summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
wc: 3.3k
warnings: 18+ , Rafe Cameron is bad at feelings
a/n: not the finale yet but we are almost there! hope you all like it!
banner by @/uzmacchiato
<Part 9
You’d debated going home to Rafe’s since Katy was gone for the weekend, but his place wouldn’t feel like home. Wouldn’t bring you comfort. You never slept well when you weren’t in your own bed. So, you convinced Rafe to come with you to your dorm and stay the night. To your relief, he agreed.
But even in your own twin bed, Rafe crammed by your side, sleep evaded you. The whole day had been a whirlwind. Rafe getting hurt. The frat boy trying to slip something in your drink. Your emotions were swirling, nausea in your gut, your heart clenched.
Rafe didn’t seem to be sleeping either. His breathing was too shallow, and he was still fidgeting now and then. You turn toward him, placing a hand on his back. He flinches at first, either from pain or surprise. Slowly, he starts relaxing as you rub his back gently. Your plan was to distract yourself with that until you fell asleep, but your touch seems to have convinced him it’s okay to touch you despite everything that happened earlier. He takes you into his arms, rubbing your back like you did his.
“Can’t sleep?” He mutters.
“No.” You reply softly. Even though the adrenaline had long faded, your body physically exhausted, your mind was still alert. Worried. Sensing for danger. Trying to figure out if you could ever really be ‘casual’ with Rafe anymore. If all of this had to end, even though you didn’t want it to.
You must have dozed off at some point, because the weight of Rafe getting off the bed forces your eyes open. Sunlight is drifting through the window, birds chirping. You stir, noticing him putting on his shoes.
“Sorry,” He whispers, turning toward you. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Going to the rink.”
“What time is it?” You ask, your voice groggy.
“8ish. Go back to sleep.” He gives you a small smile, but something in his eyes snaps your mind into focus. It’s Saturday. A football game day. Why would he go to the rink? But before you can get the words out and hoist yourself up, he’s already gone.
You change quickly, wanting to follow him out when your phone rings. It’s Meghan. The second you answer, she’s asking how you’re doing. If you’re okay.
“I’m fine,” You assure her. “Weird night. I’m so sorry. I had no idea Mike would do that.”
“I don’t think anyone did.” Meghan’s voice is gentle.
“I should have paid more attention, or been more wary-”
“No, he shouldn’t have done what he did,” She interrupts. “Thank God Rafe saw it. How’s he doing, with the injury and everything?”
“I don’t think either of us slept well. But his head seems fine. Won’t tell me otherwise.”
“Is he still with you?” She asks.
“No. He went to the rink. Practically ran out of here. I’m not sure if he just needed to blow off some steam or if he’s worried or what.”
Meghan is quiet for a moment, and your mind spirals again. You speak before she can.
“Meghan, I think I might like him. More than I should.” You admit.
“Yeah,” She says with a sigh. “I don’t blame you after yesterday.”
“I don’t think he feels the same way, though. That’s what sucks. He’s always been clear this was just casual, that this is all he does.” You try not to sound too sad. He’d set the rules, and you’d agreed to it.
“How do you know unless you talk to him about it?”
“Why would I be any different from all the other girls he’s already seen?” You almost scoff.
“Well, I can answer that,” She laughs easily. “You didn’t seek him out. He had to pursue you. And he’s not often the one pursuing. Girls throw themselves at him all the time. Myself included, like at the arcade.”
“Okay, maybe he just liked the challenge. I’m still not that different.” You counter.
“Disagree,” She snips. “People either put Rafe on a pedestal because he’s a rich athlete, or they keep him at a distance because they’re scared of him. You didn’t do either of those things. I saw. I think he liked that you treated him like anyone else.”
“Hm,” You mutter, pondering her words.
“I can ask Miguel when he gets out of the shower, but I’m pretty sure he agrees with me.” Meghan insists, and you know she’s smiling.
“No, I believe you.” You tell her, but you still had some doubt. Friends saw the best in you and wanted to hype you up.
“Go talk to him at the rink, okay? And if it doesn’t go well, I’ll buy you breakfast.” She promises.
“Thanks Meg, talk to you later.” You hang up, urging your body to go to the rink before your mind can talk you out of it.
Somehow, the cold of the rink bites through your jacket and jeans. And your nerves weren’t helping. When you open the closest set of double doors, you can see your breath. You nearly jump sound of the doors closing behind you reverberates across the empty arena. Rafe is skating back and forth on the ice faster than you’ve ever seen him, taking shots that snap into the goal.
“I got 20 more minutes on the clock, Pete!” He calls out, not looking your way as he keeps doing drills. You glance at the timer above the rink, glowing red, as you lean against the barrier. Rafe’s skates scrape against the ice as he stops in front of you, chest heaving. “Oh, what’re you doin’ here?”
His voice isn’t harsh. His eye’s aren’t cold. But something is still off.
“Wanted to check on you. Something wrong?” You keep your voice soft.
“Uh, shit night.” He mutters the obvious answer.
“Understatement of the year,” You say, and that gets a smirk out of him. “But I’m asking if there’s something wrong with us. What are you thinking?”
“Just wanted to clear my head, nothin’ wrong with us. I just…you were right. About how it would feel to see you hurt. I couldn’t stop thinking about what could have happened. And the second I saw those drinks, I…I saw red. I lost control. I didn’t…I didn’t mean…” He trails off, looking away from you now. “I scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me, Rafe.” You reply, shaking your head. You could feel your heart aching for him. The pain in his voice, in his face.
“I did. I saw it in your eyes.” He insists, voice breaking. “I try not to lose control. I’ve worked so hard. Got into hockey. Pushed myself. I tried so fuckin’ hard.”
“Rafe,” You make your voice louder like that would drown out his thoughts. “I wasn’t scared of you. You startled me, but I understood what you did. If I’d seen that I don’t know if I would’ve had as much control as you. The only time you’ve ever scared me was when you got hurt on the ice. That’s it.”
Rafe is quiet for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. You wished he’d skate a little closer so you could reach out to him. Touch him. He says your name like a warning.
“You don’t know me. All the shit I’ve done. How many times I’ve lost control.” An edge of frustration builds in his voice.
“No, I don’t. You’re right.” You keep your voice calm, warm. “But all I see is someone trying to work on themselves. Someone who cares about people and wants to protect them. You told Evan about the campus counseling. That’s because you also go, right?”
“Yeah,” He nods, his mouth thinning into a hard line under his helmet. “Once every two weeks.”
“Your past is your past. I’m just glad you’re smart enough to work on yourself and find an outlet.” You promise. Rafe had never scared you, ever. You worried when he got confrontational, because he might get hurt. But you weren’t scared of him. You didn’t think he’d ever raise his voice or his hands to you. He goes silent again, the timer ticking down behind him.
“I still…you’d still…I think if you really knew me, you’d leave. Everyone leaves.” His voice is so quiet it breaks your heart. It makes him sound so small, so young. And suddenly you’re the one that feels protective over him.
“You don’t have to let me in. I get why you keep your distance now.” You assure him. The whole conversation you’d envisioned about telling him that you might like him too much felt like it wasn’t even needed, if he already wasn’t willing to get closer. If he needed more distance. But he shakes his head in response.
“I don’t wanna lose you.” He admits hoarsely. You could feel your cheeks flush. Stronger than ever, you wish you weren’t on the other side of this stupid hockey rink.
“Okay. Then you won’t.” You take a deep breath, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket like the arena had suddenly gotten too warm. “Go shower and let’s go to game day. Relax for a bit. And if we need to talk more later, we’ll talk. Deal?”
“Deal. Meet you there.” He agrees, ignoring the timer and heading back to the locker room.
You get ready quickly. Well, as quickly as you can. Showering, changing, doing your hair and makeup. When you get to Rafe’s it’s the same as always. Party in full swing. Music blasting. But nothing feels the same. Not between you two.
Rafe tries to get you to play beer pong again, but you weakly make up an excuse, ignoring his look of confusion. Meghan and Evan were there, thankfully, so you latched on to them. Trying to talk about classes and parties and whatever else. To your relief, Meghan doesn’t mention the chaos of the other night to Evan. The conversation stays light, so you can easily play along.
Your mind is still swimming. Trying to make sense of your feelings for Rafe. Could you really just stay fuck buddies after everything that happened? And if you really did like him too much, would that be the end of it? Would you never really be friends with him after that?
Rafe is surrounded by girls again, as he so often is. That has to be jealousy in your gut. He glances at you, eyes always drifting together like magnets, and you offer him a smile. But he’s not stupid. He can tell something’s wrong. Of course, he waits until later, when you’re grabbing another drink to approach you.
“Hey, you good?” He mutters, voice low. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Rafe,” You take a deep breath. “It’s nothing. But to be honest with you, as much as I understand why you want to keep your distance from people, I don’t think…” You stop yourself for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I don’t think I can just keep fucking you behind closed doors and pretend that I don’t give a shit in person. I thought I could do this, but I don’t think-”
“Don’t need you to pretend,” Rafe interrupts, brows furrowed. “Just…we are what we are. Is that not okay?”
“After last night, I don’t know.” You admit. “I want to be your friend. Stay being your friend. I don’t know if I can keep hooking up.”
“Oh,” His voice gets distant. “Okay.” The look on his face is making your heart clench again. Like he wants to be fine with it, for you. To do whatever you want. But he clearly didn’t expect this. And what’s a girl to a fuckboy if she doesn’t want to sleep with him? “You’re just done, then? That’s it?” Annoyance was slipping into his tone.
“Not done. I just-” The room suddenly feels hot. Stuffy. Claustrophobic. You pull the collar of your Duke jersey off of your neck, as if it was choking you. “I don’t…like I told you, this stuff is weird for me. How it feels like we get so close to each other sometimes and I’m supposed to act like it’s nothing. Like during the day, we’re nothing. But it’s fine, Rafe. Really. You were straight up with me. I’m gonna hang out with Meghan.” You tell him, slipping away as quickly as you can. Chest heavy, body still warm, tears pricking your eyes, you head back outside. You can hear his voice say something, call out to you, but you don’t register it.
Tale as old as time. You should have expected this. Two people casually sleep together. One’s not sure if that dynamic works for them but does it anyway. That person develops feelings. It’s not Rafe’s fault. It’s not. It’s yours.
“How’s the party going?” Meghan’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts.
“Fine. Just still exhausted. Didn’t sleep much last night.” You answer, plastering on a smile.
“Same.” She sighs, Miguel kissing her cheek softly.
“Nobody’ll ever hurt you two while we’re around, okay?” He says to you both. His expression is so determined that a real smile breaks through for you, and you nod.
“Wow. Enough of that,” Meghan flushes scarlet, laughing nervously. “We only have a few game days left. We should get a group photo.” Her proposal is innocent, but you know what she’s doing. She wants to post a photo of Miguel, but doesn’t feel ready enough to post something with just the two of them.
Of course, Miguel is all for it. He drags you both out to the lawn, wrangling the boys, including Rafe. You try to keep your expression neutral, even when Rafe chooses to stand beside you like everything’s normal. One of the younger boy’s opts to take the photo, counting you all down and taking multiple angles for good measure. Once the photoshoot is over, you turn to go back to Meghan when a warm hand catches your wrist.
“C’mere,” Rafe’s voice says, pulling you back to him. “Holiday, take one for me.” He calls out, tossing his phone to his roommate.
“W-what are you doing?” You stammer as he wraps an arm around you.
“Damn, alright. Everyone clear out. Rafe’s got a special request.” Holiday’s voice interrupts.
“Just shut the fuck up and take it.” Rafe snaps. You glance up at him, still unsure, but he’s already looking down at you. “Smile.”
Maybe it’s the way he’s smiling. Happier than you’ve seen in a minute, all of a sudden. But you do. Genuinely. Like it’s simple and easy. And then you pose for the photo. Because Meghan’s words about there only being a few game days left ring in your ears. No matter what happened with Rafe, at least for now it would be nice to have a photo.
“All set.” Holiday calls, and Rafe cups your face. You freeze, wanting to pull away. To say something. But with Rafe, your mind goes empty. He leans down, giving you a long, soft kiss. You feel your eyes flutter closed. When he pulls away, the sounds of the party coming back, you can barely think. “Okay, gross.” Holiday mutters, handing Rafe his phone.
“I’m not trying to hide you, if that’s what you think.” Rafe insists, still holding you close.
“Okay, good to know.” Your voice shakes. Your body betrayed you, heat pulling in your core. If you stayed much longer, you knew where this would go. He’d get you in his bed. Think that as long as he can seduce you, everything’s fine. Rafe would win. “I should go. I’m still exhausted. Send me the pic, okay?”
“’Course,” He murmurs, letting you go. “You can sleep upstairs if you want.”
“During a party?” You scoff. “No way. Need some quiet.”
“Fair enough. Text me when you get back.” He gives you a quick hug, reluctantly going back inside.
The whole walk back with Meghan and Miguel, you try to regulate your heart and your breathing. They’re being a typical, real couple. Hand in hand. Chatting about everything. And it makes you happy, but it’s also easy to tune out. And obsess over Rafe again. There was no way you could keep things casual anymore, even if he was the best you’d had. You liked him too much, you had to admit it, and you’d just get your heart broken if you stayed when he didn’t want anything more.
Your phone vibrates but you ignore it. It’s probably Rafe sending you the photo you asked for. But then it vibrates again. And again. You’re about to silence it when Meghan gasps, stopping in place, her free hand holding her phone closer to her face.
“Holy. Shit.” She breathes, turning the phone to Miguel. His dark eyes brighten and he grins widely.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He whoops as Meghan smiles.
“What?” You stop with them, confused.
“Open Instagram. Right now.” Meghan insists, flashing you a knowing smile. But unlocking your phone gives you enough of a hint. Your latest notification? Rafe Cameron had tagged you in a post on Instagram.
Your heart lurched into your throat, cheeks flushing pink. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. There was no way. You were dreaming. You were still sleeping, and this was a dream. You click on the notification, everything slowing like you were in a trance.
It was a picture from earlier, but Holiday had clearly taken multiple. The one that Rafe chose was at the moment where you’d finally smiled. And the happiness was all over your face. Eyes crinkled. Mouth a little too wide. But it didn’t even matter because Rafe stole the show.
The way his hand was on your waist was casual yet a touch possessive. His grip was clearly pulling you closer. And in this photo, he wasn’t looking at the camera yet. He was looking at you. His lips curving into a smile and his eyes…his eyes made it look like you were the only thing he ever wanted to look at.
And the caption? “partner>Clemson”
“Rafe never posts girls.” Meghan interrupts your thoughts, shaking your shoulders excitedly.
“Rafe rarely posts anything.” Miguel echoes. “You’ve made him a changed man.”
By the time you walked into your dorm building, the exhaustion from the day had been replaced with an excitement and nervousness that made you wired. You knew your room would still be empty with Katy gone, but all you’d wanted was to debrief with her. The past two days had your mind reeling. Girls passed by and it almost felt like they’d seen the post and were looking at you, talking about you.
And that made you realize something you hadn’t thought much about. Rafe posting you had made it so that a lot of Duke suddenly knew exactly who you were. The boys who followed hockey and thought Rafe was the best on the team. All the girls who waited for him outside the tunnel, who went to the games, who gossiped about him in the hallways.
For someone who spent most of their life as an outsider, blending in to the background, this amount of attention was surreal. And terrifying. You’d already felt like too many eyes followed both of you before. And now, it would get so, so much worse.
But for the first time since meeting Rafe, you were starting to feel like you didn’t want to run from him anymore. He was different than you expected in almost every way. Fun but protective. Working on himself. Taking action. So you pulled out your phone, opening Instagram and liking his photo. Then you opened your messages, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you thought about what to say.
summary: You were young, and the whole world was at your feet. At eighteen, you managed to start a rock band, escape your hometown, and begin chasing your dreams. You toured, gained fame, and did what you loved most — making music.
But life has a way of rewriting the script. Just as quickly as you rose to the top, you fell from it. You were kicked out of the very band you founded and, broke and defeated, returned home with your tail between your legs.
What you couldn’t stand the most, however, was the fact that your high school enemy had suddenly gained everything you had lost. And he reminded you of it almost every day, lingering around you like a ghost. Over time, though, once you grew used to his unexpected presence in your life, you began to wonder what you had really hated him for in the first place — and whether you still hated him at all.
content: enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn, hurt/comfort, strong language, shy ilia, mean and messy reader, reader has anger issues, anxiety, miscommunication, rock band, bassist!reader, reader has a 70s rockstar aesthetic, mentions of cigarettes, sex, alcohol and drugs, almost famous/daisy jones and the six vibes, happy ending, dysfunctional family, injury and blood
word count: 11,1k
author's note: This story has been living rent-free in my head for ages, but I never had the time (or brainpower tbh) to properly sit down and work on it. I wrote this chapter over the span of like a month, so if there are any inconsistencies, repeated bits, or random weirdness... no you didn't see that ❤️ Every scene was written at a different time and completely out of order. Also, English isn't my first language, so there'll probably be some grammar mistakes, awkward phrasing, and the occasional language-calque moment. I finally handed in all my uni essays (thank GOD), but my finals are coming up, so next chapters might not be here anytime soon. Btw, I was on vacation when Ilia did that Twitch stream and I couldn't watch it 😭 maybe next time though.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
You hated adulthood.
You hated your microscopic, cardboard-box of a room in your aunt’s house — your aunt whom you hated too, though you kept that part hidden if you wanted a roof over your head. You hated the snide clerk at the only record store in town, the one who never wanted to give you a discount on Bowie albums and who had deliberately spilled juice all over your copy of one of the first issues of “Rolling Stone’’, the one with Lennon on the cover, which you had foolishly lent him out of sheer goodwill.
You hated the bratty kids you had to babysit just to pay off the loan for your new bass guitar (the previous one, in a rather dramatic act, had been smashed directly over the thick skull of your former band’s lead singer). You hated your rusty old bike. You hated the fact you had never gotten a driver’s license and that now you were far too broke to do anything about it. You hated your job, the chemical taste of the ice cream you had to sell with a smile while wearing a pink apron you also hated. You hated the faulty waffle iron, the impatient customers, and your manager, who never stopped scolding you over something.
You hated many things, really — your entire life, yourself, and the cruel, merciless world surrounding you, so painfully different from the idyllic version of it you used to imagine.
But above all else, you hated Ilia Malinin.
Even though you hadn’t seen him since graduation day, after nearly four sweet years of drifting from city to city with your suitcase and playing gigs across the country, somehow you still saw him constantly — especially ever since the Olympics. The Olympics, which interested you about as much as last year’s snow, except social media algorithms had apparently decided to torment you with them. Overnight, Malinin was suddenly everybody’s obsession simply because he had humiliated himself in his own event.
And apparently, that was enough to make him the internet’s white boy of the month.
That part didn’t annoy you too much. You blocked all his Instagram and TikTok accounts and preemptively muted every figure-skating-related hashtag you could think of. What truly enraged you — what had soured your mood for weeks and poisoned your entire attitude toward the Winter Games — were the comments flooding your official profiles.
Do you know Ilia? You went to high school with Ilia? Guys I think they dated. Quad God and Y/N know each other?? Actual multiverse of madness.
You were perfectly aware that nothing ever disappeared from the internet, so it did not surprise you in the slightest when Malinin’s new fans dug up old photos of the two of you from your classmates’ abandoned Instagram accounts. You weren’t even standing together — while you, as usual, occupied the foreground, the loser’s silhouette lingered somewhere blurry in the background. Someone even unearthed a screenshot from Ilia’s Snapchat where, answering a classmate’s question, he had spoken rather unfavorably about your band’s music back when it had barely existed.
You were fairly certain that when your band had still been thriving, your own fans — the same ones who unanimously turned against you because of a ridiculous rumor spread by your former best friend, the drummer you had founded the band with — had probably left similar comments under Malinin’s posts. The thought comforted you a little. The two of you even had your own Wikipedia pages now, and it wasn’t hard for people to notice you came from the same town.
Back then, though, despite a few impressive accomplishments in his sport — a sport you had always considered painfully boring (all right, maybe not always and definitely not as boring as curling) — Ilia hadn’t been even half as popular as he was now. Ironically enough, it was his spectacular Olympic failure that had finally made him famous.
Who would have thought? That self-centered, cringe idiot who claimed he wrote his own poetry despite never reading a single assigned novel in high school and being physically incapable of writing an essay without a dozen spelling mistakes had somehow become the darling of teenage girls, while you had turned into a pariah in the music world. Actually, you had become an outcast everywhere. Out of nowhere, you were reduced to a mid bassist, people called you a whore, and every old friend you had vanished from your life.
The world, however, was full of surprises.
Mostly unpleasant ones — such as your sworn high school enemy, whom you despised with every fiber of your being despite having exchanged maybe a handful of sentences with him in your entire life (it had been more than enough), showing up at your workplace for the second day in a row. Yesterday’s visit had been accidental — he had taken his younger sister out for ice cream. Today’s, however, was undeniably intentional.
I could’ve gotten a job at a bookstore, you thought bitterly. At least then you would know for certain Ilia would never set foot there.
The first time, you had managed to convince the other girl working at the ice cream shop to serve Ilia and Liza while you busied yourself pretending to repair a perfectly functional slushie machine. You did not spare them a single glance.
Today, however, you were alone on shift. There was nowhere to hide — nowhere beneath the counter to disappear into, no back room to lock yourself inside. You had no choice but to face Ilia and that infuriatingly beautiful face of his, delicate and flawless as porcelain.
Damn, you caught yourself thinking, was he this pretty back in high school too? Had his nose always looked so… perfect? You could no longer recall. Every warm feeling you had once harbored for him in 9th and 10th grade had long since been consumed, replaced by a fierce and living resentment.
You scolded yourself for the observation almost immediately. You had no idea why thoughts like that were suddenly creeping into your mind. Maybe you had consumed one too many energy drinks that morning and something inside your brain was beginning to malfunction.
So when, after staring at you for several solid minutes — and that was not an exaggeration — Ilia finally approached the counter, you decided to pretend you didn’t remember him. Hopefully that would throw him off enough to stop him from trying any stupid tricks.
If he did try something, you would shove the steel ice cream scoop straight down his throat.
“What can I get you?” you asked politely, though the mockery underneath your voice was impossible to conceal.
Ilia adjusted the glasses sliding down his nose. He looked at you suspiciously, startled by how composed you seemed. The last time he had spoken to you — during graduation, no less — you had called him an idiot and flipped him off.
In front of his parents.
“Um…” He wrinkled his nose, visibly unsure what exactly he was supposed to do. Confusion and panic flickered in his blue eyes — your plan had worked; he genuinely thought you hadn’t recognized him. “Two scoops of vanilla. In a cup.”
“There’s no vanilla,” you informed him in a detached, impeccably professional tone. You didn’t so much as blink. You had always been good at lying — just as you had always excelled at getting on people’s nerves, both deliberately and entirely by accident.
Ilia looked visibly confused.
“But…” he began quietly, pointing toward the gelato pan filled with pale, frozen cream. “I can literally see it right there.”
“That’s sweet cream,” you replied smoothly, tossing the portion scoop through the air with unnecessary flair before catching it again. “Forgot to change the label.”
“Okaaaay…” he said slowly. “Then I’ll take raspberry.”
A snort escaped you before you could stop it.
You immediately forced your face back into a perfect poker expression, praying Ilia hadn’t noticed the corners of your mouth twitch upward for a split second. You had no intention of revealing that you knew his last name, that you remembered him from school. That despite the three years that had passed since you both graduated from George C. Marshall High School, he hadn’t actually changed all that much.
The last time you had seen him in person, his hair had been darker, his features softer and more boyish, and he had possessed considerably less muscle. Practically none, in fact.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, clearly irritated.
“Nothing.” Your eye didn’t even twitch. “I choked on my own spit.”
“Right,” he said, unconvinced.
In a silence disturbed only by the soft hum of the ventilation system and the faint music drifting from the radio in the back room, you accepted his payment, took a paper cup, and scooped two generous portions of raspberry ice cream into it.
After serving your last customer, you had gone to eat a sandwich and forgotten to put your nitrile gloves back on afterward. You hoped Malinin would be gracious enough not to report you to your manager for violating sanitation rules.
Unfortunately, he had an entirely different complaint. The moment he tasted the ice cream, his nose wrinkled and his light eyebrows immediately drew together in displeasure.
“It’s melted,” he complained, puffing out his pink lips like a sulking child.
Back in high school, his expressiveness had always fascinated you. Ilia’s face betrayed every thought before he could stop it, his moods flickering across his features in exaggerated little performances that were, admittedly, sometimes funny. Not that you would ever confess that aloud. You would sooner walk barefoot over burning coals than openly admit that Ilia Malinin was actually pretty hilarious on occasion.
“And how is that my fault?” you frowned.
“I dunno. You work here, don’t you?”
“No shit, Sherlock.” You rolled your eyes. Annoying customers were nothing new to you. You had learned how to bite your tongue when necessary, even when someone pushed you dangerously close to snapping. But you had no intention of showing Ilia the same courtesy. “If it tastes bad, then don’t eat it. Toss it in the trash, throw it onto the fucking sidewalk, feed it to some random street dog, whatever. We don’t do refunds here…” Your gaze swept over him deliberately, slowly, from head to toe, before stopping at the yellow-and-black designer crossbody bag hanging from his shoulder. “Clearly Prada doesn’t either,” you added sweetly, venom dripping beneath the words.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just surprised you didn’t return the bag. It’s hideous,” you replied without hesitation, your face twisting with open disdain. “Though honestly, I can’t say I’m shocked. You’ve got absolutely zero sense of style.”
“Well, and honestly I’m not shocked your band kicked you out,” Ilia shot back instantly. “If you treated them the same way you treated everyone at school…”
“Don’t talk about my band, Malinin,” you warned, pointing the metal scoop at him like a weapon.
You knew perfectly well it was your own fault. You had started this whole exchange, after all. But that subject remained raw enough to make your stomach twist, and the last person you wanted discussing it was him.
“Ha. So you DO remember me.” Ilia grinned triumphantly, as if he had been waiting the entire time for you to finally say his name.
“Unfortunately,” you sighed theatrically. “Kinda hard not to hear about your Olympic flop.” You returned cruelty for cruelty by bringing up his free skate. You had no doubt it was a traumatic memory for him — just as traumatic as the moment your former best friend stabbed you in the back, dumped your belongings out of the band’s tour bus, and officially stripped you of your place as bassist.
At the mention of the Olympics, Ilia hit you with a cold Slavic stare — sharp and glacial enough to make you instinctively look away for a moment.
“Yeah? Well, funny, ’cause it was kinda hard not to hear about your sex scandal too,” he fired back.
“Oh my God, there was no scandal!”
Frustration erupted inside you like a storm finally breaking against the shore. You slammed both palms onto the counter hard enough for the cash register to nearly jump. Panic sliced across Ilia’s pale face, framed by long, bleach-damaged strands of hair falling messily around his rosy cheeks.
“It was all made up by that wangless prick Ian and that dumb talentless cunt who was literally jealous of me the entire time! Okay, fine, I almost sucked him off at a party once, but I was drunk and changed my mind, and how the hell was I supposed to know Penny had a crush on him? She never told me, and she literally had a new crush or situationship every other week. Then that fucker Ian got rejected and made up this whole story that we slept together and that I was supposedly in love with him. God, just thinking about those two makes me wanna throw up. A five-year-old could play the drum solo from “In the Air Tonight’’ better than Penny. And the fact she even picked Phil Collins? Please. She did that specifically to piss me off. Literally and metaphorically.”
“Wangless?”
“Seriously?” You clicked your tongue in disbelief. “Out of that entire emotional breakdown, that’s the word you focused on?” You gave him a meaningful look. “It’s eighties slang. Means no dick. Figured you’d know something about that.”
Scarlet bloomed violently across Ilia’s pale face. Even though your own anger burned white-hot beneath your skin and you had absolutely no patience for jokes, his sudden embarrassment amused you immensely. You loved tormenting men. It filled you with a strange, endless satisfaction — dark and intoxicating as spilled wine.
“What is actually wrong with you?” he asked, mortified. “Why do you keep insulting me? I literally just wanted to buy ice cream.”
As if to emphasize the point, he lifted the cup of raspberry ice cream now slowly melting in his hands. You suspected he would throw it away the moment he left the shop. Honestly, you couldn’t blame him. You had tried that flavor once yourself and it was genuinely disgusting, overloaded with artificial chemicals pretending to be fruit.
“And you bought it, so now get the fuck out and go practice your little spins or whatever,” you laughed humorlessly.
“I- no. You can’t kick me out,” he protested weakly.
There was not a trace of conviction in his voice. The confidence he radiated on the ice and during his Instagram lives — those same livestreams where, years ago, he used to mock you with irritating ease — had vanished completely.
“Oh, I can’t?” you scoffed. You took his pathetic protest as a challenge, and you had always been incapable of backing down from one. “Watch me.”
Quickly, you rounded the counter and marched toward him. Ilia immediately stumbled several steps backward, genuinely alarmed by you. As you got closer, you caught the scent of his expensive floral cologne — soft and elegant and maddeningly pleasant. You shoved him lightly toward the door with your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt him. Truthfully, you didn’t want to injure him; you just wanted him gone.
You could just as easily have grabbed the fabric of that ugly NF hoodie — the same one he had worn at the Olympics — and physically dragged him outside.
And you absolutely would have, if he pushed you far enough.
“You are actually insane!” he snapped, raising his voice. It did not impress you in the slightest. “You’re even worse than you were in high school, and honestly, I didn’t think that was possible. You seriously need help, like, professional help.”
“And you need to go train if you don’t wanna fall on your ass again at the next Olympics in Denmark or wherever they’re hosting it.”
“In France,” he corrected automatically.
“Don’t care.”
With a dramatic motion, you grabbed the handle and threw the door wide open. Cold March air swept inside like dark seawater flooding a shipwreck. “Goodbye.”
“You know what’s kinda funny?” He lifted his chin stubbornly, narrowing his eyes at you. “You always thought you were better than everyone else. You were sooo convinced you’d become this, like, huge star or something, and now you’re back in Virginia selling ice cream to my little sister and her friends. Any of your fans visited you here yet or-”
You shoved him outside with all your strength and slammed the door before he could finish speaking.
You knew his visit had not been accidental. He wanted to humiliate you. He wanted to savor your downfall, to force you to choke on the ruins of your own failed dreams — despite the fact that only a month earlier he himself had shared Icarus’s fate, flying too close to the sun before crashing brutally back to earth. Literally.
You still remembered watching the recording of his Olympic skate on YouTube, unable to suppress your laughter when he collapsed onto his ridiculous skater ass, snow spraying everywhere beneath him while confusion flashed across his face.
Okay. Maybe you hadn’t actually laughed, but you had felt satisfied.
Quad God my ass, you thought bitterly as you returned behind the counter.
You were lucky no new customers had walked in. Otherwise, you never would have been able to afford such a dramatic little performance.
Unfortunately for you, your manager, Carrie, had not missed the argument with Ilia. Sitting in the back office surrounded by paperwork and receipts, she had heard every single word. The security footage certainly did not help your case either — the camera had captured, in painful clarity, the exact moment you shoved a bewildered Malinin out the door.
“What the hell was that?” your boss demanded, practically vibrating with rage.
You hadn’t even recovered from the emotional hurricane that was your interaction with Ilia before being dragged into yet another confrontation — this time over your minor public act of aggression.
“How many times do I have to tell you that this is not how we treat customers here? Do you even know who that was?”
“A narcissist who bought ice cream flavored after his own last name,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
You slouched deeper into your chair and pulled out your phone to scroll mindlessly through social media, utterly oblivious to the fury steadily consuming your manager. Up until now, Carrie had always overlooked your incidents with customers, and you genuinely believed she would let this one slide too.
You were wrong, and your dismissive attitude was not helping your situation in the slightest.
“What are you even talking about?” Carrie snapped, leaning over you. Lazily, you glanced up from the cracked screen of your phone. The moment you noticed the sparks of anger blazing in her darkened eyes, you realized this was serious. “How can ice cream even taste like someone’s last name? Are you high again? Because if you are, then I swear to God, I’m not giving you severance pay.”
“Of course not!” You shot up from the chair, shoving your phone into the pocket of your thrifted vintage jeans. The accusation struck directly at your pride. “I haven’t smoked weed in, like… four… three… okay, two months! That one time I just drank too much coffee. I would never come to work wasted or stoned, I swear! Who do you think I am, Mick Jagger?” Your voice climbed into a panicked pitch — something that happened so rarely it startled even you.
Carrie let out a long, exhausted sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose, silently counting to ten in a desperate attempt to calm herself down. Then she looked at you with pure, almost maternal sorrow, as if she were moments away from mourning your tragic little life.
You hated pity. You never knew what to do with it. The only response you had ever mastered was anger.
“I’m sorry, Y/N, but I can’t keep tolerating this,” she continued, quieter now. “Two days ago you called one of our regular customers a lobotomized string bean.”
Your lips parted automatically before snapping shut again while you searched the depths of your memory for the incident in question. Even though you had only been working here since mid-January, you had already gotten into more verbal altercations with customers than you could count. Not even drinking an entire kettle of chamomile tea before your shifts helped anymore.
“Because that moron blamed me for the ice cream prices going up!” you defended yourself once the memory resurfaced. “If he wants to complain so badly, maybe he should get a better-paying job or stop eating ice cream every day.”
Five minutes later, you stood outside the café-ice cream parlor stripped of your dignity, your job, and the stupid pink apron you had hated with all your heart mere moments earlier and now suddenly missed terribly.
Cold rain began drizzling from the heavy navy clouds hanging low above the city.
You wandered toward the bike rack at the end of the street only to discover, with mounting horror, that someone had stolen your bicycle. A few days earlier, you had lost the lock but convinced yourself the thing was old and rusted enough that nobody would even glance at it.
You had been wrong. Along with your job, you had lost your only means of transportation.
“Fucking amazing,” you muttered to yourself.
Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. Helpless and thoroughly humiliated, you sank onto the curb, burying your head between your knees while the rain poured down over you like cold grief.
When someone honked at you, you instinctively raised your hand and flipped them off without even looking. You already knew who it was. Before discovering your bike was gone, you had spotted his huge ugly Honda in the corner of your vision.
Eventually, though, you lifted your gaze from your battered cowboy boots. Ilia had rolled down the window and was staring at you with an expression balanced delicately between pity and amusement. If you had somehow forgotten why you hated him so intensely, the reminder arrived instantly.
Ilia loved feeding on your weakness and misery just as much as you delighted in his. In that regard, the two of you were painfully alike.
“Oh, you’re still here,” you sniffed weakly, making no effort to wipe the tears from your cheeks. They blended seamlessly with the rainwater. “Great.” Your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your skin.
“Yup. Saw you arguing with your manager and couldn’t miss a show like that.”
“And what, you’re proud of yourself now?” you asked with pure venom. You didn’t even want to look at him — not now, not after losing your job. Babysitting local brats remained your main source of income anyway, but the tips here had at least been decent. “Probably as proud as you were after landing that stupid quad-something jump. You walked around school for a week acting like some kind of king and thought you were cool.” You wiped your reddened nose against the sleeve of your hand-crocheted sweater. “Trust me, you weren’t. When that film crew came to record you during computer science class, we all nearly died from cringe and laughed behind your back.”
That wasn’t entirely true.
Sure, Penny had never passed up an opportunity to mock Ilia, but in reality many of your classmates had been genuinely impressed by his achievements. A large portion of the students at your school figure-skated or played hockey themselves and saw him and his parents as role models.
You simply could not stand the fact that someone else was admired more than you back then — especially when that someone was a boy who openly looked down on you and always acted superior. A boy you had envied almost everything.
Correction: you still envied him. Provoking him had simply become the only way you knew how to survive that jealousy.
“You know more people have landed on the moon than can do a quad Axel, right?” Ilia replied smugly, studying you with open challenge in his eyes. “Last time I checked, I’m still the only one in the world.”
Curled up on the sidewalk, you suddenly felt small and exposed, so you quickly scrambled back to your feet.
“You know I literally don’t care, right? Someone’s gonna knock you off that pedestal eventually anyway. You know what people were saying during the Olympics? That you were an overscored jungle man with a god complex and zero artistry who robbed Japan of a medal. And honestly? They were right. Maybe if you’d actually gone to the Beijing, you wouldn’t have flopped this hard. But nah — instead you were sitting in French class crying your eyes out like a fucking baby. So, last time I checked, you are still a loser.”
That hit its target perfectly.
“And you know what people said about you?” he snapped back instantly. “That you’re an attention whore who got pissed because everyone only appreciated that Ian guy, so you hooked up with him on purpose just to destroy the band.”
“I’m not an attention whore, you are! You literally call yourself a god, and even after placing, what, eighth? tenth? at the Olympics, you still walk around acting like you won the whole thing. That’s actually pathetic. And I didn’t fuck him!” Your teeth clenched violently at the mere mention of Ian. “I might be bitchy, but I would never humiliate myself like that. Believe it or not, I only cared about making music, not having sex with groupies and doing coke every day. This is not the 70s anymore. And it was my band! I started it, I wrote the lyrics, I’m the one who asked him to join in the first place! Then people started obsessing over his voice and suddenly he lost his damn mind and wanted to be the center of everything. A literal raccoon digging through garbage would’ve been a better leader than him!”
“Why does that surprise you? I mean, honestly, it’s kinda how it always goes, right? The singer gets all the attention. Nobody gives a shit about the guitarist. Give it a few days and people won’t even remember you existed.”
“Like you’re gonna become some immortal legend yourself,” you snapped, your voice rising despite yourself.
His remark had struck deeper than you cared to admit — mostly because he was right. When your band had begun clawing its way toward popularity, Ian had become the center of gravity around which everything revolved. He stole every spotlight, every headline, every ounce of praise. Nobody looked at you. Nobody looked at Penny. Nobody looked at Dean.
Only Ian.
“Someone’s gonna break all your records eventually, and nobody’s gonna remember you either. And for the record, I play bass, you fucking idiot.” You pointed a finger in his direction. “Also, since when are you some kind of music expert? You literally mixed up NSYNC and One Direction and didn’t even know what Justin Timberlake looked like.” A dry laugh escaped you. A second too late, realization crashed over you.
You couldn't take the words back now. All that remained was to die of embarrassment. You slowly sank back onto the curb.
“That was forever ago and-” Ilia broke off mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he studied you, as though he'd just caught you red-handed. “Wait.” A slow grin tugged at his lips. “How do you know about that?”
Your silence answered for you. You lowered your head, staring fixedly at the toes of your boots.
“Aaaah.” The sound left him with unmistakable satisfaction. He looked as though he'd just discovered a new continent… or solved some impossible equation. “I see.” His grin widened. “You watched my interviews.”
“I did not,” you denied immediately. The protest lacked conviction.
“Yeah, you did. Otherwise you wouldn't know that.” His smile turned downright triumphant.
“Just shut the fuck up and leave. Now.”
You sounded defeated. For the first time all afternoon, there was something almost pleading in your voice.
“Please,” you added quietly.
You looked at him with naked desperation written across your face, silently begging him to leave you alone. Your clothes hung heavy with rainwater. A traitorous part of you longed to crawl into the warmth of his car, but you refused to grant him that victory.
As though he'd somehow read your thoughts, Ilia — slightly thrown by the sudden softness beneath your anger, by the sorrow seeping through your words — offered casually:
“You seriously gonna stay out here?” He tilted his head. “I can drive you home.”
“I don't need a ride from you,” you snapped. The suggestion stung far more than it should have, mostly because you wanted exactly that. “Besides,” you added, “you probably can't even drive.”
You eyed him skeptically. To you, Malinin hardly seemed like the type who could stay focused on a road. Or survive rush-hour traffic into D.C. without losing his mind.
“Because I'm a figure skater?” His pale brows knitted together.
“No. Because you're the loser who just got me fired.” Your arms folded tightly across your chest. “And I probably wouldn't fit in there anyway. Your giant ego already takes up all the seats.” He rolled his eyes. “I thought the whole Olympic experience would've humbled you.” Your laugh was bitter. “Guess I was wrong.”
“For someone who supposedly doesn't give a shit about me,” he observed, far too smugly, “you sure talk about the Olympics a lot,” he paused. “Did you watch them?”
“Yeeaaah, totally.” Your sarcasm practically dripped from every syllable. “I watched every skating event, every hockey game, ski jumping, all that stuff. Couldn't tear myself away from the TV… well, actually, I did watch some hockey.” The confession slipped out. “I even went to a bar for the final.”
Ilia blinked.
“My dad and aunt are from Montreal, so I wanted Canada to take gold,” you admitted. “But, y'know, disappointment is basically a national tradition at this point.” You shrugged. “At least I got free beer and peanuts out of it, so whatever.”
Suddenly, the rain intensified, turning into a torrential downpour. You shuddered — a cold, unpleasant chill ran down your spine.
Ilia did not miss your discomfort, nor the way you trembled from the cold, huddled on the ground, stripped of your dignity, largely because of him. A wave of guilt washed over him, and his chest tightened painfully at the thought that someone was suffering because of his actions.
He immediately regretted having witnessed you lose your job — and even more that it was because of him that you had lost control of yourself in front of your boss.
“Look, I’m sorry I called you an attention whore,” he said quietly, genuine remorse woven into every word. “I don’t actually think that. I just said it to piss you off.”
You barely heard him through the relentless rain drumming against the sidewalk, soaking your face without mercy. You were certain your mascara had already bled down your cheeks in dark streaks, but you were far too stubborn to hide inside Malinin’s car.
“Yeah, sure.” You rolled your eyes. “Everyone thinks that. Even my mother. Well, especially her.”
“I don’t,” he insisted immediately, almost fiercely. “And honestly? That Penny girl always gave me this like, super fake, sneaky kind of vibe back in high school. One time she literally stole my buddy’s homework and signed her own name on it.”
The mention of Penny ignited something volatile inside you.
“Because she is fake and she hates literally everyone around her. Like, okay, I hate everyone too, but she HATES hates. Capital H.” You gestured wildly with your hands as you spoke, rainwater flying from your sleeves. “And she stole my homework too! I just let it slide because I needed a drummer and I genuinely liked her back then. Now I think I’d probably strangle her. Or shove her drumsticks so far up her ass she’d cough splinters.”
Ilia laughed softly. The sound was brief and bright and startlingly sincere, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses for a fleeting moment like sunlight beneath icy water.
It irritated you that you noticed things like that. Worse still, you couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at your mouth in response to his almost childlike, uncontrollable laugh. Suddenly, embarrassment crept beneath your skin when you remembered how viciously you had treated him at the ice cream shop.
“And I don’t actually think you’re some talentless jungle man either,” you admitted with a sigh. “I mean, that ugly brown Viking costume was tragic, but the performance itself was kinda cool. Not really my type of music, obviously, but… yeah. It looked pretty impressive, even though I don’t know shit about jumps and all that stuff. People online just hate for the sake of hating.”
Ilia’s lips parted in unmistakable surprise. He looked as if you had just informed him that aliens were real and had abducted his cats aboard a spaceship. Reluctantly, you had to admit those cats were adorable, despite your deep fear of domestic animals ever since your uncle’s furious short-haired cat clawed your arm bloody years ago.
“Oh. Really?” The cold wind had painted Ilia’s face pink, and suddenly it lit up with undisguised happiness. “Thanks. Wait- you seriously watched it?” He blinked at you in disbelief. “Like… actually watched watched?”
“Yeah,” you admitted, which only delighted him more. “On YouTube, because I don’t own a TV, but it still counts. God, don’t get so excited,” you tried to shut down his enthusiasm, completely unsuccessfully. He looked like a little kid on Christmas morning. “Ugh, I can’t believe I even said that. I take it back.”
“Well… you can’t, so…” Ilia fell silent for a few heartbeats, studying you with something painfully close to concern.
You were drenched, trembling from the cold, wet strands of hair plastered against your face, and above all else you looked impossibly sad. Guilt twisted unexpectedly inside him. He regretted lingering outside the ice cream shop just to watch your manager fire you through the window.
“C’mon,” he urged almost tenderly, his voice suddenly gentle as velvet, painfully different from the raised voices and sharp words from earlier. “Let me drive you home. You’re gonna get sick standing out here. And honestly? I don’t wanna talk to you in the rain.”
“And I don’t wanna talk to you at all, so I guess we already solved the problem,” you replied bitterly, though something inside you softened at his strangely sincere offer. Still, an annoying little voice in the back of your mind insisted this had to be some kind of trap. “Besides, it’s not your problem. I’ll walk.”
“To the other side of town?” He looked at you like you had completely lost your mind.
“No. My aunt’s place is like half an hour away on foot.” You shrugged. “I’ll survive.”
“Wait… you don’t live with your parents anymore?”
“Why the hell would I?” you replied coldly. “They don’t even wanna know me anymore.” Your voice sharpened like broken glass. “Why do you think I ran away right after graduation? I’d rather live in a cardboard box under a bridge than stay with them.”
It was no exaggeration; by the end of high school, sharing a home with your parents — especially your mother — had become a slow, merciless torment. You saw your overworked father only on rare occasions (and after discovering he'd been having an affair with his assistant, you no longer wanted to see him at all), while your drunken mother turned every day of your life into its own private hell. The day you told her you'd started a band and intended to release your first album, she flew into a rage so violent the entire neighborhood must have heard her screaming.
Though the memories of that night had begun to blur around the edges, the pain they carried remained painfully vivid.
Silence settled between you. Only the hum of Ilia's car and the relentless drumming of rain against the slippery asphalt filled the space. You had completely drifted away into your thoughts.
Ilia sensed the shift in your mood. You weren't just furious about the stolen bike, the lost job, or irritated by his presence anymore — a shadow had fallen across you, a strange haze of bottomless sorrow clouded your eyes.
"Just get in the damn car, Y/N. Please." His voice pulled you from the depths of your painful reverie.
You lifted your chin stubbornly and shot him a proud, defiant look.
"No." You shook your head sharply, sending droplets scattering from your hair. "You're gonna kidnap me and murder me."
"I'll do that some other time."
Eventually, you gave in. You were too upset, too exhausted, and far too soaked to keep fighting him, and Ilia seemed suspiciously determined. Besides, you had to admit he had a point. A few more minutes standing in the rain and you'd almost certainly get sick — and you couldn't afford to miss your second job, the one you needed to keep no matter what.
With your pride thoroughly bruised, you climbed into Ilia's Honda. You immediately soaked the entire passenger seat. To your surprise, he didn't mention it once, and for that, you were genuinely grateful. You suspected you might have burst into tears if you'd been forced to apologize — or worse, start another argument.
You gave him your aunt's address. He entered it into the navigation system and, a moment later, one of his utterly unhinged Spotify playlists began playing through the speakers.
You parted your lips, ready to tell him to turn off the NF song he'd skated to during the exhibition gala in Milan (you absolutely were not going to admit you'd watched that performance), but ultimately decided it would be rude to complain about his music while he was driving your ungrateful ass home.
The entire ride to the neighborhood where your aunt Andrea lived was painfully awkward. Ilia attempted several times to ask what touring had been like over the past four years before you got kicked out of the band, but every question earned little more than a shrug. You had no desire to talk about it.
When he finally pulled up in front of Andrea's house, relief washed over you like a wave. You didn't want to spend a single second longer in his company.
“Wait.” His fingers closed gently around your elbow before you could pull the door handle. You turned sharply and yanked your arm away at once, as though the warmth of his touch had scorched your skin clean through.
“What now?” you hissed, your foot tapping impatiently against the floor mat. You were convinced that if his music kept playing any longer, your ears would physically shrivel up and die.
“That’s it?” He narrowed his eyes at you, openly disapproving of your entire existence at this point. “No thank you? No thanks, Ilia, my dear high school buddy that I bullied for years?”
“I did not fucking bully you,” you snapped. “You were the one acting like a bratty little kid twenty-four seven.”
“No oh, Ilia, you saved me from the rain!?” he continued in a ridiculously high-pitched voice. You had no idea he could manipulate his tone like that.
You shook your head, irritation simmering beneath your skin like static electricity.
“Do that again and I’m knocking out those perfect little white teeth of yours,” you warned.
Mostly joking — mostly. You tried your best to sound deadly serious, but exhaustion dragged at every inch of your body. You had just lost your job, your clothes were still damp from the rain, and there was water sloshing inside your shoes every time you moved.
“Oh my God, why are you always so defensive?”
“Why are you so annoying?” you shot back immediately.
“I’m not,” Ilia argued. “I seriously don’t have anything against you. I genuinely wanted to help.” To your surprise, he sounded sincere. That alone threw you completely off balance.
“Yeah. Whatever. Thanks for the ride,” you muttered reluctantly, the words tasting unnatural in your mouth.
“Umm, no problem. Uh, see you around, I guess…” Ilia accidentally gave you the world’s most awkward side-eye before scratching the back of his neck, visibly unsure what else he was supposed to say.
You ignored his painfully clumsy attempts to keep the conversation alive and practically tumbled out of the car, narrowly avoiding a massive puddle stretching across the sidewalk. Without looking back even once, you marched toward aunt Andrea’s small, slightly dilapidated one-story house.
Later that evening, after finally drying off and soothing your nerves with greasy cheese pizza and several glasses of cheap wine, you sat cross-legged on the edge of the stiff mattress in the converted storage-room-turned-bedroom you temporarily called your own, lazily scrolling through your phone in a pleasant half-drunken haze.
You didn’t even know what possessed you to unblock Ilia’s social media accounts.
You absolutely did not follow him — God forbid. You just wanted the option to occasionally snoop through whatever he posted. You justified it by telling yourself that whenever you were in a terrible mood, you could simply browse the hateful comments under his pictures for emotional support. Back in high school, furious Yuzuru Hanyu fans dragging Ilia across Instagram and Twitter had always lifted your spirits whenever you were forced to share classes with that idiot.
At some point, sleep overtook you with your phone still pressed against your cheek. Before the screen dimmed into darkness, its pale glow lingered briefly across your face, illuminated by a photo of Ilia smiling sweetly into the camera, Olympic team-event medal gleaming in his hands like captured sunlight.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
You hadn’t always been at odds with Ilia Malinin.
The resentment came gradually, spreading through you like venom beneath the skin.
Despite the fact that most people saw you as a cold, self-centered bitch, you weren’t the kind of person who disliked others for no reason. If anything, it was the opposite — you always tried to make a good first impression on anyone you met.
Back in 10th grade, Ilia fascinated you.
The two of you barely knew each other. You shared a few classes and occasionally passed one another in the hallways, nothing more. Even though he tried to act like every other stupid teenage boy, there was something oddly charming about him. He was weird, awkward, a little cringeworthy, and somehow endearing all at once.
You admired the fact that he figure skated.
Most people would have expected a girl who played rock music to think the sport was boring or ridiculous, but Ilia was different. When he stepped onto the ice, he worked harder than anyone. He devoted himself entirely to his passion, throwing every ounce of himself into it. There was something authentic about the way he skated — something rare. He was nothing like the boys you spent your time around, the ones whose lives revolved around raves, football games, and house parties where they got drunk off cheap beer bought with fake IDs.
