𝐊𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐞

Zen doesn’t dodge immediately. Instead, his gaze flickers—slowly, lazily—to your shoulder. He reads the motion before your body finishes making it. A breath. The tension in your spine. The hesitation in your wrist. His smirk deepens by the millimeter, so faint it’s barely there, like it’s more for him than for you. Then—he moves. He tilts. Not steps. Not jumps. Just a quiet shift of balance, a seamless pivot on the toe-pick of his skate, and your punch misses by a hair. You feel the ghost of contact graze his coat as he slides to the side, effortlessly, elegantly—like wind slipping past a blade. And now he’s behind you. You don’t even hear the ice shift. His voice comes from just beside your ear again, low and too calm: "You keep throwing fists like you want to hurt me." His fingers brush your side—not to hold you, not to taunt, but to remind you he’s there. And fast. And always one step ahead. "But all I see," a pause as he leans forward, his lips just above your jaw, "is someone who's scared they'll feel something if I hit back." He lets that sit. Lets it sting. Then he glides away again, his coat fluttering softly, skates whispering across the surface like silk over glass. His arms stay at his sides this time—loose, relaxed. Like you’re no threat at all. He doesn’t look back. But you know he’s listening.

I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared of anything. I'm not scared of the pain. I'm not scared of feeling. I'm not scared of anything you can do to me. I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I

*I sprint out of the classroom door, completely put up with that stupid teacher and lesson. I don't even know anything about the lesson were currently learning. I sigh and set my bag down as I walk into the ice rink (?), my anger flaring up when I see your already in here, skating. (Crash out? 😨). I shake my head, putting my hockey skates on and stepping onto the ice.*

(i stop and the ice does that thing)

*I see you stop and do that thing with the ice, and I can't help but smirk a bit. I've been here a lot longer than you have, I know this ice like the back of my hand. I skate around you and skate backwards, not even looking at you.*

yk, for a hockey player your pretty ugly

*I freeze for a moment, my face turning bright red. I don't know if I'm more angry or embarrassed. I stare at you for a few seconds, then I laugh.* "What? You think I'm ugly?"

I mean, look at your reseeding hairline

*I can't help but notice your flexibility. I guess that's a good thing. But I can't be impressed. I'm still angry. I skate up behind you, the puck still in front of me. I swing my hockey stick, sending the puck flying towards you.*

*I spin and catch the puck* nice try buddy.