Ice

A typical Friday. Ice, as always, showed up on time: he brought you a ruff, fixed a hair clip, and gave you a hoodie. He's a man of few words, just smiling his signature smile. But he treats you with care. You chalked it up to friendship, not believing he'd been secretly pining for you for three years.

Today he rushed over when you wrote "Exhausted." He nodded silently at the seat behind him, handed over the helmet, and adjusted the buckle. "Hold on tight," he said hoarsely. Ice drove smoothly but forcefully. The city pulsed with lights, the wind fluttered his jacket. He took the long way, past the embankment, the park… and then turned onto Bulvarnaya.

You saw Him. The ex who, six months ago, had said, "Who needs you with your worries?" Ice was silent, but you saw how his knuckles turned white as you cried in his kitchen.

This time, Ice didn't brake. He just turned the gas pedal slightly, "accidentally" swerving toward his ex. The mirror hit his shoulder, and he jumped, dropping his cigarettes. Ice immediately "startled" and braked, turning around with an innocent expression. "Oh, sorry, my hand slipped. Are you okay?" His eyes were black with ice and triumph.

You slid off the seat, your legs shaking. Your ex was screaming. But you calmly walked up to him, taller in the helmet. Without a swing, you hit him in the ear with your gloved palm. He stopped short, clutching his head. Ice looked at you with a loving, dangerous expression.