As someone whose love for her own craft practically bled through her skin, someone obsessed with perfection in everything she created, you couldn't help but appreciate how much time and dedication Ilia poured into skating. Without hesitation, he had sacrificed his entire teenage life for it.
Sure, maybe he was a little strange. Whenever he actually showed up at school — which wasn't often during competition season, thanks to his individualized schedule and international events — he always seemed slightly disconnected from reality.
Your friends, especially Penny, thought he was a complete freak.
They filmed him in secret when some guys convinced him to do a backflip in the cafeteria. They laughed about him at parties when he lingered awkwardly in the corner, refusing to drink. They cracked up whenever he made embarrassingly obvious spelling mistakes or stumbled through reading his own poetry aloud in English class.
Though, if you were being honest, the poems really were awful. Painfully bad. The kind of writing that felt one step away from parody.
"He's not that bad." You defended him every single time, despite the fact that you'd exchanged no more than a handful of words with him.
Not because you knew him, because you wanted to.
Every time an opportunity presented itself, though, something stopped you. You could never figure out what. The feeling was entirely foreign to you. You had never been afraid of approaching people before, but something about Ilia made your stomach tighten and your palms sweat.
The opportunity presented itself of its own accord on a sunlit afternoon in March, when you happened to run into him at the skate park. You took it as a favorable twist of fate, especially since your presence there had been entirely accidental. You had never intended to go there in the first place.
Earlier that day, you had been sitting in your garage, surrounded by cables and tangled amplifier cords, practicing on the bass guitar your uncle from New York — a passionate musician himself — had given you.
For three weeks, you had been obsessively working your way through Cliff Burton’s legendary bass solo, "(Anesthesia) – Pulling Teeth". It was difficult, but not unattainable. You had been playing bass since you were eleven years old, and your ambition knew no equal.
For two relentless hours, you had replayed footage of Metallica performing in Chicago. Cliff Burton’s fingers drifted across the fretboard with an almost supernatural ease you desperately longed to master yourself.
Your wrists ached, your fingers burned, and your neck screamed in protest. Yet you had been doing fairly well, right up until your drunken mother burst into the garage and threatened to smash your amplifier and sell your bass if you didn’t stop making noise and wasting your life on stupid nonsense.
Afraid she might actually follow through on the threat, you left the house immediately. You knew better than to argue with your mom whenever she had already worked her way through several glasses of wine before six in the evening on a weekday.
Usually, you preferred her in that state. When she drank, she ignored you. She stopped reminding you that you were an ungrateful slut wasting your life wandering around music stores with teenage degenerates instead of focusing on school.
But when she became aggressive, the smartest thing to do was disappear, especially when your father wasn't home… which was almost always. His office was the closest thing he had to a permanent residence.
You had nowhere else to go. You felt uneasy sitting alone in the roadside bars where you hoped to start performing once you finally assembled a band. Your aunt was away in Florida. You couldn't play in the library.
And Penny had gone to the movies with her new boyfriend — a heavy metal fan a year older than her, who supplied the two of you with cigarettes you occasionally smoked beneath the school bleachers.
With no better options available, you decided to hide out at the skate park near school. You leaned your bike against a tree and settled into the grass. The teenagers weaving across the concrete on skateboards barely registered in your mind. Instead, you pulled out your notebook and disappeared into your thoughts, attempting to write lyrics for a new song.
Unfortunately, inspiration remained frustratingly out of reach.
“Yo, Ilia! Dude, can you chill with the show-off stuff for, like, five seconds?!”
The familiar name cut through your concentration. You looked up immediately, and instantly found yourself meeting Malinin’s gaze. He stood atop a ramp, staring at you with unmistakable curiosity.
The moment he realized you had caught him looking, his cheeks flushed red. He quickly turned away. Pretending indifference, you lowered your eyes back to your notebook and resumed scribbling. Your heart, however, had begun pounding twice as fast.
The two of you remained at the skate park until late evening — everyone else eventually left. The sun drifted slowly below the horizon. With AirPods tucked into his ears, Ilia spent the entire afternoon attempting increasingly ambitious tricks, most of which ended with harmless crashes onto the concrete. Your phone died, you could no longer listen to music, and the relentless sound of a skateboard slamming against the ground began driving you insane.
Eventually, you snapped.
“Could you maybe stop falling? Pretty please. I’m trying to focus here.”
Ilia didn’t hear you. He saw your lips moving and noticed the annoyed crease between your eyebrows, but that was all. Pulling out one earbud, he paused whatever song had been playing.
“Huh? Sorry, what was that?” he asked, slightly out of breath as he approached, his face unexpectedly flushed.
“Can you stop wiping out every five seconds? Or at least do it more quietly? I’m trying to write a song.”
Ilia froze. For a moment, he looked completely speechless, as though language itself had abandoned him. You sighed and began gathering your belongings.
“You know what? Never mind. I was about to leave anyway.”
“You’re Y/N, right?” Ilia blurted awkwardly, nervously running a hand through his damp hair. “Like... from school?”
“And you're that figure skater kid. Like, from school.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “I didn’t know you skated too. I mean, on board. Shouldn’t you be at the rink or something?”
“Day off,” he explained, bending down to retrieve his board.
“What are you listening to?” You pointed abruptly toward his phone. You had been curious ever since noticing him skating with headphones. It was practically an occupational hazard — you always needed to know what people listened to and whether they had good taste.
Ilia hesitated. He knew perfectly well you were planning to start a rock band. The entire grade knew. Besides, you were impossible to miss in the hallways. You laughed twice as loudly as everyone else, your vintage clothes stood out from a mile away. You never backed down from older jocks. And whenever teachers weren't looking, you stuck Aerosmith stickers to the backs of classroom chairs.
“Why do I feel like you're about to roast my entire playlist?”
“Because I probably am. C’mon.” Without permission, you snatched his phone and opened his Spotify playlist titled “Skate Sesh”.
You scanned the endless track list. “Please tell me you don’t listen to Juice WRLD. And Eminem? Wow. This is worse than I thought.” You continued scrolling. “Well, at least you've got Nirvana. Guns N’ Roses. Ooh, The Beatles. Metallica!” Your eyes lit up. “You know I actually tried learning one of their songs today? Maybe there's hope for you after all.” Then you froze. “Wait.” You brought the screen closer to your face.
“What now?”
“What is ABBA’s “Angeleyes” doing next to Kendrick Lamar?” Instinctively, you looked up, straight into his bright blue eyes. Almost luminous beneath the fading evening light. The sight threw you off balance for a second. You cleared your throat and quickly resumed scrolling. “The Weeknd. A$AP Rocky. Jim Croce?” You nodded approvingly. “Respect for Jim, but how do you even skate to this?”
Then your eyes widened.
“Oh my God! Fleetwood Mac.” You looked genuinely delighted. “I love you, dude.” The words escaped before you could stop them. For a brief moment, you seemed like the happiest person alive. Your fight with your mother, your worries, your frustrations — all of it vanished.
You jabbed the play button beside “Dreams” with such force that Ilia briefly worried for the safety of his screen.
“Uh... I only know, like, one Fleetwood Mac song,” he admitted. He handed you his second earbud. You accepted it gratefully.
“But you've heard “Silver Springs”, right?” You stared at him expectantly. “RIGHT!?”
“Uh... yeah. Totally. Of course.” He sounded profoundly unconvinced.
For the next hour, the two of you sat together sharing music. Night settled over the skate park, the air grew colder — neither of you cared. You completely lost track of time. It felt as though eternity stretched out before you.
You forced Ilia to save every rock playlist on your profile. You also extracted a solemn promise that one day he would skate an exhibition program to Led Zeppelin or Depeche Mode. In return, you had to promise to stop insulting NF.
After that day, you barely spoke for weeks. Being around Ilia made you self-conscious again. And he resumed passing you in the hallways without a word, as though nothing had ever happened. Because, technically, nothing had. You had run into each other, you had talked about music, that was all.
And yet, for you, those hours meant something. You simply didn't know what.
By the end of sophomore year, you noticed he kept looking at you. Not exactly staring, more like side-eyeing you. Every time you walked past him, you'd catch him glancing in your direction with blank expression. You assumed he was judging you, just like half the school did — the people who mocked your music taste, your clothes, your attitude.
You had no idea it was simply a nervous habit he had whenever he felt stressed.
Eventually, it started getting on your nerves — mainly because, despite how few words had ever passed between you, something within you had already started leaning toward him. One afternoon during band practice in Penny's room, you mentioned it. The next day, while the three of you stood in line at the cafeteria, Penny turned toward him.
"Quit staring at her, creep."
You immediately jabbed her in the ribs with your elbow, but it was too late. Offended, Ilia muttered something under his breath and looked away.
He didn’t dare so much as glance at you for the next several days.
The distance between you only widened when your geography teacher assigned you, Penny, and Ilia to the same group project. Together, you were supposed to build a model of tectonic mountains. Both you and Ilia seemed quietly radiant at the prospect of spending time together. Penny, however, was anything but enthusiastic — she was positively outraged.
"I seriously can't believe we have to do a project with that Russian quad-jumping fucko. Maalin? Maleenin? Whatever his name is. I can’t even pronounce this shit" she said as the two of you lingered by a row of lockers after class. Penny had never cared much for discretion; her voice rang through the hallway. "He's so lame. The guys at the music bar are gonna think we hang out with those stupid, weird rink kids. We are so cooked."
You listened to Penny with a steadily growing fury. You were busy transferring books from your backpack into your locker — perhaps if you had bothered to look around, you would have noticed Ilia standing just behind you, hearing every cruel word hurled in his direction. Penny was fully aware of his presence — that was precisely why she had said it. Your silence only convinced Ilia that, just like your friends, you mocked him too. He quickly slipped past the two of you.
Perhaps if you had noticed him then, if you had made him understand that you did not share Penny’s opinion, everything might have unfolded differently.
"Don't call him that," you warned after a long moment — though, to your misfortune, Ilia was already gone. You slammed your locker shut, its metal door covered in stickers and crookedly cut-out photographs of your favorite rock bands.
"Why not?" your friend snapped.
Her prejudice toward Ilia was beginning to grate on your nerves. You could not understand her point of view. As musicians devoted to rock music, weren't you supposed to embrace people who were different? And the very fact that Malinin spent his days on the ice instead of playing football or basketball like most of the boys at school seemed impressive to you.
Maybe he had... questionable taste in music, but that was nothing that couldn't be fixed.
"Because he's not lame or stupid. And figure skating is, like, one of the hardest sports in the world. It's honestly kind of badass that he does it."
Penny snorted.
"Oh my God. Do you have a crush on him or something?" she threw at you, half-joking, half-serious.
"Maybe." The confession slipped free before you could stop it. "He's polite. And very... pretty."
Penny stared at you in horror.
"But... he looks like a porcelain doll! In a bad way. He's not even your type!" she exclaimed, paying no attention whatsoever to the students streaming past in hurried currents.
You frowned, irritated that Penny presumed to know your type. You had never talked about boys around her. Until now, they had hardly interested you at all; your priorities had been your bass guitar and the feverish search for both a guitarist and a vocalist for the band.
"What are you talking about? He's exactly my type."
Penny gave you a look. "No, he's not."
"I mean, sure, I love the whole rockstar look on guys. Bell-bottoms, denim jackets, smudged eyeliner..." You shrugged. "But Ilia has something else."
"Like what?"
You hesitated.
"I don't know. Something... kind of majestic?"
Penny immediately gagged.
She shook her head with such dramatic force that several black strands escaped from her thick, loosely braided plait.
"Majestic?"
You punched her lightly in the arm, your cheeks turning scarlet. Embarrassment rarely found its way to you. You were the sort of person who refused to be intimidated by anyone. Ilia was the exception.
"Shut the fuck up."
"I'm serious. Majestic?" she repeated in disbelief.
"He just does, okay? He's got that really pretty, delicate kind of face. Almost feminine." Your gaze drifted somewhere far away, wrapped in thought. "And his eyes are insanely beautiful."
"Oh my God." Penny grimaced theatrically. "What the fuck? Ew. EWW. You've got to be shitting me. I cannot believe I'm hearing this from you."
You crossed your arms and leaned your weight against the locker.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Y/N, look at yourself. You literally look like Jimmy Page's long-lost child."
You rolled your eyes.
"And?"
"And Ilia Malinin looks like he belongs in some fantasy movie where he talks to fairies and woodland creatures. Geez, I can't fucking believe you are thirsting over some cringy figure skater."
A dry laugh escaped you.
"Well, maybe opposites attract."
Penny pointed at you accusingly.
"No. Absolutely not. I refuse to watch this happen."
"I was actually thinking about asking him to Spring Formal."
"You? At a school dance?" She barked out a laugh. "Don't tell me you'd slow dance with him to Olivia Rodrigo too."
"Oh, shut up."
"No, seriously. Come on. Malinin looks like a strong gust of wind could snap him in half. Besides," Penny continued, "dating him would completely ruin your image. Once we finally put the band together, you'll have, like, a thousand better options."
"A thousand?"
"Easily."
She nudged your shoulder.
"Girl, find yourself a hot guitarist or something."
Two days later, you learned that Ilia — having obtained the teacher’s permission, though without consulting either you or Penny — had switched project groups.
The news struck you as oddly unsettling. When your geography teacher had announced the assignment, pairing the three of you together to build a model of tectonic mountains, Ilia had seemed genuinely pleased by the arrangement — pleased, and perhaps a little intimidated. Still, you said nothing about his decision. You assumed he simply preferred working with his own friends, which, in all fairness, was perfectly normal.
The reasons to worry emerged gradually, they revealed themselves mostly in the ways Ilia began avoiding you. He sat on the opposite side of the room in classes you shared. He slipped past you in the hallways and the cafeteria as though you were a stranger. By the end of the school year, the two of you had not exchanged a single word.
Your disappointment carried a bitter aftertaste — you truly liked Malinin. Every day, you nurtured a frail, steadily fading hope that maybe he would talk to you first. Maybe he would ask you to hang out. Maybe he would invite you somewhere.
Instead, he acted as though you did not exist. He spent his time exclusively with people from his rink and with his girlfriend. After Spring Formal — which you ultimately skipped because you had no one to go with — you discovered that Ilia had started dating an older girl from the drama club, a figure skater herself.
You could not stop comparing yourself to her.
The final drop spilled the cup at the beginning of summer. Your parents had gone out to dinner with friends, while you sat on your bed testing a new custom bass pick engraved with your name in elegant, slanted lettering.
Eventually, you set the bass aside. You lacked both the patience and the energy to practice Cliff Burton’s solo. You had been trying to master it for months, and it still refused to yield. There was a reason "(Anesthesia) – Pulling Teeth” was considered one of the most difficult bass pieces to play.
You could manage the first half reasonably well, but the second half was where the composition truly bared its fangs. The tempo surged toward a relentless two hundred beats per minute. Burton attacked every note with a raw, almost violent intensity. The bass line unfolded across two strings in thick, chord-like phrases, pulsing alongside the rhythm while the wah pedal drenched the sound in sharp, unpredictable bursts of color.
For you, it had become a true test of your abilities as a bassist. And to make matters worse, heavy metal had never been your natural habitat. You were a rock musician at heart.
Accepting defeat, you decided to occupy yourself with something less painful to your fingers. You started scrolling through your phone. After logging into Instagram, you absentmindedly browsed your friends’ posts. Penny had gone to Chicago with her brother for a few days, and the rest of your little friend group had gone off to a music festival — one they hadn’t invited you to, of course. Not that it would have mattered; your mother would never have let you go anyway, convinced you’d spend the entire weekend getting high and sleeping with strangers.
You were just about to close the app when you noticed that Ilia was live. You had followed him the very evening after your encounter at the skate park, and from time to time you checked what he posted — usually short clips from ice practices.
Without thinking much about it, you joined the stream. His face appeared on the split screen. Alongside him were Josh and Derek from your school, as well as another skater named Jacob, whom you did not recognize.
You happened to tune in just as Ilia mentioned that someday he wanted to start making his own music.
“Yo, maybe you should join Y/N’s little rock band,” Josh snickered. “You could be, like, the next Freddie Mercury or something.”
The remark immediately soured your mood. Only a few days before summer break, Josh had run into you at the school copy center while you were printing flyers advertising your search for a vocalist.
It was hardly a secret that the two of you disliked each other. Once, he had stepped on your foot on the school bus, and you had loudly chewed him out for it. You had already been in a foul mood after another fight with your mom, and cramps from your period had left you with little patience for politeness.
Josh, however, clearly still held that outburst against you.
Ilia ran a hand through his sun-bleached hair and leaned back in his gaming chair.
“I mean... maybe. If I find out she doesn’t hate me,” he murmured.
“Y/N? That chick who hangs out with all the metalheads?” Derek chimed in. “Dude, she hates literally anyone who doesn’t listen to David Bowie. She laughed at my Travis Scott merch.”
You snorted. There was some truth to that. Sure, you occasionally mocked your classmates’ taste in music, but you did not hate everyone— that was Penny’s specialty. She openly despised anyone who did not belong to your subculture.
“Yeah, she’s kind of a total bitch,” Josh added, making no effort whatsoever to censor himself despite the fact that half the school was probably watching. “Wait, Ilia, didn’t you once say that Y/N basically stalked you at the skate park and then straight-up grabbed your phone and went through your playlists without asking?”
“Yeah... I mean, something like that happened,” he said quietly.
A surge of fury blazed through you. You could hardly believe what you were hearing — that he had just openly lied and, with breathtaking audacity, painted you as some kind of obsessive lunatic.
“Dude, what the fuck. She’s actually insane,” Derek laughed, barely able to contain himself, his curly head shaking from side to side.
“Okay, guys, chill,” Ilia said. “Chat’s gonna cancel us.”
His voice was serious. His face, however, radiated pure amusement. He was clearly fighting back a laugh.
Eventually, he cleared his throat and glanced at the chat.
“What are your plans for next season’s programs?” he read aloud. “I don’t wanna spoil anything, but they’re gonna be, like... more me, I guess? If that makes sense.”
“Eva’s asking if you’ve landed the quad axel in practice yet,” Jacob interrupted. Of the three boys, he seemed by far the kindest. He was also the only one who had not laughed while the others insulted you.
“The only thing I’ll say,” Ilia replied, “is that I may or may not have already done it. For now, only my parents know whether I landed it.” A smug grin spread across his face. “And QuadGoddess.” He winked at the camera.
A moment later, he glanced at the chat again.
“Oh, yeah. Who’s QuadGoddess?” His lips curved upward. “My girlfr-”
You left the stream. Then you logged out of the app entirely before he could finish the sentence.
You rarely cried. This time, however, your eyes stung with gathering tears. You did not understand what you had done to deserve Ilia’s hostility. As far as you knew, you had done nothing wrong. You had not earned the ridicule, the public humiliation.
From that day onward — through your junior year and all the way to graduation — you could not stand the sight of Malinin. You envied his success. You envied the warmth of his relationship with his parents. You envied how effortlessly everything seemed to come to him. You envied the silver platter upon which life appeared to serve him every opportunity, while you fought tooth and nail merely to assemble a band and carve out a future for yourself.
Most of all, though, you felt rejected. Judged. Dismissed without cause. The hatred you carried toward him had been born from unrequited affection.
And although four years had passed, and those feelings had been shoved deep into the furthest corners of your mind, they were not dead. Somewhere inside you, they still lingered.
Got super inspired after watching Ilia's stream yesterday and threw this up into my Google docs all night long 😭
No warnings, just fluff and sweet love!!!
The shine of Ilia's computer screen and the dim blue lights strung up on his ceiling set the otherwise dark room in a cozy glow.
He'd been streaming for a little less than an hour by now. Some new game he'd been talking about trying.
You couldn't hear the game since he had his headphones on, but you could occasionally see flashes of bright lights.
The silence was filled by his soft words that, even if you couldn't quite pick them up, were sweet to your tired ears.
You were curled up on his bed, face half buried into his pillow. It smelled like his citrus shampoo and a faint trace of his cologne.
He'd moved out of his parents house last fall, though he chose to stay pretty close to them for training. You had been dating for about a year and decided it'd be easier to just move in with him now rather than travel to him everyday.
Two years of dating him. Of dating someone you had no clue you'd ever have a chance with. And it was all because you'd mistaken him for someone else in your university library.
You weren't famous or anything, just an ordinary college student in northern Virginia, stressing over your studies and his competitions.
His room was cleverly set up to where his viewers couldn't see the bed unless he purposefully moved the webcam. He'd made it like that so you'd have privacy if you were in his room while he was streaming. Much like today.It wasn't like you tried to hide your relationship. It just never became a big topic of conversation. Both of you didn't have a problem with it eventually becoming public, but you also appreciated the secrecy.
But you really did want to get up and climb into his lap.
You tried to roll over onto your other side, facing away from him.
You tried hugging a pillow.
You even considered getting out of the room as fast as possible to not make any poor decisions.
Ilia just looked so pretty with his hoodie and How to Train Your Dragon pajama pants. Though when didn't he look pretty?
So, throwing it all out the window, you stood up.It took a moment to regain your balance and not fall down. You tried to rub the sleep from your eyes and made your way across the room to him.
He hadn't heard you approach, and jumped when he felt your face nuzzle into his hair and your arms drape over his shoulders.
“Oh–” He pressed a hand to his racing heart, twisting so he could see you better, “What's wrong sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” You mumbled, shaking your head.
Somehow, his chat hadn't gotten a good look at your face before it disappeared into his golden locks. They were all freaking out over who this new person was and why was Ilia calling them sweetheart.
“Are you sure? I can end the stream if you need me to,” His offer was tempting, but you still wanted him to enjoy his stream.
“No, it's fine. I'm just tired.”
“Be honest with me, I know you,” He paused for a moment, then sighed and shifted around in his chair until his headset was off and he was pulling you into his arms.
Mentally, you cheered for the chance to cuddle up with him. Cheek pressed against his chest and legs pulled up across his.
Ilia moved the chair back to where it was before and put his headset back on. He went back to playing as if nothing happened, only giving a cheeky little smile whenever he read a comment about what was happening. Occasionally he'd look down and pet a hand through your hair, thumb brushing back and forth over your cheek.
Eventually he did close the game out and go back to his main screen, taking a moment to attempt to read the messages flying by.
“ILIA OMG WHO IS THATTTTT”
“THEY'RE SO PRETTY YOU'RE SO LUCKY”
“HOW LONG HAVE Y'ALL BEEN TOGETHER????? SPILL IT WHITE BOY”
“You guys are so excited!” His giggle brought a drowsy smile to your face as you maneuvered yourself to sit up.
Though he looked nervous and excited, he was actually very calm about this whole situation. Sure he was happy about being able to show you off to the world, but it felt like a relief he didn't know he needed.
“As you guessed, this is my partner Y/N. We've been together for two years now?” He looked over to you for confirmation.
“Mhm, two very happy years.”
Ilia's cheeks warmed and he leaned over to kiss your cheek. Apparently he wasn't afraid of PDA, then.
He laced your fingers together and rested his cheek against your shoulder as he answered questions.
You felt like you were experiencing the best high there was. Nothing could stop you from running to him after his competitions anymore. No more standing on the sidelines with proud tears in your eyes. You could go out with him whenever and not worry about it not being the right time to reveal your relationship yet.
You'd lost track of time being in your head, only brought back to the real world when he lifted his head.
“Well, this is a great time to say goodbye to you all. They're tired, I'm tired, it's late. Hope you all have a safe and good rest of the day."
With that he ended the stream and closed down his computer.
“Can we go to bed now?” You asked, scooting off of him.
Ilia nodded and let you lean on him as you walked to the bed. Unsurprisingly, you immediately collapsed into the mountains of blankets.
He smiled softly and settled under the covers with you. Both of you twisted and turned, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't include someone's limbs going numb an hour into it.
You finally ended up on your back while he lied between your legs, head on your chest. You carded one hand through his hair, scratching at the nape of his neck. The other slid up his hoodie and on the warm skin of his back.
You heard a faint, “I love you,” before he became a dead weight on top of you. Not that you minded, he was comfortable.
So soon after that, you slipped into an easy sleep. With the heat radiating from him, the weight of his body, and his arms around you, falling asleep was no difficult task.
SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ The islanders welcome a new addition, who rattles their confidence and rocks a few boats
WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, verbal altercations, tell me if i missed anything
˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗
THE atmosphere inside the villa did a complete 180 after Ruthie’s departure, overtaken by a kind of tranquility that had been entirely absent for the past week.
Sarah sits at her vanity, a bright smile on her face as she sweeps a light pink blush across her cheeks. "I’m not even joking when I say this," she says, her voice echoing. "I woke up this morning, looked over at Ruthie’s empty spot on the bed, and couldn’t do anything but smile."
Cleo scoffs as she carefully applies a coat of dark lip liner. "That’s because the wicked witch is finally gone.” She threw out with no mercy. “No more fake smiles, and no more petty drama."
You smile, leaning against the marble counter as you style your hair. Before you can reply, the door to the dressing room swings open with a soft click.
Rafe walks into the room, holding a neatly arranged plate of toast, perfectly crispy bacon, and a glass of fresh orange juice. His eyes lock onto yours instantly, completely ignoring the array of clothes and makeup around him. A soft smile tugs at his lips as he steps up to your side, setting the plate down on a clear patch of the counter.
"Hey," Rafe murmurs, his voice low and tired. "I figured you’d be hungry after last night."
“Last night?” Sarah quirks an eyebrow, a smirk growing on her face. “In the hideaway? What happened last night?” She eggs on.
You roll your eyes playfully, shooting her a look. “Nothing, nosey.” You retort, but the blonde just shrugs, leaning over to steal a piece of bacon as you swat her hand away, looking back at Rafe. "Thank you, it looks amazing, per usual," you say, your heart melting slightly at the familiar gesture.
“I could say the same ‘bout you,” His voice lowers.
“Mm-mm.” You shake your head. “It’s too early,” you press a finger against his chest but he keeps leaning in.
“It’s never too early…” He leans down, his hand sliding gently up the back of your neck, his thumb caressing your jawline as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.
“Eee yuck,” Cleo gags lightheartedly, a small chorus of chuckles echoing throughout the room, even Rafe laughs, breaking the kiss.
"Eat up," he whispers against your skin, pulling back with a warm look in his eyes. "I’ll see you soon."
Though, right on his heels, John B pads into the room, holding a slightly more chaotic but equally heartfelt plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and waffles for Sarah. He slides up behind her chair, dropping his chin onto her shoulder and leaving a loud, sloppy kiss on her cheek that makes her giggle and swat at him.
"Fuel for the day, Your Majesty," John B teases, setting the plate in front of her.
"You’re ridiculous," Sarah laughs, turning her head to press a sweet kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, JB."
Just then, you reach over, stealing a piece of her bacon as she gasps. You shrug, talking through the small mouthful. “Payback.” You wink. Sarah just laughs, returning to her makeup as the two boys share a brief nod before turning and exiting the dressing room.
Sarah sighs happily, moving to rip off a piece of her waffle. "Okay, I could definitely get used to this." She turns her head, her eyes landing on Cleo. "Oh! Cleo, I meant to ask... how are things actually going with you and JJ?” She asks. “Has anything, like, changed? I know you said you didn’t really see things with him going anywhere before but you two seem to be getting on well.”
Cleo lets out a loud laugh, waving her makeup brush in the air dismissively. "Oh, please. Me and that boy are purely platonic.” Cleo started. “He’s sweet, don’t get me wrong. He literally came up to me this morning and offered to make me breakfast every day to show his appreciation and so I wouldn’t feel any kind of way." She rolls her eyes playfully, a smirk on her face. "But let’s be real—the boy cannot cook to save his life. He’d probably burn the villa down trying to boil an egg."
You laugh, leaning back against the counter. "So, no romantic sparks at all?"
"None," Cleo states firmly, though her eyes are fond. "But I like JJ. He’s got a huge heart, and he’s great for a laugh. But he is way too playful for my taste in men. I need someone a bit more grounded, a bit more mature. I see JJ as a little brother, honestly. We’re just holding things down together."
“That’s good,” You smile. “At least he’s got your back. We’re here to make friends, too.” You reassure, Cleo humming in agreement.
Though, Kiara is sitting on a small velvet stool near the shoe racks, completely detached from the conversation as she straps her sandals on. Her expression is a melancholic shadow clouding her features, but her silence is loud.
Sarah notices it first, setting her fork down, her brow furrowing with genuine concern as she looks across the room. "Kie? Hey, you okay? You’re oddly quiet over there."
Kiara blinks, snapping out of her trance. She quickly forces a tight smile onto her face, one that doesn’t even attempt to reach her eyes. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just... still a little tired, I guess. Don't mind me, I'm just waking up." But her voice lacks any real conviction, eyes instantly darting away to avoid eye contact.
While Sarah accepts the answer with a sympathetic nod, Cleo doesn't buy it for a single second. You watch as Cleo’s jaw tightens, a look of pure irritation crossing her brown eyes. She rolls her shoulders back, staring directly at Kiara with an expression that has grown increasingly annoyed over the last twenty-four hours.
Confessional : Cleo
"I am going to be entirely real right now—I am getting so tired of Kiara not knowing what she wants.” She threw her hands up. “She spent days making it seem like Pope was her top choice, acting like she was so guilt-ridden by her feelings for him. Then she gets exactly what she wants at the recoupling, and now? She’s walking around the villa looking borderline depressed at the mention of me and JJ being friends.” Cleo rolls her eyes. “Pick a lane, girl."
Sensing the sudden tension between the two girls, you quickly exchange a glance with Sarah. The last thing the villa needs is another blowout.
"Hey," you interject quickly, clapping your hands together to draw everyone’s attention. "The sun is absolutely beaming outside today. Sarah and I,” You trailed, meeting the girl’s eyes to say everything without saying anything, knowing she picked up on the tension as well. “...were saying we should chill and tan. Just some guy gossip and girl time. How does that sound?"
"Yes! Absolutely," Sarah chimes in, jumping up from her chair. "Come on, every single one of you. Move your asses."
Before Cleo can let her annoyance completely overtake her, Sarah firmly grabs her by the forearm, gently pulling her toward the door. You reach out, giving Kiara a supportive nudge, dragging the girl along as the four of you head out.
THE turquoise water of the infinity pool perfectly mimics the cloudless tropical sky as you and the girls claim a line of four sun loungers right at the water’s edge, laying out your brightly colored towels.
The initial awkwardness slowly begins to dissipate under the warmth of the morning sun. You lie flat on your stomach, your eyes closed with your arms folded beneath your head, enjoying the sounds of nature around you.
"Hey, slide over a bit," Sarah murmurs, sitting up and grabbing a bottle of coconut-scented sunscreen. "Let me do your back so you don't burn."
"You’re so sweet," you mutter, shifting slightly as Sarah begins to smooth the cool lotion across your shoulders. “Thank you, honey. I’ll make sure to make our anniversary extra special this year.” Sarah laughs behind you, her voice making a smile appear on your features.
“I appreciate that, sweetie.” She feeds into it. “I work so hard, y’know?”
Across from you, Cleo is already laying back, her skin radiating beautifully, her sunglasses pulled down over her eyes. Kiara, trying to escape her own thoughts, stands up from her lounger with a soft sigh. "Hey, I’m gonna go run and mix up some cocktails. I think a day like this kind of calls for them."
"Ooh, yes please!" Sarah calls out. "Put a little extra in mine!"
"You got it," Kiara smiles, her posture lifting slightly as she walks away toward the covered bar area at the far side of the lawn.
A few minutes pass in peaceful silence as you all tan and wait for Kiara to return. The scent of coconut oil fills the air, and the gentle breeze makes the previous day's drama feel like a distant memory.
Kiara returns, carefully balancing four tall, frosted glasses filled with a pink tropical cocktail garnished with fresh pineapple wedges.
"Here we go," Kiara says, handing a glass to Cleo and then to Sarah.
Just as she hands you your glass and prepares to sit down on her own lounger, the sound of heels clacking against concrete makes your ears perk up.
You sit up quickly, resting on your elbows. Sarah pauses, mid-sip. Cleo lowers her sunglasses, her eyes narrowing as all four of you turn your heads in unison toward the entrance walkway, watching as a girl walks down the concrete path.
The entire world seems to slow down for a fraction of a second. She is, without a single doubt, an absolute knockout. Standing tall with an incredibly fit physique, her radiant, deep brown skin catching the sun like it shined just for her. She has a strikingly beautiful bone structure—flawless high cheekbones, a perfectly sculpted jawline, and a pair of piercing, feline-like dark brown eyes. Her hair is a sleek, jet black bob that frames her face perfectly, and she is wearing a stunning, minimal white designer bikini that contrasts beautifully against her complexion.
She walks with an effortlessly dominant stride, her hips swaying fluidly. She stops in front of you all with a dazzling smile, resting a hand on her hip as she looks down at the four of you.
"Hi, ladies," her voice rings out, smooth. "Is there room for one more out here?"
You, Sarah, Cleo, and Kiara stand up from your loungers, completely stunned into silence by the presence of the new arrival.
Confessional : You
You were blinking at the camera, not a thought behind your eyes."I mean... are you kidding me? Screw the cocktail, a literal goddess just walked in.” Your jaw dropped.
Confessional : Sarah
"Wow. Just... wow.” She reiterates, stunned. “You guys really said, 'Oh, you think you’re safe? Hold my drink.'” She plays out, laughing. “She is gorgeous. Like, intimidatingly gorgeous."
"Hi! Oh my god, welcome!" Sarah is the first to break the ice, stepping forward with an open, welcoming smile.
The rest of you quickly follow suit, masking your initial intimidation with genuine hospitality.
"I'm Rima," the bombshell says, her grip firm and oddly loving as she hugs each of you warmly.
Confessional : Rima
"Hey, y'all!” She smiles, clearly excited. “My name is Rima St. James. I’m twenty-five years old, born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, and I work as a luxury Real Estate Agent. I’m like the girl boss, and yes, I am tooting my own horn.” She flips her hair over her shoulder. “In my dating life, I just feel like I’ve run into a lot of men who are either completely intimidated by me, or they’re just looking for a pretty little trophy to show off rather than a real woman to love. So, I’m here to find a man who is equally driven, protective, and who won't crumble under the heel of an independent woman. I’m not here to step on toes either, but…" She leans in close to the camera, a cheeky spark in her eyes. "A house isn't off the market until the papers are signed. And in here, nobody’s really coupled up until the finale." She shrugs.
"I'm Cleo, this is Sarah, Kiara, and this is…" Cleo introduces you all, her tone polite but hesitant. "Come sit down with us, girl. Kiara literally just made cocktails, so your timing is actually perfect."
"Oh, now that is exactly what I like to hear," Rima laughs, her voice melodic as she settles onto the edge of a vacant lounger. She accepts a glass from Kiara, taking a cutesy sip before looking around at the four of you. "So, fill me in, ladies. Give me the layout of the land.” She drawls, leaning back. “How are all of you feeling in your couples? Is everyone locked down already, or is there a little room for a girl like me to do some safe exploring?"
The question is incredibly direct, delivered with a smooth confidence that doesn't feel malicious, but still rattles your own confidence.
"Well," Sarah says honestly, leaning back against her lounger. "I’m currently coupled up with John B. I think we’re in a really, really good place. It’s fresh, but it feels right."
"I’m with Pope," Kiara says quickly, her voice slightly tight. "We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re…working through it."
"I am holding down a purely platonic partnership with JJ right now," Cleo chimes in with a wink. "So he is technically free game, girl. All yours to explore."
Rima nods, her eyes turning finally to you expectantly.
"I’m coupled up with Rafe," you say, keeping your voice steady and confident, though your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. "We’ve had some challenges, but we’re very solid."
Rima holds your gaze for a long beat, a smile touching her lips. "Rafe. The sexy one with the blue eyes, right? I watched a bit of the first few days before I flew out, but I wasn’t paying too much attention. Figured I’d be here soon enough anyways, right?” She throws out like it’s nothing, humming. “But solid is good, I love that for you." She sips her cocktail. “Well, the guys seem alright. I can’t wait to meet them.”
Before you can formulate a reply to her words, the sound of deep, loud laughter echoes across the villa.
"Seems like you won't have to wait long," Cleo murmurs, nodding toward the house.
The boys come strolling out onto the lawn in a pack, wearing their swim shorts, laughing at a joke JJ just made from the way they’re all looking at him. But the moment their eyes land on you all—and specifically on the stunning new woman sitting in the center of the loungers—the laughter stops instantly.
JJ and Topper’s jaws physically drop. Pope blinks rapidly. John B raises his eyebrows in absolute surprise, while Rafe’s expression remains neutral, yet somewhat perplexed, his eyes sweeping over her before tracking directly to you.
Topper moves with an immediate, desperate eagerness. He pushes past JJ, a massive, predatory smile breaking across his face as he maneuvers himself to the absolute front of the pack.
"Well, hello there," Topper says. "I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Topper."
"Rima," she smiles, standing up and offering her hand.
The guys all crowd around, introducing themselves one by one. The air is suddenly thick with a level masculine energy you wished to never witness in life. JJ is grinning from ear to ear, his posture completely changing as he runs a hand through his blonde hair. "Nice to meet you, Rima. I'm JJ. If you need a tour of the villa—or literally anything at all—I am 100% your guy."
"I’ll keep that in mind, JJ," Rima purrs, her eyes sliding over his athletic build before drifting over to Pope, who is standing a bit further back. She flashes Pope a particularly warm, radiant smile. "You must be Pope. You’re even cuter in person.”
Pope’s cheeks grow warm as he stutters for a response. "Uh, yeah. Hi. Thanks. It’s nice to meet you."
You watch from your lounger, a strange new sensation tightening in your throat. Watching this stunning, dominant woman confidently command the attention of every man in the yard—including your own—gives you your very first, bitter taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a bombshell's entrance.
Confessional : You
"Okay, so this is what it feels like to be a victim of a bombshell arrival?” You scoff. “This sucks."
AS the afternoon goes on, Rima doesn't waste a single second. She is grafting hard as hell, moving through the yard with a confident grace you’ve never seen before. She spends a solid thirty minutes sitting on the edge of the daybed with JJ, laughing at his wild stories, before pulling Pope away to the kitchen to talk.
Despite her steadfast pace, she seems genuinely nice—she isn't malicious or underhanded, she’s just unapologetically herself and clear about what she wants.
While Rima is engrossed in her conversation with Pope, Rafe slowly detaches himself from John B and walks over to where you are sitting near the edge of the terrace. He slides down onto the bench beside you, his long leg brushing against yours.
He looks out at the yard, a subtle grin playing on his lips as he bumps his shoulder against yours. "So. The new girl, huh?"
You turn your head to look at him, keeping your tone casual but searching. "Tell me about it. She’s absolutely beautiful. Confident, too."
Rafe lets out a low, soft chuckle, turning his head so his eyes lock directly into yours. The intensity in his gaze is completely focused on you. "Yeah, she’s an attractive girl. I’m not blind. But,” he started, pulling you closer by the waist. “I am completely set on you. I don't care if ten more bombshells walk through that door wearing nothing at all. I’m with you."
The certainty in his voice makes the anxious knot in your stomach unravel, but just a bit.
"I appreciate you saying that, Rafe," you say softly, a genuine smile breaking across your face. "But she’s definitely going to pull you for a chat at some point. I just know it,” you sighed, falling into his lap. “...What are our expectations here? Like, do we have…boundaries?"
Rafe reaches out, his hand wrapping around your thigh, fingers squeezing gently. His expression turns serious.
"The boundary is respect, angel. That’s it. I’m not going to be rude to the girl. She’s new, and she’s just doing what she’s supposed to do. If she pulls me to talk, I’m going to sit down, be polite, and have a conversation.” He explained honestly. “But I am going to make it explicitly clear to her that I am completely locked down with you. I don't want her getting any false impressions, and I don't want you sitting over here worrying.” He assured. “You trust me, right?"
"I do trust you, Rafe, but" you whisper, voice soft. “I don’t want to stop you from exploring. I like you, I really do, and I want us to make it but I don’t want to hold you back if we aren’t right for each other in the long run…”
“Angel, I’ve never felt like this for anyone but you.” He assured. “There will be no one else.” He whispers, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips.
Before you can say anything else, a ping echoes across the entire backyard as every single phone in the vicinity vibrates in unison. You and Rafe come down from the terrace, joining the others.
JJ pulls his phone out, reading the screen with a loud, dramatic flair. "That’s right, baby! Yo, look at this,” he shouts.
“'Islanders, it’s time for Rima to really get to know the men of the villa. Rima will now go on a series of rapid-fire, private dates with every single one of the boys. Boys, go get ready. Rima, your dates await!'"
A collective murmur of excitement and nerves ripples through the islanders. Rima stands up from her conversation with Pope, flashing the group a confident, dazzling smile. "Well, looks like my schedule is booked solid for the afternoon, y'all.” She waves at the girls, heading inside. “Excuse me while I get myself together."
She heads inside the house to get ready for her marathon of dates. As she walks through the living room, Cleo follows her in to grab a fresh water bottle, seizing the opportunity to get a little inside scoop.
"Hey, Rima," Cleo calls out playfully, leaning against the counter, causing the girl to stop walking. "Before you go into lockdown with all of our boys... can we get a tiny hint? Who do you actually have your eye on the most so far?"
Rima pauses at the foot of the stairs, turning back with an unreadable smirk. She tilts her head, her eyes flashing with amusement. "Oh,... a good girl never plays her cards too early. I don't want to spoil the surprise. I'll tell you all exactly how I feel when I get back from the dates.” She affirmed. “I have see who can actually handle the heat first."
With a sharp look, she turns and disappears up the stairs.
WHILE Rima is tucked away God knows where, holding her back-to-back dates with the boys, the four of you gather on the outdoor daybeds.
"Okay, from what I saw," Cleo starts, sitting cross-legged in the center of the cushions. "She spent a pretty good amount of time with Pope, but she definitely had her eyes locked onto JJ, too."
"Oh, she was definitely feeling Pope," Kiara adds, her voice carrying a subtle trace of tension, though she tries to mask it. "I mean... she seems like exactly his type on paper. She’s gorgeous, fit, she’s smart, and she runs her own business. I could see him getting completely flustered when she was talking to him..."
"And what about JJ?" Sarah asks, turning to Cleo. "How did he seem to you?"
Cleo scoffs, waving her hand dismissively. "JJ was just being JJ. He’s like a golden retriever. He sees a pretty new girl walk in, and his tail starts wagging. He’s just happy to have another girl in the villa. I don’t think he’s thinking deeply about it at all."
"What about Topper?" you ask, leaning forward, resting your chin in your hands. “If he followed her any closer, I think he might’ve managed to actually get lodged in her ass.” you rolled your eyes.
Sarah lets out a loud laugh, rolling her eyes. "It’s so obvious what he’s doing. Ruthie got dumped yesterday, he’s single and vulnerable, and treating Rima like a lifeboat. It’s embarrassing."
"True," Cleo agrees. "But what about John B and Rafe? I didn't get a good read on them."
"John B seemed polite, but he didn't move an inch from my side until the text came," Sarah says confidently, a proud smile on her lips. "I'm not worried about him. Too much, anyway…"
" Rafe told me to my face before he left that his head isn't turning," you share with the group, feeling a small sense of security. "He said he was going to be polite but establish boundaries."
"Yeah, Rafe was pretty unreadable out there," Cleo notes, nodding slowly. "But, I’m honestly not worried about him switching up on you. You walk that boy like a dog." Cleo jokes.
"Let's just… wait and see what she says when she gets back. We can talk to her first before the boys give us their sides." Kiara mutters, staring out at nothing.
NEARLY three hours pass before the newest bombshell and the boys return. Rima walks into the villa, looking slightly exhausted but victorious, her posture still perfectly straight. Close behind her, the boys file out in a line, looking a mix of flustered, energized, and completely drained.
Before the guys can even say a word to their partners, Cleo stands up, calling Rima over.
You all practically whisk Rima away, dragging her straight up to the quiet of the indoor lounge, shutting the doors to lock the boys out. You all crowd around the circular velvet sofa, leaning in close as Rima slides into the center cushions with a dramatic, breathy sigh.
"Ugh. Y'all, that was a marathon," Rima laughs, running a hand through her sleek bob. "Five men back-to-back? I need a massage..."
"Alright, lock in, girl," Cleo demands, leaning forward with an eager grin. "Give us everything. You said you would..." She drags out.
Rima lets out a chuckle, tilting her head. "Okay. But you should all should know I don't hesitate to speak my mind.” She shifts to sit straighter. “Hm. We can start with JJ." She settles as you all lean in closer. "He is absolutely adorable," Rima says, a fond but slightly dismissive smile on her face. "And actually super, super funny, he had me laughing the entire time. But honestly? I think that boy still has a bit of growing up to do. He’s great for a wild night out, I bet, but I don't know if he has the maturity to handle a woman like me in the long run. He’s a cutie, though."
Cleo laughs, able to relate, nodding.
"Now, Pope..." Rima’s voice shifts, a genuine spark lighting up her dark eyes. "Pope was right up my alley. Seriously. He is so incredibly smart, he has a fantastic build, and he was so respectful. He got a little nerdy talking about his work and goals, but honestly? I find that incredibly attractive. A man who knows where he’s going in life is a major turn-on. He is definitely high on my list."
Kiara’s posture goes completely rigid, her fingers clenching into the fabric of the sofa, though she forces herself to stay silent.
"What about Topper?" Sarah asks, a predictive, mocking smirk already on her lips.
Rima lets out a loud, incredulous laugh, shaking her head in absolute disbelief. "Oh my god, Topper was an absolute comedy show. He was trying way too hard, and honestly, he is way out of his league with me—in a bad way. I don't know what was up with that guy, but the entire date felt like a poorly rehearsed performance.” She told you all honestly, her face twisting. “Within ten minutes, he managed to bring up his career, his ‘super-rich’ grandfather, how much money his family has, and his country club membership." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Like, sweetie, I am not impressed by your granddaddy’s generational golf membership."
Sarah, as well as the rest of you, burst into a fit of laughter.
"Though… John B was interesting," Rima continues, shifting gears, and Sarah’s amusement fades slowly. "He’s a total cutie. Very sweet, very down-to-earth. He’s not my absolute first pick right now, but he has great energy, so I’m definitely going to keep him in mind as an option."
Sarah swallows nervously, clearly put off.
Finally, Rima’s eyes slide across the sofa, landing squarely on you. A smile plays on her lips, and your stomach drops into a pit of apprehension.
"And then...," Rima says, her voice dropping into a lower register. "Rafe wasn't at the very top of my list going into the dates, but I have to say, he is incredibly interesting. He sat down and was perfectly polite, but he is a very tough nut to crack. He had this wall up the entire time. But," Rima tilts her chin upward, a spark illuminating her eyes. "I deal with tough negotiations and closed doors every single day of my life. I’m not a woman who backs down from a challenge. Especially not a challenge with blue eyes and biceps like that."
A cold shock of nervousness surges through your veins. You force a tight, empty smile onto your face, but your heart begins to hammer furiously. Rafe’s boundary had been set, but to a woman like Rima, a boundary was simply a challenge waiting to be conquered.
WHEN Rima finishes her debrief, you and the girls slowly disperse, breaking off into the yard to find your respective partners. You walk out onto the lower terrace, your eyes scanning the lawn until you find Rafe standing near the glass railing, watching the sunset.
You walk up to his side, your hands clasped behind your back.
Rafe turns his head at the sound of footsteps, his expression softening instantly when he sees it’s you. "Hey," he says gently, stepping closer and wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. "How did it go with the girls? Did Rima ‘spill the tea’?" He mocks playfully.
You let out a soft, slightly heavy breath, looking up at him. "Yeah, she did. She basically gave us a full review of every date."
"And?" Rafe quirks a knowing eyebrow.
"…She said you were a tough nut to crack," you say quietly, your eyes searching his face. "She said you had a wall up... but she also said she loves a challenge.” Your voice dropped. “I think she's gunning for Pope the most, but, she said she isn't backing down from a challenge with 'blue eyes and biceps like that.'"
Rafe’s smile fades, turning his full body to face you, his hands coming up to grip your shoulders firmly.
“While I appreciate the compliment," Rafe starts, his voice dropping into a deep whisper. “She can play whatever tricks she wants. I am not going anywhere."
You look down at his chest, a sudden wave of vulnerability washing over you. "I know you mean that, Rafe. I do. But... what if you don't have a choice?"
Rafe stares at you for a long beat, his expression softening. He reaches up, his fingers gently cupping the back of your neck, pulling your head up so your eyes lock onto his.
"It won’t change anything between us," Rafe says, his eyes burning into yours. "Even if she picks me, it changes absolutely nothing between us. I won't give her the time of day. I won't give her a single ounce of hope or an idea that she has a chance. Don't let her get inside your head."
You lean forward, burying your face against his warm chest, his arms immediately wrapping around your back, holding you so tightly it feels like he’s trying to shield you from everything.
Later that night, when you both climb into the large shared bed, Rafe pulls you flush against his chest, his strong arms securely locking around your waist as you cuddle close under the heavy duvet.
THE next morning, the sun is beaming through the glass windows, and the smell of fresh coffee already thick in the air.
You sit at the island next to Sarah, both of you watching a show taking place behind the counter.
Rafe is already up and at it as he slides a perfectly flipped plate of eggs and buttered toast in front of you, leaving a sweet kiss on the top of your head.
"Morning, angel," he murmurs, his eyes warm.
Right beside him, John B finishes plating a massive stack of pancakes for Sarah, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her lips.
While you and Sarah happily dig into your food, a chaotic scene begins to unfold at the far end of the counter.
JJ is standing over a hot frying pan, wearing an absurdly oversized chef's hat he apparently found in a closet. He has a look of concentration on his face as he attempts to make a severely mangled omelette. Rima is sitting at the island directly across from him, leaning her chin in her hands, watching his struggle with an amused expression.
"Alright, alright, hold on," JJ mutters, aggressively waving a spatula. "The flip is the most critical part. Just give me one second to channel my inner Gordon Ramsay."
He attempts a dramatic wrist-flip. The omelette completely disintegrates in mid-air, half of it landing with a wet, heavy splat directly onto the marble counter, while the rest remains a scrambled mess in the pan.
Cleo walks into the kitchen right at that exact moment, pausing to stare at the destruction. She lets out a loud, mocking laugh, crossing her arms. "Oh, see! What did I say? The boy cannot cook to save his life!"
JJ pouts dramatically, throwing his hands up in defeat, his shoulders slumping as the girls burst into laughter. "Hey! Cleo, come on, man! We talked about this! You’re supposed to be my wing woman!"
"I have to be an honest one," Cleo teases, sliding onto a stool next to Rima.
Before JJ can continue rambling, Topper comes strutting into the kitchen from the outdoor deck. He walks over to the fridge where he pulls out a perfectly presented plate with a golden-brown Belgian waffle topped with fresh raspberries and a dust of powdered sugar. He maneuvers himself directly past JJ, sliding the plate right in front of Rima with a smug grin.
"I know you mentioned you liked waffles on our date yesterday, so I made sure to get up early and make a little something for you."
Before Rima can even process the gesture, Pope comes through the glass doors casually.
