MinDerY @idklmab - Tumblr Blog

The Cure 🩰

(Ilia Malinin x Ballerina!Reader)

summary: An accidental meeting under the heavy stars turned into something special, something neither of them expected. They slowly intertwine in each other's worlds, slipping into each other's lives seamlessly. But just as they find their footing, the ground beneath them begins to fracture, forcing them to face a bitter truth: sometimes love isn't enough, and no matter how hard we try, it will never be the cure.

word count: 19,3k

author’s note: lovely readers! I don’t want to give away any crucial details and spoil the story for you, but please be aware that this fic deals with some very heavy emotional themes and has a bittersweet ending. (for peace of mind, the story does NOT contain any depictions of death or suicide). If you're up for an emotional journey, I hope you enjoy the ride! 🥰 english is not my first language, so I hope you guys keep that in mind.. any feedback, questions, writing tips and criticism will be appreciated!

taglist: @scuderiapng @amori1i @prettyraspberry @sinistersnakey @jmgrule

dividers by: @pxrce-lain

masterlist

The first time he sees her, she is sitting on the curb, crying.

It’s late. Ilia is walking out of Walmart after picking up a late-night snack for Liza, not having the heart to turn down his little sister while she’s struck down with a fever at home. He’s humming a low melody, fingertips drumming against his side as he walks toward his car, the November air sending shivers down his spine under his thin jacket.

Then, he hears a quiet sob.

He stops in his tracks, looking around to see if he’s just misheard it. At the far corner of the parking lot, quite a distance from the entrance doors—as if she’d tried to hide away from prying eyes—he spots her. Her voice is just loud enough to carry through the quiet night. Her torso shakes, slouched over as she covers her face with her hands. A few loose strands of hair have fallen out from the tight bun on top of her head, the breeze tussling them across her cheeks.

Ilia looks around, almost waiting for someone else to step in so he won’t have to. He is entirely unsure of how to approach, but a sudden weight of responsibility heaves down on his chest. Swallowing hard, he makes his footsteps as quiet as possible as he approaches her.

“Can I help you?”

His voice comes out much quieter than he intends. For a moment, he thinks she didn’t even hear him, and a hot rush of blood floods his cheeks. But then, her sobs abruptly stop. She lifts her head, her brows furrowing as she stares up at him through blurry, wet eyes.

“Uh, no.” She shakes her head, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand as she swallows down another tear. Her eyelashes are clumped together, mascara running down her skin, and she only smudges it further with the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt. “I’m fine.”

She tries to force a smile, though it doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. Standing up from the cold concrete, she scoops up an abandoned, bulky pink bag from the pavement and throws the strap over her shoulder.

“Thanks anyway.”

“No problem,” he says. He instantly regrets how dismissive the words sound, the palms of his hands suddenly getting sweaty inside his pockets. He clears his throat, trying to sound confident even though he’s practically panicking inside. “Are you... are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m just having a bad day. That’s it.”

“Oh.” He nods as if he understands, pressing his lips into a tight line.

He doesn’t know whether to just end it here—to leave, get in his car, and pretend nothing happened. But the way she looks at him makes him pause. It’s almost as if she’s waiting for him to say something else.

His eyes drift down to her sweatshirt. It's pitch black, but the bold, white printed letters across the chest catch the light. Realization hits him, and his brows raise slightly.

“Are you a ballerina?”

“Yeah.” There’s a note of hesitation in her voice. She looks down at her own chest as he gestures toward the logo.

“I recognize the name,” Ilia says, a little relief easing his tension. “My sister takes ballet lessons at that studio.”

“Oh, really?” A sudden spark flashes in her eyes, something that almost resembles genuine enthusiasm. “What’s her name?”

“I’m not sure you’d know her,” he admits, shrugging. “She’s only eleven.”

“I might. I teach the little ones.”

“You do?” A mix of surprise and instant admiration colors his voice. “Her name is Elli Beatrice Malinina.”

She stares at him, her lips slightly parted as if she is trying to force the syllables to repeat in her head. For a few seconds, they just look at each other. Ilia shifts on his feet, feeling incredibly awkward and not knowing what to say, while her face pinches into an almost apologetic expression—as if she's trying desperately to claw a memory out of a sudden, blank fog.

Then, her eyes finally widen, and a real smile stretches across her face. “Liza?”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah—yeah, I know her... I teach her all the time. She’s doing really well.”

“Happy to hear that.” Ilia smiles back, the awkwardness finally melting away.

“How is she?” she asks, her brow furrowing with gentle concern. “Katerina told me she had a fever.”

“Yeah, she’s better today, but she’s being a little fussy.” He chuckles, lifting his arm to show her the plastic grocery bag dangling from his fingers. “She actually sent me out to get her some snacks.”

“Oh, I see,” she chuckles. She opens her mouth to say something else, but then her eyes widen again. A sudden look of realization dawns on her face as she stares at him.

She probably recognizes me, he thinks to himself. He's acutely aware that practically everyone who knows Liza also knows her brother is a figure skating prodigy. He mentally prepares himself for the usual praises and compliments, bracing to say a polite thank you. Maybe she’ll even want to take a picture. Ilia secretly hopes not; his hair is a complete disaster from a long afternoon nap.

But then, his eyes catch the mascara still smudged around her eyes, and he purses his lips in a quick wave of shame. He scolds himself for being so incredibly self-absorbed. Why on earth would she want to capture a photo during an ugly, vulnerable moment like this?

“Uh, what time is it?” she asks suddenly. “My phone died.”

He blinks, completely caught off guard by the question. “Oh. Yeah, hold on.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocking the screen, and turns it toward her so she can check the time herself. As she squints at the bright display, her lips twitch into a subtle, amused smile. A fresh wave of embarrassment washes over Ilia, his palms going instanty sweaty. For a fraction of a second, he deeply regrets leaving picture of Toothless as his lock screen.

“I love How to Train Your Dragon,” she murmurs.

“So do I,” he replies, his voice jumping with an excitement he quickly tries to restrain. “It’s, uh... it's a pretty good movie.”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is almost physically painful. Why can’t I ever just have a normal, brief conversation? he berates himself. Does everything have to be so awkward with me all the time?

“Um, I gotta go.” She takes a step back, her thumb pointing in the opposite direction of where he’s parked. “I didn’t realize it was quite so late.”

“Oh, okay.”

“It was nice meeting you.” She smiles, clutching the strap of her bulky bag a little tighter. “Tell Liza I said hi.”

“Of course.”

She gives him a small wave and turns away. He does the same, taking a step toward his car, but suddenly he freezes. His mind screams at him. The disappointed face of his mother flashes across his mind so vividly that it actually horrifies him—he can almost hear her lecturing him about leaving a girl alone in the dark.

Widening his eyes, he spins around. He prepares to call out her name, only to softly curse under his breath when he realizes he never even asked for it.

“Uh, wait!” he yells out. It comes out unnecessarily loud, and the burst of embarrassment makes him physically wince. He sprints a few steps to catch up to her.

She turns back to face him, a mildly confused expression on her face.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he offers, a bit breathless.

“Oh, thanks, but I’m fine.”

“But it’s late, and it’s freezing outside,” he insists. As if on cue, a sharp gust of wind sweeps past them, validating his words. Her hair flutters wildly in the breeze, the messy, loose pieces softly framing her face. She’s really pretty, he thinks to himself, noticing how soft her expression is, even under the crumpled eyelashes and ruined mascara. “And, um... I can’t just leave you out here.”

“You’re not responsible for me,” she chuckles, her teeth showing in a flash of genuine amusement. “I appreciate the gesture, but I literally live right down the street. See that house over there?”

She points toward the horizon, and his eyes follow the line of her finger. “The one with all the Christmas decorations?”

“Yeah,” she drags out the word, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks as if she's slightly embarrassed by it. “Yeah. My mom really loves Christmas. She starts preparing like two months in advance.”

“It’s pretty.”

“So, uh, yeah. That’s where I live,” she says, shrugging with a self-conscious smile. “It’s approximately a five-minute walk from here. And honestly, I really need those five minutes just to clear my head.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“Thanks for the offer, though. Really.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“I don’t usually cry on curbs, by the way,” she adds quietly. Her brows furrow, the corners of her lips turning down in a vulnerable, almost apologetic way. She looks incredibly cute. “I just had a really, really bad practice. And I guess Walmart running out of my favorite soda flavor was just the last straw.”

Ilia smiles softly. “Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.”

While his mind scrambles for something—anything—to say to keep the conversation going, those few seconds of silence slip away. She finally decides to call it a night, wishing him a good night and thanking him one last time before walking away.

The moment he gets into the driver's seat of his car, he curses out loud under his breath. He forgot to ask for her name. Again.

Is he always this awkward with people? he wonders, turning the key in the ignition. Or was it just this specific interaction that he couldn't seem to get enough of? He grips the steering wheel, realizing with a quiet sting that she truly hadn't recognized him or acknowledged his skating career at all. But she didn't seem like the type to pretend, he concludes. She just honestly had no idea who he was.

Back at home, Liza is curled up miserably on the couch. Their cat, Mysti, is sitting by her legs with an almost protective, watchful expression. He silently tosses the bag of chips onto the cushions. Mysti jerks awake at the sudden movement, giving Ilia the perfect opportunity to scoop the cat up into his arms, pressing kisses into her shiny fur before she has a chance to wriggle free of his grasp.

Liza weakly murmurs a thank you, immediately tearing open the bag.

“I bumped into your ballet teacher,” he mentions casually, his hand continuing to stroke Mysti’s back. “She said hi.”

“Katerina?”

“No, the young one.”

Liza pauses for a second, her brow furrowing in confusion until realization suddenly dawns on her. Her eyes sparkle, and she eagerly calls out her name between the loud crunches of her chips. The pure admiration in Liza's voice is unmistakable—a tone she reserves for very few people in her life.

“What did she say?” Liza asks, suddenly looking energized. Her voice carries an enthusiasm she’s been completely lacking for days.

“I told you. She said hi.”

“How did you even meet her?”

He opens his mouth, hesitating. He's unsure of how to answer his sister's curious gaze without breaching her privacy about crying in a parking lot. Finally, he just shrugs, mumbling something about recognizing the studio logo on her sweatshirt and striking up a conversation. Liza finds it incredibly weird, not missing the opportunity to mock her brother for randomly trying to flirt with a stranger.

Later, when the house is entirely dark, she slips into his mind once again.

Lying in bed, Ilia whispers her name under his breath, testing the sound of it, liking the way the syllables roll off his tongue. He tries stalking her on Instagram, but it’s a dead end; her account is private. Ultimately, he ends up searching the ballet studio's public page, scrolling until he finds the full-length video of her performances.

With his eyes heavy with sleep, he lies in the dark and watches her carve through the air, a soft, quiet smile resting on his face.

“I’m gonna pick you up from ballet today.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

Ilia looks at his sister with slight annoyance, parking in front of the school that is buzzing with kids. It’s her first day resuming her usual routine after spending almost two weeks at home. Liza looks at him with skepticism, the familiar expression she uses when she mocks him flashing across her face.

“You’ve never picked me up from ballet,” she says, certain she’s making a point, her eyebrow raised. “Is this about my teacher?”

“What?! No.” He huffs, shaking his head maybe a little too defensively. “This is about Mom’s change of plans. And you’ve been to like, what, ten ballet lessons?”

“Alright, whatever.” She shrugs, pulling the door handle and hopping down from the SUV she’s been relentlessly making fun of ever since he got it. Then she hesitates, almost as if she’s contemplating whether to show generosity or not. “I think she has a boyfriend. There’s a blonde guy who’s waiting for her after the lessons sometimes.”

