Steady.

The ice didn't just appear. It had been there, a thin glaze over the grimy brick alleyway, lurking beneath the fresh dusting of snow. Mike knew it. He just… chose to ignore it, as he ignored most inconvenient truths when he was running ten minutes late for a mandatory drawing elective. His backpack, stuffed with a charcoal kit and a half-eaten bagel, bounced against his spine with each hurried, uneven stride. He really needed to tie his laces. The left one had been flapping for at least a block.

His foot caught. Not on the lace, ironically, but on the treacherous seam where the cracked pavement met a sheet of black ice, slick as wet oil. His arms pinwheeled, a frantic, ungraceful ballet of impending disaster. The charcoal sticks rattled ominously inside his bag. Time seemed to stretch, then snap. He landed with a bone-jarring thud, his elbow cracking against the frozen ground, the air knocked out of him in a pitiful, strangled gasp. His bagel, released from its prison, tumbled a few feet away, a white smear on the pristine snow.

The shame hit first, a hot flush spreading through his ears despite the biting cold. Then, the pain. He lay there, splayed out, a ridiculous, awkward starfish. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to vanish. Just evaporate into a cloud of embarrassment and steam. But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, rarely grants such wishes. Instead, a shadow fell over him. A tall, solid shadow. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know whose it was. He’d seen that particular silhouette, that precise angle of a shoulder, a thousand times in his peripheral vision in the lecture hall, in the coffee line, walking across the quad.

Isa Kincaid. Of course. Because when Mike Binte made an ass of himself, the only person who mattered had to be there to witness it. His heart started a desperate, erratic drum solo against his ribs. He could feel the cold radiating up from the ground, seeping through his coat, but his face was burning. His breath, coming in ragged puffs, plumed white in the frigid air.

“You okay?” The voice was low, a little rough, like gravel under a boot. Not unkind, but devoid of the mock sympathy Mike usually got. More… practical. Isa. His actual voice. Not the one Mike invented for him in his head, which usually sounded like a low hum of classical music or a philosophical monologue on the nature of light and shadow.

Mike managed a weak groan, which he immediately regretted. Sounded like a dying walrus. He cracked open one eye. Isa Kincaid stood over him, hands shoved into the pockets of a dark, heavy-duty parka, the hood pulled back to reveal dark hair, perpetually a little messy, a few strands frosted with snow. His eyes, dark and intense, scanned Mike’s crumpled form. No hint of amusement, just a focused, almost clinical assessment. Which, somehow, made it worse. Or maybe better? Less humiliating than outright laughter.

“Anything broken?” Isa asked. His gaze dropped to Mike’s awkwardly bent arm, then to his ankle. Mike tried to move his arm, wincing. “Just… pride, maybe?” he mumbled, then tried to push himself up. His muscles screamed. He was colder than he thought. The blood rushed to his head, making the world tilt slightly.

A hand, large and warm, suddenly clamped onto his bicep. Not gently, but firmly. An anchor. The unexpected contact sent a jolt, sharp and electric, through Mike’s entire arm, down to his gut. He froze, muscles tensing. His breath hitched, caught somewhere in his throat. He could feel the heat of Isa’s palm, even through the layers of his cheap puffer coat. It was an impossible heat against the cold of his skin.

“Steady,” Isa murmured. His voice was closer now, a low rumble that vibrated through Mike’s arm. Isa braced his other hand on the slick ground beside Mike’s shoulder, shifting his weight. Mike was hyper-aware of the slight lean, the proximity of Isa’s chest, the faint, clean scent of something like winter air and a specific kind of soap. Not flowery, just… clean. It made his head spin a little.

Isa pulled, a steady, unyielding force. Mike, a flailing puppet, found himself being hauled upright. His knees knocked together as he struggled to find his footing on the treacherous ice. He was taller than Isa expected, maybe, because for a fleeting, agonizing second, Mike found himself pressed almost flush against Isa’s front. The cold of the alley vanished, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming warmth that had nothing to do with physics and everything to do with the fact that Isa Kincaid was, however accidentally, holding him. His heart hammered, a frantic sparrow trapped in his ribs.

He could feel the solid breadth of Isa's chest, the slight tension in his muscles. His mind, usually a chaotic mess of half-formed thoughts and anxieties, went completely blank, save for one resounding, utterly primal directive: don't move, don't breathe, don't mess this up. His gaze snagged on the collar of Isa’s parka, the faint sheen of moisture on the fabric from the melting snow. He could almost feel the phantom touch of a finger tracing the curve of Isa's neck, a thought so bold and stupid it made him blush harder.

Isa, seemingly oblivious to Mike’s internal meltdown, merely adjusted his grip, guiding Mike’s wobbling feet. “You’re swaying,” he stated, a factual observation, not a judgment. He didn’t let go. Not entirely. His hand remained on Mike’s arm, a solid, grounding weight. Mike could feel the subtle shift of Isa’s weight, the way his body subtly counterbalanced Mike’s own clumsy movements. The cold bit at Mike’s ears, but his cheeks felt singed.

