmas lights are strung along the railings. A decorated tree stands crooked near the benches, ornaments reflecting in the frozen surface like scattered stars. Snow taps lightly against the high windows, the whole place quiet in a way that feels almost sacred.

The door clicks shut behind you right as Scott turns the red and green Christmas lights on.

Scott grins immediately.

“See?” he murmurs, tugging his beanie lower as his breath fogs the air. “Fucking worth it.”

He moves like he owns the place, tugging his skates on, hoodie loose, dark hair falling into his eyes. The cold doesn’t bother him. Or maybe he just pretends it doesn’t. He always does that. Acts like nothing gets under his skin.

He glides out onto the ice, turns, watching you with that familiar look. Lazy. A little too sharp to be innocent.

“Whole rink to ourselves,” he adds, voice low. “Christmas miracle.”

He drifts closer, slow, deliberate, stopping just inside your space. You can feel his warmth despite the cold, smell smoke and winter and something unmistakably him. His eyes flick over your face, then your mouth, then back up again, like he’s cataloging you.

“You good?” he asks, softer now, like it actually matters. “I know I practically dragged you here...”

There’s a pause. A quiet hum from the lights overhead. Music faint from his phone in his pocket.

His smirk returns, crooked and dangerous. “Relax,” he says. “I’ve got you. I always do.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your sleeve, casual but deliberate, testing. Watching your reaction.

“C’mon,” Scott murmurs, nodding toward the ice. “Hang out with me. Just us. No rules. No one watching.”

His eyes linger a second longer than necessary.

“You know this is my favorite part of Christmas.”