“Liza, I’m not interested in her like that.” He lies, even though the mention of someone else flips something in his stomach unpleasantly.

“Whatever, loser.”

She closes the door with a force that is entirely unnecessary, Ilia yelling after her to be careful with it. Drumming his fingertips against the steering wheel, the image of her flashes across his eyes.

Subtly collecting the details from Liza and the internet, he learns that she is a professional ballerina—a company dancer for The Washington Ballet. She teaches children in Vienna a few times a week, squeezing it into her schedule for the extra income. Liza also mentions that she’s a former student of Katerina, and since Katerina really loves her, she lets her do her solo practices at the studio, happily giving her the keys.

He doesn’t quite realize what it is about her that makes it so difficult to get her off his mind. He barely knows her, and their interaction could only be described as somewhat weird. It takes him a few seconds to snap out of his thoughts, eventually a driver honking behind him.

The minutes feel like hours with the anticipation. He practices at the rink, he plays Fortnite with Jacob, he scrolls on social media endlessly. When the time finally comes to pick Liza up from ballet, he eagerly puts on his shoes and slips out of the house, the excitement slowly building up in his chest with every turn taken.

There are quite a few people outside of the ballet studio, mostly moms picking up their daughters, wrapping their arms around their backs and leading them towards the cars, listening to their new, small achievements. There is a group of older ballerinas leaning against the wall, passing cigarettes to each other as they laugh out loud. One of them spots Ilia. The smile on her face ceases as her eyes widen; she nudges the girl next to her, and all of their heads snap toward him. He just continues walking towards the entrance, a familiar warmth settling in his bones when he goes through the door. No one is inside the lobby. At least, no guy that matches Liza's description.

Classical music can be heard through the hall, along with shouting and the rhythmic counting of numbers. He looks at his watch, expecting Liza to come out in approximately three minutes. The whole time, he stares at the white studio door, expecting it to swing open at any second. He wants to get to know her, to peel away all the layers of her himself.

The door opens and children come out one by one, tired expressions wearing off their faces, baby hairs sticking to their foreheads, dance bags lazily slung over their shoulders.

Liza looks content, waving at her brother with a smile as she walks out of the room. His eyes stay behind, expecting to see her, but only the older teacher, Katerina, comes out and closes the door behind her. His expression falters. Disappointment settles heavily in his chest.

“My friends wanted to meet you,” Liza informs him with a thoroughly unimpressed voice.

Only then does he snap out of his trance, noticing how the little girls are whispering to each other and giggling around him. “They think you’re cool because you’re a world champion.”

“I am cool, you just don’t know how to appreciate me.”

“Will you buy me cinnamon roll on our way back?”

“Maybe if you ask nicely.”

She rolls her eyes, lightly pinching him in the side. Then Ilia hears a voice behind him. It’s one of the moms holding out a phone, a bunch of little girls in their dance skirts looking at him with admiration and excited eyes. Ilia smiles, and when everyone gathers around him to take a picture, Liza slips out of the frame, observing the scene with a mildly annoyed expression. He smiles at the camera, slightly crouching and wrapping his arms around whoever he can reach.

Then, he sees a blur of someone moving. When the mom finally puts down the phone and thanks him, he turns his head to spot her.

She’s talking to Liza, both of them looking in his direction. She shoots him a small smile, waving at him. Over her white tights, she is wearing pink leg warmers, with a black wrap skirt matching her strappy leotard. Her skin glistens with sweat, pieces of hair framing her face as she laughs out loud at something Liza says. Based on the way they’re staring at him, it is something related to him, Ilia supposes.

“Hi.” His voice comes out almost shy, trying to contain the blush that threatens to adorn his cheeks.

“Hey.” She is much more relaxed than him, confidence booming through her voice. “Guess I didn’t really realize you were the older brother everyone talked about.”

“Haha, it’s fine.” He instantly regrets the words, because from the corner of his eye he can see how Liza glares at him, her chest raising in disappointment at his lack of smoothness.

“Um, how are you?”

“Good, great… the practice went alright, unlike last time,” she jokes, referencing the night at Walmart parking lot.

Liza looks between them, utterly confused, but neither of them acknowledge her. They just stare at each other—Ilia with a mildly surprised expression, as if she completely amazes him. God must have spared him from the embarrassment of his sister watching him struggle to talk to a girl, because one of Liza's friends runs up right then, dragging Liza aside with an excited voice.

“So..” Ilia puts his hands in his pockets, internally screaming at himself to get it together. “How’s the teaching going?”

“Uh..” She grimaces, her expression souring. “I mean, I didn’t actually have a lesson with them today. I'm just here doing a solo rehearsal. But in general, it’s going... moderately okay? I'm not really the best with children.”

“Really? Liza admires you a lot.”

“I mean, Liza is capable of following instructions,” she chuckles, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Children are great, they’re really funny, but teaching them... it isn’t so fun.”

“Yeah, sometimes I stay behind at the rink to give the little ones some tips, but they don’t really want to listen,” he laughs. “Honestly, neither does Liza. She likes to do quite the opposite of what I tell her.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She shakes her head, laughing. “Liza is really sweet.”

“That’s because you’re one of the lucky people she likes.”

“And you’re the unlucky one.”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughs, flashing him a smile he can’t help but mimic. He is about to open his mouth, ready to say something, but then the older woman walks towards them—Katerina, he presumes. Katerina doesn’t really acknowledge him, her attention entirely on the young teacher as she tells her about the next week's lesson plans. She eagerly listens, nodding at whatever the older woman has to say, but the moment Katerina turns her back on them, she lets out a heavy exhale, exhaustion instantly draping over her face.

“I’m not even supposed to be working on Tuesdays,” she sighs. “I have a rehearsal in D.C., but somehow Katerina always seems to forget about my timing.”

“Are you preparing for a show?”

“Yeah. Swan Lake.” She smiles, her voice coming out a bit quieter with her next words. Suddenly, she seems almost shy. “I play Odette slash Odile.”

“Oh, that’s sick.” His eyes widen, pure admiration coating his voice. “You must be the top dancer.”

“Maybe.” She teases, a playful glint in her eyes. “Not as great as you, though.”

She nudges him, and his body almost goes limp from the touch. Something flutters violently in his stomach as his throat goes completely dry.

“But I can’t perform to Swan Lake,” he says, raising his brows in a teasing, theatrical sort of way. “I wanted to, but my choreographer and parents nixxed it.”

“Why?”

“Something about me not having the grace and artistry for it?” He tries to laugh it off, though he can't entirely hide the lingering hurt beneath the words. “Hopefully I can get there someday.”

“Oh, you definitely can,” she reassures him, her voice dropping the playful edge and turning completely earnest. “I’ve seen your performances, Ilia. You’re great.”

“Thank you,” he shyly murmurs.

They stare at each other for a second, the bustling noise of the lobby fading into the background. Her expression is soft, her eyes almost shining under the dim lights of the building. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she has a chance to speak, Liza’s voice sharply cuts through the air.

“Can we get the cinnamon rolls now?”

Ilia breaks eye contact, staring at his sister for a split second before shifting his gaze right back to the girl in front of him. He makes an impulsive, split-second decision. His face burns hot even before the words manage to leave his mouth.

“Would you join us?” he asks, his pulse instantly picking up.

A flash of mild confusion crosses her face, and he immediately regrets the words. His palms get sweaty inside his pockets as he pulls his hands out, vaguely gesturing in the air. “I mean, if you’re free... and obviously, only if you want to.”

“I’d love to.”

Pure relief washes over him the exact moment a genuine smile stretches across her face.

Liza observes the entire exchange with a rare mixture of surprise and quiet excitement. Without being asked, she immediately leads the way out of the building, marching toward the SUV and silently hopping into the backseat—leaving the passenger side completely open for her to sit up front with him.

It’s easy to talk to her once the initial awkwardness washes away. She listens to him with curious eyes, never once teasing when he mixes up his words or produces almost incoherent sentences. He finds a rare comfort in knowing he can be unapologetically himself around her, completely free from the fear of judgment.

What starts with a brief afternoon in a cafe to eat cinnamon rolls with his little sister—Liza diving into the pastry until chocolate is smeared across her mouth, curiously watching their back-and-forth conversation over hot chocolate—quickly expands. They bond over mutual interests, exchange social media, and start texting throughout the entire day. He invites her to go skating with him, she invites him to attend her rehearsals, and by December, they are close enough to become a permanent part of each other's daily routines.

Taking the Grand Prix events out of his schedule to rest for the half-season leaves him with enough free time to hang out with her a few times a week. It’s not just him making the plans, either. She suggests going bowling together, and she invites him to hang out with her friends—all of them ballerinas, all of them loud and chaotic the second they step outside the gracious, gentle personas they put on for the stage. The blonde guy Liza initially warned him about turns out to be her longtime friend and ballet partner Luca, much to his relief. He even meets her mom while dropping her off at home, noting how the middle-aged woman looks almost like an older version of the girl he is falling harder for with each passing day.

Eventually, he invites her over to meet his cats.

“I think she likes me.” She smiles down at Mysti, who has gone completely limp in her arms. The cat looks up at her with curious green eyes, snuggling deeper into her embrace as she caresses the shiny fur.

“Oh, definitely,” Ilia smiles, thoroughly content that his favorite cat has approved of the person who is slowly becoming his favorite human. It feels surreal seeing her on his bed, settling in so comfortably, never once judging the way his room still carries the boyish charm people occasionally make fun of.

“I had a chinchilla growing up, Dusty.” She smiles at the memory. “She had the softest fur and these chubby cheeks. I always wanted to cuddle with her, but she didn’t really like physical affection. She only jumped on my lap when she felt that I was sad.”

“What happened to her?”

“To Dusty?” She lets out a soft laugh at his earnestness. “Well, I got her when I was five... so you can imagine what happened to her.”

“Oh.” His cheeks instantly turn a deep crimson, an awkward smile plastering across his face. “I don’t really know much about... um... the lifespan of a chinchilla.”

“Have you ever even seen a chinchilla in real life?”

“Not really.”

“I’d offer to take you to a pet shop, but I’m not convinced I could leave that place empty-handed.” She sighs, raising her eyebrows. “I can’t really be responsible for any animal right now, even though I really want a cuddle buddy sometimes.”

“Well, you can count on me for that.”

The joke leaves his mouth smoothly, but the moment he sees the subtle surprise on her face, he realizes exactly how his words sounded. He silently curses himself, his brain scrambling for a frantic explanation. “I, um... I meant that you can come over to cuddle with Mysti... I mean, Miu Miu too...”

“Thanks for the invite.”

“Any time.”

As if agreeing with the arrangement, Mysti lets out a loud purr, sending them both into a fit of laughter. Ilia completely loses himself in the sight—the soft smile on her face, Mysti curled up in her embrace, her cheek buried in the cat's soft fur, while one of his Toothless plushies rests right against her side. His heart swells with a warmth so sudden and overwhelming it physically tightens his chest.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Only if you let me pick,” she grins, her eyes flashing playfully. “I’m quite picky with what I watch.”

“Deal.”

He grabs his laptop, and the two of them settle comfortably against the pillows. She already has a film chosen, her Letterboxd watchlist filled with hundreds of titles. Even after the movie starts playing, the conversation doesn't stop. They whisper back and forth, discussing the characters, analyzing scenes, or sharing random memories that the film resurfaces.

Midway through, she goes extremely quiet. When Ilia looks over his shoulder, he finds her fast asleep, her head hanging awkwardly off her shoulder.

Gently, carefully, he nudges her so that she leans against him instead. Her body relaxes completely into his touch, her limbs falling loosely to her sides. At the sudden loss of contact, Mysti looks thoroughly displeased, glaring up at Ilia as if he is personally responsible for ruining her spot.

