We talk about music (which feels like a trap until I realize he’s genuinely interested in hearing what I like), and he asks me about my art and I ask him about Iceland, and against all odds, by the time we get to where we’re going, I’m almost relaxed again.

He pays for our entry and helps me hobble out onto the rink, but there’s little help for me once we’re moving—our whole bodies balanced on millimeter-thin blades of metal, hurtling pell-mell across actual fucking ice. I fall six or seven hundred times in the first ten minutes, my ass bones shattering like Christmas ornaments, while children zoom by us, skating in loop-de-loops at light speed and shrieking with laughter.

“Are you okay?” Gunnar has actual concern in his voice after hoisting me to my feet one time too many. “I thought maybe this would be fun, but I don’t want you to get, like … actually hurt.”

“I’m all right.” I force a smile, glad I haven’t landed on my face yet. Bruises can heal, but my dad will freak out if I break my teeth or my glasses. “You stop feeling it after the twelfth time.”

He grins—an intermediate smile—and says, “Okay, how about this: We skate together. Grab on, and we’ll go slow.”

He holds out his hands, his grip firm when I reach for them, and then we start to move. He skates backward, smooth and languid, and I find that if I keep my feet more or less planted and let him tow me along, it’s just not-terrifying enough to be sort of pleasant. Letting out some nervous laughter, I observe, “Hey, what do you know? Not falling down is almost like having fun!”

Gunnar laughs—an advanced smile, warming my insides with victory—and eases us to a gradual stop. “Okay, I’m starting to think this was maybe not the best idea for a date.”

“I’m sorry.” I wish the lights around the rink were a little dimmer, because I’m sure my face is bright pink. “I should have said something, it’s just … you seemed really excited about it. And, also, I kind of didn’t want to admit that I was scared.”

He reaches over, tugging at the zipper of my jacket—a playful gesture that still somehow feels intimate—and shrugs. “You were scared, but you did it anyway. That’s more impressive than being a good skater.” Our eyes meet, and we stay that way for just long enough to make my heart race before Gunnar suggests, “How about a snack or something instead? The food here is … gross, but it’ll kill you a lot slower than snapping your spine in half on the ice.”