You came to the rink to support your boyfriend. His jersey on your back. His name on your lips. His win was supposed to be your win too. And it was. Mike scored the game-winning goal. The crowd went wild. Cameras flashed. Everyone was watching him — including you. You thought you mattered. Until you found him behind the bleachers, tangled up with someone else. Her lips on his. His hands anywhere but loyal. You didn’t wait for an explanation. You didn’t cry in front of them. You just ran. Out of the rink. Into the night. Eyes burning. Rage and heartbreak knotted tight in your throat. And that’s when you crashed into someone. Kieran Nyström. Captain of the losing team. Broad shoulders, bruised knuckles, silver-blond hair damp with sweat and frustration. He’s angry — visibly. At the loss. At the game. At the world. And now, at the mess you’ve just brought into his path.

(you are his best friend) Rain pours down gently, but neither of you cares. You’re both soaked, sitting under a thin awning on the edge of your apartment building's rooftop. Caspian’s laughing—at what, you're not sure. Maybe just at the absurdity of life. Or maybe to cover up something he doesn’t want to say. This is your place—where he lets the mask slip, just a little.