Page 73 of Love so Cold

"Anytime, Avery. That's what I'm here for." His grip on me loosens, but he doesn't let go completely, as if he knows I'm still unsteady on more than just the ice.

"Let's keep going, okay? You were doing great," he encourages, and I nod, trying to find my center again.

"Watch where you're going, idiot!" The harsh words slice through the crisp air, snatching away the comfort of Victor's rescue. The skater I almost knocked over comes striding up to us. She's a haughty blonde in a figureskater's suit. Someone is standing near her with a camera. Clearly she is some sort of influencer, trying to record for social media.

"Sorry," I mumble, my face heating up as I meet her glare. Her eyes are unforgiving, her stance aggressive.

Victor's hand tightens around mine before he smoothly steps forward, placing himself between me and the oncoming storm. His body is a shield, his blue eyes now icy with anger. He doesn't raise his voice; he doesn't need to. "Back off," he says, each word clipped like the sharp crack of ice beneath a skate.

The woman looks ready to argue but seems to think better of it when she gets a good look at Victor's unwavering gaze. With a dismissive huff, she turns and skates away, tension trailing behind her.

"Let's get you off this ice," Victor murmurs, guidingme back to the bench with a warmth in his touch that belies the coldness of the night.

I can't help but glance up at him, my heart fluttering unexpectedly. "Thanks for, you know, stepping in."

He shrugs, though I catch the hint of a smile. "No big deal." But it is. It's a really big deal.

Sitting down, we peel off our skates, and I try to ignore the lingering embarrassment. Victor tosses me a look, his eyes softening. "Don't let that jerk get to you. She's got issues."

"Okay," I say, though I can't shake the feeling of inadequacy. "But it's getting late."

"Want me to take you home?" He sounds casual, but there's an undercurrent of something else, something... hopeful?

"Home?" I echo, the word feeling strangely intimate on my tongue. We lock eyes, and there's a beat, a breathless pause where everything else fades away.

"Home," he confirms, and something flickers in his expression.

"Yes," I whisper, feeling the weight of the unsaid. "Yes, take me home."

Chapter Forty

Avery

The cool eveningair wraps around us, a silent spectator to the tension that hums between Victor and me. On my porch, under the dull glow of the overhead light, we're just two shadows hesitating at the brink of something uncertain.

"Would you like to come in for some coffee?" The words tumble out before I can second-guess them.

"Sure," he replies with a nod, his voice a low rumble that doesn't betray a hint of the unease I feel.

We step through the doorway, the familiar scent of home washing over me. It's grounding, but it does little to steady the nerves dancing beneath my skin. In the kitchen, I move on autopilot, fetching the coffee carafe and filling it with water. My hands tremble slightly,betraying the inner turmoil that churns with thoughts of Victor—temporary, unpredictable Victor—and what his presence in my life could mean.

"Is this really smart?" I mutter under my breath, more to myself than anyone else.

"Everything okay?" His voice cuts through my reverie from the other side of the kitchen counter.

"Fine, just—" I look down and curse silently. Water spills over the edge of the carafe, pooling onto the counter. "I'm making a mess."

"Hey, it happens." There's a warmth in his tone that feels like a hand on my shoulder, grounding me.

"Sorry, I'm not usually this... scattered." I grab a cloth, mopping up my mistake, all too aware of his gaze on me.

"Nothing to apologize for." His words are simple, yet they carry an unexpected weight.

I toss the cloth aside and lean back against the counter, feeling the cool stone against my palms. It steadies me, reminds me that no matter how fast my world seems to spin, this place—my sanctuary—remains unchanged.

"Here, let me." Victor's smile is a mix of amusement and kindness as he nudges me gently aside. He takes the carafe from my hands—my flustered moment apparently an endearing spectacle to him.

"Thanks," I murmur, retreating to the safety of the kitchen table, where I watch him with a curious eye. Hemoves with an ease that speaks of many solitary nights and self-taught lessons, his hands sure and steady as they scoop the coffee grounds. It's a strange comfort watching someone else navigate my space so confidently.

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