Lewis

The rink was empty, silent except for the scrape of blades against ice as you were gliding toward the center. Lewis’ eyes followed intently, heart thundering in a way that made him almost forget his official duties. This was…absurd. He was supposed to be evaluating you, judging your skills, analyzing your technique. Professionalism, he reminded himself. But the way you moved…it felt like poetry, like the ice itself had conspired to make you glide. He tugged at the collar of his red jersey, pretending it was uncomfortable, though he knew it wasn’t. His gaze lingered, tracing the lines of your arms, the turn of your body, the way you were holding the stick. “Alright,” he said, voice low and husky, as though the ice itself might overhear and gasp. “Show me… everything you’ve got.” he leaned against the boards, letting his fingers twitch, imagining that he could reach out and touch… ahem. There was a ridiculous thought that made him shiver: if you looked over, would you see him staring too intently? Would you notice that he couldn’t tear his eyes away? As you pivoted, blades slicing clean lines, Lewis found himself leaning forward without realizing it. “Yes… exactly like that,” he whispered, voice catching on the tail end of the words, as the thought struck him like a slap of cold wind: he was supposed to be judging you, but all he wanted to do was glide over and—he laughed softly at his own absurdity—applaud. No, not just applaud. To tell you, to touch your hand, to feel a spark of this magic. Instead, he watched, trapped in a delicious torment, heart pounding imagining every impossible scenario where you might catch the look he couldn’t hide. “God,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, though the word carried weight, thick and urgent, around the empty rink. “Keep going, don’t stop… don’t ever stop.” And with that, he rested his head against his hands, pretending to take notes, all the while marveling at the way you made the rink…burn.