“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath to the cat, stretching out a hand to pet her. But Mysti wants none of his company; she jumps down from the mattress, disappearing through the narrow gap he usually leaves open for the cats.

His pulse quickens. Without the cat between them, she leans even closer into his side, shivering slightly as if she’s cold and seeking the comfortable warmth of his body. Ilia freezes, barely daring to breathe. He is terrified that if he moves, she’ll wake up and get the wrong idea, still entirely unsure whether she actually wants his touch or not.

Unsure of what else to do, he pretends everything is normal. He forces his eyes back to the laptop screen and resumes watching the movie, though the words barely register anymore over the sound of his own racing heart.

“You’ve never been to a prom?!”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, stuffing his mouth with chips.

They are coming out of the movie theater, snacks still in their hands after the excessive amount he bought, convinced they would get through it quickly. It is almost as if he forgot about her strict diet, and he felt slightly disappointed when she only ate half of the smallest popcorn bucket. He didn't want to pressure her into eating either.

“Neither homecoming,” he adds. “I always had something come up.”

“That’s... sad.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he lies, shrugging as he stares down at his hands. “Skating has always been my priority. It’s just what I do.”

“Yeah, I understand,” she murmurs. When she speaks again, her tone is a heavy mixture of quiet sadness and a deeper, more unsettling emotion. “I don't really remember myself before the ballet. Literally. I think the very first memory I have of my entire life is seeing this huge, tulle pink tutu in a shop window when I was three. I didn’t even know what it meant, I just knew I wanted to it so much.”

She swallows hard, her fingers restlessly tracing the seam of her jacket pocket—a subconscious habit he’s noticed she does whenever she gets overwhelmed.

“And ever since then... it was always just ballet. Sometimes I feel like I don’t actually exist outside of it.”

“That’s not true,” he almost scolds her, not liking the way she reduces herself when, for him, she’s so much more than that. “When I think of you, ballet is the least thing that comes to my mind.”

“Do you think of me often?”

She drops into that specific, quiet tone she uses whenever she wants to tease him. He immediately avoids her gaze, looking down at his sneakers as he feels the heat rushing straight to his cheeks. He can't stop the stupidly wide smile that hitches up the corners of his mouth, completely exposing how much power she has over him.

“Maybe,” he mumbles, trying—and failing—to sound entirely nonchalant.

“Fair enough.” She lets out a soft chuckle. “I think of you so often that it feels like I’ve known you for years, and not just months.”

She speaks about it so casually that he wonders if the confidence comes from purely seeing him as a friend, or if she just isn't shy to admit her feelings out loud. She doesn’t dwell on the conversation, seamlessly transitioning back to discussing the main character's arc. Then she is interrupted, her phone buzzing loudly in her hand.

“Hey, Katerina… what?!”

She stops dead in her tracks, her eyes widening as she looks at him with a horrified expression. He looks at her, confused, and then she turns her back on him, giving herself some privacy to end the conversation in approximately ten seconds.

“Apparently I was supposed to substitute for Katerina and I forgot,” she explains to him in a nervous tone, frustration seeping into her voice. She looks down at her outfit—simple jeans and an oversized sweater underneath her brown coat and red fluffy scarf. He likes the way her outfits always look so effortless, uniquely herself. “I can’t go to the studio like this.”

“I can drop you at home and you can change. Then we’ll go to the studio.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, come on.”

That’s the first time Ilia steps into her house. It is small and cozy, the walls overflowing with pictures, every corner of the room filled with souvenirs and furniture, and Christmas decorations lying across the whole house. He stops at the foot of the stairs, staring at the framed pictures in front of him. Mostly it is just her growing up—school pictures, ballet lessons, shows.

He spots her father, a tired smile on his face as he crouches down to her level. She looks around Liza’s age in the photo, wearing a pink tutu with a matching headpiece. Her father passed away when she was barely 17, he recalls. She didn’t get into details when she mentioned him one night, but from what he knows, he was sick and there was no way for him to get better. She doesn’t really talk about him.

Then he hears footsteps, backing off quickly as if he's been caught guilty of something. She sprints down the stairs after approximately five minutes, already changed into her practice clothes, tying a ponytail tight on her head.

“Okay, let’s go.”

“What about your bag?”

“What about my bag?”

She frowns, not quite realizing what he means until he gestures to the missing piece that is almost always present on her. She lets out a quiet gasp, muttering to herself as she turns right back around.

“Right! God, my head is all over the place today,” she calls out over her shoulder, her voice retreating back up the steps.

Her mistake gives Ilia just enough time to snoop around for another five minutes. Grinning to himself, he pulls out his phone to take quick pictures of the photographs on the wall, pausing on the ones where he finds her the absolute cutest.

When she finally runs back down, bag firmly in hand, the ride to the studio is short. the whole time she keeps looking at the time on her screen, the nervousness apparent on her face as she checks the ticking minutes. When he parks in front of the studio, she has already unbuckled her seatbelt, extending her hand to pull down the door handle.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she quickly mumbles.

Before he can even register the movement, she leans in and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, already stepping out of the car before he can breathe. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll text you later!”

“See you later,” he manages to say.

He waves her off, pretending the kiss didn’t just completely undo him. He lets out a long, shaky exhale only when she finally disappears through the glass doors of the building, his fingers lifting to press against the spot on his cheek where her lips just were.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” She nods, biting into a burger as her eyes almost flutter with satisfaction.

When she mentioned she was craving burgers during a random conversation on Instagram earlier, Ilia had somehow convinced her that driving to Washington at midnight for food was a brilliant idea. After some minor hesitation, she had agreed, excitement seeping into her voice when she told him she’d be ready in ten minutes.

“You remember the night when we met, right?”

“I mean...” She chuckles, slurping her coke through a straw. “Kind of hard to forget.”

“I don’t know, your memory has been kind of foggy lately,” he teases, nudging her shoulder playfully.

They are parked somewhere in a quiet area, the dim lights of the dashboard softly highlighting her features. He doesn’t notice the way her expression completely falls for a fraction of a second—a shadow crossing her face—before she quickly laughs, playing along with him.

“I was kind of wondering... did you lie back then, or were you really crying over a bad rehearsal?” he asks gently, trying not to push too hard.

She pauses, her gaze fixing on the wrapper in front of her. It takes her several long seconds to answer, and the quiet stretches out until Ilia almost regrets asking the question in the first place.

“I didn’t lie,” she finally answers, her tone deceptively casual. “I kept falling out of my pirouettes, and I was so exhausted I couldn't keep my spotting. And then, to make it worse, I really wanted my pineapple drink and the Walmart didn’t even have it.”

She sighs heavily as if the memory still genuinely infuriates her, looking at him with a disappointed pout. “I kind of wanted to strangle you when you approached me.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, yes. Strangers witnessing your mental breakdown is kind of embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing. You’re human.”

“You were really awkward that night,” she recalls, the memory crinkling the corners of her eyes.

He groans in response, burying his face in his hands. Of course she noticed; it was hard not to.

“It was kind of cute, though,” she admits softly. “It definitely contributed to lifting my spirits.”

“See?” He wiggles his eyebrows in victory, dropping his hands. “Barely two minutes of me in your life and things had already gotten better.”

“Then you tried to force me into giving me a ride.”

“I didn’t!” he exclaims, deeply insulted by the accusation. “I couldn’t just leave you out there. It was midnight... and you’re a girl!”

“Wow, how come you noticed?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, the embarrassment instantly visible on his cheeks.

She must notice the flush, because she giggles, leaning across the console to pinch his cheek. “It’s okay, Ilia. I like you the way you are.” Her words come out entirely genuine, her expression softening into something incredibly sweet. She doesn't seem to realize that her reassurance almost completely undoes him, sending his thoughts into a frantic internal spiral. “Your awkwardness is endearing.”

“And my humor is exceptional.”

“Sure.” She rolls her eyes, playfully pushing his face away as they both laugh.

It’s moments exactly like this when he feels it—the realization slowly becoming more familiar and undeniable with each passing day. He’s in love with her.

In early January, he invites her to accompany him to the National Championships. She has a small break from her company rehearsals, her schedule completely free with the winter holidays freeing her from teaching lessons. She agrees with overwhelming enthusiasm, traveling out to Utah alongside him and his father.

Throughout the weekend, Ilia tries his absolute best to keep her away from the spotlight, but people still notice her. They had already spotted her months ago in Vienna, the locals fueling online gossip every single time they saw them out in public or caught him picking her up and dropping her off at her house. Eventually, fans discovered her name, stalking her on the internet and trying to break through into her private social media accounts. Of course, everyone presumes they are dating, but neither of them speaks about it—not even mentioning the rumors to each other.

“Congrats!”

He finds her after the victory ceremony, tucked away from prying eyes. She wraps him in a tight embrace, leaning up to kiss his cheek to congratulate him. He tries to ignore the warmth instantly bubbling in his stomach, his smile impossibly wide.

“Thank you.”

“When you finished, everyone in my row stood up,” her voice is full of enthusiasm, her eyes almost shining. “I couldn't even see over them, so I had to just stare up at the... the...”

She stops mid-sentence.

Her lips stay slightly parted, her eyes blinking rapidly as her gaze fixes on a random point over his shoulder. The animated, lively expression on her face completely vanishes, replaced by a sudden, jarring blankness.

“The what?” Ilia asks, tilting his head slightly, waiting for her to finish.

She swallows hard, her fingers twitching against the fabric of her coat. A flash of panic crosses her eyes—a look so sharp it makes Ilia’s smile falter. She snaps her mouth shut, her jaw clenching as she stares down at the floor, desperately searching her mind.

“The... you know,” she mumbles, her voice dropping an octave, losing all its previous energy. She gestures vaguely with her hand toward the arena ceiling. “The big thing hanging from the center.”

Ilia watches her, a bit confused by the description. “The Jumbotron?”

Her expression turns sharply blank for a second, her fingers clenching into tight fists inside her pockets. “Yeah, the Jumbotron! God, I always have a hard time remembering that word.”

“Yeah, it sounds a little weird,” he softly agrees, letting the strange moment slide as he wraps an arm around her shoulder, leading her out of the arena.

He wants to go out and celebrate his gold and Jacob’s bronze medal with a few of his teammates, and she happily agrees to come along. But for most of the night, she stays completely quiet, choosing the role of a listener instead of speaking. He wonders if something is wrong, or if something at the restaurant has made her uncomfortable.

But on their way back to the hotel, when he looks over and finds her fast asleep against the window, he relaxes. He realizes she is just incredibly tired, the deep physical exhaustion finally catching up to her.

“Oh, you’re so dead!”

“If you catch me.”

She wipes the snow from her face, spitting out stray flakes as she looks him dead in the eye, moving in to tackle him. He turns on his heel, laughing at her as she struggles to catch up.

When, for the first time in months, the snow hit Vienna hard enough to reach just below Liza’s knees, the little girl had shaken Ilia awake, begging him to come outside and play. He turned her down at first, mumbling something about being sleepy, but the moment Liza slipped her name—recalling a promise she had made to join them if it ever snowed like this—he lifted his head right up. Suddenly, he felt very energized to start his day early.

After spending almost half an hour chasing each other in the driveway, naturally with Liza and her ganging up on him. He is completely breathless, His whole face bright red, laughter bubbling from his throat every time she misses a shot, or every time her eyes crinkle up over something he says.

She extends her fingers, tugging down at his jacket, but she isn't fast enough to smother the snowball in her palm against his face. He wiggles free out of her reach. When he looks back to mock her in victory, she suddenly yelps, losing her balance completely as she lands right on her butt, the physical exhaustion catching up to her.