“Right,” Mike croaked, his voice coming out an octave higher than usual. He cleared his throat. “Thanks. Uh… the ice.” He gestured vaguely at the ground. It felt like his tongue was made of sandpaper. He tried to pull his arm away, but Isa’s grip was surprisingly firm. Not tight, just… there. Unmoving. It was oddly comforting, terrifyingly intimate. A truck rumbled past on the street above, its engine a low thrum against the quiet of the alley.

Isa’s eyes flickered down to Mike’s face, then to the hand still on his arm. His thumb brushed lightly over the fabric of Mike’s sleeve, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement that made Mike’s skin prickle. A strange, knowing glint in Isa’s dark eyes. Or was it just the reflection of the weak winter sun? Mike couldn't tell. He just felt… caught. Exposed.

“Lost your bagel,” Isa said, pushing himself upright, finally releasing Mike’s arm. The sudden absence of heat, the loss of contact, left an icy void. Mike felt a bizarre pang of disappointment, quickly replaced by another wave of mortification. His bagel. The white smear of cream cheese on the dirty snow.

“Oh. Right.” Mike looked down at the forlorn pastry. “Sad day for baked goods.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak, wheezy sound. He bent down to retrieve his dropped art supplies, feeling Isa’s steady gaze on him. He could almost feel the weight of it, hot between his shoulder blades. His fingers fumbled with a scattered charcoal stick, numb with cold and nerves. The chill was suddenly very real again.

“Here.” Isa picked up a stray pencil that had rolled perilously close to a slush puddle. Their fingers brushed as Isa handed it back. Another jolt. Mike snatched it, as if the pencil itself might combust. He could feel the residual warmth from Isa's skin, a fleeting ghost. A car alarm wailed in the distance, a stark, metallic cry that echoed off the brick walls.

“Thanks,” Mike mumbled, clutching the pencil like a lifeline. He straightened, trying to look composed, a heroic feat considering his internal state. He glanced at Isa. Isa’s expression was unreadable, but his lips quirked, just slightly, at one corner. A ghost of a smile. Or was it a smirk? Mike’s brain short-circuited.

“You’re gonna be late,” Isa said, his gaze drifting towards the path that led out of the alley and towards the art building. He wasn’t wrong. Mike’s drawing elective started in two minutes. He probably looked like a snow-dusted, bruised idiot who had wrestled a yeti and lost.

“Right. Yeah. You too?” Mike asked, the words tumbling out before he could filter them. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why would Isa Kincaid, the epitome of calm, collected intellect, be going to a drawing elective? He knew Isa was in engineering, mostly. Mostly.

Isa shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. “Just cutting through.” His eyes, however, lingered on Mike for another beat, a beat that felt like an eternity. A tiny, almost imperceptible shift in the air between them, a tightening. Like a string pulled taut. Mike felt his blood hum.

“Okay. Well. Thanks. Again.” Mike gestured vaguely. He wanted to say something cool, something witty, something that didn’t involve his voice cracking or his ears turning bright red. He wanted to impress. To erase the image of the sprawling idiot on the ice. But his brain was a static-filled television, flickering violently between 'get away' and 'never leave this spot'.

Isa just nodded, a slight inclination of his head. Then he turned, smoothly, effortlessly, and walked further down the alley, towards the engineering buildings. His steps were confident, unhurried, leaving clear prints in the untouched snow. He didn’t look back. Mike watched him go, feeling like a deflated balloon, the adrenaline slowly seeping out of him, leaving behind a hollow, aching cold.

He stood there for a long moment, the forgotten bagel still a sad, dirty circle on the snow, his charcoal kit now probably a bag of dust. He could still feel the phantom heat of Isa’s hand on his arm, the echo of his 'Steady.' His internal monologue, now that the immediate crisis was over, roared back to life, a cacophony of self-recrimination and wild, hopeful speculation. He touched me. He helped me. He didn’t laugh. He smelled good. He lingered. Did he linger? Or was that just my desperate, horny brain making things up?

Mike sighed, a long, shaky exhale that sent a fresh plume of white into the air. He was definitely late. His elbow throbbed. He probably had a bruise the size of a teacup. He bent down, painstakingly gathering his supplies, his gaze snagging on the half-eaten bagel. He hesitated, then picked it up. Maybe he could still salvage it. Just the top half. His stomach grumbled, a reminder of forgotten hunger. He shoved the bruised bagel half into his pocket. New mission: survive drawing class, avoid eye contact with anyone, and spend the rest of the day meticulously replaying every single excruciating, exhilarating second of his encounter with Isa Kincaid.