He stops dead in his tracks, eyes landing on the waffle in front of Rima before looking at Topper, letting out an exasperated, high-pitched gasp. “Are you serious right now? That is what you wanted the waffle for? You told me you were starving! That is the last time I give you the benefit of the doubt, man."
The kitchen erupts into another wave of laughter. Rima lets out a genuinely amused chuckle, looking between the three boys. She flashes Pope a particularly warm, radiant smile, her eyes softening. "Well... thank you, Topper, for the presentation. And thank you, JJ, for the effort. But Pope, sweetie, thank you for actually making my breakfast. I appreciate a man who can cook."
Pope rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly as JJ pouts like a kicked puppy and Topper grumbles.
Across the kitchen island, however, Kiara is standing near the coffee machine, her grip tightening around her mug until her knuckles split. She’s staring at Pope, her eyes flashing with uncertainty.
AN hour later, you and the girls gather in the dressing room to do your makeup and get ready for the day's activities. The room is hot with the steam of curling irons, the scent of hairspray heavy in the air.
Rima is sitting in the center chair, carefully applying a layer of highlighter to her cheekbones. Sarah turns from her mirror, deciding to voice the question that has been hanging heavily in the air all morning.
"Okay, I really don’t mean to bombard you, but," Sarah starts, leaning her elbows on the vanity counter. "You’ve been here for twenty-four hours now. You’ve had dates with all the guys.” She points out. “Have you managed to… y’know, narrow it down?"
The dressing room goes completely quiet. You pause your mascara, your eyes locking onto Rima’s reflection in the glass. Kiara and Cleo both turn their heads, waiting.
Rima sets her highlighter down, turning around in her chair to face the group. She lets out a slow breath, an unapologetic smile on her lips. "I like to keep things direct.” She prefaces. “I still need to do some one-on-one’s today to fully lock it in, but as of right now... I’d have to say my top guys in this villa are definitely Pope and JJ.” She states, thinking for one moment before shrugging as if she figured ‘why not?’.
“...and Rafe." You blink, your mind short-circuiting as deep confusion settles in the base of your stomach. Rafe? you think, your chest tightening. How is Rafe in her top three?
A wave hit the room like a nuclear bomb, but Rima continued like her words meant little nothing. “I stand by what I said. Pope is like the perfect guy and not even on purpose. And I know I said JJ had some growing up to do, but honestly? He seems like he’s got a good heart and just doesn’t know what to do with it—”
"Wait..." you say aloud, keeping your voice calm but unable to hide the absolute bewilderment in your tone. "Rima... I’m a little confused. When you came back from the dates yesterday, you said Rafe had a massive wall up."
Rima tilts her head, a slow smirk expanding across her face as she locks her eyes onto yours. Her tone is smooth, entirely devoid of malice, but her words still make that pit in your stomach return.
"Oh, I told you yesterday—I don't back down from a closed door. Rafe having a wall up doesn't turn me off, it actually makes him ten times more interesting to me.” She says like she isn’t completely mind fucking you right now. “It shows me he has loyalty, and honestly, it makes the prize of breaking that wall down so much sweeter. A man who is hard to get is a man worth having. Plus, he is gorgeous.” She fawns. “Don't take it personally, honey. It’s just how this works."
You stare at her, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from firing back.
Rima sighs, standing up from her vanity. “Well, ladies, I am parched.” She announces, stretching. “Let’s see which one of these guys will make me a smoothie.” She smiles, winking as she practically skips out of the room, leaving you all speechless—namely, you and Kiara.
Beside you, Kiara lets out a ragged breath, dropping her head. With Pope and JJ both firmly occupying Rima's top spots, alongside Rafe, the reality of the situation hits like a rolling freight train.
Cleo and Sarah are exchanging equally nervous glances, not even knowing what they could say to comfort either of you.
"This is a nightmare. An actual nightmare." Kiara mutters, her voice trembling slightly as she turns back to her mirror. "A bombshell always means a recoupling is coming. And a recoupling means one of us could get dumped. And it’s looking like it’s going to be me…" She scoffs, incredulously.
“Or me.” Your voice shakes, and you feel a matching dread settle into your gut. If Rima has the power to pick first, Rafe could be ripped away from you, leaving you entirely vulnerable and single.
“I’m glad she isn’t gunning for John B, but,” Sarah starts, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I’m stressed for you guys…”
Cleo finishes brushing through her curls, letting out a relaxed shrug. "I’m just going with the flow at this point." She throws out. “We can control these men. Why try?”
Before the discussion in the room can go any further, a loud ping echoes from your phones.
Sarah picks up her phone, reading the text aloud.
"Islanders. It’s time to find out who’s really standing strong and who’s about to get served. Please head out to the main yard immediately for today's challenge: Pied Off! #SweetRevenge #FaceTheTruth."
THE backyard has been transformed into a colorful game arena. Two long, elevated wooden benches face each other across a large patch of grass. On a side table, rows upon rows of aluminum tins piled high with thick, fluffy white whipped cream—the "pies"—are stacked neatly.
Ariana stands in the center, holding her tablet, a grin on her face as you all file out.
"Welcome, islanders, to one of our most iconic challenges—Pied Off," Ariana announces, her voice booming over the sound system. "Today, you will be split into two teams—boys versus girls."
You all cheer, separating into your respective lines. Rafe stands at the end of the boys' line, flashing you a brief wink that helps quiet the residual panic from the dressing room.
"The rules are simple," Ariana explained, tapping the screen of her tablet. "I will read aloud a series of trivia questions to a member of your team. That member must grab a pie and pie the person they think the statement is about. If you guess correctly, your team wins a point."
Ariana paused, her eyes sweeping over the group, her smile widening. "And most importantly, the team that wins the challenge today will secure a massive advantage—the power of choice at the next recoupling ceremony."
The stakes were suddenly higher than the Empire State Building. If the girls won, you would hold the power to choose your own partners, possibly able to intercept Rima from possibly stealing Rafe from under your nose. The atmosphere instantly turned fiercely competitive.
"Let's begin, shall we?" Ariana said, her fingers sliding across the screen. "Sarah, you're up first. True or False: During the first twenty-four hours in the villa, this guy explicitly told another islander that he found you 'boring' and 'way too high-maintenance' compared to the other girls."
The girls' team instantly huddled, but Sarah didn't even need to confer. Her eyes flashed dangerously as she shot Topper a sharp, knowing look.
Without hesitating for a single second, Sarah marched over to the table, her hips swaying with a confident, angry stride. She grabbed a massive, overflowing tin of whipped cream and walked straight up to Topper. Topper stood on his designated mark, scowling, his arms crossed over his chest in a desperate attempt to look unbothered.
With a vicious grin, Sarah slammed the pie directly into Topper's face, using enough force to send a wet, heavy spray of whipped cream flying onto his hair and the plants behind him.
The girls erupted into wild screams of laughter and applause. Topper sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of sweet cream and desperately wiping the white foam from his eyes, looking thoroughly humiliated.
“Oooh,” Ariana laughed. "And that is the correct answer! Point to the girls.” She nods. “I think we should give our bombshell the floor. Rima, it’s your turn."
Rima stepped forward, her long legs crossing in front of one another, a smirk plastered across her face.
"Rima," Ariana read, her eyes sparkling with drama. "Which boy secretly confessed to a producer in the confessional room on Night Four that, while his current partner is physically stunning, he finds her personality ‘intimidatingly aggressive’?"
A collective gasping noise rippled through the girls' line. Cleo’s jaw instantly dropped, her arms falling to her sides as her eyes locked onto Pope. Pope’s face dropped instantly, his eyes widening in horror.
Rima let out a low chuckle. "Oh, honey, I know exactly who this is. Your poker face is non-existent."
Rima sauntered over to the table, picking up a pie as she walked straight past the other guys and stopped right in front of Pope. He swallowed hard, his shoulders slumping in shame. Rima didn't just slam the pie, she did it with a slow, teasing grace, pressing the whipped cream directly onto his nose and cheeks, before whispering, "Ouch.” She winced, though there was a ghost of a smile on her face.
"Correct!" Ariana chimed in. "That was Pope! Point to the girls."
“Sounds like you just can’t handle a woman with a little spark." Rima dismissed, shrugging and sauntering back towards you and the girls, patting Cleo on the shoulder. “I quite like your fire, babe.” She whispered in her ear, winking as she backed away.
Cleo was burning a hole through Pope. "Aggressive?" Cleo muttered loudly. "You haven’t seen aggressive yet." She warned, but she didn’t seem to actually take his words to heart.
“Next, our first question for the boys,” Ariana started, her eyes scanning her tablet. "For JJ—This girl performed a strip tease for a friend’s birthday when the male stripper they hired was a no-show."
JJ grinned, his chest puffing out as he grabbed a pie, practically bouncing on his heels. He walked up to Rima, his eyes sweeping over her white bikini. "No hard feelings, beautiful," He teased, before playfully smashing the pie right onto her chin and cheek.
Rima didn't even flinch, letting out a sultry laugh. She reached up, slowly swiping the whipped cream off her face. She locked eyes with JJ, fixing him with a pout. “Nope. Not me. Sorry, babe.”
“Wait, really?” JJ turned a deep, bright shade of crimson, stumbling backward toward the boys' bench as his teammates let out a chorus of loud, howling jeers.
“Unfortunately, JJ, the correct answer was Y/N.” Ariana informed as you stood proudly, a smirk on your face.
“Seriously?” All of the guys asked in unison, except Rafe who stood with a smirk, ducking his head to try and hide it. “I did not expect that.” JJ said.
All you could do was laugh, not offering any further elaboration.
The game continued, mostly lighthearted, temporarily lifting the tension in the villa. Most of the questions were funny, though some were a bit messy. Topper had been pied the most, his frustration clearly growing by the minute. By the near end of the game, everyone had been pied at least once, and you and the girls were in the lead.
"Alright, we are down to our last question. The girls are currently leading, and if they get this right, they win.” Ariana locked her sights on you, calling you up. You stepped forward, wiping a stray drop of cream from your arm.
Ariana looked up from her tablet, a suggestive spark in her eyes. "For the final point and the power at the recoupling—Which of the boys confessed that his absolute wildest night involved a blindfold, a jar of warm honey, and a completely private cliffside cabana in Ibiza?"
The crowd erupted into a chaotic mix of wild whistles, catcalls, and loud cheers.
You felt a slow, sultry smirk pull at the corner of your lips, looking at Rafe standing at the end of the line, his chest bare, his eyes locked onto yours, you knew exactly what you had to do, whether it was the right answer or not.
Though, something told you that it was. John B was too boyish, JJ maybe, Pope never, and Topper was too vanilla.
Either way, this quickly became your opportunity to make a stand.
You walked over to the table, deliberately selecting the most overflowing pie of whipped cream available.
You walked slowly down the boys' line, past Topper, who was still scraping cream from his ears. You walked past JJ, who was watching you with wide, excited eyes. Past John B and Pope to stop directly in front of Rafe.
He didn't move an inch. He stood tall, his eyes burning into yours with an unreadable, yet hungry, look.
You stepped so close your chests were almost touching.
Slowly, deliberately, you raised the pie. But instead of slamming it into his face like the others, you pressed the whipped cream onto his cheeks with an agonizingly slow, teasing pressure. You smeared the thick, sweet white foam across his high cheekbones, down his strong jawline, and across his chin, leaving his sculpted, slightly parted lips exposed but framed in white cream.
Rafe’s breath hitched as he let out a low laugh, his hands clasped behind his back with his eyes never leaving yours, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around your waist and lift you off your feet right then and there.
You slowly lowered the empty aluminum tin, letting it fall by your side.
A chorus of whistles and ‘ooh’s’ sounded all around as you raised your hand, and with a slow, sultry motion, you extended your index finger, dragged the pad of your finger directly across Rafe's lower lip, swiping away a thick, dollop of the sweet cream.
You held his burning gaze, sliding your whipped-cream-covered finger into your mouth. You wrapped your lips around it, sucking the sweet cream off, your eyes never unlocking from his.
You pulled your finger out with a soft, quiet sound as you shifted your weight. You let a teasing smirk grace your face, leaning in just close enough to whisper, "Ibiza, huh?” You teased. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”
And with that, you walked back to the girls' line with a confident sway of your hips, throwing a lazy smile over your shoulder.
JJ let out a wild, high-pitched howl, throwing his hands in the air as he and everyone else had a time. "Oh my god! On national television, dude, she ruined him! Look at him! I have never seen this guy speechless."
John B was laughing in absolute disbelief. Even Cleo and Sarah were screaming, jumping up and down in pure excitement. Rima stood on the sidelines, her jaw slightly slack, her eyes wide.
Rafe was left standing entirely frozen on his mark. His chest was heaving, his face covered in white cream, his eyes dilated with a wild adoration. He looked completely and utterly ruined, his mind fried.
Ariana tapped her tablet, a massive, thrilled grin on her face. "Well... I think that speaks for itself,” She smiles. “The girls win the challenge, and they win the power of choice at the next recoupling ceremony!"
THE moment the challenge ends, you all disperse, some people going to shower and others simply jumping into the pool to wash the stickiness from their skin.
Topper, thoroughly humiliated and furious from being targeted repeatedly, spends ten minutes aggressively scrubbing his face with a towel near the sun loungers.
As Sarah walks past him toward the villa to shower, Topper side steps into her path, his face twisted into an aggressive scowl.
"Hey, what the hell was that?" Topper snaps, his voice loud enough to draw attention from islanders nearby.
Sarah’s face twist in confusion, reeling her neck back. “What—”
"You completely targeted me out there! I get I hurt your feelings or whatever but you’re making me the butt of every joke—"
Sarah stops dead in her tracks and steps right into his space.
"You are a joke, Topper.” She quips. “Get over yourself. It’s a game. You spend half your time trying to play the victim, acting like everyone is mean to you, when you did it to yourself. I don’t care about you and what you did to me anymore, alright? So, please, get it through your, apparently, extremely thick skull, and stop talking to me."
Topper stands frozen, his face turning an even brighter shade of red as an awkward silence drops over the yard. John B, who’d randomly appeared, steps up behind Sarah, but Sarah doesn't even need him. She turns on her heel and marches away.
Topper scoffs, storming away right after.
Rima walks onto the scene a minute later, holding her water bottle. She looks at Sarah’s retreating figure as you and Cleo, who were standing in the yard, turn to her. "Oh, I love a woman who knows how to put a man in his place.” She applauds, stopping in front of the two of you. “What’s the story with those two? I know I’m supposed to know these things but," She shrugs. “Seriously. Is he actually that big of an asshole or is Sarah just dramatic?”
You and Cleo both let out a long breaths, walking over to the daybeds and relaxing into the cushions as you and Cleo sit on either side of Rima. For the next twenty minutes, you give her the full scoop on everything that happened before her arrival.
Rima listens, nodding slowly, a look of pure disgust crossing her sharp features. "Mm-mm. No ma'am.” She shakes her head in disapproval. “That is exactly the kind of behavior I cannot stand. Thanks for the warning. He is officially crossed off my roster."
With the lore fully updated, Rima stands up. "Well, the sun is still up, ladies. And since we have the power for the next recoupling, I need to go make my moves." And she exits the lounge, heading out to the yard to begin her targeted grafting.
You and Cleo watch her go, effortlessly approaching the guys that remain outside.
“...I think we just fucked ourselves.”
“Definitely.”
FROM the wide glass windows of the kitchen , you and Cleo have been gossiping, eating, and watching as Rima moves through the backyard.
She charts a path straight to the daybeds where Pope is sitting alone. She slides onto the cushions beside him, her body language open and charming. Within seconds, you can see Pope gesturing animatedly, a wide, flustered grin on his face as she leans in close, laughing at something he said.
“Y’know,” You started through a mouthful. “Stop me if I strike a nerve, but, I thought you and Pope were cute.” you shrugged.
Cleo makes a face. “Really?”
You nod, still chewing. “Hell, yeah.” You emphasize. “I still think you guys would be a great match. But I understand that he…y’know, fucked up beyond repair.”
“Well, beyond repair is a stretch…” Cleo mutters under her breath, playing with her salad as you pause and look at her.
“...What does that mean?”
She drops her fork, sighing. “I don’t know,” she groans. “I want to be done with him, y’know? I want a sexy bombshell to come in here and sweep me off my feet but it’s like he’s stuck in my head. I try to be normal about it, I even forgave him at that party but, I can’t get him off my mind.”
You let out an ‘aww’ and Cleo waves you off, sucking her teeth. “No. Not ‘aww’,” She mocked. “That boy doesn’t know what he wants. I can’t be the one to figure it out for him…”
And to make matters worse, across the lawn, Kiara is now sitting by the pool, watching Pope and Rima with an expression you can’t place. Her jaw is clenched so tightly the muscles are pulsing, her foot tapping aggressively against the concrete.
“And that, too,” Cleo spots the girl, rolling her eyes. “Maybe that’s why they’re such a good match. She doesn’t know what she wants either. I mean, she makes a big deal about getting with Pope but then I catch her mugging me and JJ across every room. Like is she stuck between them or does she just secretly hate me?” She scoffs, taking a bite of her salad.
“Well, I’m sure Kie doesn’t hate you,” You offer. “But, you’re right. I’d be pissed, too. I don’t know, I’m not really on the best terms with her right now, either.”
Cleo quirks an eyebrow, urging you to continue.
“Ever since the Rafe thing, she’s just been too…opinionated, I guess. I’m not saying him talking to me like that was okay, at all. But, I mean, we’re all adults and it’s my ‘relationship’, right? He apologized, profusely, for it, and it was one time on a bad day.” You told her. “He did an immature thing and made up for it maturely. But it’s like anytime he’s around or brought up now, she just gets quiet and starts shooting me looks…like I’m stupid or something.”
Cleo nods, swallowing before speaking. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” She agrees, taking a sip of her drink. “Look, I didn’t agree with what Rafe did, either. But, like you said, he apologized and made it up to you and that’s all he can do. And plus, I don’t think he’s an inherently bad guy for losing his temper. We all do.” She shrugged. “Yeah, with him it was definitely a bit scary, but, he’s human, man. I’m keeping my eye on him for you, for sure. But I think he just had a really low moment.” She advises, and you take her words to heart, nodding. “...Are you ever going to tell me what that was about, anyway?”
You immediately wince, your face twisting. “I can’t.” You sigh. “It’s Rafe’s business and just kind of really personal. I just want to have respect for him and his personal life and who he chooses to share it with, the same way he has respect for mine.”
Cleo nods, shrugging. “I’m sure he appreciates you for that.” She smiles, and you both turn back to watching outside, catching it as Rima stands up, leaving Pope and cornering JJ near the outdoor bar. She leans against the counter, flashing him that dazzling smile. JJ lights up, his eyes lighting up as he begins to perform, showing off a few bar tricks with a cocktail shaker. Cleo watches, a small scowl touching her brow.
Despite saying it’s platonic, seeing another woman command your partner's attention always stirs a faint, natural trace of jealousy in the gut. She wouldn’t even call it that, more so the fear of being sent home because of it.
The pair continue to chat for a long moment, JJ giving Rima a good laugh. And when they split, Rima turns her gaze toward the terrace, where Rafe is sitting, sunbathing, completely isolated from the rest of the house. Rima walks up the stairs, stopping directly in front of him.
Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you watch as Rafe looks up, his expression remaining unphased from where you stood. Rima sits down on the opposite end of the bench, talking with her hands, confident smile never leaving her face. Rafe listens, head shaking slowly in response to her questions.
“How are you feelin’ about that?” Cleo asks, nervous.
You shrug uncertainly, pushing your food around. “I trust Rafe.” you say confidently. “I do, but…it’s hard to shake a bad feeling, y’know. She is the epitome of a bombshell.” You groan. “Gorgeous, confident, and going after exactly what she wants.”
Cleo laughs lightly. “How do you think we felt when you came in, girl?”
You laugh, ducking your head. “All I’m saying is…I can only hope that, at the end of the day, what she really wants…isn’t him. And, vice versa, I guess.”
After a few minutes, you watch as Rafe suddenly stands up, cutting the conversation short with a polite nod, and walks away, leaving Rima sitting on the bench with a slightly amused, yet confused, expression.
Rafe marches straight into the house, his eyes scanning the room until he spots you sitting by the window. He walks over, says hello to Cleo, grabs you gently by the wrist, and jerks his chin toward the quiet, secluded hallway near the confessional room. "Come with me for sec?" he murmurs.
You follow him into the quiet corner as he drags you along, shooting Cleo a confused look over your shoulder. Rafe turns around once it’s just the two of you, his face serious.
“Rafe?” You start, trying to catch his eye. “You okay?”
"Yeah, it’s just, she just tried to pull her shit on me," He says, his voice a low. "Asking me what I’m looking for, telling me she thinks I’m the most attractive guy in the house..."
"Okay…what did you say?" you ask softly.
"I told her exactly what I told you," Rafe says like the answer was obvious. "I told her I’m not interested, that I’m with you. She laughed and said she likes a ‘stubborn man’." He lets out an exasperated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck before looking down into your eyes. “Look, I don't want to deal with this. I don't want her pulling me, and I don't want you feeling insecure about where we stand.” He admits, swallowing harshly. “... Do you want to close things off between us?"
The proposal catches you completely off guard. Your breath catches in your throat, your mind spinning as you look up at his face.
But it’s like logic hits you suddenly. You look down at his chest, a hesitant, slightly guilty feeling twisting in your gut. "Rafe... I... I think it’s a little too early for that," you say softly. "We’ve only been here for ten days. The first recoupling was literally two nights ago. I really, really like you, and I am completely focused on you... but closing things off this early feels like we're rushing into something huge on a reality show where we don’t know what's coming next. I just want to make sure we're taking our time and doing this right."
The moment the words leave your mouth, you watch as Rafe’s expression completely falls.
The hopeful spark in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a sudden look of rejection. His jaw tightens, his shoulders locking up as he stares down at you. He completely understands your logic—it is entirely reasonable—but to a guy like Rafe, who’s used to living fast and getting what he wants when he wants it, your words punch him in the gut.
"Right," Rafe says, his voice suddenly dropping into something flat, clipped. "Yeah. Sure. I get it. Too early."
"Rafe, please don't take it like that," you plead, reaching out to touch his arm as you look up at him with pity. "I’m really into you. I just—"
"No, it’s fine. Really," he interrupts quickly, pulling his arm back slightly, that same wall instantly snapping right back into place. "You’re right. We should keep our options open.” He nods, turning away. “I’m gonna go get a workout in."
Without giving you a chance to repair the damage, he turns on his heel and walks away toward the outdoor gym.
With a heavy, miserable sigh, you rub your temples and slowly trace your steps back to the kitchen.
Cleo is still sitting at the island, a half-empty water bottle in her hand. Her eyes instantly lock onto your face the second you step back through the threshold. She takes one look at your slumped shoulders and your stressed expression, and she immediately sets her bottle down on the table.
"Oh, no," Cleo says, her voice dropping into a concerned tone. "Why do you look like that?"
You slide onto the barstool next to her, wrapping your arms around yourself. You let out a long, shaky breath, staring blankly at the floor. "He... he asked me to close things off."
Cleo’s jaw physically drops. "Are you serious? Already?"
You nod. "He said he didn't want to deal with Rima, or anyone, pulling him anymore, and he didn't want me to feel insecure about where we stood. He wanted to make it official right then and there. I mean, I think he was basically asking me to be his girlfriend?"
Cleo leans in closer, studying your face with an analytical gaze. "Okay... and by the look on your face, I’m guessing you didn't give him the answer he was hoping for?"
"I told him it was too early," you admit, turning your head to look at her, searching for some kind of validation. "That we’ve only been here for ten days. I really, really like him, Cleo, and I haven't even looked at another guy in this villa since we got paired up. But closing things off officially right now... it just feels like we're rushing into something. There’s still so much time left to go in here, and we have no idea what other twists or people are coming next. I just want to make sure we're taking our time and that he is actually, truly the right one before I lock things down with him."
You take a deep breath, your fingers tightening around your arms. "Is that... is that really so bad? Am I crazy for wanting to be logical about this? I feel like I rushed into so many decisions in my life and they turned out to be wrong, I'm just…I’m hoping if I take my time with him, it’ll be right this time."
Cleo stares at you for a long beat, her face softening. She reaches over, placing her hand gently on your knee, squeezing it supportively.
"You're not crazy for thinking that," Cleo says firmly, her voice grounded. "In fact, you are probably the one of the most sensible, mature people in this entire house right now. You’re protecting your peace, and you're protecting your heart. It is entirely reasonable to want to take your time and be absolutely sure about someone before you throw away your options."
"Then why do I feel so guilty?" you groan, burying your face in your hands.
Cleo lets out a soft, knowing sigh. "Because you care about him. And because you know exactly how a guy like Rafe is going to take a rejection like that."
You look up, watching her. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it," Cleo explains, waving her hand in a slow, analytical gesture. "Rafe is clearly an…intense guy. He’s probably used to living life in the fast lane, making stupid impulse decisions... To a guy like him, when he finally decides to lay his cards on the table and offer you himself... he thinks he’s doing this huge, romantic gesture."
She tilts her head, her brown eyes filled with a sympathetic pity. "But when you looked at him and said no, his brain didn't hear reason, sweetheart. His brain heard rejection, and his way of coping is to pull right back, slap that wall back up, and act like he doesn't care so he doesn't have to feel vulnerable."
The truth of her words hits you. You think back to the empty look in Rafe's eyes right before he turned away. He had looked so incredibly small for a fraction of a second, so deeply hurt, before his anger quickly slid back over his features.
"So, what do I do?" you ask desperately, your voice cracking slightly. "I don't want him to think I don't care about him. I just want us to build a real foundation instead of rushing into a label."
"Right now? You let him simmer," Cleo says honestly, giving your knee another supportive pat, shrugging. "If you go out there and try to force him to talk, he won’t listen. Let him work out his frustration. Let him cool down. You can talk to him later, maybe tonight when there aren’t so many prying eyes and open ears. But for now... just breathe, okay?"
AS the evening begins to paint the sky in deep shades of purple and gold, the villa winds down.
Near the outdoor lounge, John B and Sarah are sitting close together, wrapped in a blanket, completely detached from everyone else. They’re whispering softly, laughing at jokes, wrapped in their own bubble.
By the outdoor kitchen, however, the house is complicated.
JJ is sitting on a barstool, talking with Rima. The chemistry between them is clear—JJ is visibly feeling her, his usual goofy mood shifting into a slightly more focused, genuinely charmed flirtation.
Right across the yard, Pope is sitting on the edge of the stone steps, his hands tightly clasped together. His eyes are tracking Rima, but every few seconds, his gaze drifts back toward the house where Cleo is standing. The conflict is clear on his face—he’s undeniably attracted to Rima’s presence, but the lingering feelings of his connection with Cleo continue to weigh heavily on his mind.
Kiara walks out onto the deck, spotting Pope sitting alone…and where his sights are fixed. She lets out a slow breath, her shoulders dropping as she resolves to finally address the elephant in the room. She walks over, sliding down onto the step right next to him.
The silence between them lasts for a long, heavy minute before Pope finally speaks, his voice cracking slightly in the quiet evening air.
"Kie," Pope says softly, not looking her in the eye. "We should probably talk."
Kiara swallows hard, staring straight ahead at the pool. "Yeah. We should."
Pope lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging. "I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today. Especially after everything with Rima. And... I need to be completely real with you.” He starts, body tensing. “I chose you at the recoupling because I wanted to see if what we had before was real. But walking around this place the last two days... my mind keeps going back to Cleo.” He admits painfully. “Every single time I see her laugh, every time she walks into a room... it’s her, Kie. I can’t help it.” He tells her, wide-eyed. “It’s not fair to keep dragging you along and acting like everything is fine when my head is somewhere else."
He stops, waiting for the outburst, his posture braced for her anger.
But it never comes.
Kiara sits perfectly still for a long minute. Then, a breath escapes her lips. She turns her head, looking at Pope with a soft smile.
"I’m not mad, Pope," Kiara says, her voice steady. "Honestly... thank you for saying that. Because the truth is... I think I have some unfinished business with someone else, too. I’ve been sitting in my feelings all day because I felt guilty about it, but... we made a mistake, Pope.’ She breathes. “We’re great friends, but we don't work as a couple. I’m not upset at all.” She smiles genuinely. “ And I genuinely wish you the absolute best with Cleo."
Pope blinks, an overwhelming look of relief washing over his features. "Really? You're not mad?"
"Not at all," Kiara smiles warmly, reaching over to give his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "We’re good, Pope. Always."
With the air finally cleared, you all begin to settle down for the night.
The villa slowly transitions into nighttime, the outdoor lights dipping into a soft glow. When you finally walk into the bedroom after prepping for bed, you find Rafe already under the covers. He’s lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling, his expression heavy..
You slide into the bed beside him, your heart aching slightly at the subtle distance between you. You reach out, sliding your arm over his waist and pressing your chest firmly against his side, burying your face into his chest.
Rafe tenses for a fraction of a second, but as you squeeze him tightly, letting out a soft, tired sigh against his skin, he lets out a breath, his large hand coming down to wrap securely around you, locking you against his body.
The silence in the dark bedroom stretches for a moment, the only sound is the muffled sound of the ocean waves crashing against the cliffs outside, and the soft hum of the villa's air conditioning.
Rafe slowly rolls over inside your embrace to face you.
You shift back slightly to give him room, but his hand immediately shoots out of the covers, his warm palm settling gently on your hip to keep you close. The dark room is only partially illuminated by the faint, blue glow of the outdoor pool lights filtering through the windows.
Rafe looks down at you in the dark, his eyes incredibly soft. He reaches up with his other hand, his thumb gently caressing the curve of your cheek, his touch light.
"Hey," Rafe whispers, his voice a low. "You awake?"
"Yeah," you murmur softly, looking up into his eyes.
Rafe lets out a quiet sigh, his head sinking slightly back into his pillow as he continues to stare at you, his jaw working as he struggles to find the right words.
"I’m not…mad at you," Rafe confesses quietly, his eyes locked onto yours. "I promise, I'm not mad. I was just... hurt.” He breathes, like the words hurt him to say. “When you said it was too early, my brain just went to rejection."
He pauses, his fingers lightly tracing the soft skin of your jawline. He looks away for a fraction of a second, staring at the dark ceiling as if admitting his next words takes every ounce of courage he has.
"Good things in my life don't usually last," he says, his voice strained. "Whenever something actually goes right for me, or whenever I find something that genuinely makes me happy... it always gets ripped away. Someone leaves, or I screw it up, or the universe just finds a way to completely ruin it. I'm used to waiting for the other shoe to drop."
He looks back down at you.
"But with you? From the second we paired up, I felt like I could actually breathe for once. And then yesterday with the whole party, and today when Rima came in and started poking around, talking about me like I was some kind of project... I hated it. I felt this desperate need to just lock you down, to put a lock on the door so nobody could even attempt to take us away from me. I just…wanted to protect us."
A soft, understanding smile touches your lips. You reach up, your hand settling over his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath his warm skin. "Rafe..."
"No, let me finish," he interrupts gently, sliding his fingers down to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "I thought about what you said. All afternoon, while I was working out, I was just spinning it in my head. And I understand why you said no. I really do.” He nodded. “We've only been here for ten days. And it’s a crazy reality show, and we have no idea what kind of shit they're going to throw at us next."
He leans in closer, his forehead gently resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
"I just need you to know... I've never felt like this about anyone in my entire life. I am so sure about us. I know that what we have is real, and I hope it's going to last way past this, past the cameras, and past whatever games this show tries to play with us. So..." He lets out a soft breath. "However you want to go forward... that's what we're going to do. Whatever pace you set, whatever boundaries, I'm on your timeline. ‘Cause I'm not goin’ anywhere."
"Thank you, Rafe," you whisper, your fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "I’m really glad you understand where I was coming from. I really, really like you too. I just…want to make sure we do this right."
"We will," Rafe promises softly.
He leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a reassuring kiss. It’s soft, gentle.
When he finally pulls back, he flips you over, wraps his strong arms securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, tucking his chin into the crook of your neck, fingers locking tightly with yours over your stomach, holding you as if you are the most precious thing in the world.
summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
wc: 3.1k
warnings: 18+ , angst, mild violence
a/n: brace yourselves lol a lot going on in this one. let me know what you think as always!
banner by @/uzmacchiato
<Part 8
Rafe never came back on the ice. You spent the rest of the game in a daze, only thinking about getting back to him as soon as the clock ran out. Hands fidgeting, legs shaking, Meghan’s voice a million miles away. You daydreamed about running to the tunnel afterwards, pushing past the fangirls and friends, and throwing your arms around Rafe as soon as you saw him. But reality never matched that.
Meghan stood by your side as you both waited for your players, and you were still trying to reign your emotions in. The image of his helmet hitting the ice, of him not moving, kept replaying in your mind. As soon as players started shuffling out, heads low from the loss you didn’t even register, your eyes scan for Rafe.
“I’m sure he’s fine, babe,” A girl says next to you, her hazel eyes searching yours, her smile soft. Once your focus breaks, you process her words.
“Yeah,” You reply, unable to think of anything else.
“He’s a strong guy, and he skated off on his own.” Another girl says positively, nodding.
“Right.” You nod with her, trying to convince your mind to agree with them.
Somebody calls your name, and your head whips sharply. Red hair. Blue eyes looking at you with a mixture of confusion and what looks like pity.
“He left already. His sister took him home.” Holiday says, stopping beside you.
“Oh, okay.” You breathe a sigh of relief, feeling like if he was sent home, then it wasn’t too bad.
“He’s fine.” He assures, voice firm. “We’re all tougher than we look.”
The walk to your apartment feels like forever as your finger hovers over the call button on your phone. You want to call him, to hear his voice, but you don’t know if your own voice will betray your emotions. If you seemed this emotional from one hockey injury, that could freak him out and send him running.
“Hey, partner,” Rafe’s voice as you turn the corner in the dorm hallway startles you into dropping your phone. You think you might be hallucinating, but as your phone clatters to the floor, you look up to see Rafe sitting in front of your room door.
“Jesus,” You stammer, grabbing your phone and checking for cracks in the screen. Thankfully, it’s fine. And Rafe looks fine. And real. Smiling at you like he didn’t just get pummeled. “What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you come with me to the bars, like you promised.” He says it so casually that you immediately stiffen.
“Rafe, seriously?” There’s an edge to your voice and you try to soften it. “You just got punched into the ice. Taken out of the game. They didn’t even let you go back in.” His eyes widen just for a second before narrowing, shrugging.
“All precautionary,” He insists. “They cleared me. I’m good.”
You scoff, nudging him aside so you can unlock your door. Thankfully, Katy was out of town visiting her family so she didn’t have to deal with you arguing with this idiot.
“Inside.” You demand, and he reluctantly follows. Taking a seat on the edge of your bed, you watch as he leans against your desk, eyeing you warily. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to go out and drink after something like that?”
“I won’t drink,” He promises, trying to force that cocky grin back. “And you can keep an eye on me.”
“Sounds fun.” Sarcasm drips from your voice.
“Listen, I’m fine. Everyone said I’m fine. I don’t get why you’re freaking the fuck out-”
“I saw your head hit the ice!” You interrupt, voice loud but shaking. Tears sting your eyes again, and you look away and try to force them to stop.
“That’s what the helmet is for.” He says, and your emotions simmer faster.
“You didn’t move, Rafe. You weren’t moving. Even if it was just for half a second, I don’t care what you say. That was terrifying.”
Rafe finally shuts his mouth, looking away from you now. The silence feels charged, thanks to your emotions boiling over.
“Hockey’s hockey,” He starts, voice measured. “We know what we signed up for. This shit happens.”
“I understand that,” You take a deep breath. “But I’m allowed to be scared for you. I’m allowed to give a damn about you.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t-”
“You’re acting like it!” You shoot back, eyes boring into his. “Fuck, Rafe. Just imagine, just for one second, if someone hurt me. Just try. What if they hurt me on purpose, and I wasn’t moving? How the fuck would you feel?” A tear falls down your cheek, and you wipe it away swiftly. He goes quiet again, eyes darkening, jaw clenching. He’s gripping your desk so hard his knuckles are white.
“I get it.” Rafe forces the words out. “Shit, I’m sorry. I just-” He stops himself again, releasing your desk and cracking his knuckles. “I’m not used to, um, people giving a shit, I guess.” The words tug on your heart a little bit.
“Well, I do. So, get used to it.” Your lips curve up despite how hard you try to keep your expression firm. He smirks.
“That’s a little terrifying.” His voice is mischievous, but there’s a little truth in it.
“Oh, fuck off. What’s terrifying is the bruise forming on the side of your head.” You point, and he turns to the mirror hanging by your desk, touching the spot softly.
“Huh.” He shrugs. “Not bad. You should see my torso. Banged me up pretty good.”
“I think I’m okay.” You swear, voice tight.
“Since when do you not want to see me shirtless?” He turns back to you, finally getting you to laugh a little.
“Whatever,” You wave him off. “Also, your sister clearly cares about you. Does she know you’re here and trying to go to bars?”
“No. And trust me, her giving a shit is new.” Rafe tries to keep his tone light but you can hear the edge in it. You don’t want to push him, especially after the night he’s had.
“If you wanna go out with the team, we can go. But no drinking.” You tell him sternly.
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes you, leading the way eagerly. He takes you to a bar a couple blocks from his house, but thanks to it being Friday night after a rivalry hocky game, there’s already a long line to get in when you meet up with the team.
“Glad you made it!” Meghan hugs you as you all take your place in line. There’s Miguel, Holiday, and a handful of other boys you don’t recognize. Rafe introduces them to you, but the only name that sticks is Bobby Flynn. The boy Meghan had mentioned. He was huge, clearly a defenseman, with blonde hair cut short and brown eyes and freckled skin. His smile was much more friendly than everyone else’s.
“My dad’s calling,” Rafe announces with a sign as he pulls out his phone. “Sarah probably overexaggerated everything and made him think I’m in the fuckin’ hospital. I’ll be right back.” He walks off a bit to take the call, leaving you with Meghan and the team.
“Good to meet you finally. I think having you here will calm Cameron down a bit.” Bobby says to you as the team chuckles.
“Was he really that bad?” You wince.
“Oh, you have no idea how many times we had to talk him out of all the drunk ‘I miss you’ texts he wanted to send.”
“Seriously?” All the blood rushes to your cheeks, and you look away from the boys at Rafe, who is pacing while on the phone.
“Dead serious.” Bobby replies.
“That doesn’t sound like Rafe.” You shake your head, trying to imagine it.
“Well, maybe he wouldn’t have said ‘I miss you’. But he wanted to text you. All the time.”
“We all saw it.” Another boy says. A flash of baby blue takes your focus back up front in time to see a group of UNC boys ditching your group. You stiffen as the Duke boys around you curse under their breath, but they don’t move. Probably in enough trouble with their coach after the chaos of the game earlier.
“Great,” Meghan mutters. “Now I’ll have to wait even longer to finally pee.” Somehow, that was enough for you to do something. Maybe it was the hockey team behind you. Or the anger from watching Rafe get hurt. But something was building, and you weren’t afraid to be confrontational. You tapped the closest UNC boy on the back and waited for him to turn around.
“Excuse me,” You cross your arms, looking up into his dark brown eyes. “There’s a line, if you didn’t notice. You and your little friends should wait like everyone else.” The boy just laughs at you, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah? Whose puck bunny are you, huh? Holiday’s?” He sneers down at you, his friends turning to the commotion.
“She’s no one’s.” Holiday cuts in, voice laced with annoyance.
“Then what’s your deal? All sad your school lost tonight?” He mockingly pouts, and that makes your body tighten.
“Duke could’ve won if your team didn’t play so dirty. Y’all were so threatened you had to try to actually hurt us to win.” You retort, hearing the boys chuckle behind you.
“Oh, so you’re Cameron’s girl?” The boy’s grinning now, his friends egging him on. “Sorry your pussy of a boyfriend got a few more screws knocked loose in that fucked up brain of his.” Meghan gasps. Holiday steps up beside you. But you can barely hear anyone else, your heart lurching as your vision turns red.
“Shitty team, shitty fans. Of course, you have to ditch like a fucking child to make yourselves feel good. Pieces of shit.” You hiss.
“No need to be such a bitch.” The boy scoffs, ready to turn and ignore you.
“The fuck did you call her?” You hear Rafe’s voice before you see him. The UNC boy goes pale, looking behind you.
“Nothing.” He mutters as Rafe steps in front of you, solid but simmering with anger.
“Nah, say that shit again.” Rafe snaps, and the UNC boys practically cower.
“We were just going to the back of the line.” One of the other boys insists, and they sulk away like the past five minutes never happened.
“Cameron saved the day.” Miguel tries to soften Rafe, patting him on the shoulder.
“Only because they were scared shitless.” Bobby chuckles, shaking his head.
“What’d they say to you?” Rafe turns to you, still laser focused, still tense.
“Don’t worry about her, Cameron. She handled her own.” Holiday says, surprising you with the compliment.
“And we wouldn’t let anything happen to her.” Miguel promises.
“Looked like they weren’t doing jack-shit.” Rafe murmurs, leaning toward you so only you can hear.
“Like they said, I can handle myself.” You shrug, glad that he seems to be slowly relaxing.
“Did they say some shit about me? Is that why you were so mad?” He smirks, seemingly amused at the thought. You flush, clearing your throat.
“He just made it seem like he was glad you got punched. Called you a pussy.” You say evenly, watching his expression.
“Well, I am what I eat.” He winks, exaggeratedly licking his lips.
“Ew, nasty.” You chuckle, shoving him away.
“You like it.” He grins, and you’re relieved to see his smile. Even if it was brief. He definitely didn’t need to be getting in trouble for you.
“Hey, with all the free stuff you get, how come you can’t let us cut the line?” You change the subject, tapping your foot with fake impatience. He shakes his head.
“Best I can do is getting your 20-year-old friend in without a fake.”
“Aw, bars don’t care about hockey players?” You pout.
“Not enough.” He places a hand on the small of your back while you wait in line, like he’d lose you if he didn’t. His jaw was still ticking, a little too quiet. The moment you all got into the crowded bar, you asked the team for shots to help loosen you up. Bobby gets everyone a lemon drop, and you watch Rafe skip like he promised while taking your own. Without him able to drink, you didn’t know if he’d let himself relax. You order a drink for you and Meghan quickly, while you’re still at the counter.
It doesn’t take long for a group of girls to come up to the team. One of them, a girl with dark auburn hair, beelines for Rafe and tries to chat with him. But it’s like he doesn’t even hear her. His eyes dart around the bar, as if he’s expecting the UNC boys to show up again and cause trouble. As soon as the girl moves on, you pull Rafe to the side.
“Your head bothering you?” You ask.
“What? No.” He narrows his eyes.
“Then relax, please. Have fun with your team.”
“I am having fun.” His voice is not at all convincing.
“You just ignored a girl that tried to talk to you.” You point out, nodding at the girl who’s still sneaking glances at Rafe while she orders a drink at the bar.
“I did?” His brow furrows, meeting her eyes. “Damn. I got you, at least.”
“Rafe,” You give him a knowing look. “Don’t change anything because I’m here. Stop worrying about me. Go have fun, please.”
“What, you want me to go talk to another girl?” He smirks at you, straightening up.
“It’s not like it’s illegal.” You shrug, pushing him in her direction. That was the whole point of being casual. Either of you could do what you wanted. Those were his terms.
“Fine. If that’s what you want.” He walks away slowly.
“Do what you want, that’s the whole point!” You call after him, doubtful if he heard you over the crowd and the loud rock music playing. Meghan sees a chance to drag you with her to an open high-top table, taking a seat with you.
“Getting them to give you space during a night out feels impossible sometimes.” She commiserates, giving Miguel a flirty wave. “Although, I don’t know how you can stand watching him talk to other girls like that. Much less encourage him to do that.”
“We’re not dating.” You shrug.
“Which I understand,” Meghan assures you. “I just don’t think I could handle seeing that.” Truthfully, you hadn’t been watching Rafe since he left. You might’ve actually been avoiding looking at him. You sneak a glance, just in time to see the girl put her hand on his arm. It’s enough to make you feel very warm, your stomach twisting as you look away.
“I feel like jealousy is a little normal,” You try to justify it. “Or maybe I’m just not used to the whole casual thing.”
“Better at it than me, that’s for sure.” Meghan widens her green eyes.
“Ladies,” A slightly familiar voice interrupts you both, and you turn to see a slightly familiar face.
“Joker! From the Halloween party.” You say as recognition hits, and he laughs.
“Mike, actually.” He corrects lightheartedly. “Can I get you both another drink? Vodka cran?” He guesses.
“Yeah, thank you!” You smile at him, and he smiles back as he heads to the bar. Meghan gives you a sly smile as you giggle in return. Mike was definitely cute, even if you couldn’t really remember his name. And perfectly fine to talk to when things were casual.
But Mike is only just walking back with your drinks when you see Rafe. His eyes are ice, jaw tense from before, locked on the frat boy. At first, you feel anger itching under your skin. There wasn’t anything wrong with you talking to another guy. Having a guy buy you a drink.
And then, you’re startled. Rafe grabs Mike’s shirt and shoves him against the brick wall of the bar, drinks sloshing. You call out his name, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. The hockey team moves toward Rafe faster than you can even leave your seat.
“The fuck did you put in there, huh?” Rafe’s voice carries over the crowd, causing a few people to turn. “I saw you! You slipped shit in their drinks. Admit it.”
You freeze at his words, your body feeling numb and too warm all at the same time. Just like at the arena, you grab Meghan’s arm as if it would steady you. The hockey boys move for you both, Holiday stepping beside Rafe while the others stand to block Mike from both of you. Mike’s still protesting, struggling against Rafe, voice shaky and stuttering.
“Thompson, get the bouncer.” Holiday orders, and one of the boys takes off toward the front. “Okay, frat boy. You know this place has security cameras. You gonna fess up, or what?”
“Okay, okay, shit, I did it!” Mike whimpers.
“Did what, bitch? Say it.” Rafe hisses, somehow pressing him further into the wall.
“I drugged their drinks, okay? I did it.” Mike admits more firmly. A gasp slips past your lips, Meghan gripping you back enough to sting. But you barely feel it. True terror surges through you, because you would have taken the drink without thinking. Mike probably thought it was just you and Meghan, and that he could get one of you home. The thought made you nauseous.
“Alright, Rafe. Let him go. We got the confession.” Holiday says calmly, holding up his phone. He places his other hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Bouncer’s here.” Only when a burly man steps into view does Rafe let go, seeming to snap out of his rage.
“Where are the girls? Where is she?” Rafe stammers, eyes searching. Holiday reassures him, but you call out anyway, gently nudging Bobby aside.
“Rafe!” You call again over the noise, and his eyes lock on yours. So many emotions seem to flash through him all at once. Fear, sadness, relief. Both of you push through the crowd, and the second you’re close enough, you launch into his arms. He holds you tight enough you can barely breathe, like he has to remind himself that you’re safe now. Your body gives out against him, tears falling as the adrenaline fades.
“You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay,” He repeats like he wants to convince you and himself. You pull away just enough to look into his eyes again.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” You plead, your skin still crawling with the thought of someone spiking your drink and taking advantage of you. Rafe nods quickly, pulling away just enough to take your hand.
summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
a/n: this one is a little intense but as always hope you like it and let me know what you think!
banner by @/uzmacchiato
<Part 7
It was Rafe who texted you for a ‘study break’ on Thursday. He swore up and down that Holiday would be gone all night, and that was enough to get you dressed and headed to his house. Everything feels familiar now. The walk to his place. How he answers the door and lets you in. His room. The way he kisses you like he’s been waiting too long.
“Needed this,” He says as he kisses down your neck. “Been too fuckin’ stressed.” When he starts to suck, you push him just a little.
“Gentle.” You tell him, and he glances up at you with an exaggerated frown. You roll your eyes dramatically. As much as it felt nice, he didn’t need to leave bites and hickeys all over your neck. “Leave ‘em where no one can see.”
Rafe’s eyes glint at the suggestion. He resumes kissing his way down, stopping on your breasts so that he can mark and nip as he pleases. Your nipples harden as his mouth explores, his hands tugging down your panties.
He palms your cunt, making you arch into him. But just when you think he’s going to rub your clit to orgasm like he’s done every time before, he drags kisses down your body, taking your clit into his mouth. He kisses and sucks in a way that has you writhing, a warm finger circling your soaked entrance before plunging inside.
The moment he curves his finger into the right spot, you can’t help but buck against him. He groans into you like he can’t help himself, the sound and vibration flooding you with heat. You continue to grind, yet as good as his mouth feels, it’s not enough.
Rafe is so experienced it’s like he’s completely intuitive. He seems to know what you might want before you even have the chance to say it. Giving your clit one last kiss, he moves his mouth to your entrance, his other hand finding your clit instead. His warm, wet mouth and the way his fingers always know just the right pressure and speed send you over the edge. You grip his hair, gasping his name as your first orgasm rolls through you.
You would never get used to this feeling. The way your legs shake and your ears ring, your body warm and humming and your mind empty. He could ask you to do anything right now, and you’d do it. But he just kisses your inner thighs and lays beside you in bed, breathing heavily.
“That’s one.” He murmurs.
“What?” Your brain can barely comprehend him, and he chuckles at you.
“I told you on Halloween I’d make you cum over and over.”
“Oh.” Your heartrate picks up again, and it feels like all the blood rushes to your cheeks. Something about a promise like that was more intimidating than your party-drunk brain had realized. And you’d figured he had drunk enough to forget about it. Sure, he’d pulled two orgasms out of you before like it was the easiest thing in the world. But more than that? It would kill you, right?
“We don’t have to do that.” You smile at him, taking a deep breath.
“What if I want to?” His blue eyes refuse to look away from yours.
“Don’t you want to cum?” You try to pivot.
“I mean, that’s easy for me. And I’m used to it. I wanna make you cum. I like it.”
“Well,” You clear your throat, wanting to somehow sink into the mattress. You’d literally never talked about this with a guy before. Never had to. “I like when you finish too, you know.”
“Hm.” He’s grinning at you now. “You don’t have a morning class, do you?”
“No. I have Marketing at 11.”
“Cool. Let me take care of you a bit longer. Then you can worry about me. Deal?”
“I-I guess,” You stammer. “Give me a minute?”
“’Course.” He says as you stare at the ceiling, trying to steady your heart and your mind.
“I’m sorry,” You blurt before you can stop yourself, the words flowing out of you. “I’ve never really done the whole fuck buddy thing. And I haven’t been with a lot of guys. I know I told you that, but sometimes I get nervous about this….stuff. Or I don’t know what to do.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that,” He replies, voice softer. “Are you, um, uncomfortable?”
“No!” You assure him immediately, looking into his eyes again. His face relaxes. “Sometimes I just feel bad at it.”
“Bad at….?”
“All of it,” you sigh. “The last guy….this is embarrassing, but….the last guy I was with said I was a terrible kisser. And way too tense during sex.” The words that have haunted you since last year, swirling in your head every now and then, especially with Rafe. Who is now quiet. Letting the silence linger. Making you regret rambling again.