The sight somehow makes his heart swell. He extends a hand toward her, only to receive a deeply annoyed look in return.

“Come on. I promise I’ll behave.”

“You promised that before you practically fed me snow,” she raises an eyebrow, though she isn't even slightly mad about it. She accepts his hand, her soaking glove tightening around his. “Not just once, but twice.”

“Maybe you should’ve closed your mouth then.”

He barely finishes the sentence when she yanks down hard on his hand. Her weight pulls him off balance, and with a slightly panicked face, he falls forward, landing right on top of her in the deep drift. She laughs triumphantly, grabbing a handful of fresh snow from her side and rubbing it right into his face.

“So,” she breathes out, looking up at him with wide, bright eyes as they both laugh. “Did you close your mouth?”

She gently brushes away the clinging snowflakes from his skin. Ilia's chest tightens at the sight of her—her hair peeking out from under her beanie, her breath coming in shallow puffs, the expression on her face entirely soft.

Their eyes lock, and he feels something shift drastically in the air. It’s a quiet, heavy pull that pushes him to lean down and close the distance, to finally do what he has wanted to do for months. His eyes flicker to her lips, and the way she stares back at him feels like a silent, breathless invitation.

He barely moves, his head leaning down just a fraction of an inch, before a sharp, explosive coldness slaps against his cheek.

Liza has thrown a snowball right at his head.

“Ha!” the little girl exclaims from a few yards away. “Got you!”

The romantic tension snaps instantly. His face flushes a deep, burning crimson as he quickly scrambles off her, hiding a subtle, embarrassed smile as he helps her up to her feet. Liza continues to pelt him with snowballs until he finally turns his attention to her, chasing the little girl down the driveway while her bright laughter rings out across the quiet neighborhood.

Later that afternoon, they are downstairs in his room. She stands near the dresser, drying her damp hair with a towel after taking a quick shower. She is wearing his oversized hoodie and a pair of his sweatpants, and a deep sense of content settles in his chest at the sight of her wearing his clothes. Upstairs, Tatyana is making her famous meal, having fiercely insisted she doesn’t need any help. She had always liked her when she was just Liza’s ballet teacher, but ever since Ilia introduced her as his friend, his mother has grown to absolutely love her.

“Do you have face moisturizer?”

“Uhh, no,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed not to be able to fulfill her request. “I don’t really use anything.”

“So you have no skincare routine?”

“Nope.”

“Wow.” She sighs, her voice carrying a thoroughly unimpressed tone despite the playful look in her eyes. “So you just use water and wake up with that gorgeous skin?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s so unfair.”

“Can you repeat that part where you said I’m gorgeous?”

She rolls her eyes, eliciting a loud laugh from him. When he offers to go upstairs and ask Tatyana if she can borrow some of her stuff, she strictly declines, swiftly changing the topic.

Setting the towel down, she divides her damp hair into sections and attempts to start a braid. Ilia leans back against his headboard, thoroughly enjoying watching her focused reflection in the mirror. He notices that she subtly sticks out her tongue in concentration—a habit so identical to his own that a small smirk tugs at his lips at the coincidence.

But then, her eyebrows furrow deeply. A sudden, tense frustration ripples across her face. Her fingers seem to misfire, twitching slightly as they fumble with the strands, and she abruptly drops her hands to her sides. The small section of the braid she had managed to start instantly comes completely undone.

“Ugh,” she mutters, her voice tight, a fleeting look of panic crossing her features before she forces a casual sigh. “My hands just don’t seem to be working today.”

“I can help.”

“You know how to braid hair?” She turns to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

He nods, sliding down from the bed and stepping up behind her to help. He carefully starts sectioning her hair, catching her amazed expression in the glass.

“How come?” she asks.

“My, um... my ex-girlfriend taught me.” He shrugs, trying to sound completely nonchalant. He wants to make it crystal clear that whatever existed in his past is entirely over, because that’s the absolute truth. He doesn’t want anything to do with his ex. He wants her.

“Oh.”

“We briefly dated in high school,” he continues, talking about it as if it’s ancient, irrelevant history. His fingers move gently through her hair, highly aware of how much it smells like his shampoo. “It was nothing serious. I guess I just enjoyed the fact that someone finally liked me.”

“So you weren’t in love with her?”

Her voice comes out much quieter this time. Ilia pauses for a second, trying to differentiate his past feelings, comparing the shallow infatuation he had felt back then to the massive, terrifying weight of what he feels for the girl in the mirror right now.

“I don’t think so,” he says honestly.

“I’ve never been in love,” she replies after a long silence.

His heart instantly picks up its pace, his fingers freezing for a fraction of a second in her dark hair before he forces himself to resume braiding. The confession sits both pleasantly and unpleasantly in his stomach. He loves the thought of being her first love, but he hates the terrifying possibility that her words mean she doesn’t have those feelings for him at all. He catches her expression in the reflection, searching for a sign, but it’s a look he can’t quite decipher. He says nothing, keeping quiet to give her the space to continue if she wants to.

“I’ve had a few crushes here and there... but,” she shrugs, offering a soft smile as he finishes tying off the braid. “I never liked someone enough to actually get into a relationship.”

“You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

“No.” She lets out a soft chuckle, shooting him a playful, challenging look in the glass. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“A little.”

“Well, thanks for the braid.”

The heavy conversation is over, he realizes, noting the subtle shift in her posture. He nods, not wanting to push past her boundaries.

“No problem,” he smiles, stepping back. “Not my best work, but it’ll do.”

“Eager to see your better works in the future.” With a teasing grin, she reaches up and ruffles his hair, leaving him with a stupidly wide smile plastered across his face.

She quickly crouches down to pet Miu Miu, who has just slipped into the bedroom. The cat hesitates at the touch for a second, but under the gentle stroke of her fingers, she eventually gives in, purring softly against the floorboards.

“Woah.”

He physically breathes out the word when he sees her, looking up at the stairs with his mouth agape. Her hair is softly curled, her makeup highlighting her features, and the dark blue dress hugging her in all the right places perfectly matches the suit he’s wearing. She chuckles, gripping the railing as she comes down the steps gracefully. Her mom instantly swoons at the sight, grabbing her camera to take pictures of them.

“You look beautiful.”

“And you’re handsome.”

She gives him a playful smile, fixing his tie with a soft expression. Ilia completely melts at the sight, unashamedly staring down at her.

When she had mentioned her friend's wedding a few months ago, she already had a date locked in. Luca had promised to accompany her, but his plans changed at the very last minute. When she almost shyly asked Ilia if he would be her plus-one instead, he had agreed without a single second of hesitation, immediately asking about the color of her dress so he could start planning to find a matching suit.

“I fear someone is going to outshine the bride,” her mom teases.

“Mom,” she groans, closing her eyes for a second. “Please stop.”

“I’m just joking, sweetie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she motions to her mother impatiently, closing the gap between herself and Ilia as she slides her arm around his back. “Just take a picture.”

Ilia flashes a bright smile at the camera, his grip tightening around her waist.

The ride to the venue is spent humming along to the radio and listening to her fill him in on the guests—who to avoid, and what to expect.

“Oh, and avoid Cheryl at all costs,” the tone in her voice changes immediately, suggesting the deep dislike she harbors for the girl. “She’s an absolute attention seeker. I bet she will start following you around the second she hears you’re a famous athlete.”

“I take it she’s not your friend.”

“Oh, no,” she lets out a bitter laugh. “I strongly dislike her.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” he chuckles, glancing over at her in the passenger seat. She looks so effortlessly beautiful that his chest physically tightens at the sight. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to leave your side for the whole evening.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Alright, fine. I’ll throw in one or two dances with Cheryl.”

“How good of a dancer are you?” She raises an eyebrow, shooting him a highly suspicious look.

“Well,” he grimaces, the corner of his lips tilting down. “You can be the judge of that.”

“Oh, so you suck.”

“Hey, that’s not what I said!”

“Don’t worry, Malinin, I’ll teach you,” she throws him a challenging look, a subtle smirk tugging at her lips. “But you have to promise my lessons won’t pay off so well that you go dance with Cheryl.”

“Deal,” he grins.

Most of the wedding guests have no idea who he is. To respect his privacy, she doesn't give away his worldwide fame, only sharing it with a few of her closest friends who welcome them both with open arms. She introduces him as a figure skating prodigy, a proud smile on her face. She refers to him simply as a "friend," and while that label stings a little, the secret looks and glances they share throughout the evening clearly prove otherwise.

The wedding is incredibly fun. They keep laughing with her friends and dance to almost every single song, whether it’s a lively rhythm or a slow, romantic melody. To her immense relief, Cheryl never even shows up, and Ilia jokes about the missed opportunity while she playfully hits his chest. She keeps her promise, teaching him how to move alongside her to the rhythm, their bodies close, seamlessly swaying with each other.

He laughs when she uncharacteristically stumbles over a simple weight shift, teasingly blaming it on the two glasses of champagne she drank earlier, entirely missing the way her fingers briefly twitch against his palm right after. He keeps his hand low on her waist, and she almost buries her head into his shoulder, completely relaxing into his touch.

“Ilia.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming,” she almost whispers over the low music. For a second, he feels her intertwine her fingers with his just a little tighter. “I had a great time.”

“Me too,” he mumbles, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair away from her face.

Something shifts in her expression, and she leans in closer, her warm breath gently fanning against his skin. That’s the moment, Ilia realizes. That is when he is supposed to make a move, when he should cup her cheek and kiss her. Her lashes even begin to flutter closed—but the moment is abruptly ruined once again.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

They both pause, glancing down at the six-year-old blonde girl staring up at them. It’s the groom's little sister, who has been constantly following Ilia around whenever she gets the chance. In the span of a few hours, she has developed a massive crush on him, and his date has been ceaselessly making fun of him for it the whole evening.

“Uh...”

“Because if he isn’t, would he be mine?”

She snorts at the question, genuine laughter spilling from her mouth. Ilia can’t help but mimic her, both of them laughing over the little girl’s bluntness while the child looks back at them with a mildly confused expression, her cheeks reddening instantly.

“Would you like him to be?” she asks the little girl.

“Yes.”

The girl eagerly nods, and Ilia practically groans at the situation, hiding his burning face in his date's shoulder. It’s hilarious, really—the two of them bargaining over him as if he isn’t even standing right there.

“Would you like to dance with him?”

“Yes!” the little girl lets out an excited exclamation, almost jumping on the spot.

Ilia shoots his date a thoroughly betrayed look, and in return, he receives a deeply apologetic smile. She leans in to whisper in his ear, her lips almost brushing his skin, sending goosebumps straight down his spine.

“Just one dance. Imagine how happy she will be,” she smiles, reaching up to fix his tie one more time. “I need to rest anyway. My feet hurt.”

“If she drags me toward the children's table, you better come rescue me.”

“I will,” she promises, lightly pinching his cheek. “Tell her the bow in her hair looks good.”

“The things I do for you.”

She takes a few steps back, smiling as she practically rents him out to the ecstatic six-year-old. The whole time they dance, the little girl is giggling, her eyes practically shining, and Ilia can’t help but smile down at her too. From afar, she watches them, a content smile plastered on her face. When the music ends, the little girl shyly runs away toward her mom, and the older woman nods at Ilia with an appreciative gesture.

He walks back over to their table and sits next to her, his arm automatically sneaking around the back of her chair. She has a tired expression on her face, the deep physical exhaustion finally catching up to her.

“Should we go home?”

“Yeah,” she softly agrees. “Yeah, I think it’s time.”

They say goodbye to the newlyweds, waving them off with wide smiles. As they walk out, she leans her weight heavily against him. It takes him a moment to notice that she is seriously struggling in her heels, a small wince escaping her mouth as they navigate the stairs.

