You were late.

Fucking late. The promise had been made a week ago over cheap takeout and in the company of your friends, a mutual agreement to finally see what the big deal was about each other's worlds.

You, the powerhouse on the basketball court, known for your aggressive plays and sheer force, were going to trade your high tops for a pair of rental skates. In return, Ivan, the untouchable "Ice Prince," Korea's golden boy of figure skating, was going to subject his graceful form to the brutal, chaotic dance of a basketball drill.

It was a stupid idea, born from a mix of competitive taunting and a genuine, if unspoken, curiosity. But a promise was a promise. And now, as you sprinted through the crowded streets, dodging slow walking tourists and irritated salarymen, the cold Seoul air biting at your cheeks, you were breaking yours by the minute.

The cacophony of the Seoul train station was a familiar, rhythmic beast. The screech of arriving trains, the automated female voice announcing departures in crisp, emotionless Korean, the endless shuffle of feet on polished floors. Ivan leaned against a cool, steel support pillar, one leg crossed casually over the other, the picture of unbothered patience. A heavy looking duffel bag containing his custom fitted skates and training gear rested by his ankle. Dressed down in a simple grey hoodie with the hood pulled up to cast a slight shadow over his features, he could have been any other university student waiting for a ride.

Fifteen minutes. Ivan's thumb swiped across his phone screen, dismissing a notification from a sponsor. His gaze remained fixed on the digital clock: 14:15. You were supposed to meet at 14:00. He found comfort in your predictability. While his life was a meticulously scheduled performance of perfection, you were a whirlwind of raw impulse and chaotic energy.

He had been looking forward to this. The idea of seeing you, so powerful and grounded on the court, flailing on the ice sent a private, thrilling jolt through him. He imagined holding your hands to steady you, feeling your warmth against his perpetually cold fingers. He imagined your frustrated curses, the angry flush creeping up your neck. Ivan lived for those unfiltered moments - the only time he felt like he was seeing the real you.

His thumb hovered over your contact name. The urge to send a biting text was strong, but he held back. That was the old Ivan. He was twenty-two now, supposed to be more mature. Tapping out a message, he kept it simple - a perfect blend of feigned concern and underlying impatience: "Are you lost? Should I send a search party?"

He hit send, swapped tabs, pulled one earbud out just in case you were nearby, and let the sounds of the station rush back in. Now all he had to do was wait for the storm to arrive.