“I, um….” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you’re bad at any of it. Or too tense. Some guys just say stupid shit.”
“Thanks.” You smile tightly.
“’M serious,” He insists. “I know my opinion isn’t, like, special, but I wouldn’t keep seeing you if I didn’t like it. His opinion ain’t special either. He’s just a dumbass.” You laugh at his words, loosening up a bit.
“So, I’m not a bad kisser, then?” You raise a brow.
“Absolutely fuckin’ not.” Rafe leans in, claiming your lips with his. This kiss is surprisingly gentle and soft, and he pulls away to rest his forehead on yours. “Always say if you wanna stop, we stop. Up to you, babe. All up to you.”
“Ugh, I guess you can give me more orgasms.” You pretend like it’s the biggest inconvenience, rolling on your back and smiling at him.
“Oh, I will. Open your legs.” That glint in his eyes that you’re starting to love is back.
Rafe being Rafe gives you two more orgasms until you tap out, a sweating, panting mess with no voice nor ability to move. You’d wanted to get him off somehow. You really did. But it was like all your energy had been blissfully drained from you. He didn’t mind at all, or so he claimed. But you did. All you can manage is offering him to finish on you, which he is more than happy to take.
As exhausted and sore as you are, watching him come apart builds your heat back up again. You had no idea how he did that. Managed to make everything sexy, make everything feel incredible. His warm release on your chest was the only sign it felt even half as good for him.
Rafe cleaned you both up and settled in beside you once more. Neither of you spoke for a while, the only sound being both of your breathing.
“You gonna dash out on me again?” He murmurs, a smirk tugging on his lips.
“Too tired.” You admit, letting your eyes fall closed.
“Good,” He pulls you into him, wrapping you in his warm arms. “Thought I might have to restrain you.”
“That’s fucked.” You giggle as you yawn, snuggling into his chest.
“Or hot.” He retorts. You don’t have anything witty to say, your exhaustion taking you quickly.
When you wake up, it takes you a moment to register your surroundings. Navy blue bedding. The scent of laundry detergent and citrus cologne. A warm arm draped across your side. When you turn toward it, the arm pulls you closer. Rafe. The memory of the night before comes flooding back.
It was perfect. Basically all about you, and fun, and it made you feel confident and desirable. But that’s where things like this were supposed to end. No breakfast. No morning breath kisses. No dates. You had to keep this as casual as you’d agreed to.
Sliding out of Rafe’s comfortable embrace into the chill of the morning felt like torture, but it had to be done. You quickly throw on your clothes to get some kind of warmth, hearing him stir awake.
“Good luck on your game tonight,” you smile as he slightly forces his eyes open. “I’ll be there.”
“You better.” He grumbles before closing his eyes again, and you sneak out in case Holiday came back at some point and was awake.
The rival game against UNC couldn’t come quickly enough. Class dragged, and you got ready in a hurry, adding some extra makeup and jewelry in case Rafe looked up into the stands again. Meghan met up with you early so you both could be sure you still had close seats.
The arena was the most crowded it had ever been. Students and spectators had come out in droves to support their teams, a blur of Duke royal blue and UNC’s lighter blue. The crowd was louder, the energy much more exciting. And once the game started, it made you nervous.
Both teams start off fast and rough, skates scraping on the ice. The crowd is too loud to hear the players, but you can see them chirping as students pound on the glass. And the first hit is a UNC player slamming Rafe into the side with a bang that you can feel. It makes you wince, your fists clenching.
That moment wakes you up completely, your gaze trained on Rafe whenever he enters the ice. You can see the UNC players chirping before Rafe does, only at him. There’s plenty of checking for a rivalry game. But the bulk of it is directed at one person. A UNC player even gets thrown in the penalty box for checking Rafe after the whistle.
“They’re targeting him.” You say more to yourself than Meghan as you come to the realization.
“Really?” Meghan gasps beside you. “He is our best player, I guess.”
“And our most reactive.” You mutter. “I think they’re trying to bait him. Get him ejected.”
“Jesus. Hopefully Rafe can keep it together.” Meghan starts to twirl her hair nervously.
“Hope so.” You agree, finding yourself tapping the edge of the rink.
Miguel passes to Rafe, who manages to score. The crowd erupts, much louder than any game you’d been to yet. The stands rumble underneath you as you cheer, your nerves momentarily lifted. Until you realize that just set UNC off.
There’s a face off between Rafe and the UNC player from before. Robinson. They’re so close to your seats that you can see their expressions. Rafe still looks confident, riding the high of his goal. But Robinson’s dark eyes are cold. His sneer making you tense. He chirps first, and Rafe falters.
His blue eyes go wide, and then dark. Smirk gone. You worry for a moment that Rafe will snap. Memories of stories and rumors students told about him in the previous years swim in your mind. He’s a loose cannon. A ticking timebomb. A problem. But Rafe doesn’t move. Instead, he talks back.
The arena is too loud to even try to hear what was said. But Robinson’s face goes red. He drops his stick and shoves Rafe. The crowd eats it up, yelling and banging on the glass as Rafe shoves back. You’re yelling at Robinson now, calling him every name in the book as the ref tries to separate the two boys.
But Robinson isn’t done. He pushes past the ref and tackles Rafe to the ground. The other players are getting riled up, but you can’t look away from Rafe. You watch as Robinson swings his fist and punches Rafe’s head into the ice.
Every part of your body freezes as you gasp. The crowd is absolutely losing it but all sound starts to muffle. Your heart drops to your stomach, blood going cold. Without thinking, your hand flies out to Meghan, gripping her arm.
Get up, get up, get up, GET UP, RAFE! You think over and over. Meghan is reassuring you, rubbing your arm, but everything is so far away. In slow motion. You just want Rafe to move. And he’s not moving. You’re pleading now. With him. With the universe. With anything and anyone that will listen. Tears stinging your eyes.
And then Rafe moves. He pushes himself up like nothing had happened, your body bracing for Robinson’s next punch. But the UNC player is restrained by the ref and a member of his team. As Rafe manages to stand, you see the rest of the ice come into focus. Holiday is screaming, held back by his teammates all the same. And for a moment, you understand him. Embodying all the rage you feel toward the person who tried to hurt Rafe on purpose.
Rafe gets surrounded by trainers and escorted off the ice, quickly giving the crowd a thumbs up. Robinson is ejected, but none of that eases the fear in your gut. That was Rafe’s head hitting the ice. Helmeted, sure. Still terrifying to see. He could be concussed. What if he wasn’t okay?
The thought scared you more than you ever thought it would. More than it probably should. Your heart ached, your body rigid. It made you want to run across the ice to him. Follow him into whatever training room and stand by his side. Hold his hand while they checked up on him. Hear every single thing they said. Take care of him.
But you couldn’t do that. You just had to stand there and wait in agony, wondering if this all meant that you cared way more than you should about Rafe Cameron.
if you really take the time to think about it, what would high school ilia be like? he hadn't started dying his hair, he wasn't quite the quadg0d yet...what was he like?
can you write me a fic just about random stuff reader x ilia do in high school? do they study together, do they walk in the halls together, do they go to school with any other team usa skaters, do they stand up for each other when theres someone rude...i'll let you play with it! i would just really like baby ilia, i like seeing that side of him♡
Wrote this from 16/17 year old perspective
The first thing she noticed when she walked into the Malinin house was the sound of yelling from the backyard.
“DUDE, YOU ALMOST BROKE YOUR NECK!”
“I LANDED IT!”
“You literally landed on me!”
She grinned before even seeing them.
Out back, Ilia was standing barefoot in the grass with messy brown hair falling into his eyes, shirt sticking to him from sweat, laughing so hard he was bent over while one of his friends groaned dramatically on the ground.
A skateboard sat abandoned near the patio. Someone had dragged out old gym mats. Another one of his friends was filming with his phone while Ilia immediately tried another backflip like he hadn’t almost died thirty seconds earlier.
“Ilia!” she yelled.
His head snapped toward her so fast she thought he might actually get whiplash.
And then his entire face lit up.
“There’s my girl.”
He jogged over instantly, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing.
“You’re late,” he said, kissing her cheek.
“It’s literally three in the afternoon.”
“Exactly. Tragic.”
His friends made fake gagging noises behind him.
“Bro, she’s been here five seconds.”
“Give it a minute before you start acting disgusting.”
Ilia just smirked and kissed her anyway.
High school with Ilia was chaos in the best way possible.
One day he was at the rink casually landing things people twice his age were struggling with just for fun. No competition. The next day he was bombing hills on a skateboard with his friends while she stood at the bottom having a heart attack.
“YOU DON’T EVEN WEAR A HELMET!”
“I have balance!”
“That’s not how head injuries work!”
He’d only laughed before skating past her and grabbing her hand as he rolled by.
And somehow, despite being insanely talented on the ice, he acted completely normal about it.
At public skate sessions he’d race little kids.
He’d spin until he got dizzy on purpose.
He’d grab her hands and skate backwards while talking trash.
“You call that a crossover?”
“Oh my god, shut up.”
“Babe, I’m trying to coach you.”
“You’re trying to embarrass me.”
“Same thing.”
He flirted constantly.
In the halls at school.
At football games.
At lunch.
At bowling alleys.
Especially at bowling alleys.
“You cheated,” she accused after he beat her again.
Ilia gasped dramatically. “I’m an athlete.”
“You threw the ball between your legs.”
“And it worked.”
“You are impossible.”
He leaned closer over the table, eyes sparkling. “You still like me though.”
Unfortunately, she did.
Way too much.
Especially when he looked like this.
Brown hair messy from wearing a backwards cap all day. Hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms. Silver chain around his neck. Constant bruises from skating and skateboarding and doing stupid flips with his friends.
He looked like trouble.
And he absolutely knew it.
One Friday night she was over at his house supposedly “watching a movie.”
The movie had been ignored for at least forty minutes.
She sat in his lap on the basement couch while his hands rested on her waist beneath her hoodie, kissing her slow enough to make her dizzy.
“You taste like cherry slushie,” he murmured against her mouth.
“That’s because you stole half of mine.”
“I was helping.”
“With what?”
“Your sugar intake.”
She laughed softly before he kissed her again.
And again.
And then his hand slid up her side and she felt him grin when she shivered.
“Sensitive,” he teased quietly.
“Shut up.”
“No.”
He kissed down her jaw.
She tangled her fingers in his hair just as footsteps sounded upstairs.
Neither of them noticed.
Not until a voice casually said…
“Wow. Okay.”
They flew apart so fast she nearly fell off the couch.
Ilia looked horrified.
His dad stood at the bottom of the stairs holding a water bottle, staring at them for half a second before immediately bursting into laughter.
“Oh my god,” Ilia groaned, covering his face.
Roman pointed at them. “I don’t even know what I interrupted, but clearly it was life changing.”
“Dad.”
“You two look guilty as hell.”
She was bright red. Ilia looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
Roman just laughed harder.
“Relax, Romeo.” He started back upstairs. “Just keep the door open before your mother gets home.”
“DAD!”
The basement echoed with his laughter.
Ilia dropped back onto the couch dramatically.
“I’m moving away.”
She was laughing too hard to breathe.
“Oh my gosh, your face…”
“I’ll never recover from this.”
“You’re literally still blushing.”
“I’m in pain.”
She leaned over and kissed him quickly.
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
A few weeks later, she stood in his bathroom holding a lot of hair dye while Ilia leaned against the sink shirtless.
“You’re sure about this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You’ve never dyed your hair before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“You say that about every bad idea.”
He grinned. “And yet you’re still here.”
That was true.
An hour later, he disappeared to rinse everything out while she cleaned up the disaster they’d made.
Then the bathroom door opened again.
And she genuinely forgot how to breathe for a second.
His hair was wet, hanging into his eyes, noticeably lighter now. Blonde.
Really blonde.
He wore sweatpants…water still dripping down his neck and across his shoulders while he rubbed a towel over his hair.
And unfortunately for her, he looked unfairly good.
Ilia noticed her expression immediately.
A smug smile spread across his face.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
She stared at him for another second too long.
His grin widened.
“Oh, you like it.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s not what your face says.”
She tried to recover but failed miserably when he stepped closer.
“What’s my face saying then?” she asked quietly.
He leaned down slightly. “Something dangerous.”
Her cheeks warmed.
And then she glanced toward the hallway before looking back at him innocently.
“I think,” she said slowly, “your bedroom is right across the hall.”
There was exactly one second of silence.
Then his eyes widened.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She squealed as he immediately threw her over his shoulder.
“ILIA!”
He sprinted out of the bathroom laughing while she smacked his back.
“You almost dropped me!”
“Never.”
“You’re insane!”
“I know!”
His bedroom door slammed shut behind them while both of them dissolved into laughter and other things…
ok i saw the picture and now i know CAN YOU PLEASE WRITE ME A FIC OF ILIA TALING READER TO THE YUNGBLUD CONCERT HE WAS GORGEOUS
but ofc i can boo:)
“I was made for loving you”
The lights in the arena were insane. Red and black flashes sweeping over the crowd, bass rattling through the floor so hard it felt like her heartbeat had synced with the drums.
And somehow, even with thousands of screaming people packed shoulder to shoulder around them, Ilia only had eyes for her.
Front row had been his idea.
“Front row?” she’d laughed when he surprised her with the tickets. “You realize I’m five feet away from being trampled.”
“You’ll survive,” he’d said with that cocky grin. “And if not, I catch you.”
Now she was pretty sure he was holding onto her just as much as she was holding onto him.
Yungblud was sprinting across the stage like a man possessed, sweat soaked curls flying while the crowd screamed every lyric back at him. She was jumping with everyone else, singing until her throat hurt, her hands in the air while Ilia stood behind her laughing.
Not laughing at her.
Just… happy.
He looked unfairly good tonight. Black hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, silver chain catching the stage lights, curls messy from her constantly running her fingers through them. Every few songs he’d lean down close to her ear to say something teasing because he knew she could barely hear him over the music.
“You almost hit me in the face.”
“That girl next to you sings louder than you.”
“You’re losing your voice, babe.”
She’d shoved him after every comment while grinning like an idiot.
Then the music suddenly cut.
The crowd screamed louder.
Yungblud grabbed the mic stand, breathing hard, eyes scanning the audience before he pointed dramatically toward the barricade.
“Ayo…hold on!” he shouted.
The spotlight swung straight onto them.
Her eyes widened instantly.
Beside her, Ilia groaned. “Oh no.”
Yungblud squinted dramatically. “THE QUADGOD IS IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT!”
The arena erupted.
Ilia buried his face in her shoulder while she started laughing hysterically.
He pointed at him again. “Yeah, don’t hide now, mate. Olympic level man right there.”
Ilia looked up long enough to throw a mock salute while the crowd screamed even harder.
Yungblud grinned. “So I think it only fits that I sing this one.”
The opening chords of I Was Made For Lovin’ You started.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
Ilia immediately pulled her backward against him.
Not casually either.
Like he needed her there.
His arms wrapped around her waist tight enough that she could feel the warmth of him through her shirt, his chin brushing her shoulder while the entire arena exploded around them.
The song kicked in.
And suddenly it felt less like a concert and more like the two of them in their own little universe.
She leaned back against him as he swayed them gently with the music, his lips brushing her bare shoulder once.
Then again.
Then slowly against the side of her neck.
Her breath caught.
“You trying to kill me?” she laughed softly.
“Mhm,” he hummed against her skin.
The bass vibrated through both of them while she turned her head enough to grin at him.
He sang the chorus and she pointed dramatically at Ilia, singing every word directly to him.
“I was made for lovin’ you babyy…”
Ilia laughed, cheeks pink from attention and adrenaline.
Then he sang the next line back to her, horribly off key on purpose.
She gasped. “That was criminal.”
“I’m emotionally expressing myself.”
“You’re emotionally tone deaf.”
He squeezed her waist tighter, laughing into her neck.
Every few moments he’d press another kiss to her shoulder or the sensitive spot right below her ear, completely distracted from the actual concert now.
At one point she tilted her head back against him and he just stared at her.
Lovingly stared.
Like he couldn’t believe she was real.
The flashing lights reflected in her eyes while she sang along breathlessly, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.
God, he loved her.
She could feel it in the way his hands held her.
The way he kept tucking her closer.
The way his lips brushed her skin absentmindedly between lyrics.
By the end of the concert both of them were sweaty, exhausted, half deaf, and running entirely on adrenaline.
The second they got into the car she collapsed dramatically into the passenger seat.
“I think I transcended.”
Ilia snorted while starting the engine. “You screamed in my ear for two hours.”
“And I’d do it again.”
“You probably will.”
She turned toward him then, softer suddenly. “Thank you for tonight.”
Ilia looked over at her.
Really looked.
Mascara slightly smudged. Hair a mess from jumping around. Flushed cheeks. That dazed happy look she got after a genuinely good night.
He leaned across the center console and kissed her slowly.
Just warm and deep and lingering enough to make her melt into him instantly.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“Always, babe.”
Her smile turned playful again almost immediately. “Next concert is The Neighbourhood.”
Ilia’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You only agreed that fast because you think it’ll get you laid.”
He grinned lazily. “Can you prove otherwise?”
She laughed so hard she nearly snorted.
And Ilia decided right then that concerts with her might actually become his favorite thing in the world.
Alternate version of Meddle About - Ilia Malinin x f!Reader
Summary: In another version of her life, everything fell apart before she ever got the chance to become what she was meant to be. In this one, it doesn’t. She gets the gold medals, the fame, the impossible kind of life people spend years dreaming about. None of it changes the quiet loneliness sitting underneath her skin.
Then there’s him. The only person reckless enough to keep reaching for her no matter how sharp she gets. What starts as rivalry slowly twists into something messier: late-night calls, cruel little games, public tension and private tenderness, two people circling each other so intensely it becomes impossible to tell where resentment ends and love begins. And the more he tries to love her openly, the harder she fights him for it.
Masterlist
Recommended to read Meddle About first, but it’s not necessary.
Warnings: no use of y/n, rivals(?) to lovers, he's down BAD, subby!Ilia if you squint, reader is MEAN and TOXIC, reader is rich RICH, angst, A LOOOOT of drama, this was supposed to be an enemies to lovers but it turned out being a she's a BITCH and he likes it (NFWMB by Hozier vibes, could be a continuation), english is not my first language.
Author’s note: I had so much fun with this! I need me a subby pathetic man who yearns!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh, I didn't feel like naming anyone else so it's all "another skater joins in" and "two ice dancers walk into a room".
Word count: 12k
Don't Worry, I'll Make You Worry - Sabrina Carpenter
Funny thing about fate and destiny is that they never really loosen their grip.
People like to believe there are alternate versions of themselves scattered across different lives, different choices, different turns taken at the right moment. As if one injury, one missed opportunity, one shift in timing could reroute an entire life into something completely different.
But some things seem determined to find you no matter what.
In this version of facts, the weight never left her. It simply changed shape.
In another life, it was grief for everything she could have become. A constant wondering about what could’ve been. But in this life she never had to imagine the version of herself that made it. She became her. She kept skating, kept winning. Every impossible thing people once predicted for her arrived exactly when it was supposed to.
World titles came first, then Olympic gold, bright and untouchable beneath arena lights that made everything look almost unreal. The kind of victory people later described as inevitable, though it hadn’t felt that way at all while she was living it. She remembered the pressure of it more than the glory. The suffocating awareness that the entire world had already decided who she was meant to become long before she had fully grown into herself.
Still, she did it.
Every expectation placed on her shoulders became something she carried flawlessly.
And yet, there was still that hollowness. The weight.
That was the part no one would have understood if she had tried explaining it out loud. From the outside, her life looked almost offensively perfect. Beautiful in the cold, polished way expensive things usually are. Titles. Endorsements. Money that had long ago stopped feeling real because there was simply too much of it. Crowds that adored her. Commentators who spoke about her skating like it belonged in history books already.
But underneath all of it sat something quiet and unfinished.
Not sadness exactly, just the persistent feeling that there was something missing from the center of her life, some unnamed absence she could never quite reach no matter how many medals she wrapped around herself.
Their rivalry had always been inevitable under those circumstantes.
There was simply no one else close enough to either of them for it not to happen.
She dominated women’s singles with the kind of consistency that made people stop questioning whether she would win and start questioning by how much.
He did the same in men’s.
Every competition they entered became predictable in outcome but somehow still impossible to look away from because dominance, when done at that level, became its own spectacle.
When two people stand alone at the absolute peak of their respective categories, the world starts pulling them toward each other whether they want it to or not. Comparisons become unavoidable. Interviews constantly circled back to the other person’s name. Journalists asked impossible hypotheticals with too much excitement in their voices.
Who was technically stronger?
Who handled pressure better?
Who was changing the sport more?
He had the quad axel under his belt, that impossible jump sitting between them like a taunt. The only quad she had never landed cleanly in competition. But she had something else instead. Something people struggled to quantify but felt immediately when she skated.
Presence.
Not performance. Presence. The ability to make an entire arena hold its breath.
And she countered his quad axel with her Olympic gold from Beijing 2022.
Even now people still talked about it like it belonged to mythology more than sport. She had arrived there under impossible pressure, carrying expectations so heavy they should have crushed her. Everything about the narrative had already been written for someone else. She was supposed to medal, maybe silver if things aligned perfectly, but not win. Not against the Russians.
Then she did.
Against all odds, against predictions, against pressure that would have shattered most people long before they stepped onto the ice, she took the gold medal anyway.
And something about that bothered him more than he liked admitting to himself.
Not because he resented her success. He didn’t. If anything, he understood too intimately what it cost to reach that level. But her victories unsettled him because they felt emotional in a way his own never did. When she won, people cried. When she skated clean, audiences looked overwhelmed afterward, like they had experienced something larger than sport itself.
He landed impossible jumps and people called him revolutionary. They spoke about him like he was reshaping the laws of physics every time his blade left the ice, like he had forced the sport itself to evolve around him through sheer audacity. His skating inspired awe, disbelief, admiration that bordered on scientific fascination. People watched him the way they watched storms or collapsing stars, overwhelmed by the spectacle of something that should not have been possible and yet existed anyway.
But her?
People spoke about her differently.
She stepped onto the ice and suddenly the conversation stopped sounding technical at all. No one reached first for words like rotation or base value or athleticism. Instead, they called her unforgettable. Haunting. Devastating. As if what she did could not be fully explained through sport alone.
It was art.
That distinction stayed in his head far longer than it should have.
It irritated him in ways he could never fully articulate, because some part of him understood exactly what it meant. He could land things she physically could not. He could push the technical ceiling of skating further than anyone alive. And still, when she performed, it felt larger than difficulty. Larger than execution. People left her programs emotional in a way they never seemed to leave his.
He hated how much he thought about it.
Hated how often he caught himself replaying her performances alone at night, searching for the thing she possessed that he couldn’t replicate no matter how hard he trained. He would tell himself it was analytical at first, professional curiosity, the natural obsession of someone who spent his life trying to perfect every aspect of skating. But eventually even he stopped believing that lie.
Because analysis didn’t explain the feeling sitting low in his chest every time she skated.
Analysis didn’t explain why he watched her like she was everything.
What frustrated him even more was that he could never quite bring himself to hate her for it.
It would have been easier if he could.
Easier if she were arrogant in a simple, ugly way. Easier if her skating felt overrated to him, or hollow, or constructed purely for applause. Easier if looking at her did not feel like standing too close to something incandescent.
But then she would skate.
And God, sometimes it nearly brought him to tears.
Not because she was delicate. She wasn’t. People often misunderstood her elegance for softness, when in reality there was something almost frightening beneath it. Her skating carried an emotional precision that felt surgical, like she knew exactly where to press inside people to make them feel something unbearable. Every movement seemed to arrive half a second before it was expected, every extension lingering just long enough to ache.
Watching her felt less like witnessing a performance and more like being let into something deeply private against your will.
And then there was the simple problem of her existence outside the ice.
The way she looked under arena lights. The cold beauty of her expression before a program began, so controlled it almost appeared detached, until the music started and suddenly she transformed into something impossible to ignore. The sharp intelligence in her eyes during interviews. The quiet entitlement she carried without apology, like the world had spent her entire life revolving around her and she had grown used to the motion of it.
Everything about her pulled attention naturally, cruelly.
Sometimes he thought she moved through life with the gravitational force of a celestial body, something too massive for anyone around her to escape unaffected.
And he hated how willingly he orbited her anyway.
It felt, at times, like she was the sun and he was trapped somewhere in her atmosphere, suspended close enough to feel the heat of her but never quite able to reach her without risking complete destruction. Every interaction with her left him feeling scorched in some small invisible way. She would look at him for too long, smile like she knew something he didn’t, say something casually cruel in that soft voice of hers, and suddenly he would spend days thinking about it despite himself.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
For the moment she would finally pull him in completely and burn him alive.
❅
The rink had mostly emptied by the time he finally worked up the courage to walk over to her.
It wasn’t completely empty yet. There were still coaches gathered near the boards speaking in low voices, a few skaters dragging guards onto their blades as they laughed about plans for later, but the sharp intensity of practice had dissolved, turning into the kind of atmosphere that only existed after long training days, when exhaustion lowered everyone’s guard just enough to make them human again.
She, however, still looked impossibly composed.
That irritated him too.
Even after three hours on the ice, after full run-throughs and jump repetition and enough physical exertion to leave everyone else flushed and disheveled, she somehow still looked expensive. Untouchable. A black cashmere wrap hung loosely around her shoulders while she scrolled through her phone with one hand, listening absentmindedly to her choreographer beside her. Her hair was tied back messily, but on her it looked intentional rather than careless. Even exhausted, she carried herself like someone perpetually aware of being watched.
He stood there for a second longer than necessary before approaching.
Immediately, her choreographer noticed him and excused himself with suspiciously convenient timing, leaving her alone by the boards.
She looked up slowly when his shadow fell across the ice.
And there it was again.
That look.
That unbearable, measured kind of attention she always gave him, as if she were silently deciding what version of herself he deserved today.
“Hi,” he said, trying to sound more casual than he felt.
Her gaze moved over him once before settling back on his face. “Hi.”
“You were good today,” he said after a moment. “Your free skate looked…” He hesitated briefly, searching for a word that didn’t sound too sincere. “Really good.”
One corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
“Really good, huh?” she repeated softly, almost amused.
He flushed immediately at how eager he sounded, which only made her smile widen faintly.
“It was great,” he tried to make it better, quieter this time.
That seemed to satisfy her even more.
She squinted slightly, studying him with those unreadable eyes of hers. “And yours was technically acceptable today.”
He tilted his head like a puppy hearing a new sound. “Technically acceptable?”
“Well,” she shrugged lightly, lashes fluttering with exaggerated innocence, “the quad axel survived, which I’m sure was very exciting for everyone involved.”
He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding before muttering a low “you’re impossible.”
The thing was, she never sounded outright cruel when she said things like this. That was what made it worse. Her voice stayed soft, almost sweet, her expression relaxed enough to blur the line between teasing and insult until he could never fully tell where he stood. Sometimes he thought she enjoyed watching him try to figure it out in real time.
Actually, no. She definitely enjoyed it.
“You know,” he said carefully, leaning his arms against the boards beside her, “everyone’s going out tonight after dinner. Karaoke.”
At that, her brows lifted slightly.
“Karaoke?” she repeated, like he had just suggested they spend the evening digging through garbage behind the arena.
He suddenly became hyperaware of how stupid it sounded.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “A bunch of us are going.”
Her expression softened then, but not in the way he hoped. It became something far more dangerous, like she found him strangely endearing.
“Aww,” she said quietly.
His stomach dropped immediately. That tone never meant anything good.
“That’s actually so cute.”
There it was.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Why do you say things like that?”
Her lashes blinked at him innocently. “Like what?”
“Like I’m a Make-A-Wish kid asking you to prom.”
That earned a real laugh from her, bright and quick and devastating enough that it completely ruined his ability to stay annoyed.
“You’re so dramatic,” she murmured.
“You bring out that side of me.”
“Hm.” She looked back down at her phone briefly. “Unfortunately, I can’t today.”
“Why?”
“I have a Prada event.”
Of course she did.
Not even just an event. A Prada event. Because apparently she existed in a completely different reality from everyone else.
“Oh,” he said stupidly.
She glanced back at him immediately, catching the shift in his expression with frightening ease.
And then, because she was evil, she smiled sympathetically.
“That was brave, though.”
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” she said patiently, like she was explaining something to a child, “you asking me to go scream Taylor Swift songs in a sticky karaoke room immediately after I confirmed attendance at an event filled with Oscar winners and European designers is…” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Brave.”
He stared at her and she stared back with perfect composure, not even blinking, devilish smile not leaving her perfect lips.
Then she added softly, “Actually, it’s kind of impressive how you don’t read signs.”
He should have walked away then, any normal person would have, but instead he just stood there watching her, irritated warmth spreading through his chest in a way that made him feel deeply pathetic.
Because she was mean.
Objectively mean.
And somehow he still couldn’t stop looking at her mouth when she spoke and thinking about unspeakable things.
“You know,” he muttered, “most people would say no without inflicting psychological damage.”
“Yes, but where is the fun in that?”
He let out a short laugh despite himself, shaking his head.
Her expression shifted slightly then, softening almost imperceptibly as she looked at him. For one brief second, something gentler flickered beneath all the sharpness.
“You’re cute when you’re offended,” she said quietly, finger raising to brush a small strand of his hair away from his eye.
And there it was again.
That feeling like she had wrapped her fingers around the inside of his ribcage and squeezed just hard enough to keep him constantly off balance.
Before he could answer, her phone buzzed.
She glanced down at it, then sighed dramatically. “My driver’s here.”
She stepped away from the boards, gathering her bag onto her shoulder with effortless grace. Then she paused beside him.
Close enough that he could smell her perfume now, dark and expensive and entirely too distracting after hours spent breathing cold rink air.
“You should still go tonight,” she said lightly. “I’m sure everyone will love hearing you sing.”
“That feels like an insult.”
“It is.”
Then she smiled at him one last time, slow and beautiful and just cruel enough to leave damage behind and walked away.
He stood there for a long moment afterward watching the doors close behind her.
Humiliated.
Annoyed.
Hopelessly affected.
And, to his own immense frustration, a little bit completely in love with her already.
❅
By midnight, the karaoke bar had dissolved into exactly the kind of chaos she had imagined when he first invited her.
The private room was too warm, crowded with skaters and friends-of and half-finished drinks scattered across every available surface. Someone was aggressively butchering an ABBA song in the corner while two ice dancers screamed the lyrics like their lives depended on it. The lighting was terrible, pink and green neon casting everyone in the kind of blur that made people look prettier and drunker than they actually were.
Ilia sat slouched deeper into the booth with every passing hour, one arm thrown over the back of the seat, cheeks slightly flushed from alcohol and laughter.
He was drunk enough now that he felt lighter. Not wasted, just loose. Easier. The careful self-awareness he usually carried had started slipping somewhere around his second drink, replaced by something more open and boyish that his friends clearly found hilarious.
“You look devastated,” one of the guys laughed from beside him.
Ilia frowned into his drink. “I’m not devastated.”
“You got rejected by the hottest woman alive, anyone would be devastated.”
“She didn’t reject me.”
Everyone at the table looked at him.
“She literally called your karaoke invite cute,” someone pointed out.
Another skater winced sympathetically. “Dude, that’s brutal.”
Ilia rolled his eyes, though the embarrassment crept back warm into his face anyway. “She had an event.”
“Right,” one of the girls spoke up. “Because she’s that girl and it’s terrifying.”
That, unfortunately, was true and somehow it only made him want her more.
Which probably said deeply concerning things about him psychologically.
The music changed again. Someone shoved another microphone into his hands. He groaned loudly as the room erupted into drunken encouragement, immediately trying to push it away.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes!”
“Malinin, sing!”
“I’d rather die.”
“Coward.”
He was halfway through losing the argument when the door opened.
At first, no one really noticed but then the room quieted in strange, staggered pieces.
One conversation stopping here. Laughter fading there. Heads slowly turning toward the entrance one by one until the noise thinned into stunned silence.
Ilia looked up last and forgot every coherent thought in his head.
She stood in the doorway like she had stepped out of an entirely different universe and accidentally wandered into theirs.
Still dressed from the Prada event, apparently.
Black silk draped perfectly against her body, elegant in that understated way only obscenely expensive clothing ever managed to be. Diamonds flashed briefly at her throat when the neon lights caught them. Her makeup was softer now than earlier, slightly smudged around the eyes in a way that somehow only made her look prettier. She held one hand lightly against the doorframe as she surveyed the room, expression unreadable for exactly one second before amusement slowly curved her mouth.
The contrast between her and the sticky karaoke room was almost absurd.
She looked like cinema while everyone else looked aggressively twenty-something.
His stomach dropped somewhere near the floor.
“You came,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.
Oh no. He sounded amazed.
Not smooth or composed or detached in the way he probably wanted. Just openly, helplessly pleased in a way that hit her somewhere unexpectedly soft. Like a child finally being handed the one thing they had spent months secretly hoping for and still couldn’t quite believe was real once it was finally placed in their hands.
“Well,” she said lightly as she stepped inside, slight pout on her lips, “I couldn’t let a pretty boy drive himself home drunk, could I?”
The room erupted in whispers, amused glances and discreet laughter instantly.
Someone actually choked on their drink.
Ilia just stared at her.
Pretty boy.
Jesus Christ.
She walked toward him slowly, entirely aware of the attention following her through the room. She always moved like someone born being watched. But tonight there was something even more dangerous in the way she looked at him specifically.
Playful. Like she had arrived solely because she knew exactly what effect this would have on him.
Which, honestly, was probably true.
“You’re overdressed,” he managed weakly as she stopped beside the booth.
She tilted her head. “And yet somehow you still look more nervous than me.”
A few people nearby laughed and he flushed immediately.
She sat beside him then, smooth and graceful even in six-inch heels, crossing one leg over the other as if this dingy karaoke room were just another exclusive afterparty.
“Did you sing yet?” she asked.
“No.”
“Aw.” She blinked at him sympathetically. “Stage fright?”
“I skate in front of thousands of people.”
Her gaze dragged lazily over his face like she was figuring something out. “Interesting.”
God, she was doing this on purpose.
And the worst part was he genuinely couldn’t tell if she was flirting with him or psychologically torturing him for fun.
Possibly both.
Most likely both.
The night blurred after that. More drinks. More songs. More moments where he caught himself staring at her while she laughed at something someone said, her head tilted slightly back, diamonds catching the colored lights every time she moved.
And every single time he looked over, she was already looking at him too like she knew.
But then again, it felt like she always knew everything.
By the time they finally left, the city outside had gone quiet in that strange late-night way that made everything feel softer around the edges.
He was definitely drunk now.
Not disastrously so. Just enough that his thoughts kept slipping out of his mouth before he could organize them properly.
“You didn’t have to actually come,” he said as she unlocked her car.
“I know.”
“You hate karaoke.”
“I do.”
“Then why did you come?”
She glanced at him over the roof of the car, slow and deliberate.
“You invited me.”
The simplicity of the answer hit him harder than it should have and because he was drunk and therefore stupid, he stared at her too long afterward.
“What?” she asked softly.
“You’re confusing.”
A quiet laugh escaped her as she slid into the driver’s seat.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
He kept talking during the drive, mostly nonsense, half-finished thoughts and observations and things he probably would have died of embarrassment remembering sober tomorrow morning. He rambled about training schedules, about how one of the ice dancers definitely had a crush on their coach, about the fact that he still couldn’t believe she had actually shown up tonight.
She listened quietly while driving through sleeping city streets glowing gold beneath streetlights.
Occasionally she’d hum in amusement.
Occasionally she’d glance over at him with that same unreadable little smile.
And every time she did, his heart stumbled around stupidly in his chest.
When she finally pulled up outside his place, neither of them moved immediately. The car settled into silence softly, the engine ticking quietly beneath them.
He was still, impressively, amusingly, talking.
Something about her free skate this season, words slightly slurred now as exhaustion and alcohol tangled together inside him.
“I still think the step sequence after the second jump pass is insane,” he murmured. “Like actually insane. I don’t know how you keep timing it like that.”
She turned slightly in her seat to look at him fully then.
God. She was so beautiful it genuinely made him feel a little sick.
“You’re very talkative drunk,” she observed quietly.
He laughed weakly. “You make me nervous.”
That seemed to catch her off guard for half a second. Just half.
Then her expression softened into something almost fond.
“Poor thing,” she murmured.
Before he could respond, she leaned toward him slightly.
One elegant hand lifted. Her fingers slid beneath his chin, cool rings pressing faintly against his skin while the sharp points of her stiletto nails dug just enough into his jaw to make his breath catch.
Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold his attention completely.
His thoughts went blank instantly.
She tilted his face upward carefully, studying him for one long unbearable second and then she kissed the corner of his mouth.
Soft.
Brief.
Cruel in its restraint.
A sharp chill ran through his entire body from the simple contact, sudden enough to make his breath catch. It was ridiculous how little it took from her sometimes.
“Go to bed, Ilia,” she whispered.
Then she pulled away like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just rearranged the entire structure of his nervous system with one tiny act of affection.
He stared at her stupidly, completely speechless for once in his life.
A small smile tugged at her lips as she opened his door from the driver’s side controls.
“Careful,” she said lightly. “You’re looking a little dizzy.”
The worst part was that she knew perfectly well it had nothing to do with the alcohol anymore.
❅
The problem with her was that she never did anything halfway.
Not her skating. Not her cruelty. Not whatever this was between them.
She had kissed the corner of his mouth like it meant nothing at all, then sent him home with a soft little smile and a “go to bed” that had lodged itself somewhere permanently inside his chest.
And the truly humiliating part was that it worked, because the next morning he woke up still thinking about her.
Not even the kiss itself, really. It had barely counted as one. It was the intimacy of it that stayed under his skin. The feeling of her hand beneath his chin. The quietness in her voice. The way she had looked at him afterward like she knew exactly what kind of damage she’d done and saw no reason to regret it.
By 10 a.m., he had convinced himself calling her would somehow make him feel less insane.
It did not. She didn’t answer.
He called again after practice.
Still nothing.
By the third attempt, he had started pacing outside the rink like a man experiencing the early stages of psychosis.
She hadn’t even shown up to training that day.
Usually, even when they avoided each other, he still knew where she was. There was comfort in that somehow. A strange consistency to their orbiting but now there was just silence.
No practice.
No replies.
No indication she had even acknowledged his existence after last night.
His thumb hovered over her contact again then pressed call.
This time, she answered immediately.
His entire body straightened.
“He—”
“Busy right now,” she interrupted smoothly, cutting him.
He blinked.
There was noise in the background. Music. Voices. The clinking of glasses somewhere far away.
“I just wanted to—”
“Aw,” she murmured, voice soft with mock sympathy. “Are you spiraling, baby?”
His face went hot instantly.
“No.”
“Hm.”
The silence stretched just long enough to feel intentional.
Then, casually—
“You’re being clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
“You’ve called me four times.”
“It was three.”
There was a pause then he heard her laugh quietly under her breath.
Even exhausted and irritated, the sound still did something unbearable to him.
“I have to go,” she said lightly.
“You literally picked up just to insult me.”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.” He could practically hear the smile in her voice now. “Bye, sweetheart.”
The line disconnected before he could answer.
Ilia stood frozen outside the rink staring at his phone in complete disbelief.
Sweetheart.
Not even in a nice way but in a condescending way like she was patting him on the head for being emotionally unstable.
Which, unfortunately, he currently was.
He shoved the phone into his pocket hard enough to nearly crack the screen then immediately took it back out again ten seconds later just to stare at their call history like a deeply pathetic person.
At 2:07 in the morning, his phone started ringing.
He woke up disoriented and half tangled in his sheets, blindly reaching across the nightstand before finally managing to answer.
“…hello?”
A soft laugh filtered through the speaker immediately.
“There he is.”
His brain took several exhausted seconds to catch up.
Then—
Her.
He sat upright instantly.
“What the hell?” he croaked, voice rough with sleep. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes.”
“You woke me up.”
“I know.”
There was no remorse in her voice whatsoever. In fact, she sounded almost pleased with herself.
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying unsuccessfully to gather his thoughts. “Why are you calling me at two in the morning?”
“Hm.” She sounded thoughtful. “Because I felt like it.”
Of course.
A pause settled between them briefly, softer than usual somehow. Sleep still lingered heavily in his system, making everything feel slower.
“What are you doing?” he asked finally.
“Lying on my hotel balcony.”
His chest tightened unexpectedly at the image.
“You sound drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” she replied immediately. Then, after a beat, “I’m just… in a good mood, believe it or not.”
He snorted despite himself.
“There it is,” she murmured softly.
“What?”
“That laugh.” He could hear the smile in her voice now. “I knew I could get it out of you.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled low in his chest at that.
She really did do this on purpose every time.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
“Maybe.” Fabric rustled softly on her end of the line. “But you like me anyway.”
“That’s a strong assumption.”
“It’s an obvious one.”
He rolled his eyes even though she couldn’t see it. “You called me at two in the morning for more torture?”
“No,” she said lightly. “I called because something funny happened tonight and I wanted to tell you.”
And then she started telling him the story.
Some absurd interaction at whatever impossibly glamorous event she had attended earlier, involving a French athlete they knew getting dramatically rejected by a model in the middle of a rooftop party. Her impressions were devastatingly good, her commentary even worse.
Half asleep and defenseless against her voice, he found himself laughing helplessly into the darkness of his room.
She sounded different like this, not the cold untouchable version of herself everyone else got. Not the sharp-edged girl who smiled while cutting people apart.
Just… her.
Quick-witted. Charming. Funny in a way that constantly caught him off guard because he was usually too distracted by her beauty to remember she was genuinely entertaining too.
“You should’ve seen his face,” she said through quiet laughter. “I thought he was going to throw himself into the Seine.”
The conversation drifted after that.
Training, travel, random nonsense.
At one point she made fun of the way he pronounced a designer’s name so viciously he nearly hung up out of principle.
“You’re evil,” he informed her.
“And yet,” she said sweetly, “you keep coming back for more.”
He fell quiet at that, not because he had nothing to say.
Because she was right. She always seemed to know exactly when to shift the conversation just enough to leave him emotionally off balance again.
There was a long pause after that and when she spoke again, her voice had softened slightly.
“You know what I think is funny?”
“What?”
“I think you were actually upset I ignored you today.”
He stared blankly at the dark ceiling above him.
“You ignored me for twelve hours.”
“Mm.” Amusement threaded through her tone lazily. “And look how affected you are.”
“I was not affected.”
“You called me four times.”
“Three.”
She laughed softly again. “You’re very cute when you’re obsessed with me.”
His stomach dropped.
“Who says I’m obsessed with you?”
A brief silence.
“Oh, honey.” The words were so gentle they almost hurt. “You’re in love with me.”
The air seemed to leave his lungs all at once. He opened his mouth immediately, ready to deny it, but nothing came out. No sharp response, no sarcastic comeback, nothing strong enough to survive the quiet certainty in her voice.
And somewhere on the other end of the line, she smiled. He could hear it in the silence that followed, soft and satisfied in the most devastating way.
Like she had finally said something out loud that both of them had already known for a very long time.
❅
Unfortunately for him, she had spent the entire week being both unavoidable and unreachable.
A video of her had gone viral three days earlier, filmed outside some exclusive afterparty in Paris after Fashion Week. In it, she stood on the sidewalk in a floor-length black dress, cigarette between her fingers while some actor everyone recognized chased after her trying to continue an argument. She barely looked at him while getting into her car, only pausing long enough to say something sharp enough to make the people filming gasp before the door shut behind her.
The internet lost its mind immediately afterward.
Half the headlines called her iconic. The other half called her cruel.
All of them talked about her.
And because the dating rumors surrounding her and Ilia had already been circulating for a couple of months, reporters started dragging him into it too.
By the time he finished practice that morning, he was already exhausted from hearing her name attached to every second question.
“What did you think about the video?”
“Do you think she went too far?”
“Is that how she normally is?”
At first he brushed them off carefully. Neutral answers, short ones that gave nothing useful away.
Then someone laughed and said, “Come on, you know how she is...”
And stupidly, tiredly, he let his guard slip.
He smiled before he could stop himself. Not mocking. Something worse. Fond. Like the mere suggestion that he understood her better than everyone else felt strangely good to him, something he carried with quiet pride even if he never admitted it aloud.
“She’s not actually a bitch,” he said lightly. “She just likes pretending she doesn’t care about anything.”
A few reporters exchanged glances immediately and he knew he should have stopped there.
Instead, he kept talking.
“Honestly, most of the time she pushes people away like that before they get close enough to hurt her.” His smile softened slightly, gaze drifting somewhere distracted for half a second. “I think she just expects everyone to leave eventually, so she likes causing a little chaos first.”
The silence afterward hit him almost immediately.
Not because what he said was cruel, but because it was intimate.
Too intimate.
The kind of observation that only came from seeing parts of her no one else was supposed to notice. The kind of thing she would absolutely hate hearing spoken aloud, especially in front of cameras and strangers and millions of people who already thought they knew her.
And suddenly he could already picture the look she was going to give him when she saw the interview.
She ignored him all day.
Not casually either, it felt deliberate. Almost professional done. A masterpiece of cruelty executed with perfect restraint.
At practice, she skated past him like he was invisible. During warmups, she laughed with other skaters while never once glancing in his direction. When he said good morning, she looked directly at him for one brief cold second before turning away without answering.
By lunch, he felt vaguely insane.
By dinner, he felt like he was dying.
It should not have affected him this much. That was the humiliating part.
Silence from anyone else would have been mildly irritating at worst. Silence from her felt slow and surgical, like being hollowed out piece by piece. He could practically hear her voice in the back of his head already, soft with amusement. Are you spiraling, baby?
And damn it, he was.
Because she knew exactly what she was doing. The silent treatment, the constant way she humbled him no matter how untouchable the rest of the world thought he was. World champion, once-in-a-generation talent, revolutionary skater. None of it seemed to matter around her. She could reduce him to pacing outside a rink checking his phone every thirty seconds with frightening ease.
And the worst part was that she was really, really good at it.
At some point late that evening, after another text went unanswered, he finally snapped.
It felt less like a conscious decision and more like his body reacting before his pride had the chance to stop it. One moment he was pacing circles through his room, phone clenched tightly in his hand while he tried to convince himself to leave it alone. The next he was already driving through the city toward her place with his jaw tight and pulse pounding hard enough to make him feel vaguely sick.
By the time he arrived, fury and humiliation had tangled together inside him so thoroughly he could barely separate one from the other.
The concierge recognized him immediately, which unfortunately made everything easier. Maybe if he had been forced to explain himself out loud, forced to hear how pathetic this sounded from outside his own head, he would have turned around and left. Instead, the old man simply greeted him politely and waved him inside like this had become a normal occurrence.
Maybe it had.
His heartbeat was already uneven by the time she opened the door.
And of course she looked completely unsurprised to see him.
A silk robe hung loosely around her body, hair still slightly damp like she had just showered. One bare shoulder rested lazily against the doorway while she looked up at him with infuriating calm, expression smooth and unreadable in a way that made something hot flare immediately in his chest.
Like she had been expecting him to come crawling back eventually.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You finally cracked.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“I’m always serious.”
She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which only irritated him more.
“You ignored me the entire day.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She blinked at him slowly, almost thoughtfully, like she was genuinely considering how much honesty he could handle.
“Don’t you think you deserved it?”
The thing was, he probably did.
Sort of.
But hearing her say it out loud still felt dangerous somehow, like she had quietly repositioned the entire situation until he was the one apologizing for being hurt.
“I gave one interview.”
“You made me sound ridiculous.”
His jaw tightened immediately. “That wasn’t what I was doing.”
“But it’s what you did.” Her voice remained soft, almost gentle. “You made me sound like I’m obsessed with making people miserable.”
He stared at her for a long second.
“You are obsessed with making people miserable.”
“Yes,” she replied with a tired little sigh. “But that doesn’t mean I want it announced publicly.”
A sharp laugh escaped him before he could stop it, disbelieving and exhausted all at once.
“You hear how insane you sound, right?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I heard how careless you were.”
The argument escalated quickly after that, like it always seemed to do between them. Neither of them knew how to step away once something emotional cracked open. Every conversation became too sharp too fast, every feeling dragged immediately to the surface until they were both standing there stripped raw beneath it.
“You’re punishing me because I saw through you a little,” he snapped.
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
“Saw through me?”
“Yes.”
A cold smile touched her mouth then, small and beautiful and dangerous.
“That’s adorable,” she murmured.
He let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand roughly through his hair as he looked away for a second, like he physically needed distance from her just to think clearly again.
“You really think you understand me,” she said quietly.
“I understand enough.”
“No.” Her tone softened strangely, almost patronizing now, like a mother correcting a child who had misunderstood something simple. “You understand what I let you.”
Something hot flared instantly in his chest at that.
“See?” He gestured toward her wildly. “This. This thing you do where you act like everyone’s beneath you because you’re terrified someone might actually get close enough to matter.”
For the first time that night, her composure cracked.
It was small, almost imperceptible, just a quick flash of hurt across her face, but he saw it immediately. Worse, she realized he had seen it.
The air between them shifted at once.
“You should leave,” she said, less softly this time.
“No.”
That surprised her. He could tell.
Usually, people folded the second she pulled away like this. They apologized first. Softened first. Handed control back to her because she knew exactly how to take it once it was offered. Most people could not tolerate the coldness long enough to push against it.
But he was too angry now. Too exhausted by her.
“You don’t get to freeze me out and then stand there acting untouchable,” he said. “I’m so sick of you pretending you don’t care about anything.”
Her laugh came quiet and sharp.
“And I’m sick of you acting like loving me makes you special.”
The words landed between them with brutal precision.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then he looked at her like she had actually hit him. Not dramatically, just that brief unguarded expression of genuine hurt that crossed his face before he could hide it again.
And suddenly something ugly twisted low in her chest because she hadn’t meant to wound him that deeply.
Not really.
But the second he got too close to something real inside her, cruelty arrived almost instinctively now, fast and sharp like self-defense. Every vulnerable feeling inside her seemed to translate itself into damage before she even had the chance to stop it.
“Wow,” he said quietly.
She looked away first, which almost never happened.
Turning sharply, she motioned vaguely toward the door again, a silent invitation for him to leave before the argument cut any deeper. Under normal circumstances, that would have been the end of it. He would have walked out angry and she would have spent the rest of the night pretending the ache in her chest was irritation instead of something deeper.
Instead, he stepped closer.
His hand caught her arm with slightly more force than he intended, enough to pull her backward a step until she stumbled lightly against him, suddenly almost chest to chest.
The shift in him startled her.
Not because he was rough, he wasn’t, but because he usually yielded around her eventually. Usually he let her dictate the rhythm of things. But now, with the anger radiating off him in waves, he felt oddly in control. It was real anger too, stripped raw by exhaustion and hurt, and something about it made her head go strangely light.
Maybe it was the way he finally took control of the moment instead of waiting for her permission. Maybe it was the way he smelled that made her head go a little bit fuzzy. Maybe it was just the unbearable relief of him still being there despite everything.