“Are you okay?”

“I think my blisters decided to open up.”

“Oh, shit,” his eyes widen, instantly imagining the raw pain she must be pushing through. He almost scolds her. “You should’ve brought sneakers, or we shouldn’t have danced to every single song. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I wanted to dance.”

“And now you can’t even walk.”

“It was worth it.”

She barely finishes the sentence before Ilia hooks his arms under her knees and back, scooping her right up into his arms. A surprised shriek escapes her as her feet suddenly leave the ground, and she instinctively grips his neck tightly.

“Ilia!” Even though she tries to sound protested, she isn't even slightly annoyed about it. “I’m perfectly capable of walking to the car.”

“You don’t have to.”

He carries her all the way to the parking lot, carefully setting her down into the passenger seat before closing the door behind her. When he climbs into the driver's seat and starts the car, he glances over at her, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Why don’t you take your shoes off?”

“In case you forgot, I’m a ballerina.”

“So?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“My feet aren’t exactly a pleasant sight,” she tries to joke, but he can easily tell from her guarded posture that she’s incredibly self-conscious about it. “I’m alright.”

“Do you really think I care about that?” His tone turns entirely serious, looking at her as if she’s guilty for even thinking it would bother him. “I’ve had more blisters, calluses, and black toenails than I’ve won medals. It’s not something that could ever scare me, and it’s certainly not something you should ever be ashamed of around me.”

She doesn’t reply, simply looking out the window to avoid his gaze. A few minutes pass in a comfortable silence before she quietly unbuckles her heels and slips them off, barely containing the massive sigh of relief that escapes her throat. He doesn’t glance down at her feet even once.

Shortly after, she recalls a hilarious moment from earlier in the night with her friend and brings it up. Ilia bursts out laughing, and the lingering tension is finally broken.

“What do you think?”

Raising his eyebrows, he looks over at her from the driver’s seat, his eyes practically twinkling with excitement.

They are back in Washington. He had picked her up straight from her rehearsal, using a completely manufactured excuse about having "stuff to do in the city" just so he could see her. With her major ballet show rapidly approaching and her rehearsal hours doubling, they’ve barely had any time to hang out. It doesn't help that he is training for the World Championships either; somehow, their overlapping schedules have consumed their lives to the point that they barely even have time to text each other.

To make the most of the drive, he had stopped at Starbucks, determined to finally make her try his absolute favorite drink. She didn’t shy away from using his straw, quickly slurping from the cup as her expression goes slightly horrified.

She pulls the cup away, staring at the liquid as if it just insulted her. “Ilia. What is actually wrong with you?”

“What? It’s amazing!” he defends, bursting into a laugh at her reaction.

“It’s too sweet,” she murmurs, sheepishly offering him a smile while he sighs in disappointment. “No wonder you have so much energy when you keep intaking so much sugar.”

“It’s not like I drink it every day,” he defends himself with pursed lips. “I have a pretty healthy diet!”

“Nuggets, pasta, and burgers, huh?” she teases him, raising her eyebrows.

Then she extends her hand toward him, intending to give it back to him, but her hand starts shaking uncontrollably. Before he can even reach out, the cup flies out of her hand, the pink liquid spilling all over.

She curses out, a horrified expression on her face as she tries to pick up the cup. She panics, muttering desperate apologies, digging in her bag to pull out a handful of napkins.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine—”

“No, it’s not—”

“Come on, it’s alright,” he firmly repeats, squeezing her shoulder to calm her.

She notices that her hand is still shaking, and she hides it by her side with an almost ashamed expression.

“It’s just water,” he lies gently, trying to minimize it.

“The whole car is soaked... and you’re soaked too!”

Something breaks in her voice. When he notices the tears pooling in her eyes, he pauses, taken aback, his body almost going stiff with uncertainty. When a quiet sob escapes her and she covers her face with her hands, something breaks in his heart. His arms immediately reach over to remove her palms. Now both of her hands are still shaking, her lips quivering.

“Hey, hey,” he shushes her, leaning toward her to wrap an arm around her, forcing her head into the crook of his neck. “It’s nothing. I’m not mad. It’s just a spilled drink, I promise.”

He strokes her hair awkwardly at first, then with more confidence, his chin resting against the top of her head. He doesn't care about the sticky pink liquid drying on his jeans or the mess made. All he cares about is the girl in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers out one last time, lifting her head to wipe the tears away from her eyes. The mascara smudges at her eyes, and suddenly he’s transported right back to the night they met. Before he has a chance to scold her, she continues. “I’m just so emotional lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“It’s okay, really.” He squeezes her hand, offering her a soft smile. “It’s probably the nerves before the show. Don’t think too much of it.”

She gives him an apologetic smile, and then they clean up the mess in silence.

The drive back to Vienna is almost awkward. He tries to get her into the conversation, but her heart isn’t in it, still embarrassed by her breakdown. The silence seems to be suffocating, and when he can’t hold it in anymore, he stops the car abruptly in the middle of the track, her shooting him a thoroughly confused expression.

“Why did you stop?”

“Let’s get over it, okay?” he starts, licking his lips as he tries to find the correct words. “I don’t think it’s a big deal that you spilled a drink. I don’t think that it’s embarrassing that you cried over it, okay? Stuff happens. And you’re allowed to show your emotions. I don’t want you to... shy away from me... okay? We’re...”

“Friends.”

She finishes for him, and even though it feels like a slap in his face, even though his expression drops and his mood sours, he still smiles at her. The tension in the car has disappeared, but now it’s him who finds it hard to engage in the conversation, his mind replaying the word over and over again, a heavy disappointment settling on his chest.

He shifts the SUV back into drive, keeping his eyes glued to the asphalt ahead. The word rings in his ears with every hum of the tires on the highway. Friends. It feels tiny and restrictive, a small box he doesn't want to fit into.

It’s early March. He has freed up his schedule specifically to pick Liza up from her ballet lessons, knowing she has a class with her younger teacher. He is surprised to discover she isn't even at the studio. Liza explains with a deeply disappointed pout that her teacher called out with a fever.

Ilia tries texting her, then calling her, but the line just rings through. He can’t reach her.

After dropping his little sister off at home, the radio silence eats at him until he ultimately decides to just drive over to her apartment. He stops at the grocery store on the way, grabbing a few of her favorite snacks and drinks, trying to shake the uneasy feeling in his chest.

When she opens the door, she looks completely stunned to see him standing on her doorstep. The warm smile on his face instantly vanishes the second he takes her in. Her eyes are heavy and bloodshot, a hollow, utterly exhausted expression plastered across her face. She lets him inside without a word. She looks terrible—but it isn't the kind of sick you look when you're struck down by a flu. A sharp gut feeling tells him something else is wrong. Something deeply horrifying.

“What’s going on?” His eyebrows furrow in immediate concern. He raises a palm to touch her forehead, but he doesn't feel a hint of warmth. “What happened? You don't have a fever.”

She doesn’t answer, deliberately avoiding his gaze as if she is deeply ashamed to even look at him. He follows her into the apartment, a heavy worry gnawing at his insides with every passing second she stays silent. Eventually, she settles on the edge of her couch, pulling her legs up tightly against her chest as her eyes well with tears.

He sits next to her, his heart clenching as the first tears finally spill over her cheeks.

“They cut me from the production."

The confession breaks out of her in a fractured voice, followed by a quiet, devastating sob. She covers her face with both hands, her entire body trembling violently. “Madame Laurent reassigned the role to Nat. She said my execution has become too heavy, and that I'm completely lacking the precision required for Odette.”

Ilia stares at her, completely shocked. The words barely register. He doesn’t understand how that is even possible; he has watched her dance so many times. She is perfect. She is everything any ballerina could ever dream of being.

“What?” he exhales, shaking his head. “Why would they tell you that? You’re perfect.”

“I’m not perfect!” she snaps, her voice suddenly cutting through the room. Her lower lip quivers as she glares at the floor. “I feel so fucking useless.”

The words choke in her throat. Ilia snaps out of his paralysis, quickly wrapping an arm around her back and gently pulling her head into his chest. He shushes her softly, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head, rubbing her shoulder in a desperate attempt to soothe her pain even a little bit. He holds her tight, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, a fierce, helpless anger seeping into his pores because he can't fix this for her.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against her hair, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. He doesn’t quite know how to offer comfort with words. He remembers the Olympics—the way everyone's reassurances barely helped him until he finally forced his own mind into the right headspace. “That’s so unfair. You’ve been working so hard for this. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not unfair! That’s the thing!”

Her voice rises sharply. She pulls away from his embrace with a gasp, looking at him with a volatile mixture of anger and sheer hopelessness. He wants to lean back in and wipe away her tears, to caress her cheeks, to kiss her and whisper that everything will eventually be okay—but the intensity in her eyes stops him cold.

“I’m horrible at rehearsals! My center is completely gone, Ilia! When I try to spot during my pirouettes, my head doesn't whip around fast enough! The whole stage just blurs and I pitch forward! My ankles vibrate every time I try to hold a basic arabesque! I can't even control my own lines anymore!” Her frantic gaze darts around the room as she abruptly pushes herself off the couch, pacing across the small living room, biting her lip so hard it's nearly bleeding.

Ilia sits frozen, completely at a loss. He doesn't know whether to say something or simply let her lash out and vent the frustration.

“It’s over, everything is over!” she yells, her voice uncontrollably loud, shaking with a terrifying strain of rage. “I ruined everything! My career is over! They’re never going to give me a lead role after this!”

“That’s not true—”

“It is the fucking truth!” she bites out, spinning around to face him. “Who the fuck wants a ballerina who can’t even keep her fucking balance?!”

“You’ve been stressing out so much lately, and it’s just taken a toll on your body—”

“You don’t understand!”

“I do understand!” he exclaims, a trace of his own frustration finally seeping into his voice. He has never seen her angry like this; he didn’t even think she was capable of this kind of hostility. “I completely crumbled under the pressure at the Olympics, remember? I do know what it’s like to break when it matters the most!”

“It’s not the same thing!” She throws her head back in bitter frustration, a wild, hostile expression written all over her face. “You crumbled because you struggled mentally! Not because your body didn’t fucking work, okay?!”

Her voice hits an impossibly louder register, the walls of the house feeling like they are vibrating with the force of her scream. She is taking all of her terror out on him. While he is ready to do absolutely anything to help her, he feels a desperate need to step in and calm her down—because she is entirely fracturing right in front of him. She looks like she is completely losing her mind.

“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice drops, turning soft and placating as he extends a hand toward her, trying to gently touch her arm, but she slaps his hand away. “You’re right, I can’t understand. Only you know how it feels, but please let me try, okay? Just take a deep breath and let's talk—”

“Do not fucking tell me to calm down!”

He will never forget the expression on her face. In that fraction of a second, the girl he knew vanished, replaced by someone entirely hollowed out by unrecognizable.

Her palm cuts through the air, striking his cheek with a sharp, echoing crack.

His eyes widen in complete shock, his fingers instinctively flying up to his face. His cheek is burning, the skin turning blistering hot underneath his fingertips. It stings violently, but what hurts infinitely more than the physical blow is the reality of where it came from.

She slapped him.

The blunt force of the impact seems to instantly snap her out of a trance. Her mouth falls agape, the frantic rage draining from her features until she looks entirely defenseless. Her eyes widen, her brows knitting together as a fresh wave of tears pools in them, and she slaps her hand over her mouth in absolute horror at what she’s done.

“Oh my god,” she breathes out, her voice suddenly quieter than he's ever heard it. “I’m so sorry. Oh god, I’m so sorry... please forgive me, please.”

