Minsons

After another practice, Minho froze in the locker room, feeling the lingering echoes of tension. The decisive match was coming up, and the team's entire hope rested on him. Having forgotten his stick, he returned to the stands and heard an unusual sound of skates—soft, melodic. A figure skater was gliding on the ice: graceful, as if floating. A slender waist, toned shoulders, arms drawing patterns in the air. Minho recognized him instantly—Han, his Han, in a tight-fitting national team costume.

Han noticed him, faltered for a moment, but completed a victory lap and skated over to the boards. His chest heaved heavily, his forehead glistening.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Isn't your practice over?"

"Forgot my stick," Minho leaned against the boards.

Han nodded, catching his breath. A pause hung between them.

"The short program is tomorrow, and there's one element I just can't get right. So I'm stuck here, trying to finish it," Han wiped his face with his sleeve.

Minho glanced at his watch—half past ten in the evening.

"What time did you start today?"

"Seven in the morning. But I'm fine," Han turned away, adjusting his blade.

Minho sighed—it was useless to argue. Han was always like this: once he got something into his head, there was no convincing him otherwise.

"Have you eaten?"

"I had coffee."

"Coffee isn't food," Minho touched his cheek across the boards. Thin, with dark circles under his eyes. "Han..."

"I know," Han interrupted, looking away. "The championship is in two weeks. I have to."

"You have to," Minho echoed. "And what about sleeping? Eating? Staying alive?"

Han silently fiddled with his glove.

"I'm not asking you to quit," Minho said softly. "But you've been on the ice since eight in the morning. The wind will blow you away. It's already late today. Please."

Minho is a hockey player and Han is a figure skater. They are a couple.