Whatever it was, something snapped between them all at once.
The distance collapsed violently after that, the argument dissolving into something hotter and far more dangerous the second he kissed her.
It wasn’t soft the way she expected it to be. There was nothing hesitant about him now, none of the nervous restraint he usually carried around her. He kissed her like he was furious with her, like he was tired of letting her keep him off balance while pretending she wasn’t affected too.
Her hands caught the front of his shirt immediately, pulling him closer even as tension still burned between them. The kiss felt almost mean at first, messy with bruised feelings and unresolved anger, but underneath it sat a deeper feeling.
Relief.
Like they had both been holding their breath all day.
Eventually her mouth softened against his. His hands settled more firmly at her waist. The sharpness drained slowly out of the room piece by piece as clothes were discarded carelessly onto the floor and the argument dissolved into heat and the terrifying intimacy of finally stopping long enough to touch each other honestly.
Later, much later, lying tangled beside her in the dark while faint city lights spilled through the windows, he stared quietly at the ceiling with one arm wrapped loosely around her waist.
Somewhere deep down, he understood this had probably been a catastrophic mistake.
Mostly because he already knew he was going to love her even more after this.
But also because some instinct inside him whispered that eventually she would destroy him for it.
❅
Morning light came in too bright, waking him up first.
For a few disoriented seconds, he simply stared at the ceiling trying to remember where he was. Then he felt her beside him, warm and half asleep beneath expensive sheets, and something in his chest softened so painfully it almost scared him.
She looked different asleep.
Younger somehow. Less sharpened by performance and control.
One arm was tucked beneath the pillow, hair spread messily across it while sunlight traced gold across her bare shoulder. Without thinking, he reached out lightly, fingers brushing slowly against her arm.
Her eyes opened slowly at the feeling.
“Morning,” he murmured softly.
She looked at him for a long moment without speaking.
Then—
“Don’t be weird.”
He laughed quietly. “Not exactly the greeting I was hoping for.”
“You’re staring.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
His smile widened despite himself.
God. He was so fucked.
He shifted closer instinctively, brushing his mouth lightly against her shoulder before speaking again. “You know I meant what I said last night, right?”
“Which part?” she asked lazily.
“That I care about you.”
A pause settled briefly between them before she sighed dramatically and rolled onto her back.
“Oh no,” she murmured. “You’re doing feelings before breakfast.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” she replied lightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”
He laughed automatically at first, but the sound faded quickly once the words actually settled in his head.
Because she wasn’t entirely joking.
She reached over then, fingertips brushing against his cheek in something almost resembling affection.
“You really fell hard, huh?”
Something uncomfortable twisted low in his stomach immediately.
It was the tone more than the words. Soft enough at first to blur the cruelty beneath it, like she was teasing him fondly instead of carefully pulling him apart while lying beside him.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Her expression turned thoughtful for a moment.
“It is a little pathetic.”
The silence afterward felt strange suddenly.
But before he could fully sit with the shift in her tone, she was already pulling away from him again. She sat up slowly, stretching with lazy elegance before glancing toward the clock on the nightstand.
“You should probably leave soon,” she said casually. “I have fittings at ten.”
He stared at her for a second, still half tangled in warmth and exhaustion while she already sounded emotionally miles away from him.
“Seriously?”
“What?” She looked over at him with practiced innocence. “You can stay if you want, but I’m not cancelling Valentino to discuss your emotional vulnerability.”
A short breath escaped him that almost sounded like a laugh.
Almost.
By the time he finally left her apartment an hour later, she had fully shifted back into herself again. Untouchable, effortlessly composed. Standing near the doorway in silk while absentmindedly kissing his cheek and checking messages on her phone at the same time, like the night before had not cracked something painfully open inside him.
The elevator ride down felt strangely hollow.
And it wasn’t until he was halfway through the drive back to his place, pale morning light washing weakly across empty streets, that the full weight of it finally settled into him properly.
Not the sex.
Not even the argument.
The casualness of it all.
The way she could hold his heart in her hands and still treat it like something amusing. Something fun. Like his feelings were not dangerous and real and terrifying in the way they felt inside him, but just another thing she liked testing the limits of because she knew he would survive it.
Being around her had started feeling like some kind of emotional lottery. Every interaction carried the possibility of something devastatingly tender or quietly cruel, and he never knew which version of her he was going to get until it was already happening. One moment she was kissing him like he mattered more than breathing, the next she was making him feel ridiculous for feeling anything deeper.
And somehow, impossibly, the uncertainty only made him crave her more.
His grip tightened slightly against the steering wheel.
Because despite all of it… Despite the humiliation and exhaustion and the growing awareness that she could genuinely ruin him if she wanted to…
He already missed her.
And if she called him right now, he knew with horrifying certainty that he would go back immediately.
But of course, she would never call.
❅
After that night, something changed between them.
Not in a soft, romantic way people liked to imagine when two people finally crossed the line into intimacy. Nothing between them ever became easier after sleeping together. If anything, it grew more fragile because now there was something undeniably real sitting underneath all their games and arguments, something warm enough to hurt if either of them touched it carelessly.
And she did not know how to hold something delicate without eventually trying to break it first.
That was the problem.
The morning after, when he had looked at her with sleepy affection softening his entire face, something inside her tightened painfully. Not because she disliked it. That would have been simpler. It was because she liked it too much.
Liked the feeling of waking up beside someone who reached for her instinctively. Liked the quiet intimacy of his hand brushing lazily over her skin while he spoke to her in that rough morning voice. Liked the warmth sitting low in her chest when he looked at her like she was something precious instead of intimidating.
It came quietly at first, the relief she felt, almost too subtle to notice. The strange easing of that old hollowness she carried everywhere, the one that had followed her even through victory and success and all the glittering perfection of the life she had built for herself. For years it had existed like an empty room inside her no achievement could fully fill.
But around him, sometimes, it dulled.
Not disappeared, it probably never would completely. But softened enough that she could almost pretend she was not lonely in the deepest parts of herself.
That scared her more than anything else ever had because she knew exactly what happened when you let yourself need people.
They left.
Or worse, they died.
And afterward you spent years carrying around the shape of their absence inside your body like an extra organ.
She had survived her mother’s death by learning how not to need anyone fully ever again. By becoming untouchable enough that no one could hollow her out like that twice.
Then Ilia arrived and ruined the balance of it.
He slipped into her life gradually, persistently, until his presence became something she started unconsciously searching for. A text from him after practice could improve her mood for hours. His voice on the phone late at night made hotel rooms feel less empty. Even his annoying habit of hovering near her after competitions had started feeling strangely comforting.
And that simply would not do because if he became important enough to lose, eventually he would.
Everyone did.
So naturally, she pulled away.
Not completely, which was probably the cruelest part of it all. She always gave him just enough warmth to keep him reaching for her.
At first, it was subtle. She stopped answering immediately when he texted. Left messages unread for hours despite staring at them the moment they arrived. Became colder around him in public, less openly affectionate when cameras or other skaters were nearby.
She wouldn’t even smile.
Not because she stopped wanting him but because she wanted him too much. Every act of distance became a kind of test she couldn’t stop herself from performing. A terrible little experiment.
If I push, will you still come back?
If I hurt you, will you stay?
If I become difficult enough, cruel enough, exhausting enough, will you finally leave me first so I can stop waiting for it to happen?
And every single time, he returned anyway.
At first, that soothed something inside her, then it started making things worse. Because the more consistently he stayed, the more she believed him. And the more she believed him, the more dangerous he became to her.
One afternoon after practice, he found her sitting alone near the boards in an oversized black sweater, long legs crossed elegantly beneath her while she scrolled absently through her phone.
The second he sat beside her, warmth flickered instinctively through her chest.
“You disappeared after training yesterday,” he said.
“Did I?” she murmured without looking up.
“You know you did.”
Of course she knew.
She had spent the entire afternoon deliberately ignoring his texts while simultaneously rereading them every fifteen minutes like a lunatic.
A faint smile touched her mouth before she could stop it.
“I had somewhere to be.”
“You could’ve told me.”
Finally, she glanced at him.
Why?
The answer sat ugly and vulnerable inside her immediately because some irrational part of her liked that he noticed when she was gone. It mattered to her now whether he looked for her afterward. She had started carrying him around emotionally in ways she did not know how to undo.
But instead she tilted her head lightly and asked, “Would you have missed me?”
And there it was again. That familiar shift in his expression. The way she could physically watch him lose balance around her.
“I did miss you,” he admitted quietly.
Something soft moved painfully through her chest, so she just had to ruin it instantly.
“That’s cute.”
His face fell just slightly before irritation covered it over.
The emotional games grew meaner after that. Enough to destabilize him whenever he started sounding too certain about her.
She disappeared into crowds at events knowing he would watch. Spoke too long to beautiful men because she could feel his mood shift from across rooms now. Left conversations unfinished. Withheld affection right when he relaxed into it.
Every small act created distance again.
Distance felt safer.
But the problem was that she had started needing his presence too and that was the contradiction slowly tearing her apart.
And Ilia was starting to notice the pattern too.
At first he tolerated it because he was too infatuated to fully challenge her. Too overwhelmed by wanting her. But slowly frustration began building underneath the devotion.
Small cracks appearing beneath his patience. He started going quiet sometimes after she pushed too far.
At first it was small things, easy enough to miss if she had not already become hyperaware of every shift in him. The way his laughter would thin slightly after one of her sharper comments. The way he sometimes stopped reaching for her immediately afterward, like he needed a second to recover from her. Occasionally he would pull back just enough to make space between them, not enough to leave, never enough for that, but enough that she felt the absence instantly.
And she hated it.
That frightened her most of all, because for months she had been testing the limits of him without fully admitting it to herself. Pushing and pulling, hurting and softening, constantly searching for reassurance in the ugliest possible way. Some desperate part of her needed proof that no matter what she did, he would still return.
Now she was beginning to understand there might actually be a limit.
The worst part was that she knew exactly how to keep him from reaching it.
She always softened at the precise moment before real damage settled in permanently. It had become instinctive now, the way cruelty and tenderness balanced each other inside her. Every time she pushed him too far, she would unconsciously pull him close again before he could fully slip away.
A hand drifting absently through his hair while they lay alone together.
Late-night calls where her voice turned warm and sleepy and honest enough to make him forget all the colder versions of it.
Kisses against his jaw while half asleep, careless little displays of affection she never acknowledged afterward.
Tiny moments of sincerity scattered between acts of cruelty like breadcrumbs.
Enough to keep him hoping.
Enough to keep him confused.
Enough to keep him hers.
But slowly, something in him was changing anyway.
One night in Milan, after a gala where she had spent nearly the entire evening charming some Romanian model mostly because she knew Ilia was watching, they ended up alone together in the backseat of a car heading toward the hotel.
The city blurred outside the windows while silence settled heavily between them.
“You did that on purpose,” he said finally.
She turned her head slightly, expression smooth. “Did what?”
His laugh came quiet and humorless.
“You know exactly what.”
She pretended not to notice how tired he sounded. “Aw,” she murmured softly. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“You look jealous.”
This time, he didn’t rise to it immediately. He just leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tight as lights moved in fractured patterns across his face.
“I’m annoyed.”
The answer lingered strangely in the car.
Not embarrassed or playful.
Exhausted.
And for the first time, guilt twisted unpleasantly in her stomach instead of satisfaction.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself.
“You know,” she said lightly, “I actually think this is good for you.”
His eyes narrowed slowly. “What is?”
“The humbling experience.”
Usually he would have laughed despite himself. Usually she could feel the tension loosen again once she steered things back into teasing. But this time, nothing softened in him.
He just stared out the window quietly afterward, the muscles in his jaw tightening once before settling again.
And suddenly the silence inside the car became unbearable.
Something cold slipped into her chest then, not because he was angry but because he sounded tired of her.
The realization hollowed her out instantly.
For the first time, she could genuinely picture him reaching the end of whatever this was between them. Quietly deciding one day that loving her was too exhausting to survive.
And still, even sitting there with panic slowly spreading through her ribs, she did not know how to stop doing this to him. Cruelty had become tangled too tightly with self-protection inside her. Every time she felt herself caring too much, something sharp rose instinctively to meet it.
Because if she let him become important enough, truly important, then eventually he would be able to destroy her.
Or leave her.
And deep down, she was no longer sure which possibility terrified her more.
❅
The thing that finally broke them was so small from the outside that most people would not have understood why it mattered.
It happened after Grand Prix Final.
He had skated beautifully. Not perfectly, but beautifully in the way she had always wanted from him. More open now, less mechanical. There was emotion in his skating lately that had not existed before, vulnerability threaded carefully beneath all that impossible technical precision.
And she knew, with a sick twisting certainty, that she had something to do with it.
He looked for her immediately afterward.
He always looked for her first.
Only this time, she was nowhere to be found.
No text.
No congratulations.
Nothing.
At first he thought she had gotten caught with press or sponsors. Then an hour passed. Then another. And eventually someone showed him the photos.
She had left the event early with an actor.
Hand in hand.
Laughing.
The images spread quickly online, polished and intimate enough to imply exactly what she intended them to imply.
It should not have hurt as badly as it did because rationally, he knew she owed him nothing. They had never defined whatever this was between them. She had never promised him exclusivity or commitment or safety.
But emotionally—
Emotionally it felt like she had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart until it bled.
And worse than the jealousy was the realization underneath it that she had done it deliberately. Not because she wanted the actor because she wanted to see if he would still come back afterward.
For the first time since meeting her, something inside him finally broke instead of bent.
He did not call her.
Did not text.
Did not chase.
And when she reached out two days later with one of her usual breezy little messages “u alive?” or “did male ego finally kill you?” he left it unanswered.
At first she tried to pretend it didn’t hurt her
She sent another text six hours later.
Still ignoring me? Dramatic.
Nothing.
Then another.
This silent treatment thing is supposed to be my move.
Still nothing.
And suddenly she understood, with sharp nauseating clarity, that he was serious.
She had always assumed he would come back eventually. Always. Even angry, even hurt, even exhausted.
But now there was only silence. Cold and terrifying and familiar in the worst possible way.
The loneliness returned immediately after that.
The old emptiness inside her chest, the one he had slowly softened without her noticing, came rushing back all at once. Hotel rooms felt unbearable again. Victories felt dull. Every good thing in her life suddenly seemed too quiet without him there to witness it.
For the first time in years, she cried alone after a competition and the worst part was understanding she had done this to herself because somewhere along the way, she had stopped testing whether he would stay.
She had simply started hurting him out of fear he eventually wouldn’t.
She went looking for him three weeks later.
It was past midnight when she finally stood outside his place, rain collecting on the edges of the sidewalk while the city glowed faintly around her in blurred reflections. For several long seconds, she stayed completely still beneath the awning, staring at the lit windows above like she might still turn around and leave before he ever saw her.
Part of her wanted to.
Because suddenly, after weeks of silence, after all the certainty she usually carried so effortlessly, she felt terrified in a way she had not expected. Not of him exactly, but of the possibility that he would open the door and look at her with nothing left in his eyes. Just indifference.
The thought alone made something cold spread through her spine.
By the time he finally opened the door, her pulse was pounding hard enough to make her feel faint.
And God, he looked tired.
Not angry in the explosive way she had imagined during every sleepless night leading up to this moment. Worse than angry. Like the last few weeks had slowly ripped something out of him piece by piece. His hair was still damp from a shower, a gray hoodie hanging low on his frame, and for a second neither of them spoke. The familiar warmth of his apartment spilled softly around him into the hallway, carrying the faint smell of coffee and his laundry detergent.
She smiled lightly because she did not know what else to do.
“Well,” she said softly, forcing something teasing into her voice, “this is getting embarrassing for both of us now.”
Nothing changed in his expression.
Usually, by now, something in him would have softened automatically just from seeing her standing there again. Irritated maybe, but still visibly affected by her in that helpless way she had spent months simultaneously craving and resenting.
Now he only looked tired.
“You’re really going to keep ignoring me forever?” she tried again, quieter this time.
He stepped aside eventually, letting her inside without a word.
The apartment was dim except for the warm glow of a lamp near the couch. Clothes were draped carelessly over a chair, skating tape stacked unevenly on the coffee table beside half-finished mugs of coffee. It looked lived in. Comfortable, intimate in a way that made her chest ache unexpectedly.
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
Then finally, without looking directly at her, he spoke.
“You left with another guy just to upset me.”
There was no accusation in his tone. No jealousy sharp enough for her to twist into something playful. Just exhaustion.
She folded her arms instinctively, retreating into herself before she even realized she was doing it. “You don’t know that.”
A quiet humorless laugh escaped him.
“See?” he murmured, finally looking at her properly. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Something defensive flared immediately in her chest. “Oh my God, are we seriously doing this?”
“Yes!”
The force behind the word startled her into silence.
“Yes,” he repeated, voice rougher now. “We are.”
She went still then, because there was anger in him she had never really seen before. Not loud anger or emotional chaos. Worse. Controlled anger. The kind built slowly over time from accumulated hurt.
And suddenly she realized, with a sick twisting certainty, that she had done that to him.
“I’m tired,” he said quietly.
The words landed heavier than shouting would have.
“You don’t get to keep treating me like shit just because you know I love you.”
Her breath caught violently in her chest.
He had never said it like that before. Never stripped it so bare between them without hiding behind humor or flirting or tension.
It left her speechless.
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he interrupted immediately, frustration finally cracking through the exhaustion. “You know exactly what you’re doing every single time.”
She opened her mouth again automatically, ready to defend herself the way she always did, but nothing came out. Because the horrible thing was that he was right.
“You disappear every time things get too real,” he continued, stepping closer now. “You pull me in and then punish me for being there. You keep testing me over and over like eventually I’ll prove whatever it is you want me to prove if I stay long enough.”
Her chest tightened more.
“You think if you hurt me first,” he said more softly now, “then maybe it won’t kill you when I leave.”
Silence flooded the room afterward.
Not empty silence. The kind so full of truth it became almost unbearable to stand inside.
Her eyes burned instantly.
“No,” she whispered automatically, but even she could hear how weak the denial sounded.
He looked at her for a long moment, and something in his face broke slightly.
“And I kept letting you do it,” he admitted quietly. “Because I love you so much I stopped caring about what it was doing to me.”
That was what finally shattered her.
Not the anger or the harsh accusation, but the love.
The awful unwavering tenderness of it after everything she had done to him.
The tears came immediately and violently enough to genuinely frighten her. She turned away at once, one hand pressing hard against her mouth while she fought desperately for control that simply was not there anymore.
“Great,” she choked out bitterly through a broken laugh. “This is so humiliating.”
His expression changed instantly.
Shock first, then concern so immediate and genuine it almost looked painful because she never cried.
Not in front of people.
Not even in front of him.
“Hey,” he said softly, taking a step toward her.
She shook her head hard before he could get closer. “Don’t.”
Another tear slipped free anyway, then another, and suddenly it felt like her entire body was betraying her. Years and years of carefully contained emotion pushing violently to the surface all at once.
“I hate this,” she whispered, voice breaking apart. “I hate that I can’t just—I can’t—”
Frustration hit her so hard she pressed both hands against her own face like she physically could not force the words out properly.
That was the horrible truth of it: she wanted to tell him everything.
Wanted to tell him she had missed him so badly the silence made her feel physically ill. Wanted to admit that every cruel thing she had done came from terror rather than malice. That loving him had become unbearable because it made her feel fragile in ways she had spent years teaching herself not to be.
But every time the honesty rose inside her chest, something deeper recoiled violently from it.
Like her body itself no longer knew how to survive vulnerability.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered desperately through tears. “Every time I try to say something real, it feels like I physically can’t get the words out. I don’t know how to let people in without feeling like they’re eventually going to stab me in the back.”
And hearing her say it like that nearly made his heart stop.
He crossed the room carefully then, both hands lifting instinctively to hold her face as though he were handling something impossibly fragile. His thumbs brushed softly beneath her eyes, wiping tears away while she trembled beneath his touch.
He placed the gentlest kisses on her cheeks before speaking again.
“Why won’t you let me love you?” he asked so quietly it was almost a whisper.
The question cracked something open inside her.
There it was. The thing she had been running from all this time.
It was never him, it was never commitment.
But love itself.
The unbearable terrifying reality of needing someone enough that the thought of losing them alone could turn you into a pathetic sobbing mess.
Her mouth trembled violently before she finally whispered the truth.
“I don’t know how to.”
The raw honesty of it softened something inside him completely.
Because suddenly, for the first time, he understood the full shape of it.
It was never that she enjoyed hurting him. Not really. The cruelty, the games, the constant pushing and pulling had never come from malice in the way he sometimes convinced himself they did during the worst moments. It was fear. Fear sharpened into instinct after years of teaching herself that vulnerability only ended in abandonment.
She had not been loving him incorrectly on purpose.
She simply did not know any other way to do it.
Everything she felt came out twisted sideways. Affection became teasing sharp enough to wound. Need became distance. Fear of losing him became attempts to make him leave first so at least she could control the timing of it. Every cruel thing she did had really just been panic wearing expensive perfume and a beautiful smile.
Underneath all of it, beneath the arrogance and manipulation and impossible emotional whiplash, she had been trying in the only ways she knew how. Poorly. Destructively. But genuinely.
It was never that she didn’t love him.
Never that she didn’t care.
It was that nobody had ever taught her how to hold love gently without waiting for it to disappear.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered.
Fresh tears spilled down her face at the tenderness in his voice because no one had ever looked at her like this before. Not with pity or with overwhelming expectation. Just love.
Steady and patient and heartbreakingly gentle.
He rested his forehead softly against hers.
“I’ll teach you,” he murmured.
That’s what broke her completely.
A shattered sob escaped her before she could stop it and suddenly she was clutching desperately at the front of his hoodie like she was afraid he might disappear if she loosened her grip even slightly.
And for the first time in years, she let someone hold her while she fell apart honestly.
Not gracefully. Not beautifully. There was nothing elegant about the way her breathing kept breaking apart against his chest or the way her hands clutched desperately at the fabric of his hoodie like she was afraid he might disappear if she loosened her grip even slightly. But he held her through all of it without hesitation, one hand moving slowly up and down her back while the other stayed cradled gently against the back of her head.
Emotion closed painfully around his throat as he held her there.
He kept whispering soft little reassurances close to her ear without even thinking about them, words warm and quiet and impossibly tender. Every so often he pressed small kisses against her temple, her hair, the damp skin beneath her eyes, like he was trying to love every fractured part of her gently back together.
Eventually her breathing began to steady against him.
Not completely. She still trembled slightly every now and then, but the sharp desperation slowly softened into exhaustion instead. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at her properly again, her face was flushed and tear-streaked, eyes swollen and vulnerable in a way he had never seen before.
And yet she smiled at him.
Softly.
Almost shyly.
The sight of it hit him so hard it nearly hurt.
He leaned in instinctively after that, kissing her slowly this time, carefully, like he was terrified of startling her back into running again. And when she kissed him back, something inside her finally loosened for the first time in longer than she could remember.
Not all at once.
Grief rarely worked that way.
The loneliness she had carried her entire life did not suddenly vanish just because someone loved her enough to stay. The fear was still there too, somewhere deep inside her, quiet and wounded and waiting for loss the way frightened things always do.
But standing there wrapped in his arms, feeling him hold her like she was something worth staying for instead of something difficult to survive, she realized something quite life-changing.
Maybe love was not another thing waiting to abandon her.
Maybe this time, if she stopped running from it long enough—
Author’s note: #VentingTime I know she's like a walking red flag and Sabrina is a walking red flag in this song, but I aspire to be this. I'm so dooooneeee with being nice to men!!!! I'll leave the next one feeling like a shell of a man, I swear Sabrina!!!
jj was sprawled across the hammock on the chateau porch, one arm hanging off the side while pope argued with kie over some dumb board game rule nobody actually cared about.
you sat cross-legged on the wooden steps, stealing fries out of john b’s carton while pretending not to notice the way people kept looking between you and jj lately.
it had started as a joke.
one stupid joke.
jj had thrown his arm around your shoulder at the boneyard one night and called you “baby” loud enough for half the island to hear, and suddenly everyone decided you were together.
and honestly neither of you corrected them. “you know kelce asked me if we were dating today,” you muttered.
jj snorted from the hammock. “what’d you say?”
“told him you cry after one beer and have severe mommy issues.”
“wow.” he placed a hand over his heart dramatically.
“you do cry after one beer.”
“only emotionally.”
pope groaned. “please stop flirting. some of us are trying to win.”
“jealous?” jj shot back instantly.
you laughed softly, shaking your head.
it was easy with jj. always easy. people saw the touching, the teasing, the way he always looked for you first in every room, and made assumptions.
the pogues especially which was exactly why none of them noticed when your phone buzzed with a text that made your stomach flip.
rafe: outside.
your heartbeat immediately sped up. you stood too quickly. “uh — i gotta go home for a sec.”
kie narrowed her eyes. “at nine?”
“my aunt needs help.”
jj looked suspicious for exactly two seconds before shrugging. “bring me back chips.”
“using me for my body.”
“using you for sour cream and onion, actually.”
you flipped him off affectionately before hurrying down the porch steps. and the second you rounded the side of the house there he was, leaning against his bike in the dark, black tee clinging to his arms, silver chain catching in the moonlight.
Rafe Cameron looked unfairly pretty at night. “you took forever,” he said.
“my friends exist, rafe.”
he grabbed your wrist the second you got close enough, tugging you between his legs where he stood beside the bike. “missed you.”
your face warmed instantly. “i saw you yesterday.”
“still missed you.”
his hands slid around your waist like muscle memory, and god, this was exactly why the rumors about you and jj were so convenient.
nobody suspected a thing because if the pogues found out you were secretly hooking up with rafe cameron? especially jj? absolute disaster. “you know everyone thinks i’m dating jj now,” you murmured.
rafe rolled his eyes immediately. “yeah, heard about that.”
“you jealous?” his jaw ticked which was answer enough and you grinned. “aw.”
“don’t start.”
“you are jealous.”
“i just think he touches you too much.”
you barked out a laugh. “you literally have me pinned against a bike right now.”
“different.”
“how?”
“because you’re mine.”
the words came out low. automatic. like he didn’t even realize he’d said them. your stomach flipped violently. rafe noticed your expression and immediately looked away, muttering, “whatever.”
“rafe.” you reached up, forcing him to look at you again. “that was kinda cute.”
“shut up.” he was blushing. actually blushing. you started laughing so hard he grabbed your face with one hand. “keep laughing and i’m leaving.”
“you adore me.”
“unfortunately.”
then he kissed you ,slow at first.
which nobody would believe if you told them, because rafe cameron acted meaner than he actually was. but with you, he always kissed you like he had something to prove and something to protect at the same time.
your fingers curled into his shirt when headlights suddenly flashed down the road. you both jerked apart instantly. “shit,” you whispered.
rafe glanced toward the street. “is that —”
“jj’s van.”
“you’re kidding.”
panic exploded through your body as the van got closer. “hide.”
“hide where?”
“i don’t know, rich boy, figure it out—”
before you could finish, rafe grabbed your waist and pulled you behind the side fence just as jj’s van rolled past slowly.
the window was down and for one horrifying second jj looked directly toward the yard.
your breathing stopped, rafe’s hand tightening on your hip. the van paused then finally kept driving. silence. you both waited another few seconds before exhaling at the same time.
“that was close,” you whispered.
rafe looked down at you, lips twitching slightly. “kinda hot though.”
you smacked his chest immediately while he laughed quietly against your forehead.
ilia malinin ― all's well that ends well to end up with you
𝓸r ── .✦ when you're in a relationship with someone for over three years, it's hard to let them go. harder when you grew up just a few homes apart. especially difficult when they've become your home. months of pettiness masking pain, anonymous posts that sounded too familiar to be distant, and the crumbled remains of a dream, all bloom into a mess of everything but closure. and, of course, one moment of weakness that makes you realize exactly what you're giving up.
⟢ 𝓻achel: i know i lowkey said i wasn't going to torture anyone with more angst but...initially this fic was planned to be based around the anonymous exposé and be a crapshoot but then i angstmaxxed and here we are at fourteen thousand words and the most maternal i've ever been for a reader/ilia pair. uhhhhhhhh so enjoy the angst and smut and fluff and everything i love them!!!
── tags below the cut .ᐟ
𝓬ontent: smut mdni, angst, ex!ilia, lots of implied sex, making out, very semi-public sex, shower sex, unprotected sex, fingering, handjob, #angstsex, slight aftercare, co-dependency lowkey, breakup, february 13th, loooots of fluff, they're so in love, nicknames :], reader's roommate has a crazzzy coincidence, dirty jokes in a public rink, lots of great surprises, yay happy ending :3
ᯓ♪ lover - taylor swift | lover, you should have come over - jeff buckley | bad idea right? - olivia rodrigo
in the life of two souls, cursed with distance, bound by love; excerpts in time.
frozen moments of us.
— — —
JANUARY, 2026.
"ilia malinin drools when he sleeps."
the post surfaces from an anonymous account on twitter. some user640388337, a nobody. behind it? identity unknown.
to the public, at least.
it wasn't meant to spread across the figure skating community and accumulate nearly a thousand likes in one day. realistically speaking, the odds of it happening are low; extremely low, at that, given the thirteen followers it started with. mostly bots.
it only took one person to repost. then another, and another, and suddenly, your phone is blowing up on your nightstand at ten o'clock at night.
it's harmless, anyway. no one would actually believe a faceless, joined december 2025 user.
to do that is about as intelligent as believing a reddit poster.
you laugh, place the phone face down where it was before, and roll over to sleep.
rule of thumb: when your figure skater ex-boyfriend appears on nbc for "making team usa" in the olympics, you log on to twitter and embarrass him.
if he can be petty and wear your clothes on air after you've broken up, then why can't you make a harmless little hate post?
— — —
OCTOBER, 2022.
he was always shorter than you.
in every photo of the two of you over the years, you always towered over him. but you took care of him, even if he was actually a few months older. it was funny how it took years to realize that you lived just a few houses away from one another, on the same street, even. but when you did, you suddenly spent every waking moment together.
most people thought you had to be related; you were attached at the hip.
tonight is no different.
"you look really pretty," ilia tells you softly. his hands clasp around your waist, your own around his neck.
homecoming; you'd come together as friends. best friends. the kid who barely showed up to school because of his "special schedule," and the girl who was always beside him.
you always liked each other a little more than you let on.
like the day on the playground, when he approached you under the slide, pecked your lips, and ran away mischievously. you'd pretended to be disgusted, but really, your heart was racing.
something unspoken dusts over your cheeks. "thank you," you whisper back.
"i mean it."
he sounds so sure that it scares you.
you don't pull away when he leans in.
the kiss is soft, a little hesitant. but it's warm, and it makes you forget that you're standing in an old gymnasium, surrounded by people you can't really stand.
his fingers flex on your lower back as he breaks off. he looks — proud, almost.
you were mad when the growth spurt hit earlier this year.
ilia, on the other hand, got to lean down to kiss you.
"sorry, was that okay?"
"i don't know," you shrug, "maybe you should try again."
his lips curve into a smile — and his head shakes — as his head cranes again, and this time, you meet him halfway.
your fingers trail carefully into the brown hair at the nape of his neck, opposite palm finding his shoulder. it's careful, still a little nervous. your hands shake.
but you're smiling.
and ilia malinin might just be the happiest man alive.
— — —
JUNE, 2023.
"you should visit the school one day."
ilia pulls up from your neck, "if i can find the time, i will."
"it's only two hours from here," your fingers trace his shoulder blade through his thin t-shirt. "i move back in the first week of august. you won't be competing then yet, right?"
"no," he shakes his head.
"do you want to help?"
your voice is soft. a little nervous, as if he'd decline.
"you can meet liliana. she's really nice."
he smiles, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "then i'm busy that day."
you pull him back down and kiss him again, tangling your fingers into his short, soft strands of hair, freshly bleached for the first time.
which, you'd reacted to accordingly a few days ago.
you never quite made it back home that night.
he grins against your lips. you mirror the stretch and bend your knee at his waist, letting the edge rest against him.
"i wish i didn't have to go back," you murmur into his mouth, the noise quiet, muffled.
"wish i didn't have to compete."
his hips apply pressure to yours; you almost don't notice the subtle grind, the shift in weight above you. your eyes instinctively flutter.
"you have an olympic appearance to worry about," you counter, voice a little weak at the edges.
"in three years."
his palm finds your kneecap and rests upon the surface. grounding. warm.
you squirm. kiss a little firmer.
as his lips disconnect from yours, "let's just run away."
"what about your competitions?"
"fuck them."
"and your family?"
"fuck them, too," he moans into your mouth, at which you laugh and flatten a palm to his chest, pushing him away.
"you're crazy," you add lazily. "now c'mon, you said you were supposed to stream. go do that. i'll be right here."
ilia rolls his eyes. "mm, few more minutes."
"you told people six o'clock. which, you never do. you usually hop on and hope for the best," you lecture. "it's already five past, and i have to schedule my classes for next semester, so go."
he sighs and moves to his computer, albeit begrudgingly.
he opts for minecraft — simple, calming, not too much noise to distract you. speaks quietly into the microphone. only a few bursts of sound when he falls into a ravine or gets slain by a skeleton he hadn't seen. and a laugh from the peanut gallery (you).
you type at your computer, studying the courses and making sense of the options. now, there are plenty of seats open, enough to choose from to maintain your part-time work schedule.
you click on your fourth and final course, weigh in the options, and opt for the simplest morning class.
realizing you left your bag leaning against the leg of his desk, you lift your head.
"baby, can you hand me my bag?"
your eyes shoot open. hand flies to your mouth. a soft fuck muffled by your palm.
ilia hesitates.
"uh, yeah, that's my friend," he tries to recover to the chat, most questions popping up from — of course — a few people in particular; they're too pushy for his liking. "no, guys, she said maybe. not baby. ew. hold on."
he clicks the mic into its muted position and leans over, wrapping his fingers around the bag's handle. it slings onto the bed for you to grab.
you cock a brow.
"maybe?"
"do you have a better suggestion, sherlock?" he folds his arms and cranes his neck; you pout in response. "exactly. now go back to your school shit, or whatever."
you flip him off.
he blows a kiss.
initially, your parents wanted to keep your and ilia's relationship private. they didn't want your seventeen-year-old self in the limelight that way. you couldn't blame them, partly. for ilia, it already seemed like too much spotlight, and he was still on the rise, barely scratching the surface of recognition.
then, you went off to your first semester of college.
met friends, matured, lived alongside liliana for a year, who has been nothing but kind to you.
you're nineteen. old enough to make the decision for yourself.
you decided to stay private.
it's simpler. calmer. less noise. and you're not apt for the spotlight.
plus, you get ilia all to yourself when the cameras are off. and you like that.
thankfully, the chat loses its memory, and your slip-up becomes a thing of the past.
you lean against the headboard and watch quietly this time, clutching one of ilia's toothless plushies in your arms.
and you watch. admire. quietly. a tiny smile shaping your lips.
waiting for him to return to you.
— — —
AUGUST, 2023.
"i think you'll love him."
you place a heavy box onto the bare mattress and step back with your hands on your hips. a bead of sweat forms on your forehead and drips down. "phew, that's heavy."
"i'm excited," your roommate muses. "you never shut up about him last year."
"that's not true."
"is so."
you roll your eyes, "well, he should be coming up any minute. i convinced him to take more stuff up. y'know, athlete strength."
"athlete? i didn't know he played a sport," liliana mentions, cocking her head. she pulls a rolled-up poster out of one of her boxes.
"really? i swear i told you."
you furrow your brows and rack your brain, but you suppose it never came up. you were pretty busy last year, and you almost always went home on the weekends. naturally, it makes sense.
"well, he figure skates."
liliana's eyes narrow.
"what did you say his name was again?"
you part your lips to respond. "ilia…?"
her eyes shut, and she huffs out a particularly irritated breath. "no fucking way."
confused, you blink.
"like, the quad axel?"
"…yeah," you smile bashfully.
she doesn't look amused. "like, ilia malinin. like, the quad god guy."
"yes?" you confirm again, your tone a little stale as if you've just stated the obvious. "wait, you know him?"
you rack your brain. every conversation you've ever had with her swirls around like a hot mess.
it clicks when you remember u.s. nationals, back in january.
you'd come back to an oddly dissatisfied roommate. and then she added something to her story that you hadn't processed at the time.
oh, boy.
YOU: i think my roommate hates u
ILIA: what why
YOU: uh
YOU: you'll see
ILIA: ?????
you slip your phone back into your pocket. "i didn't even realize you watched figure skating."
"i know you're fucking lying," she laughs unamusedly, almost accusatively. there isn't a drop of evidence on your face that you're not telling the truth, but she'll be damned to let you play in her face.
"he's literally bringing half of my shit up here, lily."
"that'll be the day that ilia 'quad god' malinin steps into my dor—"
the door slams open.
"okay, i'm — fuck — i'm here," ilia pants, dropping the two boxes (and bag over his shoulder) onto the floor.
you puff air into your cheeks.
this won't be awkward.
he looks between you two; something stale sits in the air. he can't quite place it. ilia isn't really great with social cues.
"liliana, right?" he asks, stepping up to introduce himself. "i'm—"
"ilia malinin."
the name breezes past her lips with malice.
"wait, huh?"
"i know you," she replies through gritted teeth, reaching for the poster she'd taken out. she removes the elastic and lets the thick paper fall open; then, it all makes sense to him.
yuzuru hanyu.
your roommate is a fanyu, and your boyfriend is ilia fucking malinin.
it sounds like the punchline of a bad joke.
"oh," ilia mumbles.
"uh…" you chuckle nervously, "so now that we've determined you're — uhm — well-acquainted with him…already..."
"you could say that."
ilia scratches his head. "i can go," he suggests, thumbing towards the door. "if i'm not," he scratches the back of his neck, "wanted."
"no, you're staying here," you tell him firmly.
you watch lily carefully set the poster onto her bed. her hands find her hips. she doesn't even look angry. unsettled, if anything. shocked, too.
it's not that you're a nobody, or anything, but she hadn't expected her photography major roommate's boyfriend to be who is essentially her archenemy, if you read between the lines.
you never posted anything about him. you don't even follow him. how the hell would she know?
"you stole it from him," she mutters.
you palm your forehead.
"oh my god, the jump? that's what has your panties in a twist?" you roll your eyes. "lily, you've got to be kidding."
"he did!"
"it's a jump!"
"i'm not like, mean," ilia interrupts to clarify; you palm your forehead. "i like him, too! i'm a big fan of his."
"you said he was pissed about you landing the stupid quad axel."
"jesus, i was kidding."
"oh, you know you weren't," she huffs.
"well, was i wrong? last i checked, he didn't land it."
"when i tell my group chat about this—"
"no," you and ilia interrupt in unison.
"we're keeping it private," you continue, hands out in surrender to keep her at ease. you've never had to walk around eggshells with her before. it seems necessary.
"don't tell anyone. no one knows he has a girlfriend. we intend to keep it that way."
lily cocks a brow. "how long have you two been together?"
"dude," ilia scoffs.
you slap his arm.
"i told you," you remind her. "it'll be a year in october."
"right. yeah," she huffs. "you did."
"well, i haven't unpacked anything yet. so…you can either get over whatever hate you've got going on, or i'm switching dorms."
the two of you eye her like she's a ticking time bomb.
she steps back and lowers her arms to her sides.
you glance at ilia.
he shrugs.
"okay, well." she empties more decorations from the box and litters them onto the mattress. "i guess i'll just have to get used to him, then. i like you."
"i'm a person, you know. with ears?"
"oh, i'm sure you are."
"lily!"
"you're bitter for someone who doesn't even know yuzuru personally," he adds.
"oh my god, will both of you shut the fuck up?" you palm your forehead and drag it down your face, letting out a heavy sigh. "this is stupid."
you dart your finger towards your roommate. "you need to stop eyeing my boyfriend like you want his knees bashed in." you turn to ilia, "and you need to take your ego down a peg. do i make myself clear?"
"yes," the two mumble in unison.
"great."
lily grabs her keys and moves the emptied box onto the floor. "luckily for you, i have more stuff to grab. i'll be back."
she leaves the room, and the door clicks shut behind her.
"well," you cough. "now you've met my roommate."
ilia laughs, steps closer. "she's something."
"yeah, but," you frown, toying with the hem of his gray t-shirt. "i really wanted her to like you."
"she'll come around," he reassures you, arms resting on your shoulders.
"i hope so."
spoiler alert: she eventually does.
— — —
MAY, 2024.
user640388337: "ilia malinin wears women's aerie shorts."
it isn't often that ilia spends the night at your house.
usually, you shack up in his bedroom. it has more space, more entertainment, and his mother always cooks dinner and prepares the house for you.
tatiana adores you.
but, your parents were set to spend the weekend one state away. so, naturally, you figured he could visit your house for once.
tldr; you didn't have to fuck at the rink, or excruciatingly quietly in his room.
you're barely finished when the sound of your father's car chirps.
"what the fuck?" you crane your head to the window. "oh, god."
"what?" ilia mumbles, face left buried in your neck.
"parents are home."
"fuck."
he springs from the bed and scans the room for any sign of his clothing. a thick hoodie sticks out from the corner, tucked beneath your desk chair. he grabs it and slips it over his head.
you search the floor, find your own pajamas to tug back on as if they'd never left.
"where are my pants?"
you turn to your boyfriend, "i don't know, i can't find them, either."
he rummages through the sheets to no avail, while your heart races. something downstairs sounds too much like approaching footsteps.
"oh my god, ilia, just pick something up and go."
he grabs the first pair of shorts he can find and slips them on.
they barely fit around his ass.
you stifle a laugh.
"can you not. right now."
"nah," you giggle. "this is funny."
he rolls his eyes. the footsteps draw too close.
"fuck, go," you usher him towards the window and yank it open. "someone is coming. unless you want me to get put on 'ilia timeout' again, you gotta get the fuck out of my room."
"okay, okay, yeah."
he climbs out. hits the grass with a thud, but manages to somehow land on two unbroken feet.
he flashes you a thumbs-up.
"now go home before someone sees you in booty shorts."
ilia then walks down the street with his head in his hands.
because he will be damned to be caught taking the walk of shame out of your house in the middle of the night with yellow women's aerie shorts on that don't even fit right.
the quad god does not roll like that.
— — —
DECEMBER, 2024.
one of your favorite days of the year has always been ilia's birthday.
as kids, you'd celebrate together by doing christmas activities, long after his birthday parties had ended. you'd make a gingerbread house every year and decorate it with the things you liked.
one year, it was minecraft-themed. another, you'd convinced him to make it star wars.
as you grew older, the parties and festivities wore off. but even up until today, you never stopped the gingerbread tradition.
and of course, you got him something every year as a gift.
yours were always his favorite.
"illie, you're twenty years old now," you sigh. "can you stop eating our roofing?"
a glob of blue icing smears across his lip; he licks it off.
"i can't help it if our roofing tastes good."
this year's theme is fortnite. he'd been begging for years, and finally, you gave in. only because you love him — and maybe because it's kind of a milestone year.
you even printed out tiny little pieces of paper with your skins on them.
like clockwork, when he's over the honeymoon phase of eating your supplies, he hyperfocuses. you're never sure if it's from the sugar rush or if he just gets bored with eating the frosting instead of doing the work. either way, you eventually get your help.
you take photos when it's done, set it onto the windowsill in the kitchen, and pad up the stairs to his room — your home away from home, most nights.
the moonlight illuminates ilia's room, his face beneath you as your hips rest in his lap, lips connected softly in the darkness.
your mouth travels over the expanse of his cheek, pressing slow, gentle kisses into his fair skin. you feel the stretch of his smile and the carefulness of his touch at your waist, drawing you closer.
"you want your gift?"
he nods.
you climb out of his lap and grab the gift bag you'd placed beside his desk earlier today. putting it in his hands, you straddle his knees again.
your eyes watch intently as he pulls the tissue paper out and carefully takes hold of the contents — a heavy black and gold case in his hands. you toss the bag back onto the floor.
"it's custom," you whisper as his eyes find the tiny "ilia" embroidered on the side. "it's for your console. and your controllers, and stuff. anything else you wanna bring."
you clear your throat, thumbs toying with one another in front of you, clearly nervous about the whole thing.
"it's supposed to prevent damage. and i know you like to take it with you for competitions, so…you can use it tomorrow, maybe…when you go," you explain. "i know it isn't much, but—"
"i love it."
your shoulders relax; ilia carefully leans the case against his nightstand.
"you do?"
he draws you closer, "it's perfect. thank you."
your lips curve into a downward smile.
"there was, uhm. one more thing, too."
"what is it?" he asks with furrowed brows, head tilted slightly.
you breathe, curling the tip of your index finger into the pair of sleep shorts at your waist. slowly, you pull the fabric down.
the motion exposes the deep red, lacy waistband snug around your waist.
his eyes shoot open; he looks up.
"bro, my parents are down the hall."
you snap the sleep shorts back into place and let the palm of your hand fall onto his bicep, just barely ghosting over the skin.
"when has that ever stopped you?"
"shit, you're right."
he pulls you into a kiss far deeper than the last. much hungrier, too.
he has a lot of ground to cover, after all the time he'd spent recently training for the grand prix final. so, given this half of your gift, and him leaving for france tomorrow, it's safe to say that you'll be staying the night.
he takes his time with you; admires the lace you'd been bashfully hiding, the way its color blends so perfectly with your skin. shines in the dim moonlight that highlights every dip and curve of your body.
prayers of "you're so gorgeous" and "i can't believe you're mine" spilling from his lips and seeping into the skin at your collarbone.
needless to say, minutes blend into hours. long, slow, time-consuming moments in the comfort of his four walls. drags of tongues and desperate touches upon heated skin.
repeated hums of "i love you" melting into your ears each time the words pass ilia's lips.
the clock hands lie somewhere between one and two when you finally relax into ilia's mattress. some old, half-stretched japanese shirt draped over your upper half. bodies on their sides, facing one another, faces inches apart.
heavy eyelids fighting to stay open as your palm lifts to his cheek.
"happy birthday, illie bear," you whisper, half-asleep.
ilia's expression morphs into confusion. "what did you call me?"
you offer a tired smile.
"illie bear," you repeat, thumb and index finger lightly pinching his cheek with a beaming smile.
"you need some sleep," he declares, and you giggle softly, lowering your hand to his flattened palm between you. you lace your fingers with his.
"only if you sleep, too."
"deal."
you fall asleep shortly after, letting the soft noise of wind outside the window and ilia's soft breaths lull you into relaxation. his pulse beats below your thumb.
the faint smile never leaves your cheeks, even in slumber.
— — —
JULY, 2025.
you always told him that hell would have to freeze over before he would ever catch you in a pair of ice skates.
yet somehow,
"oh my god, i'm gonna fucking die."
ilia laughs a few feet ahead of you, skating backwards to keep you from falling. "you're not gonna die."
"i cannot believe you convinced me to do this shit," you shout. "this is embarrassing!"
"hey, hey," he tuts, reaching to nudge your shoulder, and you grimace. "there are kids around."
"there are, like, two. and i do not care."
one of the kids skates into the center of the rink. she practices a waltz, a single loop. nothing too difficult to take up space or hinder the — albeit small-numbered — other skaters.
her eyes keep darting to ilia. it's subtle, but you notice. it's a sequence you know all too well. she recognizes him.
"hey," you pipe up, jerking your head towards center ice. "i think that girl knows who you are."
ilia turns. he offers the girl a little wave; she smiles and skates excitedly over to her mother, tugging at her sleeve.
"how is an eleven-year-old looking girl better at this than me?"
"this isn't her first time skating," he responds amusedly. "there are people here who have never even put skates on before. you used to when you were five, right?"
"yeah, and i have nothing to show for it."
okay, so you're not getting it.
fine. he'll just take matters into his own hands.
he lets you inch in front of him and puts his hand on top of yours. "hey," he whispers into your ear, "lift it off the boards."
hesitantly, you take it off.
you almost hurl forward.
ilia's hand on your waist keeps you upright.
"try to stay more on the inside edge. lean back a little."
"dude, what?"
he breathes.
"okay, just — don't walk. glide," he instructs, but the words mean nothing to you. "push off your foot."
a little boy, no older than seven, whizzes by and nearly knocks you over.
"this is embarrassing, i reiterate."
ilia laughs in your ear.
"you're thinking too much. just push."
you manage a few steps. they're messy, and you nearly toe-pick yourself on the second, but you're able to stay on your feet. accomplishments come in baby steps.
"that's it," he whispers. "good."
"thanks, illie bear," you giggle.
he scoffs, rolls his eyes. he'll never live that nickname down.
he leans closer, breath drifting past your nose. it smells faintly of the mint gum he's been chewing. refreshing. sharp.
you're still not quite getting it.
perhaps, you just need the proper motivation.
the whisper is so soft that even you almost don't hear it.
"if you can do one lap without me, i'll fuck you in the lounge when everyone's gone."
your head turns on a swivel. lips parted in a mix of shock and contemplation.
"that's nothing we haven't—"
"two, and you can sit on my face."
you leap out of his arms and hurl yourself forward.
you didn't even know you could do that.
ilia leans with an elbow on the boards to watch, fighting a hysterical laugh at your struggle. a bunch of people skate by, and at least a handful are struggling more than you ever were.
the gum smacks in his mouth as he watches you nearly faceplant about six times, more than entertained, by now. you pass him once without acknowledgment; he laughs harder.
truthfully, he didn't even think that was going to work.
fortunately, you're just as sex-crazed as him.
you don't quite know how to stop, so you speed into his arms to brace the impact.
"that's two," you declare.
"told you, you could do it."
you wave your hand. "yeah, yeah, just get me out of these things."
his hand snakes around your waist as he guides you to the open board.
"and to that lounge."
— — —
SEPTEMBER, 2025.
ILIA: [attachment: 1 image]
you smile at the pop-up, slipping into bed after a long, rough day. it's only seven o'clock — twelve, for ilia. falling back into your schooling schedule is always difficult, but this year, with your new roommates and the grueling schedule, it's hard to adjust.
they're your friends, and you love them, but it just makes some things more difficult.
YOU: i sawwww
YOU: congrats baby 🫶🫶 can u ft?
the call comes in without a proper response.
"hi illie bear," you whisper-yell, trying to be cognizant of the usually-asleep roman on the other side of the room.
ilia pouts.
"would you please stop it with that?" he complains. "and i have my earbuds in. you can talk."
you giggle, "i'm not stopping because you hate it."
you snuggle into the sheets and puff the pillow behind your neck, resting the phone against the crease above your chest to let him see your face.
"seriously though. how was everything? did it feel good? i know your costumes didn't come in time."
"besides that, it was good," he smiles. "i really like these programs."
"me too," you add. "i like your short. it's fun."
"you always say that."
"it's not every day your boyfriend is the coolest skater on the ice."
it's his turn to laugh. some days, you think it's your favorite noise in the world.
the light from his phone makes his eyes look extra blue, even from behind the glare in his glasses.
"show me the dorm."
you flip the camera and carefully flick on your lamp to its lowest setting. it's a quick scan of the room — not too much to report on, maybe besides the little poster of ilia on your wall, accompanied by a few clothes pinned polaroids hanging beside you.