She whispers the words desperately, her eyes frantic as she lunges forward, touching his face with the heartbreaking gentleness that is actually natural to her. She swallows down a sob, desperately pressing hot, trembling kisses all over his cheeks, whispering a frantic blur of apologies and promises against his skin.

Ilia just stands there, entirely frozen. He is utterly speechless from what has unfolded in front of him in the span of a single minute.

“I don’t know what happened, I’m so sorry,” she chokes out, wrapping her fingers tightly around the back of his neck and burying her face into the crook of his shoulder.

Her tears instantly soak through his sweater. Despite the stinging pain on his face, despite the sudden shock of the humiliation, he looks down at her shaking frame and can't help himself. He wraps his arms securely around her, tightening his grip as she falls apart, crying hysterically against his chest.

“Please say something,” she pleads, lifting her head to look at him. Her movements, her eyes, her voice—everything about her is terrifyingly frantic. “I didn’t know what I was doing, I swear. I would never hurt you. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

His chest physically tightens at her words, looking into her completely sincere, shattered expression. She regrets it; it’s as clear as day. She just lost control in the heat of the moment, he reminds himself. She wasn't thinking straight.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, trying to force a reassuring smile as he gently cups her wet cheeks. “I’m not mad—”

“You know I would never do that to you, right? You know that?”

“Yes, I know—”

“I’m so ashamed of myself, I’m so, so sorry—”

He doesn’t know how to reassure her anymore, because she doesn't sound even remotely convinced by his words. She is trapped in a spiral of panic. He wants to show her right now that it’s alright, that he completely forgives her, and that he is willing to put it behind them. He doesn't know how else to prove it except to lean down and catch her lips with his own.

The sudden kiss knocks the breath straight out of her. He holds her tightly against him, pouring every ounce of reassurance into the touch, trying to show her that despite all her flaws, despite whatever just happened, he still wants her.

She freezes against him for a fraction of a second, her body going entirely limp, before she suddenly kisses him back with a desperate, crushing intensity. She slips her fingers into his hair, tugging lightly at the roots as if anchoring herself to the only solid thing left in her world.

When they are both completely breathless, he pulls back just an inch, gently wiping the tears away from her cheek with his thumb. He leans in to press one more soft peck to her lips.

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, his palm lingering securely on her jaw. “You just lost control for a second. It’s fine. It happens. I’m really not mad.”

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispers, fresh tears pooling in her eyes as she stares up at him with a look of profound heartbreak. “You’re too good for me.”

She buries her face back into his chest, quiet, exhausted sobs tearing through her body. He gently guides her toward the couch, sitting down and pulling her into his lap. She curls her body tightly against his, hiding her face deep in the fabric of his sweater, slowly beginning to relax under the steady stroke of his hand against her back.

She grips the fabric of his sweater tightly, her voice a desperate whisper against his skin. "You're really not mad at me? You're not going to leave?"

"I'm right here," Ilia reassures her softly, rubbing his hand up and down her back. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Relieved but still visibly terrified, she pulls back just enough to look into his eyes, searching his face to make sure he means it. Finding only warmth there, she breathes out a fractured sigh and leans in to kiss him, cupping his cheeks.

It’s as if something ignites in her—a sudden wave of consuming energy that takes him completely aback. She shifts, settling fully onto his lap, seeking the grounding touch of him. Her hands roam across his body, slipping beneath his sweater, and he shudders at the contact of her cold palms against his skin. He tries to gently catch her wrists to stop her. He doesn’t want to take advantage of her at such a vulnerable moment, and more than anything, he doesn’t want her to wake up tomorrow and regret this. But her movements are confident. Her gaze is unwavering as she looks down at him, her eyes dark with a heavy, almost drunken haze.

“I want you,” she murmurs, leaning down to press a fierce, desperate kiss against his jaw. “Please.”

Her words completely undo him.

He follows her into the bedroom. He peels away her layers, his hands steady, and he lets her do the same to him. She smiles up at him through her clumped, tear-stained lashes. She moans when his hand slides between her legs, her fingers gripping his shoulders with a tight, white-knuckled hold as she completely surrounds herself under the weight of him, losing herself in the only safety she has left.

Afterward, she lies with her head resting on his chest, tracing soft patterns across his skin while he caresses her damp hair, pressing soft kisses into the crown of her head. She falls asleep steady in his arms, her expression finally calm and smooth after the chaos of the day.

It’s late at night when he finally has to leave. He slowly shifts underneath her weight, trying his absolute best not to wake her as he quietly slips out of bed and gets dressed in the dark room. He spends what feels like an eternity just staring at her sleeping frame, fixing the blanket around her shoulders before leaning down to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

“Hey,” he whispers, subtly shaking her arm, trying to slowly wake her from the deep sleep. Her lashes flutter, staring back at him with a heavy, half-awake expression. “I gotta go.”

“Okay...”

“Won’t you lock the door?”

“No, it’s fine,” she mumbles, her eyelids already closing again as she buries her face deeper into the pillow. “Mom will come back at dawn. I always leave it open.”

“Okay.”

He softly agrees, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. His heart thumps hard against his ribs, his palms turning almost sweaty as he gathers the courage to whisper the next words.

“I love you.”

He’s not even sure if she can hear him through the fog of sleep, but he needs to say it. He needs her to know. With a quiet smile resting on his lips, he slips out of the room and heads down the stairs, stepping out into the cool night air.

The next day, he waits. He texts her around the evening, deliberately trying to give her the space she clearly needs to process everything, but an answer doesn’t come. He doesn’t think much of it, going to sleep with the easy hope that her reply will be waiting for him tomorrow. But a whole another day passes without a single word.

He tries calling her on his way home, but she doesn’t pick up. He can’t help but wonder if something is wrong. Driven by a growing anxiety, he drops by her house after his practice, but the building is dead silent, the windows dark.

Standing on her porch, he takes out his phone to call her once again. He presses it to his ear, waiting.

The phone rings exactly once—a short, clipped sound—and then it immediately cuts off, sending him straight to her automated voicemail greeting. He furrows his eyebrows, a strange prickle of unease hitting the back of his neck. He hangs up and opens their chat, typing out a quick text with shaky fingers.

The bubble snaps into a harsh, bright green. Underneath it, there is no Delivered text. Just a cold, empty space.

His brows furrow deeper, his heart slowly picking up its pulse as the puzzle pieces frantically slam together in his mind. A horrified expression ripples across his face. He grips the phone with white knuckles, his throat going completely dry as the brutal realization sinks into his chest.

She has blocked him.

It feels like the end of the world.

He keeps replaying the whole evening in his head, a relentless, looping reel of everything that transpired. He wonders if he did something wrong, if some catastrophic mistake had slipped past his attention, agonizingly trying to figure out what could have possibly led to her cutting him off.

He understands her need for privacy. He gets that maybe she needs time to herself, but he cannot fathom why she would do this. Why would she completely erase him? Why cut him off like he didn’t even exist in the first place?

Confusion and anger consume him in violent, unpredictable waves. He rages in the confinement of his car, he sheds bitter tears into his pillow at night, desperately trying to construct any logical explanation that might soothe the agonizing pain in his chest. But nothing deadens the sting.

Through Liza, he finds out she has resumed her lessons at the studio, slipping right back into her daily routine as if his world hadn't fractured. Liza notices the sudden distance between them and practically begs him to tell her what's going on, but he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't let his guard down to his parents either when they ask why he’s been so moody lately, or why he doesn't seem like himself anymore.

Instead, he drowns himself in his own routine. He spends double the hours at the rink, skating until his lungs burn and his muscles scream, trying to outrun his own mind before he flies out to Finland for the World Championships.

Yet, nothing lifts the crushing weight on his chest. Nothing fills the hollow ache in his heart.

When he skates, he is flawless, channeling the raw, unadulterated pain into his performance. He wins his fourth World title. Sitting in the kiss-and-cry, his smile flashes bright and radiant for the flashing cameras, but inside, he feels entirely empty.

As the gold medal is draped around his neck, his mind drifts a thousand miles away. He wonders if she’s watching him from her living room. He wonders if she’s thinking about him at all. Most of all, he wonders if she actually meant the words that slipped from her mouth, or those desperate, consuming looks she gave him. He wonders if whatever existed between them was ever real—or if he had just imagined it all along the way.

Three weeks have passed in silence.

Three weeks of disbelief, pure anger, confusion, and heartbreak consuming his thoughts every minute. He curses out her name, hating her for treating him like nothing, for discarding him like a used toy she doesn’t need anymore. It’s humiliating. But what is more humiliating is that he can’t ignore the feeling in his gut—the feeling of uncertainty eating him alive inside, the terrifying fear that he could have done something wrong for her to do this. Why would she disappear? Why would she ghost him after she gave him a piece of her?

He can’t hold it in anymore. No matter how desperate it looks, no matter how much he’s disrespecting himself, he would rather break the silence and talk to her, unable to move on without knowing a reason.

He has memorized her schedule by now. He sees her walking out of the studio after a lesson, the pink bag slung over her shoulder as she snuggles her face into her jacket, her hands buried deep in her pockets. He gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him with a force he usually scolds Liza over, but this time he’s angry. He’s desperate for her attention. If she hears the slam, she doesn’t stop to look around—not until he speaks up, the words coming out more desperate than he intends.

“Are you seriously ghosting me?”

She stops dead in her tracks, slowly turning around as if she’s not sure she actually heard his voice or is just hallucinating it. It has been barely two weeks, but his heart clinches at how different she looks. She has visibly lost weight, her eyes are sunken, and her expression is more exhausted than after any grueling rehearsal he has ever seen.

For a split second, a flash of guilt washes over her face, and he almost sighs out of pure relief. He is ready to hear her apology, ready to take her back despite what she has put him through over the last weeks. He waits for the words, yet what comes out of her mouth is harsher, more dismissive than anything he could have prepared himself for.

“Yeah, I am.”

Her face and her words are stripped of any emotion, her cold stare piercing through him like a bullet. He had prepared himself for excuses, for pathetic attempts to defend herself, but not this. She turns her back on him, continuing to walk as if she never even saw him in the first place.

“That’s it?” he calls out after her, his nerves betraying him as tears of anger threaten to pool in his eyes. “You’re just gonna leave me without any explanation? You’re gonna pretend these months didn’t happen?”

She slowly disappears into the distance, her footsteps still slow, as if she’s not even bothered by his existence. He can’t hold the anger in anymore. His hands fold into fists, his fingernails digging so deeply into his palms that they almost draw blood.

“You’re a fucking coward.”

He spits out the words, cursing her name under his breath as his hand flies into his hair. He is panicking, not knowing what to do, utterly unable to let her just slip through his fingers. Before his mind can even catch up, he follows her, his footsteps frantic, his chest heavy with jagged breathing. He reaches out and tugs at her arm, forcing her to turn around and look him in the eyes.

“Ilia, let go of me—”

“Why are you doing this?” He sounds entirely defeated now, his voice stripped of any of the anger he lashed out with seconds ago. It’s just pure hurt and confusion. “Can’t you even spare me a minute and give me an explanation? Do I really mean nothing to you? What’s wrong with you? What the fuck has changed? Why are you treating me like this?!”

She tries to wriggle free out of his grasp, her brows drawing together as if he’s asking for the impossible, like it’s completely below her power to give him what he wants.

“Ilia—”

“Just fucking tell me something, anything—”

“What do you want me to say?!” she snaps immediately, violently ripping her hand away and pushing at his chest with what feels like her full force. He barely budges. “I don’t want to keep seeing you, okay?! I got tired of you! Didn’t you get that?! Is it not clear enough to get through that fucking stupid thick skull of yours??”

