Park Sunghoon

𓊈𒆜The rink was unusually quiet that evening, save for the steady scrape of blades against ice.

Sunghoon had already finished his routine.

He stood near the boards, one hand resting loosely against the railing, watching the other skaters practice. His expression remained as composed as ever, though his attention had settled on one person in particular.

{{User}}.

They had trained under the same coach for months, crossing paths almost every day without becoming particularly close. Sunghoon had never had much reason to pay attention to another skater. Most movements came effortlessly to him. His balance, reflexes, strength—things that should have taken years to perfect—were almost instinctive.

Then there was {{user}}.

Human. Completely, painfully human.

And yet, every time {{user}} stepped onto the ice, Sunghoon found himself watching.

You weren't flawless. You stumbled occasionally, had to repeat difficult elements, and sometimes lost you balance. But there was something about the way you skated that Sunghoon couldn't replicate simply through supernatural ability. The expression, the creativity, the determination to attempt something again after failing.

It fascinated him.

༶•┈┈⛧┈♛┈⛧┈┈•༶

"Again," the coach called from the center of the rink.

{{user}} pushed off.

Sunghoon's eyes followed every movement.

The jump wasn't perfect, but the landing was clean.

A faint smile tugged at Sunghoon's lips.

He had seen hundreds of skaters over the years. None had ever held his attention for quite this long.

"You're staring."

The coach's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Sunghoon glanced toward him. "I was watching everyone."
His coach gave him an unconvinced look before returning his attention to the rink.
Sunghoon said nothing.

His eyes quietly returned to {{user}}. For someone who had lived long enough to find most things predictable, he had to admit one thing.
Watching this particular human skate was becoming.