"i like those," he tells you.
"me too."
when the room falls back into shade, and your face comes into view again, ilia swallows.
"how was your first week?"
"it was good. just a lot of syllabi and introductions, to be honest," you shrug. "your life is much more exciting."
"not true," he counters. "you're not here."
you frown theatrically, like a really overcustomized mii.
"aw, illie…"
you giggle when he rolls his eyes.
"i wish i were there, too," you pout. "but it's okay. i'm making all of the sacrifices now so i can see you kill it in milan."
he fights off a bashful smile.
"i can't wait to watch you."
"can't wait to have you there." after a few beats of silence, he rolls onto his side, taking the phone with him. "miss you already."
"i miss you too, illie."
a yawn finds itself forming between your lips; your jaw stretches with the sudden sensation, and you hum, settling further into the mattress below you.
"you should get some sleep," you finally whisper. "it's much later there."
"mmm…okay," he agrees, slipping the frames off his nose, folding them up, and placing them neatly on the nightstand. "you should sleep, too. you look exhausted."
"it's way too early for me to be this tired," you tell him, pulling the sheets up. "i feel like a grandma."
"then you're my favorite grandma."
you giggle at that.
"i'll text you first thing in the morning, okay?" you whisper, and he nods, blowing you a small kiss. "goodnight, illie bear."
he forces back a sigh.
"goodnight," he whispers back, lifting his hand to wave.
you wave back softly, letting the phone screen fade into sleep when he hangs up.
either you're far too tired, or you're becoming really dependent, or both, and it's about time you stop practically living at ilia's house when you're not at school.
or showing up to almost every competition, despite all of that.
because even if you can work around time zones, find time to text one another, update each other on the little aspects of your lives…
it doesn't change the fact that sometimes, you really miss him.
and with how busy you already are, plus the workload of ilia starting the olympic season, the thought of your schedules overlapping less and less weighs heavily on your heart.
because if they do, you'll inevitably stop having time for each other.
you just hope it never comes to that.
— — —
DECEMBER, 2025.
ILIA: [attachment: 1 image]
ILIA: 😁😁😁🥇🥇🥇 did u see?
the phone buzzes in its locked box at the front of the exam room. reasonably, you don't hear it.
you retrieve the device at nine, when you've finally gotten out of your exam. you told yourself that you wouldn't check anything until you've eaten, so that's what you do.
the on-campus cafe is only a short distance from the building. it smells of warm hazelnut when you step inside; your favorite scent to walk into.
you order your usual and a small donut to hold your stomach over until lunchtime. you all but shovel it down your throat. you'd been studying since six, and you haven't eaten anything at all.
you use a napkin to wipe your hands clean and take the drink in one hand, pulling your phone out with the other as you walk down the pathway back to your dorm hall.
your heart drops when you read it.
YOU: oh my god
YOU: i completely forgot
YOU: i'm so sorry ilia
in his hotel room, ilia frowns. roman is asleep on the bed opposite to his. it's past one in the morning in japan.
ILIA: oh
he bites the inside of his cheek.
ILIA: it's okay
YOU: how did you do?
ILIA: i won. and i set a record 🙂
and you missed it.
you key yourself into the dorm and beeline for your bed, flopping onto it as soon as your bag hits the floor.
ILIA: why didn't you watch?
maybe it's the stress of competing.
that's usually what you tell yourself when he forgets. but today, even that can't convince you.
YOU: i had an exam. i told you about it.
YOU: you texted me in the middle of it. i knew you forgot 😕
ilia palms his forehead.
you had told him.
ILIA: fuck i'm sorry
ILIA: i was really focused on today because i finished so low in the short
ILIA: and i needed to get the seven quads
you sniff. turn on your side as you stare at the words on the screen.
this isn't the first time he's pushed you to the side. nor is it yours.
it was barely a month ago when your camera broke in the middle of an important shoot you'd driven two hours out to hold. you knew he couldn't help, but you wanted to hear his voice — you just sought comfort, like he always offered.
he never even answered your call; practice had been too intense, and he hadn't checked his phone. you fixed the camera, but the damage had been done.
you just needed him, and he wasn't there.
YOU: i have stressful things in my life too and i know my exam isn't as important as your competition but it's important to me
YOU: i just want my boyfriend to wish me luck on my important things too :(
you've traveled across the country to watch him compete. you've skipped classes. you've sacrificed so much to be present.
at the start of the semester, a day hadn't gone by that you didn't think of him. he would have never been an afterthought, no matter how tight your schedule became, or how knee-deep ilia found himself in training.
you found a way.
you always found a way.
ILIA: call me
the only option that seems to work anymore; the only way ilia has been able to pretend that this is enough. that you haven't been blowing each other off for weeks.
like the beginning of this month, when you were finally supposed to have a weekend to yourself. you'd planned it to work around both of your schedules — ilia managed a few days away from the rink, and you cranked a little harder on your assignments to get them done.
the day before, he asked if it was still okay that he comes.
you told him that something came up to avoid the truth. that you'd become so wrapped up in this year that you forgot.
of course, you wanted to see him.
fuck, you loved him.
but you felt like the biggest asshole on earth.
and today, neither of you remembered. maybe — you think — that's a sign. you swallow.
YOU: ilia
YOU: i don't think i can do this anymore
from the other side of the world, his heart drops into his stomach.
his thumbs tremble over the keyboard; the second message follows before he can respond.
YOU: us.
he might throw up.
ILIA: call me.
ILIA: please
the tears in your eyes make it hard to read his words. you don't even know that you want to.
ilia tucks his lips into his mouth. the last thing he wants is to wake his dad, cause him any more stress. not that ilia would have the heart to tell him anyway.
he's too embarrassed.
he's not even sure he'd get the words out.
the longer you hold back a response, the harder his heart pounds. the hotter his face becomes.
YOU: ilia i can't
YOU: i'm sorry
his throat constricts.
ILIA: okay
ILIA: i understand
thirty minutes ago, he couldn't wait to talk to you.
when he sent the message, he only cared about your reply. he had hundreds of notifications. he only wanted your approval.
like always, you'd been his first thought. even on the ice, the moment he stepped out of his ending position.
it was you he thought of.
you hadn't texted him since the win — it worried him. even when you didn't watch, you'd ask how it went, or sometimes, check the scores yourself to congratulate him. you hadn't done any of that.
but even if you completely forgot — in which case, you had — all he wanted was to tell you. make you proud of him. let you know that every practice you sat in for — with calculus work in your lap, or adobe photoshop open on your computer — didn't go to waste.
that he finally got to achieve the seven-quad layout you watched him train for years for.
instead, he lost you.
that same night.
because he forgot about you.
because — between the olympic season and the workload of your junior year — you haven't had time for each other anymore; the very fear that struck you after lombardia.
his heart is shattered, and sleep evades him.
you cry in bed until the tears stop flowing and skip your eleven a.m.
two days later, you text him that you left his things with tatiana. he reacts to the message with a thumbs-up.
afterward, the message thread falls dead for the first time in years.
— — —
JANUARY, 2026.
user640388337: "ilia malinin finishes fast."
okay, so maybe you've been getting carried away with the anonymous tweets. but the amount of stigma around your ex-boyfriend's name has been enough to kill you.
and you'd be lying if you said the attention your posts are attracting isn't thrilling. really, some people are gullible.
not that you're lying.
but how could someone seriously believe the bullshit you're spewing? as far as the internet knows, ilia malinin never had a girlfriend. you never even followed him.
except for quaddevil — which you promptly unfollowed a few days after you broke up; the account had too many pictures of you on it. too many memories, emotions to let surface.
moving on from a person you've spent your whole life knowing isn't easy.
since you were six years old, you haven't gone more than two days without speaking to ilia.
it will be two months in a week.
as if on cue, your phone buzzes.
it's barely eight o'clock. one in milan.
ILIA: can you stop
ILIA: [attachment: 1 image]
ILIA: i know this is you
you swallow. you knew he was bound to notice them.
you spent three years with him; he lied when he said he didn't spend time on twitter.
some nights, after competitions, he'd search his name.
not to look for the praise.
YOU: idk what you're talking about
ILIA: it happened once. i was fucking 19
YOU: anyone can say that, ilia
ilia rolls his eyes.
this feels all too familiar.
too stale.
ILIA: i wear fucking aerie shorts? ring a bell?
YOU: u wore my hoodie into the fucking olympic village. and u never gave back those shorts, by the way
he sighs.
ILIA: can you please just stop
maybe you're being too harsh.
but you're still hurting, too. even if you refuse to admit it.
you leave him on read.
— — —
FEBRUARY 13, 2026.
after every competition, he would text you.
it started during the first season you spent together. skate america, to be exact. he'd sent a photo of him holding a thumbs-up, followed by a text that read "comp over! 😁 got first!"
it became the template for every competition you didn't personally attend.
ilia takes a cold shower when he gets back to his dorm. he doesn't think he deserves more.
having the room to himself makes his thoughts too loud. with roman there, he can talk. distract himself. or do the complete opposite, and suppress his emotions so as not to worry his father.
alone, he doesn't get that privilege.
all he has are thoughts.
none are positive.
he opens your messages and takes a photo with his thumb up; the flash bursts in his face. it's only when the photo loads into the queue that he remembers.
he closes his eyes like a wince.
damn the muscle memory.
he types out the message anyway, as if he'll send it. maybe just to feel something. just to simulate the comfort you once would have offered him.
a tear cascades down his cheek.
the air suddenly feels too hot, despite the chill of twenty degrees outside the window.
god, he misses you.
he doesn't even know what time it is.
he doesn't even care.
when he throws the phone down, he doesn't notice the message send.
back in virginia, you gasp.
your roommates turn to the noise.
you'd just come back into the room a few minutes ago, and you're already gasping at something on your phone.
earlier, they offered to watch the men's free with you. you watched the short together, too. they wanted to support you — make fun of ilia, after all that he'd done and whatnot. even if they hadn't known him personally, most of their knowledge extending from word of mouth.
living with them is different; chaotic, sure, but fun. definitely the distraction you've needed, even if you had to spend the winter break at home, where his house stood just a few hundred feet away from yours like a threat.
still, through the breakup, they were extremely supportive.
watching the men's competitions together was something one of the girls suggested. and during the short, it was fun. it got the stress off your chest. of course, they knew about your anonymous tweets, about your schedules falling too tight, that he was too busy. it was all in good fun — girls supporting their friend.
but they didn't know him.
they'd only met him once. he visited at the very beginning of the season, greeted them briefly, and followed you into your room. you spent the stretch of time making out, in the absence of any proper time together since the season's start. it was the only perception they had of him.
they didn't know how long you'd known each other.
they didn't know how much he loved you.
they really had no fucking clue.
but tonight, it all fell apart; every piece of the resolve you thought you'd built up crumbled to pieces. all at five in the afternoon in front of a fifty-inch television screen.
at the end of the day, you knew a part of you still loved him. but watching him skate, watching the falls, the pop, the step outs — it broke you. tore you into something you didn't even know was still active.
it was his dream.
you watched him nearly kill himself every day for four years just to achieve it, only for it to crumble to pieces, and you weren't even there when it finally arrived.
you walked out of the room before he even reached the kiss and cry.
and you sobbed in your bed until the pain started to subside.
no one followed you inside. they knew better.
it was that moment that your roommates realized just how important he still was to you. they felt horrible. of course, how would they have known? they couldn't have.
but they knew you needed your time.
and now you're here. staring at this message two hours later like it's some kind of fucked up hallucination, and he never even meant to send it.
ILIA: didn't medal. wish u were here.
your hand sits over your mouth to keep from releasing a sob you thought you'd willed away.
"what's wrong?" one of your roommates asks.
you don't answer. none of them will understand.
you really fucking miss lily.
"nothing, it was, uhm," you hesitate, gnawing at the lining of your cheek. "just a video." you prop the meat of your palm on the floor and hoist yourself up to your feet, shoving your phone into the pocket of your sweatpants. "i think i'm gonna go to bed."
they nod in understanding and bid you goodnight.
but you don't sleep.
you lie face-up on the mattress until the ceiling begins to morph into an unrecognizable blur. when you close your eyes, it's his face. first, from the free.
then, the picture.
thumb up. frown on his face. dejected eyes. bangs in front of his forehead because he couldn't even be bothered to push them out of the way.
and the words.
didn't medal. wish u were here.
the clock burns in your vision when you turn your head.
two in the morning in milan.
you swallow.
pick up the phone. open his contact.
illie 🧸
just as you'd left it.
like a time capsule.
your finger hovers unsteadily above the call button. you don't even know what you're doing, what business you have pressing it and listening to the ring.
your heart nearly stops when he picks up.
breathing.
soft.
"illie?"
a quiet sob.
russian.
you recognize the syllables too clearly. the weakness in his voice. the rambling. you always told him to use it when he had too many emotions to put into english. to use it so you didn't have to understand.
just to hear.
just to listen.
a tear falls from the corner of your eye.
you haven't heard his voice in months. not to you. only the shell of it in interviews or pre-recorded videos.
never your ilia.
"i blew it," he finalizes.
your breath hitches as you try to find the words.
"it's okay," you whisper. "you'll be okay."
god, he needed to hear your voice.
so bad.
"get some sleep, illie. please."
you have no place telling him any of this.
you broke up with him.
you made petty comments behind a screen.
you let your roommates poke fun at him.
yet, all you've been able to think about since the moment he popped his first jump is how deeply you feel for him.
how much you care.
how deeply you're still in love with him.
you hear the mellowed noise of collected breaths from the other end of the line and settle into the mattress beneath you.
"okay," he finally whispers back, voice so soft that it barely registers through the phone.
you part your lips, but he interrupts before a word can come out.
"thank you."
the call ends.
you miss him.
— — —
FEBRUARY 23, 2026.
user640388337: "ilia malinin was a bad boyfriend."
the last tweet that the public ever saw, posted on the morning of february thirteenth.
it was cold.
it wasn't even true.
you logged out that night and never spoke of the account again.
lily texted you the following morning.
LILY: hi bb :( i saw what happened yesterday
LILY: do u wanna grab food today?
she never fully admitted it, but she came around to ilia. everyone always did.
she knew he treated you right. really, that was all that mattered.
you decided to come home for the weekend. you hadn't done it since you returned from winter break. too scared of rehashing the charred memories. this weekend, you built the courage. you decided to stay an extra few days and skip your classes. they could wait.
it's barely eleven. the moon is out. the sky is pitch black. you're perched comfortably on the couch, mindlessly watching a rerun of friends on tv.
the doorbell rings.
being the only one awake, you stand to head for the door. you assume it's another one of your mother's late-night amazon deliveries.
it isn't.
he's standing still when your eyes catch him, as if you'll slam the door in his face if he makes any movement.
he should be in switzerland. not here.
"i need to talk to you," he all but whispers. "please."
you nod.
"not here."
it goes without saying where he'll take you.
the rink feels colder tonight when you step onto it. the ice welcomes you like a friend.
you came here a lot when you were home.
doing choppy laps around the ice.
just thinking.
you finally got the hang of the whole skating thing, after so long. he doesn't mention the improvement. he knew you had it in you.
"i didn't mean to bother you."
he speaks to you as if you're some kind of stranger.
like he hasn't devoted every inch of himself to you.
"you didn't," you tell him honestly, hesitance in your own voice. "i wanted to help."
the quiet is almost relaxing.
it isn't awkward silence. it's full. of emotions, of unspoken feelings, of tension neither of you wants to acknowledge. it's daunting, but it's only just shy of comfortable.
weighted.
being an olympian has its perks, you guess. and it includes special access to your rink.
you skate side by side in slow circles; ilia matches your pace. you ask him about milan, but his answers are short. almost rehearsed. nothing like the boy you know, who would have rattled every little detail off at a mile a minute.
your chest hurts.
not a physical pain.
just something ugly.
"the rink is empty."
ilia raises a brow. "good observation."
you chuckle.
"no, i mean…" you turn to him, blinking as if to shift a gear in his head. "it's empty."
you scratch the edge of your forearm, "…can you do it for me?"
he considers the request — something you haven't asked of him since before you broke up — and skates to center ice. you lean against the boards to watch.
a layback.
your favorite.
it's corny, and it's stupid. but you'd always ask for him to do it because he'd stopped using them in programs. they strained his back, but he always obliged, because he loved you.
and he loved to see you smile the way you always would.
it's bittersweet, when his eyes find yours.
the same expression you always assumed. something different behind your eyes — behind the adoration, there's longing. pain, almost.
"still beautiful."
ilia shrugs, hair falling into place around his bandana, "i like jumps."
"so many people would love you if they saw you skate like that."
he parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out.
i only care if you do.
instead, he brushes it off and falls back into place beside you.
his brows furrow in thought when you reach the open board, as if something just popped into his head. it looks like he isn't sure whether to say it aloud.
he decides not to ask.
you step onto the mats first and head towards the locker room. sit comfortably on the wooden bench you'd stuffed your shoes under, ilia just across from you.
another careful silence as you untie your laces. once the skates are loose, you pull them off and push them to the side. rise to your feet to stretch out your back, careful not to harm any muscles.
ilia stands to meet you.
that thought from earlier — he's going to ask.
"why did you tell people i was a bad boyfriend?"
your stomach curls, and your bottom lip suddenly twitches. the words don't come easy.
"i don't know," you admit.
his gaze doesn't part from yours. it's scary, almost intimidating. it's the opposite of a threat.
somehow, that's worse.
"was i really that bad?"
tears brim at your waterline. hot. sensitive. familiar.
you shake your head as you try to will them away.
"no," you whisper honestly, "not at all."
he nods, head falling to track the movement of your hands clasped at your waist.
"it's late," you finally manage into the warm air of the locker room, a beam of moonlight illuminating the room as the only source of light. "i need to shower, and you're…leaving again soon."
"i need to shower, too."
the words hang in the air.
less of a statement, and more of a suggestion.
"ilia…"
he steps closer; your eyes trail upward to meet his.
soft. brows pulled together. long, blond bangs falling carefully in his face.
"ilia, we can't," you whisper, but the words lack conviction. "you're famous now. and we don't — we don't have the time."
"can't we just pretend for tonight?"
his face is centimeters away from yours. "please."
you lean up and slot your lips with his before your mind can catch up with your body.
"okay," you murmur into his mouth, bordering on a sob, "okay."
his hands, on a mission, pull your sweatshirt up and off your head. he tosses it onto the bench, where the cuff brushes the wet foam mat. he does the same with his own; haphazardly discards it, too.
you shed quickly, carefully.
still so comfortable in his presence, bare, despite the time apart.
ilia slips his bandana off and drops it to the floor.
reaches over to turn the water on.
stands below the stream and uses his hands to gently pull you closer.
he kisses you again with a carefulness that makes your heart flutter. you reciprocate with a fraction of hunger, letting your fingertips glide into his wet hair and rest at the back of his head.
the water's warmth soothes the ache in your muscles, running down to your ankles, a little weak from the boots. his hips press into yours — a reaction, more than an intention.
"illie," you whisper against his lips like a prayer, his palm splayed across your lower back to keep you steady.
he kisses you a little firmer.
your palm glides down the center of his chest, the edge of a finger brushing one of his necklaces on the way. your lips pull apart — noses still pressed together — as your fingers find him, wrap around the length just loosely enough to create the glide.
he hums into the air, a little weak. the sound familiar, something you haven't heard in much longer than just the months you've spent apart.
your head tilts to kiss the skin below his eye, the edge of his cheek. you move then to the mark just above his top lip. press another just below his jaw, all while your hand carefully strokes him beneath the hot stream, droplets of water cascading down his body.
you shift a little lower, kissing another spot on the left side of his chest.
he realizes then.
you're kissing his freckles.
you've never done that.
it's too intimate.
his fingers find the apex of your thigh; they freeze in their spot, a silent question. you offer a nod, almost begging him to continue.
slowly, he presses them in.
it draws a low, breathy moan from your chest.
your hand grips his shoulder tighter; the other pauses momentarily before resuming the motion, speed a little quickened.
he winces, cranes his neck to kiss you again. his tongue slips past your lips, hot against yours, matching the temperature of the water above.
it feels like everything you've bottled up since you broke up with him.
every emotion you've ignored.
his fingers find a steady rhythm to keep you grounded as your hand glides mindlessly, the pad of your thumb brushing over the head and sending a chill up his spine.
he loves it.
it's the little things about each other you'd picked up; the tells, what the other did and didn't respond to.
you know each other's bodies like your own; better, sometimes.
it feels like following a map you've already committed to memory.
"i miss you," you mumble against his lips, unsure if you've ever meant anything more. the admittance feels unfamiliar on your tongue, something you should never have to say to him.
ilia kisses you harder.
"fuck," he murmurs into the plush of your lips, fingers digging into your side as the others glide in and out the way he knows you need to feel good. "i miss you, too."
somewhere between beads of sweat and droplets of sweltering hot water, tears fall. the saltiness blends with the rest on your cheeks, nearly unnoticeable if not for the redness around your eyes.
or even the weakness in your voice, unmistakably present.
"i'm sorry, illie," you whisper into the steam, voice trapped somewhere between a sob and a moan. "i'm so sorry. i'm so sorry i did it that way."
you're rambling to keep from breaking.
it isn't working.
"it's okay," he breathes, "it's okay, baby."
god, the name, the tremor in his voice, the way he refuses to put any blame on you. all of it forces your knees to crumble under the weight, leaving you propped against the tile for support. the back of your head leans into the coldness embedded in the wet surface.
ilia's body keeps under the stream.
your eyes flood with tears that don't stop flowing, and your chest fills with the type of pain you can't even begin to describe. nothing you've ever felt in all twenty-one years.
guilt takes over any semblance of strength left in your head. your hand creates a tighter ring and hurries its pace. because you want him to feel good. you want to hear the edge in his voice.
you want him.
your free hand slides up to his cheek and brushes over the rosy skin beneath, gently pulling him in as your lips connect firmly with his again. the moonlight reflects off his necklace in the changing angle, onto one of the lockers on the edge of the room.
his fingers curl into your sweet spot with the perfect pressure, exactly what your body craves. the sensation sends a wave of heat through to your fingertips, and your head forcefully breaks away, leaning into the tile behind you.
your hand shakes as you try desperately to get him off first, to make him satisfied. a careful drag of your palm, another gentle stroke that lets the precum smear over the head, halfway gone from the running water.
your eyes flutter open to find his staring back at you. every emotion he has ever felt for you lies carefully behind his expression, tentative and translated in the way his fingers work between your thighs, sliding again and again until a breathless moan breezes past your lips.
"you're so pretty," he whispers.
it hurts so bad.
your chest fights a swell of sobs, and you shake your head against the wet tile, breath catching in your throat.
"don't say that," you try, but the words only release as a whimper amid the tightness in your stomach, the way your hands tremble uncontrollably. "please," you beg.
tears find his cheeks again.
your vision blurs until ilia almost bleeds out of focus, and you can barely stand.
and despite everything, you reach your release before him.
your hand lets go, unable to finish him off, and painfully grips ilia's bicep, while the other finds the nape of his neck, where the tips of his soaked hair reside.
the kiss is sloppy, unplanned, heavy as your head dips to deepen the angle. his hips press into yours, an involuntary reaction to your body's pressure.
"i'm sorry," you murmur into his mouth, another apology pressed into the edge of his jaw. "want — want you inside, illie."
he nods, shifts his hips, aligns them with yours to press forward until the gasp echoes off the empty lockers. your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into your embrace as his hips chase his own release.
as his lips kiss a gentle path along the curve of your jaw, drawing a slew of quiet, breathless noises from your parted lips, your chest aches.
only one thought travels across your mind like a threat.
you want him back.
every push sends you against the wall slightly firmer than the last, careful, gratifying in sensation. a whine falls from his lips — so soft that you nearly don't catch it. he's close, too.
his hands wrap around to the small of your back and pull you off the wall until your figure stands weakly in his arms, craving another release.
i miss you, the voice screams again in your head, i want you back.
"i messed up," you sob into the small space between you, the smell of the open bottle of soap on the shelf wafting into the air.
"no," he whispers into the corner of your mouth, "you didn't."
"god, i'm so sorry."
he ends the torment with another kiss, like punctuation. a final drag of his hips bringing you down, a thick moan into your mouth as his body reaches the same conclusion. warmth in your stomach, heat rising to your neck.
sobs burning in the back of your throat and dying on your tongue.
clarity doesn't quite arrive in the wave it normally would, even with the thick droplets running slowly down the inside of your thigh.
before realization can reach your head, the gentle breeze of his breath grazes the side of your face. he's still close enough to feel, even if your eyes haven't quite focused.
instead, they travel sideways, over to the shelf, where the half-empty bottles of shampoo and soap reside. your body pulls away in favor of the shelf, arm extended as your fingers wrap around the shampoo.
like muscle memory, ilia turns his back to you.
you would always do it after long skates.
after competitions.
after anything that warranted the comfort it offered.
it was co-dependent; everything you did together was.
when you're with someone for three years, when you've grown up with them, when you've devoted every inch of yourself to them in hopes of never losing them, yeah — you become dependent.
and it crumbles when they're gone.
so, you think now — after the torment of this month, after you — he needs it more than ever.
the bottle releases a dollop of liquid into your hand. you warm it in your palms, swallow thickly, and bring the tips of your fingers up to the back of his head.
the tips massage the shampoo into his scalp, letting the liquid turn to foam in his hair, white suds coating the outgrown roots. the scent of warm florals erupts into the air around you, your sinuses opening to the soft aroma.
ilia's eyes flutter shut; although you don't see it, you recognize the way his shoulders slump into relaxation.
your lips press a kiss over another freckle, just by his shoulder blade. another just a few centimeters away. a path that extends to the tip of his shoulder.
a murmur into his skin that sounds too much like an apology.
as if on cue, he turns — like routine, he knows.
the soap washes out. runs down his face and barely evades his eyes.
but their gaze doesn't leave yours.
your hands shake as they brush through his hair.
you're not nervous. you never have been with him.
you're afraid.
scared of screwing up what both of you have already silently accepted as the last time you'll ever do any of this.
an unsteady exhale finds its way into the air from your chest. within seconds, ilia's mouth is enveloping yours again.
it's different.
careful.
as if you'll shatter like something fragile if he isn't.
you return the kiss with a hunger you're still unsure of how to satiate. your body pushes closer as if to solve the problem, to create as little space between you as possible. perhaps, if you hold him tightly enough, the moment never has to end.
slowly, your tired muscles relax, as your mind focuses only on the insistent press of his lips and the warmth of the water slowly beginning to trickle down your back once again. it's now that you notice his tentative steps back into the stream and the palm of his hand finding the back of your head.
it's quiet, save for the running water and sporadic contented hum. intimacy laces itself between connected skin, and your hands tremble as they find the sides of his face.
his skin feels softer now in your hold. perhaps, exhausted from the tiresome months in milan. relaxed, even, under the familiarity of your comforting touch.
carefully, your arms slip around his neck, palms resting over your bent elbows, while his arms mirror the movement at your waist.
the kiss draws into something deeper, too slow to classify as anything less than intimate — romantic, rather than physical. he kisses you for so long that your movement inevitably stills with time, and somewhere, in the corner of the room, an old hand clock strikes one.
you've missed kissing one another for so long, holding each other the way you so delicately had — the same way you do now, under the warm stream — that you don't even realize how personal all of this has become.
ilia almost tells you he loves you on pure instinct.
the phrase burns a hole in his head that no amount of plaster could fix.
now, you're standing entirely still, completely devoid of movement in your limbs. arms wrapped around one another, hugging and kissing oh, so romantically, with tears decorating your cheeks, camouflaged amongst stray droplets of water.
for a moment, you forget that any of this is temporary.
that you're still pretending.
and after what feels like forever, you break apart. slowly, hesitantly, as if to savor every last drop of one another. to commit it all to memory before it's ripped away again.
"ilia," you whisper, lip quivering against your wishes. "we have to stop."
clarity falls on his chest with the weight of an anvil.
"yeah," he clears his throat. "yeah…okay."
he swallows, takes a step back to give you space. "i'm sorry."
maybe, he got carried away.
but you never stopped him.
"don't apologize," is your quiet response, voice fighting to stay afloat.
he nods.
the ball of your foot flinches when it comes into contact with the cold, dry tile. eyes closed, you bear a breath and tread carefully over to the benches, where tossed clothes lie.
the mundane routine plays like an old record — underwear, pants, shirt, jacket. sit, tie on your shoes, repeat for your counterpart.
all in silence that doesn't feel so comfortable, this time around.
your palms smooth over the heavy fabric adorning your waist; the jagged edge at the hem of your sweater catches on the tip of a finger.
ilia's shadow falls into view.
"i'll see you around?"
the question rolls off his tongue like light humor.
none of it is funny.
you nod carefully, "yeah."
biting your inner cheek, you rise slowly to your toes and lean up to his cheek, depositing a kiss onto warm skin.
"take care of yourself, okay?"
"okay."
when you finally walk out, he watches.
and any form of closure he thought he'd gotten leaves with you.
— — —
MARCH 20, 2026.
"they say that when you truly love someone, you find their beauty in places that most don't," your voice explains in the quiet of the gallery as a humble crowd of ten stands around, admiring the photos hanging behind you. "i wanted to capture that here, with my subject."
an older couple nods their heads, and a woman standing a few feet away raises her phone to snap a photo. somewhere in the distance, your professor smiles and makes a note beside your name.
your display pulls the four strongest elements from your portfolio. as most everyone always warned, junior year takes a toll on everyone; you were no exception. but tonight, the work pays off.
the first two are simpler stills from earlier in the semester — an old car with chipped paint, whizzing below a half-dimmed street light, and a plant beginning to bloom with oncoming warmth.
the third is a reflection of moonlight off a window that creates an illusion. something you'd need the eye for, to catch in passing and capture properly.
the fourth became the crowd-favorite. even at a glance, with an untrained eye, it's far from technical. personality oozes through its elements, down to the arrangement of color, and the simple placement of the subject.
the profile of a boy in the bottom left corner, the lens focused on the very tip of his nose, which barely kisses the center of the frame, aligning with the glow of the sun behind it. his hair is blond, a little toned, with roots growing just under an inch from his scalp.
nature brews between winter and spring as he presumedly looks toward the melting body of water before him — eyes masked by bangs. small petals from a cherry blossom tree decorate the outer edge of the approaching shore. two petals rest atop honey-blonde strands of hair, unmoved by the gentle breeze.
a candid, confirmed by parted lips, as if the subject had been speaking.
your smile is warm as you greet more folks in passing, explaining away your visions with each crafted photo, each with different expressions, new meanings. yet still, the invisible pull toward one keeps your heart on a swivel.
love, captured.
the plaque reads in shiny, engraved silver.
the watch on your wrist strikes eight. moonlight shines into the gallery through a nearby skylight, and the warm lighting of the wall lamps makes your eyes grow tired. a low hum of instrumental jazz emanates through the soundproofed space, a maze of art, each piece with its own careful consideration, your peers in various corners of the room.
your gaze finds itself transfixed on the same image passersby found compelling; the soft rays of sun blend into the warm, orange sky. the memory of that moment spreads warmth through your chest in a calm wave.
perhaps, a few weeks ago, you would have willed the sensation away; tonight, you welcome it.
then, a voice breaks you from your thoughts.
"do you think that's my good side? my nose looks a little weird."
a quiet gasp, and the instinctual turn on your heel toward the noise.
ilia stands quietly behind you — a comfortable ten, fifteen feet away — with black-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, and arms full.
one a resting place for a thick bouquet of red roses and yellow daffodils (which you'd once named your favorite), the other a small, brown teddy bear with a pair of smaller frames to match his own, and a small box of chocolate strawberries attached to its front.
alongside a smile that nearly melts your heart.
"oh my god," you whisper, unmoving as he steps closer and extends his arms out to you.
"they're for you."
glossed lips part in shock, and you mindlessly take the gifts into your own hold, blinking as if to confirm that this is real.
once they're secure, your lips finally stretch into a smile, a thin coat of liquid forming along your waterline.
your eyes admire the items in your hands, grazing along the expanse of the bear's soft fur and up to the tiny pair of glasses on its nose. then, to the bouquet — a small card perched on a stem sticking up in the center.
his writing is still as messy as ever.
it's perfect.
i'm so proud of you ♡
— illie
a little circular head with two ears and a smiley face drawn beside his name.
"is that a bear?" you ask, looking up with tears in your eyes.
"i tried."
it's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you.
you place the gifts carefully on the hardwood floor, leaning them up against the wall, just below your photos.
and before he can get another word in, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a hug.
"you should be training," you whisper into his ear as the tips of his hair brush the side of your cheek.
"you're more important."
at that, your stomach drops a little.
your arms tighten.
"how did you even know about this?"
his chin relaxes into your shoulder. "you posted about it when i was in milan, and," he clears his throat, "i wrote it down…in case."
you pull back, "in case what?"
"you wanted me here."
ilia's thumb rises to your cheek to wipe away the tear that falls. rather than protest, you lean into his touch, the softness of the pad of his thumb.
"i wouldn't want anyone else."
the sweet familiarity of his perfume wafts into the air you breathe. when you finally step back, smoothing over your sweater, your body misses his touch — his warmth.
"everybody loved you," you tell him quietly as you lean over to retrieve the bear and flowers, scooping them into your arms. "it was a hit." most everyone has already cleared out by now, while the other students bid goodbye to your professor, the soft hum of their conversations blurring into background noise behind you.
"i would have thought you wouldn't use me."
"i didn't have time to choose new photos," you admit. "and…" you trail off as you turn to look at the framed image again, "i think it still applies."
the name, you mean.
love.
ilia insists on walking you home, keeping a flattened palm on the small of your back as you walk side-by-side down the pavement.
you should protest.
that night at the rink, one month ago, should have been the last time you saw him. it was meant to serve as a point of closure, to let both of you finally begin to move on.
instead, it took the opposite effect.
ilia showed up tonight because he hasn't stopped thinking about you since the moment your feet padded out the locker room door.
and you welcomed him back — though you tell yourself again that it's just for tonight — because he hasn't left yours, either.
yet still, you stand your ground; he understands, quietly.
"you didn't have to do this," you whisper to him as you approach the door to your building, somewhere he hasn't seen in half a year, only stopping by the one time at the start of your first semester.
"i made time for you," is the response he gives, at which your body almost freezes. "i'll keep making time for you."
the very thing that tore you apart, laid bare.
you don't acknowledge it.
how could you?
you fear that if you do, you'll end up doing something you'll regret — if selfishly relapsing and having sex with him in the rink wasn't already shameful.
you swallow.
planting a kiss on his cheek only fuels the flame you thought you'd put out; you do it, anyway.
his head turns, lips find yours with determination that nearly makes you relinquish your strength all over again.
for a moment, you let it happen.
then, you relent.
"ilia."
"i know."
you stand back and wish him good luck at worlds with a disheartened smile. walk into the building and up to your dorm, where your roommates greet you with warm smiles and endless questions about the items in your arms.
one tells you not to give in; you nod reassuringly, knowing the only person who knows about the rink is lily (who secretly beamed with happiness when you told her, because she really did like you and ilia together).
as you drift off to sleep after a long, hot shower, teddy bear tucked comfortably beneath your arm, emotions rise again to your throat.
you don't cry because you're upset.
you're simply feeling too much.
and maybe this time, you really do consider getting back together with him.
— — —
MARCH 25, 2026.
prague's air is brisk at this hour.
ilia isn't sure how long it has been since he took the elevator down to this level and sat in the chair by the pool.
it's far too cold to jump in the water.
though he considers it anyway to clear his head.
the legs are low to the ground, and he sits on the very edge of the seat, elbows pressed against his kneecaps as his forehead rests on a folded forearm.
crickets emerge from the grass. the gentle breeze creates a quiet hum of moving water. shadows pass by as other hotel guests make their way to their rooms, some still checking in.
it must be at least eleven by now, if he had to guess; roman hasn't checked on him. perhaps, he'd fallen asleep, or had called tatiana and liza.
the men's discipline starts tomorrow. the short — an event he hasn't been nervous about for nearly two years, now.
of course, the downside of being undefeated was unimaginable. but the perks it came with the erosion of nerves. anxiety. fear.
they're all back.
not because he isn't prepared. nor is it because he's suddenly incapable.
tomorrow, he has something to prove.
somewhere in the blur of noise, a keycard beeps, and the lock on the nearby door clicks open; it becomes familiar to his ears, by now.
footsteps draw closer. the unmistakable sound of a suitcase rolling on pavement. just another guest checking out the pool, probably the fourth of the night, since he came outside. he half-expects the "wow, come look" next, much like everyone else (usually small children).
"do you think they'll accept my credentials this late? or am i doomed to an overpriced ticket in the crowd?"
ilia could pick out that voice in a crowd of one thousand, if he were asked to.
he trips over the edge of the lounge chair trying to get to you. your laughter buzzes into the air, a few careful steps forward and away from your luggage, the cheesy custom tag he'd gotten you one year for your birthday hanging off the handle.
you're in his arms before you can even think of stopping him.
it's different from last time. from the rink, even.
the sweetness of his giggles bubbling to the surface in your ear, his body using its strength to hoist you into the air, spinning around like it's some kind of corny romance film you'd make him watch. your legs wrap snugly around his waist as your palms rise to his cheeks, cupping the rosy skin in your hands.
"hi, illie bear," you whisper.
the kiss arrives before his words do.
god, he's never been so happy to hear that stupid nickname.
"what are you doing here?" a mumble into your mouth that barely sounds audible.
"one, slow down," you laugh, thumb brushing over his cheek. "two, you went to support me, so…i came here to support you."
you haven't been set to accompany him to a competition since last season.
olympics were the only trip you could finagle this year, and you never went.
so the time off school felt reasonable.
and the federation still has your information readily available.
"you shouldn't even be here," he shakes his head. "i'm wasting your time and money."
"no, you're not," you reassure him gently, pressing your forehead to his until the tips of your noses brush. "and this was my choice."
you kiss the corner of his mouth, lingering for a beat to savor the moment.
"i'm tired of missing things, ilia."
his fingers flex against the undersides of your thighs, keeping your weight comfortably in his grasp. "even still."
you shake your head.
"i missed your dream, illie," you counter, arms slipping around his neck. "no more."
behind him, another burst of wind blows through the chlorinated water; a light rock plops into the pool.
startled, his head pivots to the noise. returns almost as quickly as it went. at his flinching, you laugh again.
your presence really makes him this on edge now?
instead of trying to make sense of the situation, ilia kisses you again.
you dip your head to the side to better the angle, depositing a little satisfied hum into his mouth to egg him on. he grins against your lips and pulls you tighter, bending his knees until he's sitting on the lounge chair again.
this time, taking his favorite girl in the world along with him.
you melt into his lap as if you were never meant to be anywhere else, fingers carding into his freshly-cut hair just to keep him close, to let every inch of your body connect with his.
"this is my hoodie," you murmur jokingly, free hand fisting a handful of the fabric at the tip of his shoulder.
"i missed you," he simply states.
"missed you more."
his palms run along the expanse of your lower back, your own sweatshirt rising to expose warm skin. at his touch, you kiss him a little harder.
"dude, this is mine," he points out lightheartedly, "you said you gave everything back."
"i also said i missed you more."
the sound of his contented laughter makes your heart soar out of your chest.
god, he's so cute.
he's so perfect. and he's yours again.
even if you really never lost him, anyway.
"i love you," he breathes happily, gripping you so tightly that you think he may never let go.
your lips stretch into a wide smile, and a swell of tears forms in your eyes — happy, this time. absolutely overjoyed.
"i never stopped," you whisper back.
your forehead rests against his again, laughter moving across your bodies like a transaction. you can feel his hands trembling at your back, still a little put off, a little anxious.
so you offer another kiss to serve as comfort, a little slower than the last.
it lasts so long that you start to forget where you end and he begins. seconds blurring into minutes, no noise for yards, save for the occasional chirp of a cricket and the chime of the elevator just by the door to the pool area.
people walk past and stare through the windows. you don't care.
some guy yells at you to get a room.
ilia pulls back, "fuck off."
you nudge his arm, giggling quietly as he leans back up to envelope your mouth again, unwilling to let some old fuck ruin his mood.
the man shouts back that he's going to tell the front desk.
ilia flips him off.
"oh my god, ilia," you sigh, "you're gonna get us kicked out."
"did you get a room?"
you break off with furrowed brows, the pads of ilia's thumbs rubbing circles into the small of your back. he cocks his own brow, urging your answer.
"…yes?"
"'kay," as he stands from the chair, and you gasp, sliding to your feet, "we'll go there, then."
he laces his fingers with yours. kisses you against the elevator wall. refuses to let go of you until you're in the hotel room, dragging your suitcase behind him.
the luggage doesn't move past the entryway.
he pulls you back into his lap like you never left, fingers cupping the side of your face, a smile tugging at his lips again.
"i love you, illie bear."
the words roll off your tongue so sweetly that he swears he'll never complain about them again.
you needed the break — even if every second felt like torture. you needed to grow, separately. to mature, separately. to sort your own lives before entwining them as tightly as they were.
ilia knows one thing for certain: he never wants to lose you again.
and he won't.
you've always loved each other too much to stay apart forever, anyway.
— — —
EPILOGUE - APRIL, 2026.
"you just got back two days ago, and you're already leaving again."
ilia turns to face you; a droplet of vanilla ice cream stains the corner of his mouth.
"perks of being a celebrity."
"you are not a celebrity," you tease, licking the tip of your thumb to wipe off the ice cream. "you're an athlete, and you're busy. plus, you're way too shy to be on a red carpet, anyway."
"my worlds experience would say otherwise."
your face turns cold. "never bring that shit up in front of me again," you demand, finger pointing accusingly at his chest. "there was no reason for you to have no protection. i cannot believe people thought it was cool to follow someone into an elevator, of all places."
"hey, i'm okay," he reassures. "and we're working on that."
"good."
as you approach the all-too-familiar front lawn of ilia's house, your chest releases a sigh. he takes your empty cup and stacks it with his, tossing it into the bin around the side of the house.
"i'm gonna miss you," you whisper as his arms wrap around you, hands settling behind your back.
"you always say that."
"oh, god forbid," you roll your eyes. "we've been back together for like, two weeks. and you used to cry every time you left. talk about dependent."
ilia scoffs.
"co-dependent, more like," he corrects. "you barely slept in your own house. and you used to just borrow my clothes without permission."
"you still have my freaking aerie shorts, dude. oh, and you flew all the way to vienna for one night with the hope of speaking to me, instead of just going straight to switzerland and asking to talk when you got back."
"we did more than talk."
okay. fair enough.
"well, whatever," you huff. "fly safe, okay? and tell your dad i said goodbye, too. and call me when you get to philly."
"i thought we were working on that dependency thing."
your eyes narrow, "ilia roman."
"okay, okay, jeez — i'll call you." he pulls you into a hug and rests his chin on the top of your head, lowering his voice. "like i wasn't gonna anyway…" he mutters.
you giggle into his chest; he smiles.
"i'll miss you, too."
out of the corner of your eye, you catch mysti watching through the window. your smile stretches a little wider, and she scratches the glass. you wave.
"she misses her mama."
you pull back, chin resting at the valley of his chest. "you know i came back to visit and saw them when you weren't here."
"still."
he leans forward, kisses you gently — much less of a display than it would be if you weren't standing on his lawn for anyone, including his parents, to see.
"i missed her mama, too," he adds quietly.
you entertain him for ten, twenty more seconds before breaking off, stepping off the grass and onto the pavement. he masks a frown.
"call me when you land, and take a bunch of pictures."
"will do."
you're halfway down the road to your house, still shouting to him.
"love you, illie!"
(he already knows).
bright and early in the morning, he's awake, packing the last of his things into his luggage and gathering the rest into a duffel. he says his goodbyes to tatiana and liza (and of course, the cats) and heads out with roman.
the flight to philadelphia from vienna isn't long. only barely surpasses an hour, but it's easier than driving. it's easier to fly straight to florida afterward for the first stars on ice stop.
still, the lack of wi-fi is punishing for someone this addicted to their phone.
the minute he steps back into the terminal, the phone buzzes to life in his pocket. messages, dm requests that he won't answer, subscriptions on various apps. some other useless pop-ups.
one sticks out.
you tagged him in a post.
your_username
your_username: life with my favorite person
he almost thinks it's fake, and this is all some figment of his imagination from the change in air pressure; his fingers grip the device tighter.
you'd always agreed to stay private. it was easier. safer.
maybe — he guesses — that was before.
maybe, you're tired of pretending he doesn't exist. of making him do the same.
a text comes through next.
as if you'd been waiting until you knew he saw the post to press send.
YOU: i love u illie bear 🫶
YOU: now everyone gets to know
roman asks ilia what he's smiling at.
"nothing."
ilia_quadg0d_malinin commented on your post:
my good luck charm. love u forever 🧸❤️
summary: you've heard the rumors about Rafe. aggressive on the ice and a sweettalker to any girl he lays eyes on. what happens when his next target is you?
wc: 2.3k
warnings: 18+ smut/fwb
a/n: everyone has been so kind, I'm so glad you all are liking this so far!
banner by @/uzmacchiato
<Part 3
Rafe breaks the kiss only for a moment as he lowers you onto his bed. Once your back hits the covers, he stays over you, blue eyes searching yours. For the first time, you notice a small gold chain around his neck that’s dangling above you.
“Alright, some ground rules,” His voice is the slightest bit strained, like he’s trying to keep his head straight. “I like to keep things casual. Which means condoms. Always. Don’t give a shit about any excuses.”
“Good call.” You nod, thankful he wasn’t the type of guy begging to go raw when you barely knew him.
“Something you don’t like or something goes wrong, I need you to talk to me. Alright?”
“Okay.” Your heart stutters at that. It’d been a while since you last had sex, and you were definitely a little worried that it might hurt. And here Rafe was, trying to get ahead of any issues. He was probably also referring to situations like the condom breaking. But you felt a bit of relief at him trying to prioritize communication.
“Got any rules you wanna add?” He pauses as his eyes are still trained on you. Now, you feel your cheeks flush. He was coming off so open that you wanted to be that way too. But it didn’t make you any less nervous.
“Um, not really a rule,” You start, trying to take a deep breath. “I just wanted you to know that I’m…a little inexperienced.”
Rafe’s blue eyes widen just slightly, but it’s enough to make you look away from him. You shouldn’t have said anything. That was stupid.
“How inexperienced are we talking?” There is no jest or malice in his voice, and somehow that feels worse. “You a nun?” His joke makes you laugh a little, but you can tell you’re still blushing.
“I’m not a virgin. But I haven’t been with a lot of guys, and it’s…been a while.”
“Okay. All the more reason to be straight up with me.” He says calmly, placing his thumb under your chin and turning your face back to his. “You wanna stop, we stop. Just tell me, okay?”
“Okay.” You parrot, your body relaxing a little. He’s smiling now, giving you a brief kiss on the lips before dragging his mouth down your neck. While one hand keeps him propped up above you, the other makes its way down your body. Your eyes flutter closed as you feel him slide your panties off, his lips dipping down your sternum.
The second Rafe takes your nipple into his mouth, you forget all about being too inexperienced. You hum happily, before moaning as he palms your cunt. His mouth and hand are so warm you already feel like you’re losing it, and then his thumb finds your clit.
You arch up into him, his name slipping out of your mouth. This wasn’t new for you, but Rafe was quick to find the perfect spot. The perfect pressure. And it was like he knew exactly how to touch you. Exactly what pace to do it.
“Yeah?” You barely hear him chuckle. “You like that?” His voice is so husky it makes the coil in your core wind even tighter. All you can do is shake your head in response. And then, his lips are peppering your inner thighs with kisses. You only manage to grip his hair when his mouth goes higher and his tongue slides up your slit.
You had never been more thankful that Rafe’s roommate wasn’t home. As his tongue goes to work in tandem with his fingers on your clit, you’re almost sure all of campus can hear you. He groans into you, the vibration making you feel like you’d come undone right then. You don’t think you’ve ever been this loud, felt this good. The two guys from your past had both lazily rubbed you to orgasm, even if it took forever. Then it was onto their pleasure and what they wanted. But Rafe was worshipping your cunt with everything he had.
When his tongue leaves you, you can’t help but whine. Rafe doesn’t make you wait, though, sliding a finger in to fill you back up.
“So wet already.” He murmurs, his voice hoarse. He starts to pump his finger in and out, getting you used to the length it. And to your surprise, all you want is more, and you tell him so. He listens, sliding another finger in. Then, curves a finger and finds the sweet spot that makes you squirm. He’s saying things, probably really sexy things, but you can barely hear him thanks to your own moans and the pleasure building within you.
A part of you wants this feeling of bliss to go on forever, but the coil in your center snaps without your control. His name repeatedly leaves your lips like a chant, only slowing when you feel yourself come back into your own body, breath slowing. Rafe’s fingers leave your oversensitive clit, but he waits until you go still before removing his fingers.
“’Atta girl.” He praises, looking down at you like you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
“Holy shit,” You mutter, your voice on the verge of giving out. Clearing your throat, which doesn’t help, you curse again. Vaguely, you remember that before this night you would have been fine with having some fun with him and leaving it at that. That it would be okay if he only wanted a one-night stand. Now, the idea of only having this one night in his bed seemed devastating.
The smug grin is back on Rafe’s face, and you don’t have it in you to try to erase it. He’d earned that. He could be smug about that any day. He briefly kisses your lips before turning to the nightstand and pulling out a condom. He finally slides out of his sweatpants, out of his boxers, and your eyes fixate on his cock like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.
“You good? Or you need a minute?” He asks, tearing the wrapper and putting it on. He notices you staring, and gives you a wink.
“Um, just a sec. My legs are still shaking.” You admit, a laugh slipping out of you.
You want to reach out to Rafe. Maybe kiss him lazily until your energy comes back. But the slam of the front door startles you both. Holiday’s voice calls out for Rafe, and you hear a handful of other male voices as well. Your body freezes and your blood runs cold as Rafe curses under his breath.
“I thought you said he wouldn’t be back!” Your voice is a whisper, like his roommate could somehow hear you from downstairs.
“He wasn’t supposed to be.” Rafe grumbles. “Bet they couldn’t find a table for the game.”
“They?” Your mouth goes dry.
“Yeah, he went with some friends to watch the basketball game tonight.” Rafe sighs, lowering his head.
“Yo, Rafe!” Holiday audibly stomps up the stairs and your heart stutters before pumping like crazy. You meet Rafe’s eyes and you know you look panicked.
“I locked it, don’t worry,” He murmurs before turning to the door. “What?” His voice is much louder and much harsher toward his roommate.
“We’re getting pizza. What d’ya want?” Holiday knocks, and you sink further into the bed, pulling the covers over you.
“I really don’t give a fuck. Kinda busy, dumbass.” Rafe yells, fists clenching.
“Fine, damn.” Holiday mutters, and you hear his footsteps retreating back downstairs.
Rafe looks at you again, scanning your expression. You try to smile at him, but you know he can tell that you’re uncomfortable. His brows furrow.