“So what, you want nothing to do with me anymore and instead of explaining like any decent person would do, you’re just going to ghost me?! Especially after what happened?!”

“What happened, huh?!” she challenges him, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping her lips as she glares right into his face. “We just had sex, so what? It means something?! We had fun, that’s all! You think you’re the only guy i’ve fucked?! You think because of a mid-level, one-time fuck you’re irreplaceable or what?!”

He stares at her in utter disbelief, every ounce of expression wearing off his face until nothing is left but sheer shock. He can’t believe she’s saying these words to him—her, the girl he’s swooned over since November, the girl he imagined every night before he slept, the girl he was completely in love with.

“You’re pathetic,” he whispers.

“You’re out here begging me and I’m the pathetic one?” She chuckles, the sound empty and cruel. “Go home, Ilia. Go play your stupid video games or continue doing cartwheels on the ice, whatever you usually do. Backflip into misery if you want, just leave me the fuck alone.”

She pushes at his chest one last time, turning her back on him as she leaves with quick, rigid footsteps. Every step she takes away from him feels like a physical blow, slowly shattering the remaining pieces of him.

He barely makes it back to the SUV. The moment the door shuts, he breaks down, burying his face in his hands as he tries to muffle the violent sobs escaping his throat. He regrets the day he ever approached her in the Walmart parking lot. He wishes he were deaf. He wishes he had never cared enough to bother himself with it, never stepped a foot inside that ballet studio, never invited her over for those stupid cinnamon rolls.

He regrets every single interaction, every minute he spent with her, every breath he wasted when he thought of her. She is right—he is pathetic. He is naive, and he was stupid enough to think of her as anything more than what she truly is: a heartless bitch who only cares about herself.

Everyone notices when Liza is being unusually quiet at dinner. Tatyana looks over at her husband and son, quietly signaling that she’s the one taking matters into her own hands. She starts asking Liza about school and friends, eventually drifting towards ballet and her teachers, but Liza says nothing. Not until they’ve moved on, thinking it’s just her being moody, that she will open up eventually if something’s wrong.

The latter happens.

At the sudden mention of her name, Ilia’s eyes perk up. The food on his plate is instantly abandoned, and he is suddenly very engaged in the conversation. No matter how much he tries to deny or fight it, she refuses to leave his mind. The nights have been stretching into a suffocating silence when he closes his eyes; instead of sleep, her face comes to mind.

“I think something’s wrong with her,” Liza starts, picking at the food on her plate with a fork in dull, sluggish movements.

“What do you mean, sweetie? What's wrong?” Tatyana asks.

“She yelled at me today,” Liza mumbles out, visibly embarrassed that she received such treatment from her favorite teacher.

Roman and Tatyana look at each other, while Ilia feels a hot surge of anger radiating through his body, threatening to burst at any moment. How could she take her frustration out on an eleven-year-old?

“I was doing—”

“What do you mean she yelled at you?” Ilia snaps, cutting his sister off. “She doesn’t have a right to.”

“Will you let me finish?” Liza glares at him, her eyebrows drawn tightly together. “I deserved it. I was goofing around and not following her instructions—”

“That still doesn’t give her a right!”

“Ilia.” His mother firmly stops him with a warning look. “Let her finish.”

Liza swallows hard, the defensiveness leaving her as her shoulders slump. “As soon as she yelled at me, she realized it. She apologized, and then...” She stops, looking at her mom as if she has a desperate hope that Tatyana will be able to explain it to her. “She started crying. She completely broke down. We had to call Katerina, and she pulled her away into the office. It was... it was scary, Mom.”

Her voice quiets down to a whisper. No one replies, the entire table taken aback by her confession.

Ilia feels a heavy, cold weight settle deep into his bones. It's that same feeling of uncertainty that has been nagging at the inside of his stomach for weeks—a gut feeling that something is terribly wrong, a shadow he hasn’t been able to quite name.

Eventually, Tatyana speaks up, clearing her throat to break the tense quiet. “I think she’s just stressed, Liza,” she reassures her, squeezing her small hand beneath her own palm. “She might be burned out, she might have private stuff going on in her life... she’s human. What matters is that she apologized. I’m sure she feels really bad about it.”

“I know she does, Mom, that’s the thing,” Liza keeps insisting, exhaling a shaky breath as she sinks back into her chair. “It wasn’t even that big of a deal. Katerina yells at students all the time. But she... I don’t know how to explain it. It was almost as if she was... scared of herself.”

Her words settle heavily over the table, suffocating and dark.

Ilia doesn’t stay to listen to any more of it. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he gets up to leave, not even paying attention to Miu Miu, who immediately follows his heavy footsteps out of the room. He can’t ignore the feeling inside his stomach anymore—ugly, unpleasant, and relentlessly gnawing at him, signaling a disaster he can't see.

He paces into his bedroom and curses under his breath, briefly deciding that his pride and his self-respect matter far less than whatever is happening to her. Pulling out his phone, he presses the button to call back the number she had once used to reach him. Luca’s name is saved in his contacts, a leftover from an emergency safety net he never thought he'd actually use.

“Hey, man,” Luca picks up after a few long rings. In the background, the faint sound of classical piano music fades out; he must have stepped out of the studio into the hallway to talk. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Luke. Are you free for a couple of minutes?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

“Great. Do you promise that our conversation will stay private?”

Luca doesn’t reply straight away. He is probably confused by the bizarre choice of question, and the tight, breathless tone in Ilia's voice that suggests absolute urgency. “Um... yeah, I guess? What’s going on, Ilia?”

Ilia grips the edge of his phone, his throat tight. “How did her father die?”

He awaits the reply, sitting down heavily on the edge of his bed as he closes his eyes. He doesn’t even need to mention her name; both of them know exactly who this is about. He doesn’t think he is capable of saying her name anyway without showing how much he’s hurting, or how angry and terrified he is.

“Why are you asking me this?” Luca asks, his voice instantly turning guarded.

“Just answer me, okay? I need to know.”

“He was sick.”

“Yes, I know he was sick, but sick how?” Ilia snaps, his control fracturing. “Cancer? Heart disease? Leukemia? Dementia? What do you mean he was sick?!”

His voice breaks, all of his pent-up, agonizing emotions bursting out into the quiet of his bedroom. The other line goes completely dead. After a few agonizing seconds of silence that feel like an eternity, Luca finally speaks up, sounding entirely defeated.

“Huntington’s disease.”

Ilia frowns, the foreign syllables clashing in his head. “What’s that?”

“Just Google it, man,” Luca exhales, his voice heavy with a profound, exhausted sadness. The music slowly gets louder as he moves back toward the studio doors. “I have to go now. Bye.”

He doesn’t wait for Ilia to answer, hanging up abruptly.

Ilia stares at the floor for a second, the phone vibrating slightly in his hand from the disconnected line. The word is vaguely familiar, a ghost of a term he might have learned in a high school biology class, not giving it much attention because he didn't care about it back then.

Now, he cares. He unlocks the screen and hits the keyboard with a frantic force, his thumbs trembling, making typos he doesn't even care to fix as he types the name into the search bar.

The first medical article pops up.

A fatal, inherited neurodegenerative disorder caused by a genetic mutation that leads to the progressive breakdown of nerve cells in the brain...

He squints at the screen, the heart in his chest thumping so violently against his ribs that it rings in his ears. He feels something physical drop into the hollow of his stomach.

In the vast majority of cases, the condition is inherited directly from a biological parent. It causes severe motor, cognitive, and psychiatric disturbances, and there is currently no cure or treatment to slow or halt its progression.

He stares at the glowing screen, his expression going completely blank as his brain forces the information to sink in.

Fatal.

Inherited.

Psychiatric disturbances.

No treatment.

No cure.

The words keep spinning in his brain until he can’t breathe, until he has to stand up and lean heavily against the table, feeling the energy in his limbs give away under the weight of it.

Suddenly everything is clear. Suddenly everything makes total sense, and despite how hard he tries to push it away, the realization refuses to disappear. Her sharp mood swings, her uncontrollable emotions, her sudden clumsiness, her vague memory, the way she stands frozen for seconds sometimes just trying to recall a simple word. The way her hands shake—tremors he had blindly blamed on the exhaustion of the day.

The bitter anger he had been harboring against her for shutting him out quickly shifts, twisting into something entirely new. Something resembling an overwhelming, paralyzing fear.

He spends the entire night reading articles, medical research, threads, and comments, doing everything in his power to find some small shred of hope he can hold onto. He desperately searches for anything to soothe the terror clawing inside of him, but to no avail.

He refuses to accept it, harshly shaking his head to drive away the thought of losing her, but deep down, he already knows. It is the only explanation for everything that has been happening to her for months—the moments he brushed aside, the moments he didn’t think twice about. It’s why she never mentions her father. It’s why her body is slowly giving out, why she is slowly losing herself. It’s why she cut him off—to protect him from the harshness of the future.

He waits outside her house for almost an hour, waiting for her to come back from her teaching lessons. The moment he spots her pink bag across the street, he climbs out of the car. His steps are slow, dragging, as if he can delay facing the truth just by walking slower.

She doesn’t look surprised when she sees him, as if she has been waiting for him to come. Luca must have told her, he realizes. She swallows heavily as he approaches, avoiding his gaze, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“Hi.”

His voice is soft, entirely stripped of the resentment and anger he had felt toward her just days ago. She doesn’t respond. Instead, she reaches into her bag for her keys. He notices the way her hands shake as she tries to unlock the door, the grocery bag in her other hand weighing her down. She leaves the door open behind her, an unsaid invitation for him to follow.

When he steps into the house, it feels as if something fundamental has changed. The decorations are sparser. The frames on the wall are missing pieces. For a second, he wonders if she smashed them in a fit of rage, almost shuddering at the thought before he forces it away.

She starts unpacking the grocery bag, her movements casual, as if his presence is normal—as if the suffocating weight of what is about to come doesn’t exist.

“Do you want some?” She holds out a box of donuts to him.

“No.” He shakes his head, pausing for a painful second before he breaks. He can’t contain it anymore. “You know why I’m here.”

“I do.” She exhales, letting the grocery bag drop onto the table. She looks up at him with a tired, heavy expression.

“Why did you cut me off?” he asks, the ache of a month-long silence bleeding into his words. “Why would you not talk to me? I would have been there for you. You shouldn’t go through this alone. You know I—” He swallows, forcing his voice to steady, grounding it with absolute certainty. “I love you.”

She sighs at his words, shaking her head as if he is wishing for something impossible. “Ilia…”

“Just talk to me, please!”

“What is there to talk about?” Her voice rises, not with anger at him, but with sheer, bleeding helplessness. “I’m sick. I’m slowly dying. There’s no alternative. There’s no cure. I know what’s about to happen to me. I’ve seen it firsthand with my father.”

“Did you get tested?” he asks after a long beat, desperately clawing at his very last hope.

She must see the pleading in his eyes, because her expression shifts into something almost apologetic, as if she hates herself for disappointing him.

“I did,” she admits softly. She swallows, her eyes locking onto his with devastating clarity. “I have Huntington’s disease, Ilia.”

The silence hangs heavy between them. He shakes his head, rejecting the words, his hands gripping the back of the kitchen chair just to keep his limbs from giving out.

“How long have you known?”

“The results came back a week ago,” she barely manages to exhale, the words choking out of her. “But I’ve known for a while. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to ask without reminding her of the shadow looming over her life, so he lets her continue.

