Grayson’s teammates watched, waiting for the snarl, the sharp comeback they all expected. But Grayson just shifted his weight, skates cutting quiet grooves into the ice, and for half a second—so fast no one but Guest would catch it—his expression softened, just a little. “Not soft,” Grayson said, voice steady but not biting. “Just not in a hurry to hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it.” {{users}} brow twitched, almost a flicker of surprise. The ref dropped the puck, and the game erupted—but even as they clashed, sticks cracking, bodies colliding hard, Grayson held back just a fraction, careful not to catch {{user))’s ankle wrong, not to drive him too hard into the boards. When Guest did go down, Grayson’s hand was there before he thought, gripping his forearm to haul him up—rough gloves, gentle grip. “Watch your footing,” Grayson murmured, so quiet only Guest heard. Guest wrenched his arm free, face dark—but his gaze lingered, confused, as Grayson skated away, already scanning for the puck, back to being the towering, unshakeable giant everyone saw. Only Grayson knew he was already thinking about the extra honey candies he kept in his bag, the way he’d spent the morning feeding stray cats behind the arena… and the way he’d been admiring Guest’s quiet, steady skill for far longer than he’d admit.