Ellie's POV
Tyler leaves for Monaco in three days, and the countdown has lodged itself beneath my ribs like a splinter I can't reach.
I'm on the patio when he finds me, my coffee gone cold in my hands, my eyes tracking the endless gray line where the Pacific meets the sky.
His footsteps are quiet on the stone, but I feel his presence before I see him—that particular electricity that crackles through the air whenever he's near.
"Come somewhere with me." He doesn't phrase it as a question.
I turn to look at him—really look, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the way morning light catches the planes of his cheekbones.
Three days. Seventy-two hours until he's on the other side of the world, hurtling around hairpin turns at speeds that could end him.
"That's not ominous at all," I say, but I'm already setting down my mug. "Should I be concerned that your idea of romance involves mysterious destinations and zero details?"
"My idea of romance involves getting you off this patio before you fossilize." He extends his hand, and the gesture feels both foreign and familiar—this new Tyler who touches me tenderly. "Trust me?"
"Against my better judgment." I take his hand anyway.
The drive takes forty minutes, and somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, recognition prickles along my spine. The industrial buildings. The familiar turn. The parking lot where Derek's car sat just weeks ago.
My stomach drops.
"Tyler." His name comes out sharper than I intend. "This is the rink. Derek's rink."
"Our rink now." He pulls into a space and kills the engine, but doesn't move to exit. Instead, he turns to face me. "I know about your fear. Derek told me about what happened to you on the ice."
The betrayal should burn. I should feel exposed, violated, furious that Derek shared my secrets without permission. Yet, exhaustion settles over me like a familiar weight.
"Then why bring me here?" The question comes out flat, drained. "If you already know I'm broken, why drag me back to the place that proved it?"
"Because you'll never stop running until you face it." He reaches across the console and takes my hand again. "And because I refuse to leave for Monaco knowing you're still haunted by a goddamn scoreboard."
"That's not—" I start to protest, but the words die in my throat.
He's right. Of course he's right. The scoreboard lives in my nightmares, glowing red numbers that transform into steel and concrete and screaming.
"I checked," he says quietly. "Before I brought you here. The facility upgraded their safety systems last month. Every scoreboard is bolted to reinforced steel beams with triple redundancy. I can show you the engineering reports if you want."
A surprised laugh escapes me. "You requested engineering reports?"
"I requested a lot of things." His mouth curves into that sharp smile I've grown dangerously fond of. "Being a McKinney has its privileges, and I'm not above using every single one of them to get you back on that ice."
The rink is empty when we enter—Tyler's doing, I'm sure.
The cold bites into my skin immediately, and my feet slow as we approach the boards. My heart hammers against my ribs, panic already building its familiar pressure behind my eyes.
"Hey." Tyler's hand finds the small of my back, warm through my thin shirt. "Look at me. Not at the scoreboard—at me."
I drag my gaze to his face. The sharp features, the pale eyes, the unexpected gentleness that's slowly replacing the cruelty I once thought defined him.
"We're going to skate together," he says. "And I'm not letting go of your hand."
"Have you ever actually been on ice before?" I ask, because deflection is safer than vulnerability. "Your brother looked like a newborn giraffe having a seizure when he tried, and I'm starting to suspect athletic incompetence runs in the family."
"Please." He guides me toward the rental counter with exaggerated confidence. "I've been skating since I was six. Hockey training, balance work for racing. Derek's the embarrassment to the McKinney name, not me."
"That's a bold claim from someone who's never proven it."
"Then let me prove it." His eyes hold mine with challenge. "Unless you're too scared to find out I'm better than you."
Despite everything—the fear, the memories, the panic clawing at my chest—I laugh. The sound surprises both of us.
We lace up in silence. Tyler watches me with careful attention as I tie the familiar knots, my fingers remembering patterns my brain has tried to forget. When I stand, my legs feel foreign beneath me.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Nope." But I take his hand anyway.
The first step onto the ice sends a shockwave through my nervous system. Every cell in my body braces for the ceiling to collapse and bury me the way it buried them.
Tyler's grip tightens. "I've got you."
We move slowly—two people who have no business being this careful with each other, gliding across ice that holds a thousand ghosts.
He talks as we skate, his voice steady and grounding.
"Monaco is all about skill," he says, guiding me through a gentle curve. "The track is narrow. One wrong move and you're in the barrier. The run-up to the tunnel is a hundred sixty miles per hour into near-total darkness. You have about half a second to adjust your eyes before the light hits again."
"That sounds terrifying." I'm focused on his words, letting them anchor me to the present instead of the past.
"It is." His smile is razor-sharp. "That's why I love it."
We complete our first lap. I don't hyperventilate.
"Second lap," he announces, pulling me gently forward. "You're doing great."
"I'm shaking," I admit.
"But you're still moving." His eyes meet mine with something that looks almost like pride. "That's the whole point, Ellie. We're both afraid of things. The difference is, I face mine every time I get behind the wheel."
The words settle into my chest with unexpected weight.
Courage isn't the absence of fear—it's motion despite it. Every time Tyler climbs into that car, he's choosing to face the terror that could end him.
I can do this.
If he can stare death in the face at two hundred miles per hour, I can skate past a secured scoreboard.
"Third lap," I say, and this time I'm the one pulling him forward.
By the time we reach ten, my breathing has steadied into something manageable. The panic hasn't disappeared—it hovers at the edges of my consciousness—but it no longer controls me.
Outside the rink, the evening air feels different. Tyler pulls me close, his hands settling on my waist.
Then he leans down and presses his lips to my forehead with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"We're not exclusive," he says against my skin. "I need you to know that. This—whatever this is—doesn't come with strings or expectations or promises."
I nod, accepting the terms of something I don't fully understand.
"But I also need you to know—" He pauses, and I watch him struggle with words that clearly don't come easily. "This meant something. And I don't say that much to people."
The honesty catches me off guard. This is Tyler stripped of his armor, offering vulnerability like a gift he's not sure I'll accept.
"Drive safe in Monaco," I tell him, because anything else would be too much, too soon, too terrifying to name.
His sharp smile returns, genuine and fierce. "Win or crash trying."
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