“I started having symptoms over the summer, but I brushed them off. I thought it was from exhaustion or stress, because I grew up thinking whatever happened to my dad wouldn’t happen to me.” Her voice almost breaks before she grounds herself, shaking her head. “When we learned about my dad, I was nine.” She shudders at the memory. “I remember googling the words I heard my mom whisper to my aunt, and then I cried because I was convinced I’d grow up having the same condition. My mom assured me it wouldn't happen. She told me I was healthy, and then she explained how prenatal testing works.”

She lets out a bitter, humorless chuckle, the words escaping her mouth like poison. “Of course she lied. There was no prenatal testing done. But I didn’t have a reason not to believe her. I wish she hadn't lied, because I wouldn’t have grown up pursuing something I never had a chance at. I wouldn't have slaved the hours away at the studio just to become a ballerina who would break at her prime.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds entirely defenseless, almost ashamed of his own helplessness. He has to stand there and watch the girl in front of him slowly lose her spark, slowly becoming something neither of them will recognize. “There must be something,” his words are frantic, tears finally pooling in his eyes. “There are treatments. I read about them. There are clinical trials, medications for the tremors, therapies... scientists are actively working on it—”

“They treat the symptoms, Ilia. They don’t stop the rot.” Her voice is steady, terrifyingly factual. “It’s a genetic defect. Every single day, a protein is building up in my brain, killing my brain cells one by one. There is no cure. There is no slowing it down. Because it hit me this early, it means my repeat count is high. It means it’s going to move fast. It means that I’m going to die in a few years.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Do you want me to lie?!” Her hands fly up in frustration, her eyebrows furrowing together. “I’m a ticking bomb, okay?! I’ve accepted it! It’s not like I have a choice!”

“I don’t care how fast it moves!” He slams his hand onto the back of the chair, the sudden noise cracking through the quiet kitchen. “I care about you. I want to be with you. Why did you make this choice alone? Why did you decide that I couldn’t handle being by your side?!”

“Because I can’t put you through this!”

“It’s not your decision to make!”

“You don’t know what you’re volunteering for!” she snaps, her head shaking violently. “I’ve seen my mom go through this, okay?! I watched my dad disappear with every single day. I watched my mom lose her spark. I’ve seen her cry dozens of times, I’ve seen her scared of him because he couldn’t control himself! I was scared of my own father! At night, I went to bed wishing I’d wake up and he’d be dead, because I couldn’t handle it anymore. And when I woke up one day and found out that wish came true... I felt a wave of relief.”

She breaks. The tears finally spill over, her eyelashes clumping together as she shakes her head, her voice dropping into a broken whisper. “By the end, he couldn’t even swallow his own food. He was choking on his own saliva. He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t know who I was. He was just a body.”

She lowers her hands, looking at him with a desperate, bleeding intensity. “I can’t put you through that. I won’t. I won’t let you watch me fade away.”

“So what, you think pushing me away is some type of favor to me?” He is angry now, quiet tears streaming down his face, his voice rising until it feels too loud for the small, suffocating kitchen. “You think I’ll just go and forget about your existence? You think I won’t suffer being away from you, knowing I can’t be by your side?!”

“Time will pass and you will move on,” she responds softly. “You won’t always feel that way.”

“Don’t tell me what I’ll feel, okay?!”

“Why don’t you understand?” She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “In two years, I won’t be able to dance. In five, I won’t be able to walk without a frame. If I’m lucky enough, in seven, I won’t remember the words to tell you I love you!” She lets out a rigid cry, aggressively wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I am not going to let you watch me turn into a stranger. If you stay, every time you look at me, you won’t see the girl you fell in love with. You’ll see a burden. You’ll start to look at your skating, at your freedom, and you’ll secretly resent me for taking it away. And I would rather die tomorrow, completely alone, than live to see the day you look at me with pity and regret!”

“I won’t ever regret you.” He shakes his head firmly, his voice thick with desperation. “I love you! I want to be with you! I want to make the most of what we have!”

“This is not a movie!”

“This is not a movie for you to crawl into despair and push everyone away!” He closes the distance between them, his hands coming up to grip her shoulders firmly, as if he can physically knock some sense into her. “I won’t let you push me away! I won’t let you go through this alone! I love you, goddammit! You think I’m just going to give up on you?! If I’m going to suffer, I want to suffer with you!”

She pulls back against his grip, but he doesn't let go, his fingers anchoring him to the only thing that matters. For a second, the friction of their breathing is the only sound in the hollow room.

“Let go of me, Ilia,” she whispers, her voice shaking as much as her hands. “Please.”

“No!”

“Love isn’t enough,” she chokes out, her voice defeated, her body going limp as she grips his hoodie tight between her fingers. “It isn’t a cure! I love you so much... You think I don’t want to be with you? You think this is an easy choice for me?!”

She hits his chest angrily, tears soaking through her thin shirt. He wraps her tightly in his embrace, trapping her hands against his chest. They hold each other in the suffocating stillness of the house, their shared sobs the only sound left.

When she finally looks up, her eyes are red and swollen, mascara running dark lines down her face. Looking at her, he is instantly transported back to the night they met—the night this all started.

“Please, Ilia. Don’t make me hate myself for letting you stay,” she whispers, her gaze tracing his face as if trying to memorize every line before the dark sets in. “Just leave and remember what we had. When you think of me, I want you to remember the girl you met at the studio. The girl you had late-night talks with. The girl you danced at the wedding with.”

“No—”

“Please,” she whispers.

She cups his cheeks, her trembling fingers cold against his skin, and softly presses her lips against his. He melts under her touch. He can't let her go, instead deepening the kiss, pulling her flush against him as if he wants to consume her—as if he can breathe his own life, his own strength, straight into her lungs to rewrite the DNA that's betraying her.

The kiss tastes of salt and desperation, a frantic attempt to hold onto a moment that is already slipping through their fingers. When she finally pulls away, her breath hitches in her throat. She lets her hands drop to her sides, stepping backward. Out of his reach.

“Just go.”

He refuses to leave, his feet rooted to the floorboards as he shakes his head in denial. "I'm not going," he says, his voice adamant. "I don't care what you say, I am staying right here."

She pauses for a second, looking at him with a desperate expression. She doesn't argue anymore. The helplessness in her face shifts into something fierce. Before he can react, she lunges forward, her hands burying into the fabric of his hoodie, and she pushes him. She uses the entire weight of her body, driving him backward toward the entrance with an unexpected force.

"Out!" she screams, her voice cracking, defeated. "Get out, Ilia! Please, just get out!"

He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard by the sheer desperation of her physical force. He tries to plant his boots, tries to catch her hands to stop her, but she keeps pushing, blindly shoving him through the hallway until his back hits the front door. She wrenches the handle open, and with one final push, forces him out onto the porch.

He spins around instantly, turning to catch the door, but it slams shut right in his face. A split second later, the sharp click of the lock echoes.

"Open the door!" Ilia yells, slamming his palms against the heavy wood, the panic finally breaking through his chest. "Open it! Come on! Let me back in!"

On the other side of the door, he hears a muffled, ragged thud as her back hits the wood. He can hear her sliding down to the floor, her rigid cries escaping into the empty hallway inside. He bangs his fist against the frame again, his forehead resting against the cold exterior. "Please," he chokes out, his voice cracking into a whisper. "Don't do this. Let me stay."

There is no answer. Only the sound of her quiet, broken sobs fading as she pulls herself away from the door, retreating deeper into the silence of the house.

He stands on the porch for what feels like hours, the wind cutting through him, his knuckles bruised and bleeding from striking the wood. But the door never opens.

He tries everything in his power to slip back into her life, but she refuses to let him. He waits for her outside the studio after rehearsals, each time convincing himself that she will have no choice but to face him, but eventually, she resigns from teaching altogether. He drops by her house, completely ignoring her mother’s pleas as she begs him to leave her daughter alone for both of their sakes. Finally, her mother breaks down and tells him the truth: she has moved away to live with her aunt and begin her treatments.

Desperate, he seeks out her friends. He calls Luca just to catch a passing detail about her, a tiny glimpse into her life, and he even waits for Katerina, who simply refuses to speak to him every single time.

His parents try to reason with him, but he shuts them out. He doesn’t listen to his friends, and he doesn’t even care about Raf’s advice, despite how deeply concerned his coach is. He searches for her everywhere—scanning the crowds in the streets, looking into cafes, and tracing the aisles of shops. He resorts to using other people's phones to call her, praying she will pick up a number she doesn't recognize, but she never does.

When the waiting becomes too suffocating to bear, he travels to Washington, cornering Luca after a rehearsal. Luca thinks he’s lost his mind, refusing to talk and trying to push him away until Ilia completely breaks down right in front of him. Gripping Luca's arms, he begs him to just say she’s doing okay, that she’s fine—anything at all. Eventually, Luca gives in, revealing that she’s been living with her aunt in Florida, teaching ballet to children. He warns Ilia to drop it and leave her alone for the good of them both, but Ilia shuts his ears to it.

Instead, he listens to her playlists. He watches the movies left on her watchlist. He skates to the music she loved, doing anything just to feel closer to her, to convince himself that a part of her is still with him. Every night before he falls asleep, he closes his eyes and pictures her face, listening to the echo of her laughter ringing through his memory.

But as the days go by, holding onto every little detail gets harder. He tries his best to keep the memories fresh, but his training takes over and life just keeps moving forward.

Months blur into a whole year. The summer comes, then Christmas, and before he even realizes it, two full years pass since he last saw her.

He hates that she was right. He hates that time does exactly what she said it would. He hates the crushing guilt that comes when he realizes he thinks of her less—hating the mornings he wakes up without her face instantly floating into his mind, and the days that slip by without her crossing his thoughts at all. It feels like a betrayal. He hates himself when he mindlessly flirts with other girls at the rink, as if he is erasing her piece by piece.

Around the end of 2029, he stops asking about her entirely—shielding himself from the fear of hearing something terrible, something that will completely break his heart. Instead, he immerses himself in what he does best, training harder than ever as he prepares for the Olympics.

During the Games, he manages to keep her out of his mind, locking his focus entirely on the final step of his career. After landing his historic quintuple jumps, he finally does it. He finally achieves his lifelong dream. With the gold medal placed securely around his neck, his smile is bright and wide.

Hundreds of people congratulate him, and hundreds of messages light up his phone, but there is a specific number that catches his eye. Despite the years that have passed, he still recognizes it instantly. His heart skips a beat, his thumb trembling as he opens the chat.

Congratulations. I’m proud of you.

He stares at the screen, a single tear dropping onto the glass. He smiles at the text, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard for a few agonizing seconds. This is the moment he has waited for for so long—to hear from her once again, to be able to talk to her even if just for a few minutes.

I miss you

He types back, his heart racing, his knee bouncing anxiously, his lips pressed tight together. A few minutes pass. The fragile hope in his chest begins to dwindle, and he is just about to lock the phone when the screen lights up. The second his finger moves, a notification comes through. His chest tightens as a small smile tugs at his lips.

So do I

His smile slowly widens. He doesn’t know if it means anything, and he isn’t sure if it changes their reality... but whatever it is, it’s enough.

He closes his eyes, imagining her. He doesn’t remember her as the girl he found crying at the curb, or the girl who wept over a spilled drink. He doesn't see the girl who lashed out at him, who snapped under the weight of her breakdown, or who cried helplessly in his arms.

Instead, he remembers the girl he shared late-night talks with. The girl he drove at midnight just to get burgers. The girl he played in the snow with, and the girl he accompanied to the wedding. He closes his eyes, imagining her just as she was that day, exactly as she wanted him to. And holding onto the memory, he smiles.

author’s note: another author’s note🤪 I want to mention that I did a lot of research on this disease to try and make it feel as realistic as possible for the plot. If some of the medical timelines or specific details seem a bit unlikely, let’s just pretend for the sake of the fiction..

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