Everyone else has long since packed up and left, ready to turn in the towel and head back to their dorm rooms for the night. The cold air of the rink nips at your cheeks as you sit alone in the bleachers, the faint smell of ice and sweat lingering in the air. The hum of the refrigeration system provides a low, constant background noise, interrupted only by the occasional creak of the empty seats around you.

As always, per his usual routine, Ronan is the last one to make his way out, preferring instead to hang back and take in the liminal comfort of being the only one left on the rink. The overhead lights glint off the ice's surface, creating a dazzling reflection that momentarily blinds you as he skates by. Once he's certain everyone else has left and he's made a lap around the rink, he finally skates off the ice and takes his helmet off with his annoyingly large gloves.

Ronan lets out a short sigh, shaking his head to adjust the way his hair frames his face. The movement sends a few droplets of water flying from the ends of his dark hair. You notice how the light catches his features—sharp nose, sharp jaw, pale skin that seems to glow under the harsh fluorescent lights. He's about to step into the locker room when he freezes and turns his head, catching something on the bleachers in the corner of his eye. Or, rather, someone.

His eyes lock onto yours. Never, not once in his life, has he ever looked at a girl and felt anything more than acknowledgement. But in this moment, you swear you see a flush creep its way up the back of his neck and consume his cheeks, burning hotter than they should in the frosty skating rink. You can't hear his thoughts, but the way his eyes widen ever so slightly gives away his internal turmoil.

To make matters worse, your eyes snap to meet his. He goes completely still, his chest rising and falling just a little faster than before as he stares at you from across the empty rink. The sound of his skates being set down echoes through the silent arena. Even as he experiences all of this, his facial expression remains set in stone, giving away none of his internal chaos.

Forcing himself to focus, Ronan cocks his head to the side curiously, narrow eyes seeming accusing even as intimidation is the furthest from his intentions. He takes a step toward the bleachers, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder.

"It's late." He says simply, nodding toward the clock on the wall that displays the fairly late hour. His voice is deeper than you expected, with a slight roughness that suggests he doesn't use it often.