“I’m sorry,” He coughs out an awkward laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I swear I didn’t know he’d be coming back.”
“It’s okay.” You try to reassure him, your voice still quiet.
“They won’t be able to hear us,” Rafe promises, the sounds of the TV and the boys talking and laughing muffling his voice enough to prove his point. “But I get it if you wanna stop.”
There’s a part of you who feels added nerves at the thought of his roommate and a bunch of strangers downstairs potentially hearing you. But there’s another part of you who doesn’t want this to end. Who wants to savor this, in case it never happens again. Too many good things seemed to vanish quickly in your life, and you were bracing for Rafe to vanish too.
You reached out toward Rafe, grabbing his thin gold chain and using it to pull him toward you so you can meet his mouth with yours. What was meant to be a quick kiss, Rafe makes long and heated. Proof to you that his desire hadn’t faltered even a little bit.
“Maybe some music, just in case?” You offer breathlessly, and he nods, grabbing his phone and quickly tapping away. A Deftones song starts from the small speaker on the nightstand, the music relaxing you a bit. You’d put a song on for your first time, and for some reason it had made you less self-conscious and in your head back then, too.
Rafe kisses you again, positioning himself between your legs. You feel him line his cock up against you, and your hips buck involuntarily. He chuckles softly into the kiss before pulling away.
“Ready?” He asks, and you nod. Rafe doesn’t wait. He guides his cock inside you, pushing slowly. The feeling of being stretched builds, and you inhale sharply. “Talk to me. You good?”
“Mhmm,” You reply, the initial sting starting to fade into a more pleasant feeling of fullness. “Keep going.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Quicker now, he slides out almost all the way before pushing back in.
“God, you’re so tight,” He’s still gauging your reaction as he stifles a groan. You respond with a hum of your own, his low voice driving you wild. You like hearing the sounds he makes and knowing it was because of you.
You roll your hips to meet his, and he takes the hint, thrusting faster and picking up the pace. At this point, you can barely hear the song, you’ve nearly forgotten that there’s people downstairs. All you can hear is the sounds either of you are making.
“Want ‘em to hear you, huh?” Rafe growls in your ear, and you shudder. He dips his hand down to your clit, rubbing it perfectly again. Honestly? You don’t even care anymore. It feels too good to keep quiet. And he seems to feel the same way.
The coil in your core tightens again. It’d been years since you’d even tried to go for a second orgasm. And Rafe was pulling one out of you like it was the easiest thing in the world. The coil snaps, and you unravel against him again, your vision going white and your ears ringing.
When the world comes back into focus, Rafe is still thrusting, muttering a chorus of curses. You can barely move, your body clouded in bliss. The only thing that really registers is his voice saying your name as he finishes, collapsing on top of you with a groan.
Neither of you move for a while. You notice the Deftones song is long gone, and some rap song is playing now. The boys downstairs make a racket over some call the refs made, none the wiser to anything you two just did.
Rafe pulls out slowly, disposing the condom and grabbing some towels from the bathroom. He hands you a towel, letting you both wipe down before he settles back beside you. But you know how this goes. Guys never want girls to stay in these scenarios. As soon as you can breathe properly again, you get out of bed and search for your clothes.
“Rafe?” Your voice shakes as reality hits you. “I think my clothes are still in the living room.”
“Fuck,” Rafe groans, rubbing his hands through his hair as he turns on the light on his nightstand. “I’ll get them.”
“I’m sorry,” You blurt out for some reason, feeling your cheeks go crimson.
“It’s fine. I tossed them in the corner. Doubt their drunk asses even noticed.” He puts on his boxers and sweatpants, grabbing a new shirt from his dresser. “Be right back.”
You’re grateful you don’t have to be the one to go down there and get the clothes, instead getting a chance to look at Rafe’s room with the light on. It looks like someone ripped the page out of a Pottery Barn catalogue for college dorms. Plain black dresser. Plain black bed. Navy bedding that you’ve ruined. The only décor is a Duke pennant flag on the wall. Boring, but clean at least.
“Got ‘em.” Rafe announces as he enters the room again, handing you your clothes. “They didn’t even notice.”
“Thank you.” You smile at him, slipping your clothes on.
“No need to rush.” He quips, nodding back at the bed. You bite your lip, tempted, but not wanting to overstay.
“I have Accounting at 8 AM tomorrow.” You tell him sheepishly.
“Gross.” He grimaces. “Alright then, need me to get you an Uber?”
“I can walk. It’s not far.”
“It’s dark out.” Rafe looks at you like you’re nuts.
“Yeah, that’s what happens at night.” You smirk. He rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.
“It’s not safe.”
“It’s fine, Rafe.”
“Let me walk you.”
“Rafe, you really don’t-” You start, but he’s already grabbing a jacket. You follow him out with a sigh, thankful he leads you out back where you won’t have to interact with all the boys in the living room. Once outside, he lets you lead the way a bit as you walk to your dorm.
“My legs are still shaking.” You admit, laughing a little.
“Good.” He smiles at you, and for a few minutes, neither of you talk. But as your dorm comes into view, Rafe turns to you again. “See you in class tomorrow, partner?”
“Yeah, see you in class. And bring me some candy.” You wink.
“Text me what you want. And if you ever need a ‘study break’ again.”
Request: Hii sweetheart! Could you write something about Ilia x female figure skater where she also trains with his parents. It would be soo cool to see their dynamic as a couple. Wish u the best 🎀❤️
Word count: 1633
-
For as long as you could remember, the rink had been your second home. The early mornings before school, the late evenings after homework was done - it had all been part of your life since your childhood.
And so had Ilia Malinin.
Your mother used to joke that you learned to skate before you learned to walk. At 6 you joined his parents' skating group, and because of that the two of you spent your childhoods sharing the same ice.Unfortunately.
More times than you could remember, Ilia had made you want to rip your own hair out in frustration. Like one time when you were eleven, and he stole your favorite song for a routine. Til this day, he claimed that it was a coincidence - but he didn't pick it until after you had said that you liked it.
Or the several other times he tried to annoy you during skating. One time, he had been doing his favorite trick - standing in your way. Even as you tried to shove him away, he would only smirk and claim "he wasn't in your way." "You're standing on my takeoff," you had exclaimed, to which he had countered that he was only "standing near your takeoff."
For years that had been your dynamic. Teasing. Competitive. A little unbearable. Once you described him to a friend as "the closest thing you had to a brother". Unbeknownst to you, Ilia had overheard that conversation. Not even knowing why, your words annoyed him to the point where he didn't speak to you for three whole days.
-
As you both grew older, things had slowly begun to change. And somehow, between long practices and international competitions, the irritation between you had softened into something else.
You weren’t even sure when or how it had happened. Maybe it was when you both started to compete internationally. Maybe it was when Ilia shot up a few inches and stopped looking like the slightly awkward kid you had grown up with. Or maybe it was the simple fact that you had spent thousand of hours together at the rink.
No matter the reason, you had never admitted it to anyone. And you never would, especially not to Ilia.
It was, however, an increasingly hard secret to keep. More times than you could count, he would catch you staring and make some sort of comment.
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m not,” you would protest, trying your best to sound normal. “I was just thinking.”
“About me?” Ilia would laugh, clearly pleased with himself, having no clue to how your heartbeat had picked up, or how your cheeks threatened to fill with color.
-
One week before the Olympics, everything fell apart.
It happened during a normal run-through. You had done the combination countless times before. Your body knew the rhythm of it almost instinctively. The timing felt right, the edge felt solid - until it didn’t.
Your blade caught the ice wrong during the landing. There was a sharp crack, and then pain. You didn’t scream, but the silence that followed your fall was almost worse.
Ilia and his parents all rushed over to where your body had fallen, Ilia reaching you first. By the time he had dropped to his knees beside you, your ankle had already started to swell.
When he asked if you were okay, and you answered that you were fine, you both knew that it wasn’t true.
The diagnosis came quickly. A fracture. Not career-ending, but bad enough. So bad that the doctors didn’t even bother pretending that you could compete. “You’ll need surgery,” one of them explained gently.
You took the news hard, but somehow it seemed like Ilia took them even harder when he came to visit you that evening.
He leaned back in the chair beside your hospital bed, rubbing his face. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You had dreamed about this Olympics since you were children, and now you wouldn’t even get to be there.
Eventually, he snapped back to his senses and cleared his throat. “I’ll call you all the time.”
The seriousness in his voice made your heart flutter, so you tried to laugh it off. “That sounds exhausting.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
-
A week later, the Olympics came.
You watched everything from your hospital bed, with your leg in a cast and your phone constantly buzzing from beside you. Ilia called you exactly like he promised. Before practices, after practices, sometimes just to complain about the food.
After the free skate, you could hear the tension and frustration in his voice.
“Don’t read the comments,” you told him during one of those calls. “You’re still one of the best skaters in the world, Ilia. One competition doesn’t change that, even if it’s the Olympics.”
There was a long pause on the other end, almost making you think he had hung up. Eventually he spoke up, his voice quiet. “You should have been here.”
“Yeah,” you answered, your chest tightening, “I know.”
-
Two weeks later, you stood in the arrivals area of the airport with your ankle in a boot.
In one hand you held a bunch of balloons, and in the other a sign - “WELCOME HOME, OLYMPIC LOSER.” It had taken you a while to settle on the wording, but eventually you had decided to go with honesty.
As more and more people exited the sliding doors, you grew impatient. When Ilia finally walked through with his luggage, he spotted the sign immediately. He then stopped walking, and bursted out laughing.
“You’re unbelievable,” he said as he reached you.
“You’re welcome.”
He shook his head, still smiling, before moving his eyes to your other hand. “And the balloons?”
“Emotional support,” you grinned.
“For me?”
“For me,” you deadpanned, “you were very dramatic on the phone.” He let out a quiet laugh at that.
For a moment the two of you simply stood there. It had only been a couple of weeks since you had last seen each other, but somehow it felt longer. His parents, who sensed that you might need some privacy, took the silence as a sign to move away from the two of you.
Eventually, Ilia spoke again. “I missed training with you,” he admitted. “The rink was weirdly quiet.”
You shifted slightly in your good foot. “I watched all your programs.”
He grimaced slightly at your confession. “Sorry about that.” You rolled your eyes slightly at his words. “You did fine.”
Ilia shook his head, “That’s not what the internet says.”
You let out a huff, “The internet isn’t exactly known for being a reliable source.” This was the problem with Ilia. Even if one program was a bust, he had been amazing over all.
Ilia looked at you for a moment, his eyes softening. “I think I skate better when you’re there.” He hesitated briefly before continuing. “I mean, you’ve always kind of been there.”
“Well yeah, we’ve trained together since we were kids,” you retorted, ignoring the way your heart skipped at his words.
“Yeah, exactly,” Ilia said, before continuing awkwardly, “I guess the Olympics just made me realize that I don’t like doing this stuff without you.”
“Oh.”
He let out a small breath through his nose. “And before you say anything - no, this isn’t some dramatic Olympic self discovery moment or anything.” You both laughed a little at that, before he rubbed his neck briefly and continued.
“I just think.. things are better when you’re there.”
Tears formed in your eyes, as your lips moved into a soft smile. Even though your friendship had softened throughout the years, touchy moments like these were rare. “You sound jet-lagged.”
Ilia huffed a quiet laugh, glancing down at the floor for a second before looking back at you.
“And,” he added after a moment, “I might have realized something else.”
You raised an eyebrow, “That sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah, well.” He shifted his weight slightly. “Turns out when you spend most of your life training with someone, seeing them everyday and traveling together…” he paused, clearly trying to figure out how to end the sentence.
“… you get used to having them around?” You suggest softly.
“Exactly.”
You grab his hand in yours, noticing how his was shaking slightly. “That’s called friendship.”
Ilia lets out another short breath. “Right, except I’m pretty sure it’s not just that.”
“Oh,” you repeat your previous words lamely, your fingers tightening slightly around the strings of the balloons.
For a moment neither of you spoke. The airport around you was still busy, with people moving past you with suitcases and loud conversations, but it all felt strangely distant.
“I think I like you,” he finished. The words weren’t dramatic. It sounded more like he had simply reached a conclusion.
You stared at him for a second. “You think?”
He rolled his eyes, moving a step closer. You don’t know if it was something in your voice that gave you away or what, but his next words sounded far more confident. “I know I like you.”
“Well,” you grinned, “that’s good, because I like you too.”
Another small silence settled between you. Not awkward, but new. Ilia glanced down briefly at the medical boot on your ankle.
“So,” he eventually said slowly, “does this mean I’m allowed to kiss you, or..?”
You looked around the crowded airport terminal. “There are at least twenty people watching us, including your parents.”
“So?” Ilia shrugged.
You considered his words for another moment, glancing over at where his parents stood - looking both knowing and proud. Eventually you gave him a shrug of your own. “Fine.”
The kiss was brief. Short. And considering you were still holding both the balloons and sign, slightly awkward. But when you pulled back, Ilia looked entirely too pleased with himself.
summary: Your bond with Ilia Malinin was almost idyllic, as though lifted from the pages of a children’s book, one that painted friendship as a force capable of overcoming anything the world might place in its path. You understood each other without words, found your way back to one another no matter the distance between your states, your schedules, your lives.
But time, as it so often does, reshaped what once felt unbreakable. Your senior debut — and with it, the slow arrival of adulthood — changed you both. And when you were chosen to represent the United States at the Olympic Games in Beijing, while Ilia was not, something fractured. Something shifted. Not only between you, but within you as well. For in the very moment your friendship stood at its most fragile, you came to realize that what you felt for him had long since outgrown the boundaries of friendship.
content: angst, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, anxiety, injury, happy ending, misunderstandings, figure skating reader, jealousy, olympics, beijing, milano, worlds championship, yearning, disappoiting each other, reader has a toxic family, poor mental health
word count: 10k
author’s note: finally managed to finish this, yaaay 🫡i lowkey overestimated my ability to balance writing fanfics and uni assignments, and reality hit me like a truck. also i’m kinda out of practice when it comes to writing angst, and i had to physically restrain myself from throwing in too many goofy jokes every five seconds 😭but honestly, writing the Prague short program part made me insanely happy, mostly because i was actually there in the stands and almost launched my phone across the arena when Ilia’s score came up. later i accidentally bulldozed into Adam Hagara and Donovan Carrillo outside the arena because i was sleep-deprived and in a hurry, so i had to mention them here somehow as my form of apology 💀fun fact: i’m the one who took those two collage photos lol
anyway, enjoy this last chapter <3 i have an exam tomorrow and didn’t manage to proofread the whole thing because this chapter got ridiculously long + English isn’t my first language, so sorry for any mistakes or weird sentence structures. thank u guys sm for all the love on this story 🥹for the next fic i’ll probably go for enemies to lovers, and reader’s either gonna be a bassist in a rock band or a football player… we’ll see. rn i’m leaning toward the bassist option because i’m fucking mad at Real Madrid atm (I literally signed a petition to kick Mbappé out lmao)
tag list: @loverboyseb @sinistersnakey @p4rtyp0is0nn
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For the first few days after the men’s free skate, you still couldn’t believe the insane twist of fate. You had been so certain that when you looked up at the television screen, you’d see Ilia — the untouchable Olympic favorite — standing beneath the lights with a gold medal around his neck, not unraveling mentally before the entire world. Not only had he missed the podium altogether, he finished eighth overall, fifteenth in the free program itself. And although you were happy that Misha Shaidorov had become Olympic champion, because he absolutely deserved it and you had admired his skating skills for years, you still couldn’t come to terms with what had happened to Ilia. You knew how ambitious he was — the crushing expectations you both placed upon yourselves had always been something that tied you together — and you knew how deeply this failure must have wounded him.
You kept trying to convince yourself it had all been a hallucination — a bad dream, some grotesque fantasy your exhausted mind had fabricated after you swallowed more calming pills than the label allowed.
On the night of the free skate, when you fell asleep on the living room couch with tears dried stiff against your cheeks and your fingernails bitten raw from anxiety, the images from the broadcast came back to haunt you in your sleep. Rafael asking Ilia if he was okay. Ilia answering only with a strained, broken: “I just choked. That’s it. I blew it.”
Then the dream blurred into another fractured scene, one ripped directly from reality itself — Ilia sitting in the Kiss & Cry between his coaches, barely holding himself together.
“They all think it’s easy. It’s not easy.”
He had sounded furious. Furious at the world. Furious at himself.
And then suddenly, impossibly, you were standing right in front of him.
He looked straight into your eyes with pure contempt — disappointment sharp enough to carve flesh from bone. There wasn’t even the faintest trace left of the adoration he used to look at you with. You could almost smell his cologne mixed with sweat, feel the warmth radiating from his body and the bitter cold rising from the ice behind your back. It all felt so real that you could no longer tell where you were, asleep or awake. The line between reality and delusion dissolved into something terrifyingly thin.
“Guess we’re finally even now,” he said coldly. “You crashed in Beijing, and I crashed in Milan.”
“No, I- I never wanted this, I swear-”
“Then why the hell did you leave me all alone?”
That was when you woke up — trembling violently, drenched in sweat, fresh tears spilling helplessly from your lashes.
You dragged yourself back to your bedroom, climbed into bed, and wrapped your arms around the giant Toothless plushie Ilia had once given you. But sleep refused to come again. You were terrified that the moment you closed your eyes, the image of your devastated friend would return to you once more, vivid and burning like a mark branded into your skin with hot iron.
People on the internet were merciless.
You read only a handful of posts before rage began boiling beneath your ribs so violently you felt seconds away from committing third-degree murder. He deserved it, they wrote. He should be ashamed of himself. Someone who calls himself a god was always gonna fall eventually. I hope he doesn’t even go to Worlds in Prague. His own ego got him, he literally skated to his own voice like come on.
They compared him to Icarus flying too close to the sun before plummeting back to earth. They called him a crybaby, overrated loser, the biggest disappointment of the Olympics — if not the last two decades altogether. They mocked the fact that he had won fourteen gold medals in a row only to finish eighth at the Games. They laughed that the skater who was supposed to be untouchable had somehow become a fucking joke. Twitter turned him into memes. TikTok turned his heartbreak into entertainment.
And then you stumbled across a comment from a German commentator who casually declared that if he were Malinin, he’d retire after something like this.
You couldn’t understand why everyone was being so cruel to him, as if they were determined to constantly remind him of his failure.
“I’m so angry at myself. I don’t know what happened,” Ilia said in interviews, fully aware that he had lost the battle with himself. He wasn’t looking for excuses. “I was pretty confident earlier, but during the warm-up something shifted. I started psyching myself out, all the bad memories clouded my mind, and… I lost it mentally.”
You didn’t know what to do with yourself. You didn’t want to make things worse for him, so you didn’t contact him right after the competition. Not the next day either. You believed he deserved a moment to breathe, a fragment of peace, time to gather the broken pieces of himself and arrange them into something survivable again. You decided you would call him only on Sunday, once the emotions had settled at least a little, once Ilia had begun appearing in public again — meeting with Simone Biles and Tara Lipinski, giving a handful of interviews in which he admitted that his own confidence had destroyed him, yet swore he wouldn’t fall apart because of it and would keep skating no matter what.
But the moment you picked up your phone and your finger hovered above his number, every ounce of courage deserted you. Deep down, you were convinced you were the last person Ilia wanted to hear from right now. You blamed yourself for his defeat so fiercely that the mere thought of facing him filled you with terror.
So you made yet another terrible decision — you postponed contacting him until after the Olympics, when he would no longer be trapped in a place where every corridor, every flashing screen, every echoing cheer reminded him of what had happened on Friday the thirteenth.
So maybe that day really is cursed after all, you thought bitterly.
The atmosphere within the American figure skating world improved dramatically during the women’s free skate, when Alysa Liu shockingly captured Olympic gold. After what had happened to Ilia, there wasn’t even a trace of jealousy left inside you anymore, and if there was one good thing to come out of the entire disaster, it was the fact that you could finally celebrate Alysa’s victory openly and sincerely. For four breathtaking minutes she bewitched the crowd in Milan, making the entire arena rise to its feet and sway to the rhythm of Donna Summer pouring from the speakers.
“Yeah… that could’ve been you,” Chrissy muttered darkly the second the heavy medal settled around Alysa’s neck. “Though knowing you, you probably would’ve pulled a Malinin and screwed everything up again like you did in Beijing.”
“I still don’t get why you waste your time on this sport instead of focusing on college,” your father cut in, shooting you a pointed look over the top of his tiny laptop screen. “You’re not gonna achieve anything with skating anyway.”
“It’s true, Y/N,” your mother added absentmindedly while painting her nails. “Sooner or later you’re gonna have to retire and do something actually serious with your life.”
Your parents had never cared about figure skating, yet somehow they always had the most to say about it. If it hadn’t been for Chrissy — who fell in love with the sport because of your aunt — and if it hadn’t been for the fact that she herself lacked the talent and was terrified of jumping, deciding instead to live out all her dreams and ambitions through you, you probably never would’ve stepped onto an ice rink in the first place.
You never would’ve laced up a pair of skates. Never competed.
Never met Ilia.
You thought the worst was already behind you, that nothing could shatter you anymore. You were wrong.
The exhibition gala was far removed from the pure joy you had expected it to bring. Though there were no shortages of lighthearted moments — Olivia and Tim tossing a football across the ice, Misha dressed in a panda costume, Alysa recreating the choreography from the “Stateside” music video — you found yourself wiping away tears over and over again: first because of Kaori’s performance, the bittersweet farewell to her magnificent career, and then because of Ilia.
Once, he had mentioned a small project of his — something meant to make people more sensitive to the subject of mental health in the age of the Internet. But amidst the chaos of the Olympics, the preparations for your own gala program set to a Prince song, and later your preoccupation with your injury, you had paid little attention to it and eventually forgotten about it entirely.
So when Ilia stepped onto the ice wearing jeans and a hoodie, the hood pulled low over his face, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed, you were stunned. Not by the outfit, nor by his choice of artist — Ilia had skated to NF in similar clothing at galas before. What truly unsettled you was the vulnerability in his posture. The lost expression on his face. The drooping corners of his eyes. The tears glimmering there, stubbornly restrained. He looked as though he wanted to hide from the Olympic reality surrounding him, as if he longed to flee from the piercing gaze of the entire world boring straight through him.
Throughout the entire performance, you barely blinked. You could scarcely breathe, staring at the screen as though hypnotized. And at the end of the song, when the question Is this what you wanted? rang out, and Ilia threw himself into a backflip to the — oh, the irony — delight of the entire arena, you broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably.
Though the question had been directed at the haters who had wished for Ilia’s downfall, you received it as a personal accusation. In that moment, you felt like the worst person alive. Your body went rigid; it felt as though the blood had stopped flowing through your veins altogether.
Oh, Ilia. Your poor golden boy.
You had failed him. You had failed yourself. Your parents had been right about you all along — you were nothing more than a great disappointment, someone fundamentally unworthy of being loved.
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A month later, you didn’t hesitate for even a second before buying a plane ticket to Prague. Even though your sister strongly objected, you finally gathered the courage to stand up to her for the first time. Now, only Ilia mattered.
“If you go there,” she warned coldly, her voice sharp as broken glass, “don’t bother coming back. I’m done wasting my time on you. You won’t find another coach.”
“Maybe Ilia’s parents will take me in,” you shot back dryly. “Y’know, out of pity. And honestly? You barely taught me anything anyway. I’ve basically trained myself my whole life. You’re just there to take your anger out on me.”
Chrissy, stung far more deeply by the truth than she ever would have admitted, didn’t try to stop you after that. Your sudden defiance had caught her completely off guard.
Thanks to Amber’s enthusiastic involvement in your plan to reconcile with Ilia — or at the very least apologize to him — you managed to book a tiny apartment near the Stages Hotel, where the skaters were staying, and somehow secured last-minute tickets for the men’s event, seat close to the ice.
You were grateful to Amber for helping you so selflessly, even though you were convinced you didn’t deserve it. After all, you’d barely spoken to your teammates during the entire Olympics. Luckily, Amber understood. She suspected she’d be bitter too if an injury had stolen her chance right before the biggest competition of her career.
“What if he hates me?” you asked over the phone, your voice trembling beneath the weight of spiraling fears. “What if he doesn’t even wanna see me?”
“Girl, stop getting in your own head,” Amber sighed. “It’s Ilia. Of course he wants you here. Back in Milan, he literally wouldn’t shut up about you. Either you, or his cats, or Snoop Dogg. And the way he looks at you? Like you hung the moon or something. Y’all are gonna work it out.”
You appreciated her attempts to comfort you, but her certainty only deepened the ache inside your chest.
Right after Ilia’s exhibition skate, you texted him to praise his performance and asked if the two of you could talk. He replied a week and a half later, briefly, stiffly, painfully unlike himself. He claimed he hadn’t seen your message because he’d been busy during Art on Ice in Zurich.
But you knew better. Ilia had been all over social media after the Olympics. If there was one person on Earth who checked his DMs obsessively, it was him. Deep down, you suspected he had ignored you on purpose, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him for it.
When you suggested flying to Virginia and visiting the rink in Reston — now that you were finally cleared to skate again — he brushed you off with shallow excuses. Mattress sponsorships. Sheba ads. Brutal training sessions ahead of Worlds. Everyone expected redemption from him now. They expected him to defend his title.
Even though you knew you deserved the distance, grief still swallowed you whole. It felt like drowning in an endless black ocean. Like losing the most precious thing you had ever held in your hands.
You didn’t dare show yourself to Ilia before the short program. Anxiety devoured you alive. More than rejection, you feared something else entirely — that despite all his interviews about changing his mindset, about skating for joy instead of victory, he would once again crumble beneath the pressure.
The O2 Arena in Prague was immense: overwhelming, alive, vibrating with raw electricity. You hadn’t seen this many passionate fans in years. Pride bloomed painfully in your chest at the sight of teenagers lining up outside the venue clutching “QUAD GOD” banners and plush Toothless toys.
Throughout the entire event, you were so anxious your smartwatch practically thought you were dying. Not even the hedgehog mascot waddling around the stands during resurfacing breaks, singing “Sweet Caroline” at the top of its lungs, could improve your mood.
Amber, despite having her own event the next day, kept fanning you with the competition program and forcing water bottles into your hands.
By the time the final warm-up group stepped onto the ice, nausea clawed at your throat so violently that you bolted to the bathroom to throw up the cold pizza you’d bought at the food court.
On your way back, two fans stopped you, recognizing you despite your scarf and oversized sunglasses. You politely took pictures with them and signed autographs, which unfortunately caused you to miss Aleksandr Selevko’s phenomenal skate.
“It seriously sucked not seeing you at the Olympics,” one of the girls admitted.
“Yeah, for real,” the other added. “I was sooo sure you and Ilia were both gonna win. It was awful when you got injured.”
“And you guys were literally adorable during the Grand Prix Final,” the first girl continued shamelessly. “I even made an edit of you two. Lowkey thought you were dating.”
Their bluntness stunned you. They spoke so casually, so fearlessly, as if your heartbreak belonged to the public now, despite the fact that no one had the slightest clue about your hurt feelings — especially Ilia, whom you had never confessed your crush to.
Unable to force out a single coherent response, you muttered a quick apology and hurried back to your seat. When the announcers called out the final six skaters for warm-up, the noise became deafening. For a moment, you genuinely thought you might lose your hearing.
The entire arena erupted the second Ilia Malinin stepped onto the ice. He looked focused, but confident, too. The thunderous applause clearly fed his ego. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, heat flooding every inch of your body. During Kevin Aymoz and Adam Siao Him Fa’s performances, your brain completely shut down. Nothing felt real anymore. Reality crashed into you all at once the moment Ilia struck his opening pose and the sound of rainfall echoed through the speakers, followed by the haunting first notes of “Dies Irae”.
You barely had time to process the fact that he’d cut his hair before the first jumping pass began. You grabbed Amber’s hand, convinced you were about to faint. You could hardly breathe.
Quad Flip. Landed so effortlessly your eyes widened in disbelief. A razor-sharp triple Axel. Quad Lutz–triple Toe combination. Every element rewarded with massive GOE.
As the second half of the program unfolded, Ilia seemed lighter, freer. Though still intensely focused, he skated with growing arrogance and ease, a dangerous kind of confidence curling through every movement. He grinned openly now, reckless and radiant beneath the arena lights. And when he hit the final pose, the camera zooming in on his face, you saw it: joy. Real joy.
It felt unreal. He needed that. You needed that.
“Now that’s how you get back on the horse,” Amber murmured beside you.
You hadn’t even realized you were still crushing her hand in your grip.
The arena practically exploded when the scores appeared. 111 points. A full ten points ahead of Adam in second place. It was more than just a performance. More than jumps or medals or redemption narratives crafted by sports journalists. It was a human being clawing his way out of the darkness. A battle against his own demons. Proof — to himself more than anyone else — that one failure could never erase who he truly was.
“Are you gonna go talk to him?” Amber asked as the two of you slipped out through the back exit, avoiding the swarms of fans gathered outside the arena.
Usually, you loved stopping for photos with them. You genuinely cherished the fact that people admired you and your skating, that to someone, somewhere, you could be an idol. But tonight, your mind was far too crowded to entertain conversations with strangers.
“I think so.” You absentmindedly played with the rainbow-colored fur of the plush hedgehog mascot you’d bought during the short break, along with a handful of pins from the merch stand. Even if you couldn’t compete here yourself, you still wanted something tangible to remember these championships by. “I mean… sooner or later I gotta face this. Even if I have no clue how,” you sighed.
“You’ll know what to say.”
You weren’t nearly as convinced.
Amber snuck you into the hotel, but unfortunately she had to mentally prepare for her own free skate, so she retreated to her room soon after. She offered to let you wait there until Ilia returned from the arena, but guilt gnawed too fiercely at you. You already felt like you’d taken advantage of her kindness enough.
So instead, you sat alone in the hotel lobby, where fans constantly approached you. You also ran into a few familiar faces. You chatted briefly with Niina Petrokina, Adam Hagara, and Donovan Carrillo, who had utterly enchanted the audience earlier that evening.
For a while, you almost believed you had conquered your fear of confronting Ilia. Then you saw him. He moved swiftly through the corridor beside Roman, headphones in, eyes fixed on the glow of his phone screen.
And suddenly, you froze. You hadn’t seen him in person since January.
At first glance, he looked the same. Yet something about his face had changed over those two months. There was a quiet maturity etched into his features now, something steadier, more grounded. And beneath it all lingered exhaustion — a faint shadow of melancholy you assumed had been carved there by the competition.
He didn’t notice you. Thankfully, Roman glanced your way by accident and recognized you immediately. Awkwardly, you nodded at him in greeting. He stopped his son with a hand on his shoulder and subtly gestured toward you.
Ilia looked irritated at first. Confused, too. But the moment his blue eyes met yours, something shifted. You just couldn’t decipher what.
It felt like centuries passed before he finally walked over. At last, you pushed yourself off the couch. The closeness of him nearly made your head spin. Your thoughts tangled hopelessly together, leaving you unable to form a coherent sentence.
“Hey,” you started quietly, avoiding the severity of his gaze. Shame crushed you beneath its weight like falling stone.
“Hi,” Ilia replied.
His voice sounded soft on the surface, but beneath it lingered traces of anger — and something infinitely sadder.
You had no idea how to begin this conversation. You didn’t want to immediately collapse into apologies for ghosting him during the Olympics, but at the same time, you couldn’t think of anything natural to say. Suddenly, memories of Ilia’s clumsy attempts to apologize to you after Beijing came rushing back. Back then, you’d been merciless.
Now the roles had reversed.
“Congrats on the season’s best,” you murmured. “That was, like… your cleanest skate all year.”
“Thanks,” Ilia muttered, his gaze drifting elsewhere.
He sounded exhausted, which did absolutely nothing to ease your terror about steering this conversation toward what truly mattered. And Roman — who was very obviously eavesdropping nearby — helping either.
“The haircut actually suits you,” you added weakly, somehow managing to make the situation even more painfully awkward.
“Anything else?” Ilia glanced pointedly toward his father. He sounded annoyed, like you were some persistent reporter asking dumb questions after a competition. You had never imagined his anger being directed at you. Throughout your entire friendship, you had almost never fought — aside from Beijing. Sure, you teased each other constantly, and Ilia was often ridiculously sassy with you, but it had always existed within the boundaries of your unspoken agreement: affectionate bullying disguised as friendship.
“Uh, yeah.” You stumbled over the words, completely thrown off balance. Out of pure instinct, your hand lifted slightly, ready to reach for his the way you always did whenever anxiety overwhelmed you — but you stopped yourself at the last second.
Ilia still noticed the reflex.
“Cause, y’know, I’m kinda in a rush and-”
“Right, I- I…” Your gaze drifted unfocused toward him. You couldn’t tell whether your blurred vision came from panic or from the tears silently gathering in your eyes. “Can we maybe talk somewhere private?”
You didn’t want Roman witnessing this conversation. Judging by the way he awkwardly stepped aside and pretended to check something on his phone, he probably didn’t want to witness it either.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” Ilia shrugged.
The two of you slipped out of sight and stopped behind a large wooden pillar that shielded you, at least partially, from prying eyes. You were painfully aware that some fan could interrupt you at any second, so you swallowed the lump in your throat and decided to get straight to the point. After February 13th, you had already wasted enough time trying to gather the courage to fix your mistakes.
“I wanted to apologize. And explain myself.” You still couldn’t force yourself to look him directly in the eyes, so you stubbornly fixed your gaze on the marble floor beneath your feet. “God, I literally rehearsed this whole speech in my head so it wouldn’t be awkward, and now I forgot all of it. So… screw it. I’ll just say it.”
You took a deep breath. You heard Ilia shifting impatiently beside you.
“I ignored you during the Olympics not just because I was pissed about my injury, but mostly because I lost the chance not only to become an Olympic champion… but to spend time with you.” The words spilled out in a flood now, impossible to stop. “I got petty. Like a kid. I wanted to be there with you. I wanted us to win the team event together, go get stupid gelato, trade pins with other athletes, meet Snoop Dogg, sneak out of the hotel at night to see Inter’s stadium…” Your voice trembled violently. “I wanted to text you right after your free skate, but I was scared it would just make you even angrier. I thought you hated me. Then I watched your exhibition gala and somehow felt even worse, like all of it was my fault.” You felt pathetic the moment tears finally spilled down your burning cheeks in endless streams.
Ilia stayed silent.
And fear wrapped icy fingers around your throat, strangling the rest of your confession before it could fully leave your lips. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. You were terrified he’d think you were trying to make yourself look helpless. Like some tragic victim. When really, you were simply terrified he wouldn’t forgive you.
The silence between you stretched endlessly, warping your perception of time itself. It felt as though you had become trapped inside a single unbearable second, doomed never to escape it.
Then Ilia finally spoke.
“I’m sorry too.”
Those were the last words you had expected to hear.
You’d braced yourself for anger. For resentment. Maybe even cruelty — though that had never truly been Ilia’s nature. With the people he loved, he was endlessly patient, endlessly gentle.
“I got so caught up trying to prove myself to everyone and win Olympic gold that I didn’t even think about your feelings,” he admitted quietly. “I shouldn’t have asked you to fly out there when you were injured and-”
“No. Stop apologizing.” You interrupted him at last, finally forcing yourself to look at him. He seemed lost, embarrassed, devastatingly sad, like he might start crying too. The sight squeezed painfully at your heart. “I was so consumed by my own anger at the world that I never stopped to think about how you were feeling,” you confessed. “I saw all those videos from the Olympic village where everyone looked happy and excited, and I just… didn’t think about what you might actually be going through.” You hesitated. This was it. The moment where honesty finally had to tear down the wall between you. “And besides…” Your voice weakened. “I was jealous. And heartbroken. I- God, I never thought I’d actually admit this out loud, but I have to.”
Ilia frowned slightly, uncertain where this was heading.
“I literally friendzoned you years ago, and somehow still kept hoping you’d eventually feel the same way about me,” you blurted out in one breath. You needed it gone — needed to finally unload the secret you’d carried for years like a weight chained to your ribs. “And then I saw that interview before Nationals where you said you didn’t wanna date anybody because it’d distract you, and that’s when I realized we were never gonna happen. So I tried to distance myself before I got hurt even worse.” You laughed softly, bitterly, nervously. “Y’know what they say. Out of sight, out of mind.” Your smile collapsed almost immediately. “I couldn’t keep looking at you like just a friend and pretending that…” You shook your head faintly. “Whatever. It was stupid. And now I ruined everything.”
His eyes widened at your confession. For one suspended, surreal second, Ilia looked as though he had witnessed God Himself descending from heaven. Or like someone had just informed him he’d won millions in a lottery he never even entered. Or that the Earth was actually flat and humanity was secretly ruled by reptilian overlords — which, honestly, considering Ilia, he’d probably be willing to believe.
“Oh.”
His reaction was painfully minimal, but you hadn’t expected anything else. It’s not like he was suddenly going to kiss you or something. You already knew he didn’t feel the same way. You had prepared yourself for that heartbreak long ago.
All you could hope for now was that he wouldn’t cut you out of his life completely. That maybe — if you were lucky — he would still let you stay by his side as a friend.
“I’m in love with you, Ilia,” you continued, softer this time. Calmer. Without the earlier desperation clawing through your voice. You let the confession linger in the air between you, heavy and sacred enough to alter the atmosphere itself. You could practically hear the gears turning violently inside Ilia’s brain as he tried to process your words. “I never thought I’d be capable of loving someone,” you admitted quietly. “Not when nobody in my family ever really showed me what love looked like. But you…” Your voice nearly broke. “You’re just… you. The best person I’ve ever met. It’s impossible not to love you.”
You had always imagined that if this moment ever came, the confession would stick inside your throat forever. Instead, it flowed out of you effortlessly. Naturally. Like it had been waiting years to finally breathe.
“And I know I’m difficult to love,” you whispered. “So I don’t blame you for not feeling the same way. And during the Olympics, I tried to cut myself off from you because I thought maybe it’d help me get over my feelings, but it didn’t.” Your eyes burned again. “I still want you in my life. Even if it’s only as a friend. Please don’t me mad at me.” You couldn’t postpone asking that unbearable question forever. “Will you forgive me?’’
Ilia furrowed his brows as though he could no longer remember what exactly he was supposed to be angry about, as if your behavior during the Olympics had suddenly been pushed into some unreachable corner of his subconscious — a place he no longer wished to revisit.
The world spun violently before his eyes, much like it did before yours. Everything connected to you, everything that had already been weighing him down for months, crashed onto him all over again with twice the force. He stayed silent, and humiliation settled thick and suffocating in your chest, gluing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
And although some microscopic, irrational part of you still wanted to believe — desperately, foolishly — that maybe Ilia returned the feelings you carried for him, feelings far deeper than friendship, your rational mind could no longer fend off the truth: while he had consumed most of your thoughts for years, you probably meant no more to him than any other teammate.
Before Ilia could answer — before he could decide whether or not he accepted your apology — you were suddenly spotted by a group of fans who had apparently been waiting outside the arena across the street. The two of you exchanged a loaded glance before instinctively turning toward Roman — or rather, toward the place where he should have been standing. He was long gone.
“QUAD GOD!” a swarm of teenagers squealed, surrounding the two of you like a living barricade. Escape became impossible almost instantly. “Can we get a picture with you?”
“Um… yeah, sure,” Ilia replied politely, though without much enthusiasm. On the ice, he radiated recklessness, tiger-like grace, impossible confidence. But the second he stepped off it, he became painfully, almost unbearably shy — a trait you had always found ridiculously adorable.
“I should go,” you murmured distractedly, wiping at your damp eyes.
I’m sorry I ruined everything, you thought. You didn’t deserve any of this.
“Y/N, can I get your autograph?” a young boy asked before you could retrieve the things you had abandoned in the lobby.
You offered him a weak smile and accepted the marker he held out toward you. With trembling fingers, you scribbled your signature across the T-shirt he had probably bought at the merchandise stand inside the arena.
As you walked away — or rather forced yourself through the dense crowd and the relentless flashes of phone cameras — Ilia watched you disappear toward the exit. Your confession echoed violently inside his head.
The cold March air struck your face the moment you stepped through the sliding doors. Outside, night had already swallowed the city whole. Prague slowly draped itself in darkness, quiet and merciless beneath the icy sky. You barely even noticed when a sudden gust of wind tore the loosened scarf from your hair, sending it flying high above your head and far into the night.
It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. You no longer had the strength to cry. You felt like an empty seashell, hollowed out completely by saltwater and time, carved clean from the inside by something vast and unforgiving.
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When you returned to the tiny apartment you had rented for the duration of the championships, three tram stops away from the O2 Arena, you collapsed into bed almost immediately. You no longer wanted to remain awake.
And yet sleep refused to claim you.
Again and again, painful images from the Olympics resurfaced in your mind, intertwined with the bewildered expression on Ilia’s face when you told him you loved him. Later, somewhere in the haze between consciousness and shallow sleep, happier memories began drifting before your eyes instead. His wide grin after landing his very first unaided backflip on the ice. The soft, breathless giggling that spilled through your headphones during late-night Fortnite sessions. The comforting warmth radiating from him whenever he pulled you into a hug.
You couldn’t bear the thought that you had lost all of it forever. If only you could turn back time.
Determined to put an end to your own self-inflicted torment, you finally threw the blankets aside instead of continuing to toss restlessly from one side to the other.
Midnight was drawing near. The small rustic room, overlooking a lively Prague street, lay submerged in darkness. Outside the window, night had fully settled over the city. The moon still lingered high above the star-strewn sky. Half-asleep and disoriented, you barely managed to find the switch of the tiny lamp resting on the wooden bedside table. Artificial light burst sharply across your swollen, exhausted eyes.
You reached for your phone to check whether you had missed any notifications. You had deleted all your social media entirely, and aside from angry messages from Chrissy reminding you about next week’s training sessions and the occasional text from your parents graciously asking when you planned to come home and help with the family business, hardly anyone contacted you anymore.
Which was precisely why you froze in surprise when you noticed a message from Ilia waiting for you — sent shortly after you had left the Stages Hotel.
chaoskid: hi. Im sorry we were interrupted. Lowkey forgot to ask where you’re staying. Did u make it back safe?
You let out a quiet breath of relief. You had been terrified that after your sudden emotional outburst — after that desperate confession of love torn straight from the center of your chest — Ilia would pull away from you completely, frightened off by the weight of your feelings. When his message appeared on the screen, something inside you loosened for the first time in days.
you: yup
Even though you replied nearly three hours later, he opened your message within less than a minute. You suspected that, just like you, he couldn’t sleep either. The adrenaline from his performance was probably still coursing violently through his veins.
chaoskid: can we talk after my free?
you: sure
you: u ok? u looked stressed
You almost added terrified. Because that was what he had truly looked like when people closed in around him from every side, denying him even a single moment of privacy or breath, treating him less like a person and more like something that belonged to them — a toy to be passed from hand to hand. Ever since he landed in Prague, fans had been swarming the hotel, secretly filming him, crossing every imaginable boundary, invading his personal space without hesitation. They kept asking him to do his ending pose from “The Voice’’, as though they had forgotten that the show had played a part in his Olympic downfall and had almost certainly left behind a bitter wound he still carried inside him.
Several agonizing minutes passed before his reply finally came.
chaoskid: not really. some people followed me into the elevator
chaoskid: for a sec i thought they were gonna crush me lol
chaoskid: but thx for asking
you: ofc
chaoskid: btw guess what happened
chaoskid: i beat jacob at cards 😌
And then, suddenly, there he was again. Your Ilia.
you: wait. real cards?? ilia malinin played a game that wasn’t on a computer??? damn, miracles really do happen
chaoskid: ha ha very funny
chaoskid: reminder that u lost to me at jenga after grand prix final
you: fake news
chaoskid: documented evidence unfortunately but whatever u say
Another text arrived almost immediately after the last, as if he were desperately stretching the conversation thinner and thinner, unwilling to let silence fall between you again. As if he wanted, even for a moment, to return to the version of yourselves that had existed before everything shattered.
And you were grateful for every fragile scrap of it.
chaoskid: u want a plushie or smth?
chaoskid: i got like a million toothlesses and other random stuffed animals. can’t exactly drag all of them with me to Japan
you: u say that like it’s the first time fans have ever thrown plushies at u 😭
you: and like you haven’t already given me a toothless AND a light fury before
you: but sure. give me that duolingo owl. I can use it as a pillow on the plane since i forgot mine
chaoskid: gotchu
chaoskid: cheer for me on saturday?
you: always
And somehow, impossibly, it seemed as though things might finally be moving toward something better. This silence did not feel like the dreadful calm before a storm.
For the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to believe that perhaps your relationship could still be salvaged. That Saturday’s free skate would determine not only the fate of his likely world title, but the fate of whatever still remained between the two of you.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
Officially, you hated the free skate.
Ever since Nationals, you were convinced some kind of curse had settled over the segment like a dark omen. Even though Kaori Sakamoto’s victory the night before had filled you with indescribable joy, and the sight of her crying happy tears had nearly moved you to tears yourself, part of your heart still ached for Amber Glenn and Isabeau Levito, both of whom had skated far worse than during the short program.
Amber’s collapse hurt especially badly. This season, despite being considered “old” by skating standards, she had poured every fragment of herself into the sport — only to remain background noise for everyone else. Second best. Always almost enough.
But the men’s free skate was an entirely different beast. The entire arena seemed haunted by the fear of another Milan, another catastrophe where favorite after favorite collapsed beneath the pressure.
You became emotionally numb halfway through the event, your brain shutting down completely. You vaguely remembered Kevin Aymoz’s blazing “Boléro’’, which set the audience on fire, Yuma Kagiyama’s flawless skate, and Adam Siao Him Fa’s unfortunate performance. Every time a skater stumbled on a landing or crashed violently onto the ice, your heart lurched painfully into your throat. You bitterly regretted that the concession stand did not offer giant pitchers of calming herbal tea.
And then Ilia stepped onto the ice. Tears instantly burned behind your eyes.
Just before taking his opening pose and covering his face with his hands, he smiled faintly and cast a subtle glance toward the stands, searching for you. Of course he couldn’t possibly spot you among thousands of spectators, but merely knowing you were there — that you were watching — gave him strength.
The moment his own voice echoed through the arena speakers, a shiver raced violently down your spine. There would be no repeat of the Olympics tonight. Back in Milan, Ilia had looked frightened from the very first second, visibly lost beneath the unbearable weight of expectation. Tonight, however, he stood like a warrior entering battle.
The quad Flip was perfect. His rotation speed during the triple Axel was so absurdly fast that for a split second, the audience and judges thought it had been a quad. With every successful jumping pass, Ilia’s confidence deepened. Satisfaction flashed openly across his face after each element in the second half of the program.
Something in his artistry had transformed after the Olympics. His interpretation felt richer now. More lived-in. His hands sliced through the air with greater precision; every movement sharper, fuller, clearer. His spins accelerated with breathtaking velocity. Every detail of the choreography seemed more deliberate, more captivating, as though he finally understood the emotional language hidden inside the music.
Throughout the entire marvelous, dazzling performance, you remained so utterly spellbound that you barely even noticed when the music ended and Ilia struck his final pose with fire burning through every line of his body. The rain of plushies began instantly.
You didn’t need to look at the projected scores to know he had won. Tears burst from you uncontrollably — tears of relief, joy, pride. No victory of your own had ever made you this happy. Not your silver medal in Montreal. Not even your gold in Boston.
“It’s over! It’s DONE!” Ilia shouted toward the camera with a radiant grin, crossing his arms dramatically in the air.
He bowed toward the audience, scrunched his nose in that unmistakably Ilia way, then scanned the nearby sections of the stands once more, still trying to find you. Part of you was secretly grateful he failed. You didn’t want him seeing you ugly crying with smeared mascara and one of his own merch hats pulled over your head. Even though you had sworn you would never buy anything from his website because you refused to feed his ego, you had secretly ordered the hat and hoodie immediately after he landed seven quads back in December.
As Ilia gave the short interview after the scores were announced, you already knew the internet was erupting into chaos. People were accusing him of being overscored, claiming his jumps were sloppy, insisting the judges had gone easy on him out of pity after the Olympics. You could practically see the tweets already: people crashing out over his PCS, calling him fake, claiming he is an attention seeker for hugging Yuma.
But for once, you didn’t care anymore. Your best friend, Ilia Malinin — the boy who had made you fall even deeper in love with figure skating itself — had become a three-time world champion.
And he was smiling again. The joy stolen from him before the Olympics had finally returned.
The medal ceremony felt almost ceremonial in the most literal sense: a mere formality. The first storm of emotions had already settled, both within you and within Ilia. When the organizers draped the gold medal around his neck, you no longer cried. He, too, appeared calmer now. During the American national anthem, as you rose to your feet, a painful thought crossed your mind: had you not been injured, perhaps you might have heard this anthem at the Olympics too — if you had managed to stand atop the podium yourself. Ilia, serious and strangely distant beside his flag, seemed to be thinking about the same thing: the alternate version of Milan. The version where everything had gone differently.
But that chapter was over now. All either of you could do was cherish the present moment.
Long after Ilia, Shun Sato, and Yuma completed their victory lap around the rink with their flags draped across their shoulders, long after the press conference ended, you finally visited him at the hotel. You had enough time to grab lunch at a local pizzeria, walk back to your apartment, change clothes, and return near the arena.
Getting inside proved much harder this time. After several incidents earlier that week, security in the lobby had become far stricter about fans disturbing the athletes. So you enlisted Isabeau as your official escort, asking her to lead you upstairs to the floor where Ilia and Roman were staying. Just to make sure she hadn’t mixed up the room number, you texted him first.
“You guys are SO making up,” Isabeau declared, patting your back reassuringly. “And if not, me and Stephen are tripping him during the exhibition skate. Or poisoning his drink at the ISU gala and stealing that ugly Prada bag he drags around everywhere.”
She sounded completely serious. You burst into startled laughter and thanked her warmly for helping you. Once the elevator carried her back downstairs, you forced yourself to breathe and knocked loudly on Ilia’s door.
He opened it almost immediately, as if he had already been waiting behind it. He still wore his gold medal around his neck and the blue hoodie he had thrown on right after stepping off the ice. Only the competition pants had been exchanged for black sweatpants.
He looked exhausted, sleepy, and yet overwhelmingly euphoric and relieved to see you standing there. His gaze was softer now. Almost affectionate. The tenderness in it instantly knocked the air from your lungs. You hadn’t thought he would ever look at you like that again.
“Hi.”
“Good evening to you too, three-time world champion,” you greeted lightly, though internally your nerves were killing you alive. “Gold looks good on you,” you added, uncertain whether you were allowed to joke with him so freely yet. It still felt as though you had lost the right to speak to him the way you used to.
Luckily, Ilia immediately matched your tone.
“Well, obviously,” he snorted, stepping closer to you with casual arrogance. “Meanwhile you’re out there wearing a hat with my name on it.”
Your faint smile instantly dissolved into panic.
“How do you-”
“The organizers put you on the jumbotron when I sat down in Kiss & Cry,” Ilia explained, visibly entertained by your sudden embarrassment. “You were crying like crazy.”
