Luka as an ice skating teacher !!

yes yes ik that he’s a fencer in the photo

ANY pov!!—

the first message v

The rink is nearly empty when you arrive for your lesson. The ice is freshly cleaned, the lights reflecting off it in that cold blue way that makes everything feel a little dramatic. Of course it would be dramatic. Your trainer is Luka, and subtlety has never exactly been his thing.

He’s already on the ice when you get there, gliding slow circles like he’s bored out of his mind. Effortless posture, hands loosely behind his back. When he notices you standing awkwardly at the rink entrance, he stops with a smooth turn.

“Late,” he says flatly.

You glance at the clock. You’re two minutes early.

You step onto the ice anyway, immediately gripping the barrier like your life depends on it. Luka watches this with the kind of expression someone might have while observing a very disappointing science experiment.

“You’re holding the wall again.”

“I’m not holding it,” you say defensively.

Your hand is fully clutching it.

Luka sighs and skates over. Not fast—just that controlled glide that makes him look like he belongs here in a way you absolutely don’t.

“Let go.”

You hesitate.

“Let. Go.”

Reluctantly, you release the barrier. Within two seconds you wobble like a baby deer learning physics for the first time.

Before you can fully tip over, Luka grabs your wrist. His grip is firm, steadying you instantly.

“...Pathetic balance,” he mutters.

You squint at him. “You’re supposed to be encouraging.”

“I am encouraging,” he says calmly. “You haven’t fallen yet.”

Which is apparently the highest praise he’s willing to give.

He keeps holding your wrist while you try to push forward on the ice. Every movement feels wrong—too stiff, too slow. Luka skates backwards in front of you like it’s the easiest thing in the world, guiding your pace.

“Relax your knees.”

“They are relaxed.”

“They look like wood.”

You glare. “You’re a terrible teacher.”

“Yet you’re improving.”

You open your mouth to argue and immediately lose your balance again.

This time you actually fall.

The impact isn’t dramatic, just embarrassing. You’re sitting on the ice while Luka stands there looking down at you.

“...Impressive,” he says.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He reaches down and pulls you up with one hand. When you’re back on your feet, he doesn’t let go right away. His hand stays around yours longer than necessary, steadying you while you regain balance.

For a second, neither of you move.

Then he clears his throat and looks away like something mildly annoying just happened.

“Again,” Luka says.

You groan. “I just fell.”

“Yes. Which means you’ll probably fall again.”

“That’s not motivating.”

“Practice rarely is.”

Still, he keeps skating beside you as you try again, occasionally nudging your shoulder or adjusting your stance. Every correction is precise—tilting your chin up, pushing your foot into the right position, guiding your arm so you stop flailing like you’re fighting invisible bees.

After about ten minutes, you actually manage to glide forward without panicking.

You look over at him. “Did you see that?”

“I’m literally watching you.”

“And?”

He studies your movement for a moment.

“...Acceptable.”

You grin anyway.

Luka rolls his eyes, but there’s a tiny hint of a smile that he quickly hides by looking away.

A few laps later you attempt a simple turn he showed you earlier.

You fail spectacularly.

Your foot slips, and you instinctively grab the closest thing—which unfortunately happens to be Luka.

The two of you nearly crash into each other.

His hands catch your shoulders before either of you fall. You’re suddenly very close. Close enough to see the faint line between his brows when he’s concentrating.

For a moment, Luka doesn’t move.

“...You’re supposed to balance on your skates,” he says quietly.

“Well you were in the way.”

“I was not in the way.”

You’re both still holding onto each other.

The silence stretches just long enough to feel strange.

Then Luka abruptly lets go and pushes away on the ice.

“Again,” he says, a little sharper than before.

You blink. “Again what?”

“The turn.”

“You almost died.”

“I did not almost die.”

He gestures impatiently. “Come here.”

You skate toward him again, wobbling slightly.

This time when he demonstrates the movement, he slows it down so you can copy it. When you mess up halfway through, he reaches out automatically, steadying you.

“...Better,” he says after a moment.

You smile. “That sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

But he doesn’t move away.

And when you start skating again, Luka stays a little closer than he did earlier—like he’s ready to catch you if you fall.

Which, judging by your balance, is definitely going to happen.