-Wyoming, 2006-

I AM EIGHT and Dakota is ten, and we kiss for the first time just before I take the ice at the Jackson Winter Festival.

Well, he kisses me on the cheek, and presents me with a handful of magnolias -my favorite flower that I needed for the performance anyway, but it feels important.

Even more, in front of all our friends at the club, it feels official.

I miss most of the program cues and finish the choreography a full three seconds after the music ends, but the goofy smile never leaves my face. Thinking back, I should probably have taken it as a sign that our romantic prospects would never correlate with on-ice performance.

Chattering away in the ride home after the Festival, I tell Eira about that one time Dakota saved up all his allowance to buy me a bracelet, and I wear it every single day even though – and here my voice drops to a whisper – I don't really like pink and I think the glittery 'K' is a bit much, but I like the warm feeling I get when I look down and see it on my wrist, remember his face when he gave it to me, all full of pride and nervous affection.

Everyone I meet gets a detailed introduction to Dakota Evans, my other half and committed life partner. I even turn down something I will never be offered again- the chance to have a real family, complete with my dad, who now lived with his long term girlfriend in a lavish penthouse nestled in the affluent neighborhoods of New Jersey. At eight years old, I've sacrificed more for this relationship than people twice my age.

When my mother calls me downstairs one evening and holds the phone out with a smile, I don't question why Dakota is calling me. This is just the next step – I'm sure we'll be talking every night from now on.

"Uh, hi? Kennedy?" he begins.

Over the next five minutes, I listen as Dakota stumbles his way through a break-up, accompanied by intermittent and immediately hushed laughter on his end of the line. Under my breath, I count every tick of the kitchen clock, every twist in the phone cord, every rhinestone in the bracelet on my wrist, and waits.

"So...yeah. Still partners though!" he finishes.

I can imagine his triumphant smile on the other end of the phone, buddies patting him on the back for a job well done. My small hand clenches around the phone, so tight I can hear the plastic creaking beneath my fingers, but he hangs up before I can say a word.

My mother shoots me a concerned look after half a minute of motionless silence.

"Honey? Everything ok?"

"Fine," I say, but when I appear downstairs the next morning, my wrist is noticeably bare.

It's the first time I learn that there are some questions that only have one correct answer. For example, if someone asks you about your absent boyfriend, you reply that you're "exploring other options right now". Simple as can be.

━━━━━

-Wyoming, 2014-

'Exploring other options' is certainly a way of describing what occurs years later, when we find ourselves sitting face-to-face in a cupboard under the stairs, heavy bass music thumping through the floorboards. Dakota's knee is pressed into mine at an uncomfortable angle, and my blonde hair is caught in a button somewhere in a heavy bundle of fabric I assumes is a coat rack.

Thin shafts of light filter through the gap in the cupboard door, illuminating the room in a strange assortment of parts. I follow the slanted line across Dakota's jawbone, find the curve of his lip, the hollow at his neck, the quick rise and fall of his chest as I drag my gaze back upwards and realize he's watching me too.

"This is stupid," I breath.

"Yeah."

"Remind me to leave the room next time Truth or Dare comes out."

"Sure," he replies, but in that dreamy tone of voice that means he's not really paying attention to the conversation.

This half-light, half-dark is unsettling. I know instinctively what every part of him looks like. I know that just underneath his lip, there's a scar where he refused to use acne cream because it tasted disgusting whenever he accidentally got it in his mouth. I know that on his left hand, fifth finger, there's a fine silvery line where he had to get twelve stitches because he reached for my skate too early in a spin. I know that the person sitting in front of me is Dakota, my partner of so many years, and I'm not a little girl with a schoolyard crush anymore. Yet, the play of light casts strange illusions across his features, compelling me to reach out and lightly graze my fingertips against his cheek.

"Ken..." he says, in a strained voice, and I'm certain I'm not imagining the way he leans into my hand.

