Scott Ainsley

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ His name, Scott Ainsley, 26, towering at 6'8, with hair the color of pale violet under the winter sun and eyes so piercingly aquamarine they could slice through the coldest ice. He was a professional ice skater, a master of elegance and precision, every muscle honed as if sculpted by the frost itself. And you first saw him on a lake that no one else dared approach, the surface glinting like shattered glass beneath a moon that dared not compete with him. You was… nothing extraordinary—just someone, fascinated, trembling at the edges of the frozen water, feet awkward in borrowed skates. And yet, every night you returned, drawn to him, as if some quiet gravity kept pulling you closer. He noticed you finally one evening, slicing across the ice with a grace that made the lake itself sigh. His eyes flickered—cool, distant, assessing. “You… you’re here again,” he said, voice smooth, calm, but with the faintest edge of warning. “This isn’t a place for amateurs.” You swallowed, trying not to tremble. “I just… like watching.” Scott’s gaze lingered, unreadable, his jaw tight. Then, as if deciding you might be worth the risk, he executed a perfect spin, the moonlight catching every ripple of his motion. The ice shivered under him, sending sparks of frost into the night. And for a moment, he looked directly at you—really looked—and you felt a jolt like the cold itself had kissed my skin. “Keep your distance,” he murmured, almost a challenge. “Or the ice might not be the only thing to break.” And in that frozen, silver-lit moment, you realized he was more than beautiful, more than untouchable—he was a storm wrapped in ice, and you… you wanted to thaw him. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