"Just – let me," I whisper, continuing to trace the beam of light across his features. Was his skin ever this soft? Surely I would have noticed, but everything feels different away from the rink. The harsh glare of the fluorescent lights replaced by the soft, filtered glow of the bulb above us, casting shadows that dance across his features.

On the ice, we perform out of love and devotion for a captive audience, our movements fluid and precise, honed through countless hours of practice. But here, in the confined intimacy of this cupboard, it's just the two of us, and I'm not sure of anything.

"Kennedy, please."

I feel his voice in a breath across my skin, realizing I'm unconsciously closed the gap between us. His eyes are closed in something like reverence, fists balled in his lap. His fingers clench and unclench in perfect rhythm with his breathing.

I study him slowly, deliberately, and lean forward an inch to press my lips to his cheek, one hand curling against the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair. His whole body shivers against mine.

"We're not doing anything," I breath against his skin, pressing my lips again to his neck, his collarbone, his jaw.

"K-Ken," he stutters, fingers clenching in his lap with increasing urgency. He's trying so hard to keep his composure, and I hate it – none of this counts, not in this strange space between light and dark.

So I drag my lips up to his, press myself into him, and finally I feel him respond, clutching at my hip with a fierceness that leaves me breathless, triumphant, his body surging against mine.

His mouth is everywhere; whispering into my hair, trailing down the side of my neck, muffling my surprised gasp when he slips an arm around my waist and pulls me into his lap. My hair is still caught in that damn button, tugging my head back, but he takes advantage of the opportunity to work his tongue against the soft skin just below my ear while I unhook myself. His mouth feels better than I'd ever imagined against mine, and I shudder, caught between a laugh and a gasp.

"Fuck, you don't know how long I've wanted to do this," he sighs, and pauses for a moment, pressing his forehead to mine. His eyes are so dark I can barely see them, but I can feel his heartbeat thumping through my shirt, his fingers strong and secure at my waist, mussing the ruffles on my skirt.

"A little over eight years?" I reply with a euphoric grin, looping my arms around his neck and pulling myself further into his lap.

I roll my hips experimentally, and immediately stop when he gives a choked gasp.

"Don't - that's – ah, gonna kill me, Ken."

"Sorry," I whisper, giggling quiet and wide-eyed into his neck. Everywhere I touch, I watch as goosebumps raise along his skin. It's almost hypnotic, the ease with which his body responds to me; makes me feel light-headed and powerful.

When he finally gets his breath back, he levels me with a half-accusing stare that's tempered slightly by the hand that's currently smoothing my hair back from my face.

"If you wanted to jump me in a cupboard so bad, you could have just said so. Would have been happy to save you the trouble of conspiring with our friend upstairs."

I give a small gasp, pressing a hand to my chest in feigned drama.

"As if I would stoop so low," I say, but fix him with a genuine smile,"I guess we just got lucky. And you caught me on an impulsive day."

"You, impulsive? Sure you're feeling okay?" he says with a laugh, pressing a hand to my forehead. "Maybe we should get you checked out, just in case..."

He leans over me, hands slipping under my shirt, and I feel my stomach twist as I arch eagerly against him.

"Guys! Time's up!"

The look of utter despair on Dakota's face is one I think I'll remember for the rest of my life. With all the reluctance of a man drawing his last breath, he stills his hands on their journey up the bare skin of my waist.

"We could just say we didn't hear them," he offers.

I pat his cheek sympathetically, giving him a quick kiss before extricating myself from our precariously balanced situation.

"Maybe next time, Romeo," I say primly, adjusting my skirt.

"I bet Romeo never had to wait eight years to get to first base," he grumbles, but I giggle at him, and then his smile splits into a grin, and were both shaking with laughter, bumping shoulders as we step out into the stark light of the hallway.

At training the next day, I meet his gaze, smile sweetly at him, and watch as confusion breaks out in his eyes as if he's worried he had imagined the whole thing in some crazy fever dream.