You hadn’t even realized the camera had found you in the crowd. At that moment, you genuinely wanted to strangle whichever producer had made that decision.
“What? No, I wasn’t! Something got in my eye,” you defended yourself weakly, feeling heat flood your cheeks. “And besides, you gave me that hat.” You pointed accusingly at him.
“Did I? Huh, my memory must be getting worse.’’
“Oh, totally. It’s… warm. Comfy. The hat.”
“Well yeah, it’s from my merch.”
“God, you’re humble as ever.” You rolled your eyes, instinctively leaning against the doorframe. “Good to know that attitude didn’t completely disappear after Milan. You are officially back.”
“I never really left, y’know,” Ilia replied smugly. “I literally manifested this redemption skate through TikTok reposts.”
“Mhm. Lemme guess, you also went to some psychic to predict your future?” you teased.
The two of you laughed. Briefly, but genuinely. Then silence settled once more. Neither of you knew what to say next. Ilia clearly didn’t want to continue this conversation standing in the hallway, so he gestured awkwardly toward the dimly lit interior of his room, where an open suitcase lay abandoned in the middle of the floor.
“You wanna come in…?” he asked uncertainly.
“Oh. I dunno… I don’t wanna bother you. You’re probably exhausted,” you mumbled.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want to spend time with him. You were terrified. Terrified you were about to hear the words you dreaded most — that after your pathetic love confession, Ilia would ask you to stay away from him.
“I was also gonna put on the ice dance final,” you added quickly. “I think Emi and Vadym skate soon.”
“I literally have a TV too, y’know. We can watch it together.” He paused. “Besides, we still need to talk.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” You nodded quietly.
Ilia let you step inside first, then quietly shut the door behind you. You suddenly had no idea what to do with yourself, so you carefully stepped around the clothes and belongings scattered from his suitcase and perched on the edge of the bed, nervously toying with the sleeve of your hoodie.
In silence, Ilia turned on the small television mounted to the wall and tried to find the right sports channel, but the remote refused to cooperate. Eventually, he gave up and decided you’d just watch cute cat videos on YouTube instead — something the two of you always did whenever boredom hit hard enough.
He sat down beside you and pulled out his phone. You immediately noticed the cracked screen.
“Lemme guess,” you snorted softly. “You were doing the Rasputin dance and your phone flew outta your pocket.”
“Something like that,” he admitted.
You barely got through two funny cat reels before Ilia abruptly switched gears and started showing you clips circulating all over Twitter and TikTok from open practice — videos of him landing a quad Axel–Euler–triple Salchow combination. He looked absurdly proud of himself when you let out a low whistle of genuine admiration.
Then, almost as if nothing had happened — as if you hadn’t ghosted him during the Olympics and confessed your love to him afterward — he began showing you pictures he’d taken in Zurich at FIFA headquarters. But you couldn’t focus. You needed him to finally say what had been weighing on his chest since your conversation after the short program.
You felt as though you had been thrust back into 2022, when Ilia approached you after the World Championships in France to congratulate you on your medal and apologize for letting you down at the Olympics. Only this time, the roles had cruelly reversed. Now it was you who carried the guilt, and you who stood before him offering congratulations for a world title of his own. History had come full circle in the most bitter of ways.
“Okay, before you show me your hundred-and-fiftieth blurry selfie, I gotta say something,” you blurted out.
Ilia instantly sensed the shift in your tone and carefully placed his phone down on the bed.
“I know I messed up… like, really bad. And I’ll get it if you don’t wanna be around me anymore, ’cause it’s probably awkward now that I basically confessed I’m in love with you, but…” Your throat tightened. “Can I still be your friend?”
You repeated the very same question he had once asked you years ago.
“Again? I swear I won’t make it weird anymore. Or if not a friend… then at least, like… an acquaintance?”
For several agonizing heartbeats, Ilia simply stared at you with those wide, shining eyes of his. He looked as though he were memorizing every detail of your frightened expression.
Your finger drummed anxiously against the comforter while you waited for his answer — the answer that would either reshape your relationship forever… or end it completely.
“No,” he said at last.
The blood drained from your face instantly. It felt as though someone had ripped the very essence of life out of your body in a single second, as though your existence itself had ended right there.
“Oh.”
Your eyes filled immediately with tears. You lowered your head, defeated, and awkwardly pushed yourself to your feet before stumbling toward the door. Air refused to reach your lungs. You couldn’t stay there any longer.
“Okay, I- I understand,” you choked out, barely holding back your sobs.
Ilia panicked. He shot up from the bed and grabbed your wrist before you could leave.
“No, wait!” he exclaimed, turning you back toward him. His heart clenched painfully at the sight of your tears. He looked horrified. “I want us to be more than friends this time,” he corrected himself hurriedly. “Sorry, it sounded smoother in my head.” Embarrassment flooded his face. “Guess I’m not a rizz god after all.”
Even though sorrow still wrapped around your chest like iron chains, and your brain hadn’t fully processed what he had just said, a tiny laugh escaped you anyway — so soft it was barely audible.
“Please get rid of that word from your vocabulary,” you murmured with a weak smile, rubbing at your eyes with your sleeve before immediately scolding yourself internally. You’d forgotten you had fixed your mascara after the free skate. Hopefully it hadn’t smudged again.
“Why?” Ilia gasped dramatically, pretending to sound offended. “You literally texted me on Snapchat saying my costume was ‘so slay.’ That was cringe.”
The situation was so absurd that all you could do was laugh. You felt as though you’d wandered into some surrealist film.
“Okay, never mind.”
“You are not difficult to love, Y/N,” Ilia continued, suddenly serious again, his voice carrying the weight of something sacred. His gaze stayed fixed on your misty eyes. “And if you think you are, try landing a quad Axel without a harness,” he joked weakly, trying to diffuse the tension. “It’s kinda impossible not to love you.”
“You don’t have to pity me,” you whispered quietly, still unable to believe him. Never — not even in your wildest fantasies — had you imagined hearing words like that from him. “I can handle the truth.”
“I’m not pitying you. God, Y/N, I would never lie to you.” His voice trembled desperately, as though he feared you might vanish from his life forever if he failed to make you understand. “It’s true. Falling for you was literally the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” His shaking fingers reached for your hands. You flinched slightly at the contact. It had been so long since you’d even hugged him that you had forgotten how warm he felt. How safe. “Easier than breathing,” he admitted softly. “It just… happened.”
“Do you actually mean that,” you asked faintly, “or are you just practicing poetry for another cringey free skate monologue next season?”
“Of course I mean it.” His voice cracked. “Also I’m never skating to my own voice again because everyone roasted me for it after Milan and- shit, I’m getting off track.” He shook his head in frustration, angry at his inability to form one coherent sentence.
“It’s okay,” you assured him softly, seeing him struggle. Though between the two of you, you were the one so overwhelmed you could barely stay standing. You squeezed his slightly sweaty hands tighter, trying to steady him. Your thumb traced a gentle circle across his knuckles.
“I’m just gonna say it, even though I planned to tell you in way better circumstances.” He inhaled shakily. “I’m… I’m so in love with you, y/n.” The confession left him in a rush, followed by a loud exhale of relief. From there, the words came easier. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a while. Maybe since I won my first world title and saw you crying actual happy tears for me in the stands. Or maybe earlier, when you first showed me your “Pirates of the Caribbean’’ program — the one I talked you into doing just because I wanted to see you in a badass pirate costume. I mean… shit, guess I exposed myself. Whatever. You can’t even blame me though, ’cause you looked so cool in that outfit. Or when we tried to slow dance at your prom but gave up and got cake instead because it was our cheat day.” A soft smile flickered across his lips at the memory. “And then I made you listen to NF with me on your ancient headphones because I hated the music they were playing, and you actually agreed even though listening to depressing NF songs at prom is objectively insane.”
He paused to catch his breath. His gaze dropped to your intertwined hands before lifting back to your face. He looked as if he might cry simply because you were standing there beside him, holding his hands. You — the most beautiful thing he had ever seen — illuminated beneath the dim bedside lamp like some divine figure painted onto the ceiling of a museum he knew nothing about. No masterpiece on earth could’ve compared to you.
“Maybe I’ve loved you from the very beginning,” he continued more confidently now. “From the moment I saw you get excited over landing a clean double Flip.” His voice softened. “You’re the prettiest, smartest, hottest girl in the entire world. And, obviously, the most talented skater. I’d come up with something deeper, but you know I totally suck at words. I should’ve told you a long time ago, but I was scared. Like, fucking terrified. I thought someone as amazing as you would never want some awkward socially incompetent idiot like me.” He swallowed hard. “And then I gave that stupid interview, and then you got injured, and everything went to shit at the Olympics. When you didn’t text me after the free skate, I thought you were ashamed of me. Like you didn’t wanna be associated with some loser whose own ego ruined everything, so I ignored your messages after that.”
His voice began shaking again.
“You never have to apologize for not coming to Milan. I should never have expected that from you. I’m selfish and dumb and I-” He started stuttering harder. “If I were the one who’d sprained my ankle-”
“Ilia?”
You tightened your thumb gently against his hand, grounding him back in reality before his spiraling monologue could completely consume him.
“Hm?”
“First of all, never call yourself a loser again, okay?”
He nodded immediately.
“Good. Second, we are never talking about the Olympics again. Not Milan. Not Beijing. None of them. Officially banned topic.”
Again, he nodded obediently, agreeing with absolutely everything you said.
“And third…” You looked at him through trembling lashes. “Can you stop talking already and finally kiss me?”
The faint pink already dusting his cheeks deepened instantly into blazing crimson, and utter disbelief flooded his blue eyes.
“Oh.” He sounded like an overjoyed little kid. “Really?” A bright smile broke across his pale face. “Wait, seriously? You actually want that?”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Seriously.”
Even now, it still didn’t feel real. You still half believed you had fallen asleep and dreamed the entire thing. The fact that Ilia Malinin actually returned your feelings would probably take days — maybe weeks — for your heart to fully comprehend. Growing up in a family starved of affection had taught you to distrust love whenever it reached for you.
But somehow, instinct told you Ilia would spend the rest of his life proving it to you anyway.
“Yeah, okay, I mean- I guess I can-”
“Ils.” You laughed breathlessly. “Stop acting shy and just do it. I don’t bite. I think.”
“Okay. Right.” He suddenly looked absurdly focused, like he was about to attempt the first quintuple jump in skating history instead of kiss a girl. Your heart melted at his nervousness. “I’ve literally waited like two years for this and you don’t even kno-”
Screw it, you thought.
You didn’t let him finish. Releasing his hands, you rose onto your toes and kissed him first — quick, decisive, meaningful. You had never truly kissed anyone before. Not really. Not counting those sloppy, drunken college party kisses where overexcited frat boys nearly chipped your front teeth.
You pulled away from Ilia and looked at him anxiously, terrified you’d somehow done it wrong. But he looked utterly flushed and impossibly happy, as though joy itself had overwhelmed his entire nervous system. You had never seen him like this before. Not even after his first world title.
“Stars on Ice is gonna be waaaay more fun this year,” he murmured with a smug little grin.
He cupped your warm cheeks in both hands and kissed you again — longer this time, softer, surer, yet filled with the aching desperation of someone trying to make up for lost time. When, after a long while, you finally pulled apart by mere millimeters, sharing the same heated breath, he murmured something against your parted lips in Russian — and before you could even catch your breath, he was kissing you again.
For the first time, you weren’t chasing each other anymore, nor waiting for the other to catch up. At last, you had found yourselves on the same page, in the same place — both of you finally right here.
SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ [6k] After making a splash in the "Kiss and Tell" challenge, you find yourself drawn to the magnetic but "taken" Rafe Cameron.
WARNING(S)‧₊˚ ruthie's a mean girl, deception, swearing, suggestive content, emotional stress, not proofread ywt
“IT’S OUR COUPLES FIRST NIGHT IN THE VILLA. As our four couples sit shaking in their seats, our lovely Ariana is waiting to give them their first challenge.”
The air hummed with anticipation, the neon glow of the Love Island villa casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. It was the first night, and already, the drama was brewing. After the initial coupling, four pairs stood awkwardly — Cleo and Pope, Sarah and Topper, John B and Kiara, Rafe and Ruthie.
The host, none other than Ariana Madix, clapped her hands, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, Islanders. It’s time for our very first challenge — 'Kiss and Tell'... or maybe just 'Kiss' for now…" Nervous giggles rippled through the group, the islanders sharing weary smiles and awkward glances. "Here's how it works: you'll each be blindfolded. Then, you'll be given the chance to kiss someone you might have a little bit of interest in…outside of your couple. No talking, just kissing. And please, try to be quiet." Ariana smiled mischievously. “With that, Islanders, please place your blindfolds over your eyes.”
A heavy tension hung in the air as the couples silently placed the thick, black blindfolds over their eyes. With one of their senses taken, Ariana continued. “If you’d like to kiss someone outside of your current couple, please, raise your hand.”
With slow, steady, and somewhat unsure movements — a few islanders took a leap and raised their hands. First it was Ruthie, then Topper, then Pope, then John B. The hosts’ eyes widened, turning to the camera and mouthing a ‘wow’.
“Islanders,” Ariana started once she made a mental note of who held their hand up. “When I tap your shoulder, you may silently get up and kiss the islander, or islanders, of your choice.” And with a wink towards the camera, Ariana stepped down from the platform and quietly started rounding the circle of couples, tapping Ruthie on the shoulder first.
A wide grin plastered on her face as she slid the blindfold from over her eyes. Quietly sliding off of her seat next to Rafe, she moved with surprising confidence. She wasted no time in planting quick, decisive kisses on all the boys. She started with Pope, attempting to deepen it, but he didn’t seem quite interested. Then she moved onto John B, the kiss not lasting long. She made her last move on Topper, a kiss that lasted a bit too long for comfort…and definitely was heard by the others.
Confessional : Sarah
“I’m not saying Topper got kissed…” She started, hands in the air. “All I’m saying is that I heard lips locking a little too close to my ear.”
Confessional : Ruthie
Producer: Do you feel bad about kissing all of the guys?
“Do I feel bad?” She asked almost unbelievably. “Why would I? This is Love Island. I’m just playing the game. Plus, maybe if I make Rafe a little jealous, he’ll actually show some interest in me…” She rolled her eyes.
Once Ruthie was sat and blindfolded, Pope was the next to receive a soft tap on his shoulder.
Slowly removing his blindfold and getting out of his seat, the boy found his way straight to Kiara. With a gentle finger under her chin, Pope placed a soft, sweet kiss on her lips.
Confessional : Pope
“I felt kind of bad stepping outside of my coupling with Cleo, but I feel this, like, pull towards Kiara and it just felt like an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”
With Pope back in his seat, it was Topper’s turn. Ariana’s jaw dropped when he practically made a b-line for Ruthie, shoving his tongue down her throat.
Confessional : Topper
“I kind of had a feeling it was Ruthie that kissed me but after kissing her, I know it was her. For sure.” He smiled, leaning back. “Glad to know the feeling’s mutual.”
And lastly, after Topper had his fun, it was John B’s time to shine. He took a deep breath before he found Sarah, a brief but undeniable spark in their exchange—him taking her face in both of his hands and placing a passionate kiss on her lips.
Confessional : John B
“Sarah and I kept locking eyes during the coupling, so I was kinda bummed when she went with Topper…” John B shrugged. “But your boy never gives up, so of course I had to show her what she was missing. Even if she doesn’t know it was me...yet.” He winked.
With John B back in his seat, Ariana returned to the middle. But instead of instructing the islanders to remove their blindfolds, she glances over her shoulder, waving two people over.
“Uh-oh. It looks like our couples are about to get their first real taste of Love Island — please welcome our first bombshells, Y/N and JJ.”
The villa was silent as you entered the villa alongside JJ, small smirks on your faces as you anticipated the drama you were about to stir. It was exciting and nerve-wracking all at the same time.
Confessional : You
“Hi!" You beamed. "I’m Y/N, I’m twenty-two and I’m from Vegas. I just recently graduated with a Psych degree but I definitely gained some other…useful skills throughout my multiple careers." You laughed. "I’m here to take another chance on love and find my person. I know that coming in as a bombshell, it’s kind of my role to step on toes, but that’s really not my intention, and I hope I can get on with the girls before I have to steal one of their guys…”
Confessional : JJ
“I’m JJ, I’m twenty-two and I’m from Florida. I work as a surf instructor and I came here to work on my…non-commitalism? I think that’s what they called it… I don’t know, but girls apparently hate it." He shrugged, the producers laughing in the background. "I’ve been called a “red flag” too many times for my liking, so, here I am.”
As you and JJ come to stand beside the host, your eyes wander over the blindfolded, unexpecting couples. They were all attractive, even with parts of their features covered, and you could tell this would be a hard decision.
Silently, Ariana motioned for JJ to step forward and kiss the girls first. And the blonde could not be more excited.
Looks like JJ is wasting no time in taking his chances. This man’s got no fear as he approaches our first blindfolded girl.
Confessional : You
“Y’know, I’m kind of glad that I came in with JJ because, I can’t lie, he’s an attractive guy, and had I not? I might’ve gone for him. But after getting to talk to him, he’s very…different.” You laughed, a hand covering your mouth. “Like, it’s not a bad thing but…" Your voice dropped to a whisper as if anyone could hear you. "...he kept looking at my boobs in the car.”
The nearest couple to the three unblindfolded happened to be Cleo and Pope, and JJ didn’t hesitate in making an impression — a hand gently slid up the length of Cleo’s neck, guiding her to tilt her head up as JJ pressed his lips against hers.
Moving onto the next, Topper sat still, none the wiser to an all too happy JJ slowly approaching Sarah. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he dipped down and placed a sensual kiss to her lips.
Then it was Kiara, both of his hands cradling the girl’s round cheeks as sloppily kissed her right next to her partner.
Lastly, he ended his show with a brief but still steamy kiss with Ruthie, who surprisingly (or not), gripped his arms as he locked lips.
As JJ made his way back to the platform, licking his lips — you and the host couldn’t do anything but shake your heads. Once JJ was planted in his spot, Ariana nodded her head in your direction as a silent signal for you to follow JJ’s lead, only this time…on all the boys.
With a deep breath, you quietly stepped down from the heart shaped platform, careful not to make noise with the heels on your feet.
The first guy you approached, Pope, caught your eye immediately — dark skin, coily hair, and muscles that clearly took some hard work and time. He was hard to miss, and you were glad you didn’t. Standing in between his legs, one of your hands slithered behind his neck, the boy visibly shivering under your touch before you dipped down and connected your lips with his. Pope involuntarily made a small sound of surprise before relaxing into the exchange, just seconds before you decided to pull away and approach the next guy.
This one was blonde and much lankier, his shoulders much too square for your taste. Even with the blindfold, you could tell he wasn’t quite your speed. But Kiss and Tell was the name of the game, and unlike the others, you weren’t given much of a choice in the matter. Bending down, you placed a kiss to his lips, not as engaged as before as you pulled away, gently swiping his chin before moving on.
The next guy was definitely something — John B had a nice tan, visible freckles and sun spots, and this fluffy, brown hair that definitely gave him some points. Your fingers trailed up his arms, feeling that slight hairs on them as you ran them all up until they could thread into his mess of loose curls, pulling at them slightly to tilt his head back as you slid your lips against his. As you pulled away, you could see that he was visibly breathless, the sight almost making you chuckle.
But you held it in and choked it down as your eyes landed on your fourth and final victim of the night. The smile was almost immediately wiped from your face when you got a good look at the guy you’d be kissing — a buzzcut, well-defined muscles that had maps of veins that you could spend hours tracing with your fingers, and this somewhat ever-present smirk on his face that didn’t seem to fade.
Rafe wasn’t just your type. He was straight up something out of a dream.
And you didn’t even get to see his eyes, yet.
And you couldn’t stop yourself as you quietly walked in his direction, stopping right in front of him. It was almost like the man could sense your presence as his head slightly angled itself upwards, almost like he could see you through the obstruction. The movement made your heart race but you didn’t allow it to throw you off your game.
Your hands started at his knees, slowly moving up as they caressed his thighs. Rafe was unwavering, deathly still, but his clenching jaw was a dead giveaway — and your sign that you must’ve been doing something right. As one hand remained planted on his thigh, the other slowly traveled up his chest, to his neck, all the way up until you could hold his face in your hand, slightly pulling it closer in order to carefully connect his lips with your own. Out of all the kisses you’d given out tonight, this one was the only one to make your head spin. Your knees nearly buckled when Rafe seemed to lose himself, groaning into the kiss.
You smiled against his lips as you slowly pulled away, the hand on his jaw coming up to wipe the gloss from his lips — leaving the boy stunned, his jaw still slack as you walked away.
Confessional : Rafe
Producer: Rafe, how do you feel about the last kiss you received?
“...I don’t know what the fuck that was.” Rafe stared blankly into the camera, a smile forming on his lips that he tried to fight. “But I liked it. A lot.”
With both you and JJ back on the podium, Ariana stood with her hands in front of her before speaking to the islanders themselves. “Alright,” She started, smiling. “You may now remove your blindfolds.”
You watched, nearly tap dancing on your feet, as the couples in front of you slowly removed the masks from their eyes. They looked at each other first…then at you and JJ. You both remained still as the islanders turned to you both one by one, sharing looks of surprise.
“Islanders, while some of you did choose to kiss someone, or a few people, outside of your coupling,” The host started, looking around with pointed glances. “Those last kisses were courtesy of our first official bombshells — JJ and Y/N.”
As the couples shifted in their seats, some looking nervous or shameful, you couldn’t help but let your gaze drift to the last boy you kissed.
Rafe’s eyes were glued to you as he relaxed in his seat, his eyes studying you like the most interesting piece of art he’d ever seen. You didn’t realize you were staring at first, but even when you did, the fact didn’t seem to deter you.
“Now that the first challenge has ended,” The host started back up. “Will you be honest and admit whether you chose to kiss someone other than your partner? Or are your lips officially sealed for good?” She taunted, looking around with a glint in her eye. “Until then, please, make your new islanders feel welcome. Who knows? You might want to be on their good side…” Ariana shrugged. “Until we meet again. Good luck.”
YOU TRAILED BEHIND THE GIRLS AS THEY WALKED TOWARDS A LOUNGE AREA, a fair distance away from where the boys had also gathered to chat. You figured it’d best to get on with the women first. You were here to find love, but you weren’t in the business of making enemies.
As they all sat down, you took a seat between the blonde and the girl with the brown curls.
“Okay, that was kind of crazy.” Kiara spoke first, eyes wide.
“Wait, you got kissed?” Sarah asked, jaw slack. Kiara just nodded sheepishly. “Oh my gosh, who do you think it was? Because, so did I, and I think it may have been-” Sarah cut herself off mid-sentence, eyes drifting to you. “Oh shit, we’re being so rude.” She clasped her hands over her mouth, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Hi. You’re gorgeous, like stunning, actually. I’m Sarah,” She started pointing to herself, then the others. “That’s Kiara, Cleo, and Ruthie.”
They all waved, sending you warm smiles, even though you could tell there was still some lingering worry. The coldest was Ruthie, offering you a pained grimace before rolling her eyes.
You introduced yourself in return, telling the girls your name before diving right into your real concerns. “Can someone fill me in? I know it’s still the first day but I feel like I missed so much. I mean, you’re already coupled up. How did that happen? Did the guys pick?”
“Actually, we did” Sarah beamed, tucking a strand of hair behind hear ear and glancing at the guys across the lawn. “So, I’m coupled up with Topper, that guy right there.” She pointed to him, sitting tense in his seat.
“Who I was coupled with first,” Ruthie retorted from her place next to Kiara, arms crossed as she looked you up and down briefly.
“Yeah,” Sarah cringed. “I did kind of steal him, but it’s still early! Sorry, Ruthie...” She apologized, Ruthie offering no words in response as she shrugged, trying to act unbothered.
Confessional : Sarah
“I don’t know if Ruthie is actually mad about the whole Topper thing. I hope not…” She trailed off, squinting. “It’s literally our first day. How mad can she really be?”
“Plus, you ended up with Rafe,” Sarah continued, relaxing in her seat. “I’d say that’s still a win.”
“I didn’t pick him,” Ruthie sassed back, trying to lighten her words with a chuckle this time. “But he seems to be interested in me so, yeah, ‘I’d say that’s still a win’.” She mocked lightheartedly(?).
Confessional : Ruthie
“Rafe’s not showing as much interest as I’m used to, but I obviously can’t admit that with this new bombshell here. She’s not even all that but I need to secure my spot because I’ll be damned if I’m the first to go home.”
“What about you?” You turned to Kiara, trying to break the tension in the air. “You’re with the brunette guy, right?”
Kiara simply nodded, a small smile tugging on her face. “Yeah, but I didn’t pick him. We were the only two that weren’t coupled up at the end of the first coupling. I, uh, had actually picked Pope, the guy sitting next to him.”
“Oh, him?” You asked, pointing over your shoulder. “Oh, that sucks. He’s hot.” You giggled, turning to direct your next comment at Cleo. “So, I’m guessing you swooped in and took him for yourself?” You joked, Cleo throwing her hands up as she leaned back.
“Hey, man,” She started. “I didn’t wanna do it to Kiara but I had to.” She defended, the topic clearly less offensive than the Ruthie and Sarah situation.
“So, besides me, did any of you kiss anyone?” You pressed, tucking your feet underneath you.
“Nope,” Ruthie was the first to speak after not including herself for most of the discussion. But something in your gut told you she wasn’t being quite honest…
“No, but I wonder who was the first guy that kissed me…” Kiara added, pouting. “He was really gentle, it was kind of sweet.”
Sarah sighed as she leaned into her seat. “Same, whoever kissed me did it like they’d been waiting to do it all day or something.
Confessional : Sarah
“I have a feeling it was John B that kissed me…” She laughed out loud. “I know it’s weird! But who else could it have been?”
“And you two didn’t get kissed by anyone outside of JJ?” You asked, shooting glances at Ruthie and Cleo, both girls shaking their heads.
“But what about you, girl?” Cleo interjected, hugging a pillow in front of her. “You got to kiss all the boys! Don’t be shy,” She urged, shrugging a shoulder with a curious smile on her face. “Who was your favorite?”
You laughed under your breath, palming the back of your neck. “I don’t think I should say…” The girls all collectively groaned, throwing their heads back. “I don’t wanna make anyone mad!” You defended, a small pout of your face as your eyebrows first.
“Oh, please!” Kiara stepped in. “We haven’t even shared a bed with these guys yet. Tell us!” She urged, playfully shaking your shoulder.
“Okay! Okay…” You surrendered, taking a deep breath and sinking into your seat. “...None of the kisses were bad…”
“But?” Sarah egged on, a teasing smile on her face.
“...But, one guy definitely made a… lasting impression.” You muttered, adjusting in your seat as your eyes drifted up to gaze across the lawn at the guy in question, only to find him staring back at you.
The girls followed your gaze like a pack of bloodhounds, their heads all swiveling toward the boys’ fire pit at once. Across the way, Rafe didn't even have the decency to look away. He was still leaned back, arms draped over the back of the sofa, watching you with that same heavy, unreadable intensity.
"No way," Sarah gasped, her jaw dropping. "Rafe? Seriously?"
Ruthie’s posture went from relaxed to stiff as a board in 0.5 seconds. She let out a sharp, forced laugh that didn't reach her eyes, smoothing down her hair. "I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, obviously. That's why I'm with him. But he's definitely a 'one-woman' kind of guy, you know? Probably just trying to be polite back to you."
Confessional : Ruthie
She picks at her manicure, looking absolutely livid despite her voice staying calm. "Am I pissed? No. I’m humored. It’s actually hilarious that she thinks she has a chance. She comes in, kisses everyone like she’s at a buffet, and thinks the guy I’m coupled with is into it?” She scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I’m totally fine. Like, literally so chill right now."
"I don't know, Ruthie," Cleo smirked, nudging you. "He's literally burned a hole through the side of her head for the last ten minutes..."
You felt the heat crawl up your neck. "I’m not trying to step on toes, I promise. It was just... the chemistry was there.” You shrugged sheepishly. “I can't lie about it."
"Well, explore it!" Sarah encouraged, though she glanced nervously at Ruthie. "That’s what we’re here for, right?"
THE NIGHT WOUND down with a few more drinks and some awkward small talk, but eventually, the exhaustion of the first day hit. The villa felt massive and glowing, but as you retreated to the dressing room to wash off the day, the silence felt heavy.
You were standing at the mirror, scrubbing off your makeup, when the door creaked open. You expected Sarah or Kiara, but when you looked in the reflection, you saw the buzzcut and those piercing eyes. Rafe leaned against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his pajama pants.
"Long day?" he asked. His voice was deeper than earlier, a bit raspy.
"You could say that," you murmured, reaching for a towel and wiping the water from your face. "I think I've met about ten people and kissed five of them. My brain is fried."
Rafe stepped closer as you hung the towel up, invading your personal space in a way that made your heart do a frantic little dance against your ribs. He smelled like expensive cologne and the ocean. "Only one of those kisses mattered, though.” He drawled, looking you up and down. “Right?"
You turned around, leaning your back against the cool marble of the sink. "You're pretty confident for a guy who’s supposedly 'happy' in his couple.” You challenged, quirking a brow. “Ruthie seems to think you’re pretty set on her."
Rafe let out a dry chuckle, stepping even closer until he was inches away. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray bit of damp hair stuck to your temple. "Ruthie is... a lot. And for the record? I didn't pick her. She picked me.” He assured, a soft smile on his lips. “Don't believe everything you hear in this place."
"So…you're telling me you're not interested?" you challenged once more, looking up at him.
"I'm telling you," he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for a lingering second before snapping back to yours, "that I haven't been able to think about anyone else since I took that blindfold off.” He rasped, the air growing thick as you noted the lack of space between you. “You've got this way of looking at me like you already know all my secrets. It's frustrating."
You shrugged. "Maybe I do," you teased, your voice barely a whisper.
He smirked, that dangerous look returning. "Then you know you should probably stay away from me.” He said, a hard look in his eyes. “But I really hope you don't."
He lingered for a second too long, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife, before he winked and headed toward the bedroom. You stood there for a full minute, heart hammering, trying to remember how to breathe.
And as the lights dimmed in the bedroom later, you climbed into your temporary bed next to JJ. Across the room, you saw Rafe settling in next to a very clingy Ruthie. Just before the last light clicked off, he turned his head. In the shadows, your eyes met.
THE MORNING SUN hit the villa with a vengeance. The makeup room was a blur of hairspray, bronzer, and whispered gossip. You were sitting in a chair next to Sarah, who was aggressively blending her concealer.
"So," Sarah whispered, leaning in. "I saw him follow you into the bathroom last night. Spill."
Your eyes went wide before you looked around the room, the other girls occupied as you bit your lip, trying to suppress a smile. "He basically said he’s not into Ruthie. He said he didn't even choose her, they just ended up together."
Sarah squealed quietly. "I knew it! He couldn’t stop looking at you, girl.If he’s into you, he’s into you. You should definitely explore it. Don't let Ruthie scare you off. She’s just territorial because she knows her spot is shaky."
"I just,” you sighed. “I don't want to be the villain," you admitted, applying some lip gloss.
"Honey, it's Love Island," Sarah laughed. "Everyone is the villain to someone. Go get your man." She nudged your shoulder.
You took her advice to heart. The rest of the afternoon was spent "mingling." You talked to Topper about his gym routine (boring, but he was nice enough), chatted with John B about surfing (he was definitely more Sarah's speed), and had a long talk with Kiara about how stressed she was feeling.
During a quiet moment by the pool with JJ, both of your phones let out that iconic tri-tone chime.
"Yo! I got a text!" JJ and yourself shouted in unison, jumping up. "JJ and Y/N, as our bombshells, it’s time to see if the grass is greener. You each have one minute to pick one Islander you're most drawn to for a private getaway in the Hideaway. #DoubleDate #HideawayHoneymoon"
Everyone went silent. You didn't even have to think.
"I'm picking Cleo," JJ said immediately, grinning at her. Pope looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon whole.
"And I pick... Rafe," you said, your voice steady despite the daggers Ruthie was throwing at you from the sun lounger.
Confessional : Pope
"I mean, JJ picking Cleo? It’s whatever. We’re just a couple of days in. But I can't lie, it stings a bit. Especially since I’m still sitting here feeling like a total jerk for kissing Kie during the challenge. I’m in the doghouse with myself, and now my partner is headed to the Hideaway with the guy who looks like a literal Abercrombie model.” He face palms. “Great."
Confessional : Ruthie
"She is so desperate. It’s actually embarrassing to watch. She’s gunning for Rafe because she thinks he’s the 'safe' option to stay in the villa, but she doesn't realize he’s just playing along to be nice. She’s clearly jealous of what I have with him. She can have her little hour in the Hideaway. He’ll be back in my bed tonight, guaranteed."
THE HIDEAWAY was everything you'd expect—plush furs, neon signs, and an oversized bed. There were two separate areas set up for the two couples. You and Rafe sat across from each other on a velvet sofa, a deck of cards between you.
"‘The Deep Dive’ game," Rafe read the box, a smirk playing on his lips. "You ready for this? I don't exactly play fair."
"I’m a psych major, Rafe. I literally study people for a living. Good luck," you countered, plucking the first card. "What do you think people would say is your biggest red flag?"
Rafe leaned back, watching you. "I'll go first.” He shrugged “I have a…temper. Or used to. I’m workin’ on it. And I tend to get obsessed with things—or people—pretty fast.” He edged, eyes glued to you. “Your turn."
You shifted, getting comfortable. "I overanalyze everything," you admitted. "I'll spend three hours wondering why you texted ‘gm’ instead of ‘good morning gorgeous’.'"
As the game went on, the walls started to come down. You talked about your pasts—Rafe’s pressure from his family, your desire to find someone who actually sees you and not just the version of you they want.
Then, the questions got… spicier.
"What’s the most adventurous place you’ve ever done it?"
Rafe’s eyes darkened, leaning in close, laughing lowly. "On a boat. Middle of the marsh. No one for miles. You?"
You pretended to think, feeling the warmth in your cheeks. "...A library," you whispered, the proximity making your skin tingle. "The 'History' section was too quiet for my liking, I guess."
He laughed, a genuine, warm sound. His laughter brought a shy smile to your face as you plucked a piece of chocolate from the small snack tray on the table, placing it on your tongue as Rafe leaned back, studying you with a smirk. "...I think I like you, angel.” He said softly. “And I’m not jus’ sayin’ that for the cameras."
You huffed a small laugh, chewing the piece of chocolate before looking at him through your lashes. “I think I like you too, Cameron.” The two of you stared at one another before deciding to look for another game, pulling a new deck of cards from under the table. “Truth or Dare,” you hummed, playing with the cards in your hands. “You up for it, Cameron?”
MEANWHILE, back in the main villa, the atmosphere was a lot less romantic. The remaining Islanders were gathered around the fire pit, the conversation turning to the "Kiss and Tell" challenge.
"Come on, we’re all friends here," Topper said, nudging the group. "Who actually kissed someone else?"
"I didn't," Ruthie said flatly, eyes fixed on the Hideaway door. "I stayed loyal to Rafe." She lied effortlessly.
"I didn't either," Topper added, looking Sarah right in the eye. No shame.
"Me neither," John B shrugged, looking as cool as a cucumber as he kicked his feet up.
The silence stretched until Pope sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I did.” He said, voice barely above a whisper. “I…kissed Kiara."
The group erupted. Sarah gasped, and Kiara looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
"Wait, what?" Sarah asked, looking between them.
"That…that was you?" Kiara stammered, her face turning bright red.
"I just wanted to be honest," Pope muttered, looking crushed. “I know I’m with Cleo but I just…”
Kiara stood up, her eyes watery. "I need... I just need a minute. This is a lot."
She hurried off the bedrooms and Pope started to stand up, but John B put a hand on his shoulder. "Give her space, man. Let her breathe."
Confessional : Kiara
“I think Pope’s a great guy and he’s definitely an option, but,” She sighed, running a hand through her curls. “I know that Cleo is really into him. This is a shit-show…”
IT WAS NEARLY 2:00 AM when you got the text telling you all that the Hideaway date was finally over and doors opened. You and Cleo walked out first, whispering and giggling about the night.
"I'm telling you, JJ is a menace," Cleo laughed, though she looked like she’d had the time of her life. “He’s funny, definitely a character. But I’m not sure he’s my type like that, you know?”
"Yeah, trust me, I get it.” You assured, keeping your voice low. “Rafe is... he's actually deep," you told her, smiling. "I didn't expect to connect with him like that…"
Behind you, Rafe and JJ were walking together, talking in low tones. "She's different, man," you heard Rafe tell JJ. "I’m not just talking about her looks. She actually listens, she’s funny, her personality is great."
His words brought a small smile to your face, one Cleo noticed as she nudged your shoulder with a smirk.
As you entered the bedroom, a few of the boys whooped and cheered. "Y’all are back! How was it?" Topper shouted as everyone walked to gather around the four of you.
But the mood was quickly killed when Ruthie stood up, marching right into your personal space, her face contorted with rage.
"Having fun, are we?" she spat. "You know, there are four other guys in here. But you had to pick the one who was already in a stable couple.” She hissed. “You have it out for me, don't you?"
“Hey—” Rafe intervened, putting an arm between you two.
But you didn't flinch. You just looked her up and down, keeping your voice calm and level. "Ruthie, if you're upset about the date, that sounds like a conversation you need to have with Rafe.” You clapped back. “He’s right here.” You looked up at him before narrowing your eyes back on her. “...Or maybe you're just upset because he didn't seem to miss you that much."
The ‘oohs’ from the rest of the group were audible.
She scoffed, taking a step back. "I'm the only one here with any respect." Ruthie yelled.
"Actually," you said, leaning in with a snarky grin, "you're the only one here making a scene. And for what it's worth? Rafe had a very good time.” You snarked with a cocky smile. “You should ask him about dare number three."
Ruthie stood there fuming with her nostrils flared before stomping off.
Rafe stepping in front of you, sighing as he ran a hand down his face. “I am so sorry about that shit. I know she’s not my actual girlfriend or anything, Thank God, but—”
“It’s not your fault, Rafe.” You chuckled, running a hand down his arm. “I’ve dealt with girls like Ruthie my entire life. I’m fine. Trust me.”
Suddenly, Kiara emerged into the bedroom and signaled Cleo, no one even noticing her absence. The pair walked off into the corner, their faces grim.
The entire room went dead silent as everyone watched them—you, Rafe, and JJ standing confused.
"...What happened while we were gone?" you asked, sensing the shift in energy.
“Kiss and Tell challenge, man…” Was all Topper offered, heading into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, Cleo and Kiara returned. Kiara was wiping her eyes, and Cleo looked furious. Cleo walked straight up to Pope, grabbed his arm, and pulled him outside. When they came back in five minutes later, the silence was deafening. They weren't looking at each other, and Pope looked like he’d seen a ghost.
The bedroom atmosphere was tense and awkward. And since you and JJ were the bombshells and didn't have official couples yet, you were assigned the spare bed in the corner.
As you climbed in, JJ’s lanky legs immediately tangled with yours. "Uh-uh. Watch the toes, JJ!" you joked loudly, trying to break the tension.
The room erupted in laughter, the first bit of relief in the last few minutes.
Across the room, Ruthie returned from wherever she’d stormed off to and tried to crawl into bed next to Rafe, throwing her arm over his chest. Rafe didn't even look at her. He stayed stiff as a board for about ten minutes before he sighed deeply and abruptly sat up, shoved his feet into his slippers, and walked out of the room without a word.
Ruthie let out a frustrated groan and rolled over, pretending to sleep.
You lay there, staring at the ceiling after watching him leave. Not able to sleep as your mind clouded with thoughts of him—the kiss, the bathroom, the hideaway. He was all consuming.
After a few beats, you quietly slid out from JJ’s side and crept out of the room.
The outdoor area was bathed in blue moonlight and in the large woven hammock in the center of the garden, was Rafe. He was wrapped in a thick blanket, staring up at the stars.
You walked over slowly, your feet bare on the cool grass as you stood before him, your frame casting a shadow over his frame. “Hey, Cameron,” you whispered, poking him. "Need some company?"
Rafe looked over, his expression softening instantly when he realized it was you. He didn't say anything. He just reached out, lifted the edge of the heavy wool blanket, and held it open for you.
You climbed in, the hammock swaying gently as you settled against his chest as he wrapped the blanket tightly around both of you, his chin resting on the top of your head as the villa finally went quiet around you.
the first thing she notices about him is that he watches her.
not in a weird way. not in a way that makes her uncomfortable. just… constant. like no matter where she is in the room, no matter who she’s talking to, she can feel it. heavy. focused. on her.
she’s halfway through laughing at something one of her friends said when she glances over her shoulder, and—there he is.
leaned back in his chair, arm slung over the back, beer untouched in his hand. he’s not talking to anyone. not really paying attention to anything either.
just her. she grins immediately, because of course he is.
“what?” she mouths across the table, tilting her head, a little teasing.
his jaw shifts. something small, almost like he’s fighting a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his mouth.
“come here,” he says, not loud, but she hears it anyway.
she always does. she makes a face at him, dramatic, dragging it out on purpose as she finishes her sentence, laughs a little louder than necessary, just to annoy him. she knows he hates that—hates when she pulls attention like that, hates when people look at her too long.
it’s fun. he doesn’t react. not really. just watches. that’s new.
usually by now he’d be giving her a look. sharp. warning. the kind that makes heat crawl up her spine because she knows exactly what it means—stop it or i will come get you myself.
but he doesn’t. he just sits there. waiting.
it should be nothing. it is nothing. she tells herself that as she finally pushes out of her chair, smoothing her skirt down like she didn’t just do all that on purpose, like she isn’t already smiling again as she makes her way over.
“you’re obsessed with me,” she says, dropping into his lap without asking, arms looping around his shoulders like it’s second nature. “it’s actually embarrassing.”
his hand comes up automatically, settling at her waist. firm. steady.
“yeah?” he says, low, eyes on her face. “that so?”
“mhm,” she hums, leaning in closer, like she’s about to tell him a secret. “everyone can tell.”
she expects it then. the reaction.
the little shift in his grip. the way his fingers tighten just enough to make her breath hitch. the quiet, possessive “is that right?” that always follows, like he’s already planning how to prove otherwise.
“let them.”
she blinks.
“what?”
“i said, let them.” his thumb moves once against her side, slow, absent. “don’t care.”
it’s not what she expected. not bad. not wrong. just… off, in a way she can’t quite place. so she does what she always does when something feels off. she pushes.
“wow,” she says, leaning back a little to look at him properly, lips curling. “what happened to you being all—” she lowers her voice, mocking him lightly, “—don’t like people looking at you like that, baby?”
his expression doesn’t change much. maybe his jaw tightens a little. maybe.
“still don’t.”
“doesn’t seem like it,” she shoots back, poking at his chest. “you didn’t even glare at him.”
“who?”
she rolls her eyes, dramatic. “the guy who’s been staring at me all night? keep up.”
his gaze flicks past her for half a second. dismissive, then back to her.
“he’s not important.”
“mmm,” she hums, not letting it go, because why would she? “usually you’d be all weird about it.”
“i’m not weird.”
she snorts. “you’re a little weird.”
his hand tightens then. just slightly. enough to make her notice.
“careful.”
there it is.
she smiles instantly, pleased with herself, leaning back into him again like she didn’t just poke at him on purpose.
“there you are,” she murmurs.
his fingers press into her side once, like a warning, but he doesn’t say anything else. just lets her settle, arm firm around her waist, holding her there like he always does.
it’s fine.
it’s normal.
she tells herself that as she plays with the chain around his neck, absent, mind drifting, attention slipping back to the noise of the party around them.
he’s quieter than usual, maybe.
a little less… reactive. but he’s here. he’s with her. his hand hasn’t left her waist once. so it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t.
she tips her head back to look at him again, grin softening into something sweeter this time.
“you missed me?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.
his eyes don’t leave her face. “yeah.” simple. easy. like always.
she leans in, presses a quick kiss to his mouth, soft and careless, like she’s done it a hundred times before. he kisses her back, just as quick, just as easy. but his hand doesn’t pull her any closer. and she doesn’t notice that yet.
she doesn’t let go of his hand the second they leave.
it’s subtle at first—just her fingers threading through his like it’s nothing, like it’s always been like this. she’s still buzzing from the night, from the warmth of him pressed against her, from the way he didn’t pull away when she leaned into him in front of everyone. it makes her a little braver than she should be, like she can get away with anything as long as she keeps looking at him like that. his hand closes around hers without hesitation.
“you’re quiet,” she says as they walk out into the cooler air, heels clicking against the pavement. “that’s suspicious.”
he glances down at her for a second. “i’m always quiet.”
“not like this,” she insists, swinging their hands a little as she walks backward in front of him for a moment, forcing him to slow down. “you’re doing the whole… brooding soldier thing.”
his mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t give her the full thing. “you say that like it’s a thing i turn on.”
“isn’t it?” she tilts her head, pretending to think. “you come back all mysterious and emotionally unavailable and suddenly you think you’re above me.” he stops walking. so she does too.
there’s a beat where she thinks she went too far, like maybe this is where he finally gives her that look. the one that shuts her up. but instead he just watches her, calm in a way that feels too steady for how she’s acting.
then he steps closer. “above you?” he repeats, quieter now.
she swallows, but she doesn’t back up. she never does. “yeah,” she says anyway, softer now too, because she can feel him closer, heat curling into her space. “you know. all serious. all—”
his hand comes up, not rough, just firm, thumb brushing under her chin so she looks at him properly.
“you talk too much,” he says, and there it was. the old version of him. she grins instantly.
“you missed me,” she says again, like it’s a fact she’s collecting proof for.
his eyes hold hers for a second longer than necessary. “yeah,” he admits again, like it’s still simple. like it’s still easy. it makes something warm twist in her chest. he doesn’t let go of her hand when they start walking again.
his place isn’t far, and she’s been there enough times that it doesn’t feel like a big deal anymore. still, there’s something about it tonight that feels different—the way the door clicks shut behind them, the way the silence settles in softer than outside, like the whole world got smaller the second it’s just them. she kicks off her shoes immediately.
“finally,” she sighs dramatically, flopping onto his couch like she owns it. “i can breathe.” he shuts the door, locks it, then looks over at her like she’s ridiculous.
“you were breathing fine five minutes ago.”
“you don’t know that,” she says, stretching out, arms above her head, like she’s testing the space for him. “you weren’t watching me that closely.”
he doesn’t answer that. just walks closer instead. she watches him like she always does when he gets like this—quiet, focused, like he’s deciding something without telling her what it is. it should make her nervous. it never does. he stops in front of her.
“what,” she says, smiling up at him, “are you gonna tell me to behave now?”
“no.” that makes her pause. just a little. then he leans down and kisses her.
it’s not gentle. not rough either. just certain. like he’s been thinking about it longer than she has. her hands go up automatically, grabbing at his shirt like she’s anchoring herself, and she makes a small sound into his mouth that she would absolutely deny if anyone ever heard it. he pulls her up without breaking it. she goes willingly.
her knees hit the couch, then she’s on her feet, then she’s closer—too close, always too close with him, like there’s no such thing as space that actually lasts between them. his hands are at her waist again, the same place they always end up, like it’s the only place he knows where to hold her properly.
“baby,” he murmurs against her mouth, and it’s quieter than everything else.
she laughs a little, breathless. “what?”
“you’re shaking.”
“i’m not.” he pulls back just enough to look at her. his thumb presses lightly into her side like he’s checking anyway. she hates that he’s right.
“it’s just you,” she says, like that explains everything. something shifts in his expression at that. something softer, but heavier too, like it lands somewhere deeper than she means it to.
“yeah?” he says.
she nods once, smaller now, less teasing. “yeah.” that’s all it takes.
he kisses her again, slower this time, and she melts into it like she’s been waiting for it without realizing. her hands move without thinking—shirt, shoulders, pulling him closer like she can’t get enough of the space he’s taking up, like she’s trying to make up for every moment he was gone without actually saying it out loud.
his grip tightens at her waist again, steadier now, more certain. “my love,” he says quietly, like it slips out before he can stop it.
she freezes for half a second. then she looks at him like she’s trying not to smile too hard. “you just said that on purpose.”
“no,” he says immediately, but there’s something in his eyes that gives him away.
she leans in again anyway, slower now, softer. “say it again then.”
his jaw tightens like he’s thinking about it too much.
then he doesn’t answer with words. he just kisses her deeper instead, and this time she doesn’t tease him for it. her hands slide up his neck, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer like she forgot how to breathe properly when he looks at her like that.
the couch shifts under them as he guides her back without breaking it, like he already knows where this is going, like he’s been here before even if they haven’t tonight. her heart is loud in her ears now, louder than anything else, and she laughs softly into his mouth like she can’t help it.
“you’re so bossy,” she whispers when she finally gets a second to breathe.
his forehead rests against hers for a moment.
“you like it.”
she opens her mouth to argue.
doesn’t get the chance to finish.
he kisses her again, and everything after that starts to blur in the way it always does when it stops being about talking at all, and becomes something else entirely—
“rafey,” she breathes out a moan as he starts to rub her gently through her panties. “mm…g’me more.” she whispers, grinding down against his solid cock through his jeans.
he ignores her words, continuing to rub her clit. he doesn’t break the barrier between the cloth and his skin.
“baby, quit that.” he demands as she starts to whine and be more aggressive with her grinding, gently smacking her ass, making her yelp.
she grinds down roughly until he caves in and takes her lace panties off, throwing them to the side. he doesn’t waste time, sticking a finger between the wet folds and into her tight hole.
“oh, jesus, fuck!” she hisses, wrapping her arms around his neck and whimpering as he immediately puts in two more fingers, not bothering to stretch her out.
"you're doin' so good for me, honey, just a little bit more.” he coos into her ear as he starts to thrust his fingers faster.
she gasps and squirms, but he grabs her hips firmly. “no ma’am. stay still.” he murmurs gruffly.
“oh my god, rafe, ‘m gonna cum!” she cries, burying her head in the crook of his neck as she gets ready to cum, only for him to pull his fingers out.
“don’t you think i deserve to cum, too, sweet girl?” he asks as he takes his cock out of his pants, rubbing the tip against the lips of her pussy.
“y-you do.” she stutters a bit, arching her back so his tip would reach the hole of her cunt.
he leans down to kiss her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth. she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer.
he finally pushes his cock deep inside, burying himself in her hear.
“you feel that, baby?” he asks as she gasps. “its all for you, honey.”
she reaches up to tangle her hand in his hair, wrapping her legs around his torso as his hips snap forward. he reaches down to rub her clit in circles.
“oh..oh, rafe!” she cries out, tugging his hair and coming all over his shaft.
“thats it. milk me dry, sweetheart.” he groans as she clenches around him, and cums just from her little sounds and how tight she is.
after a moment of slow thrusts, he stops completely and pulls out, perfectly content. “you’re such a good girl, babe.”
“yea, whatever.” she says quietly, recovering from becoming undone so quickly.
his weight is still over her, one arm braced beside her head, the other resting low at her waist like it belongs there.
she’s smiling before she even realizes it.
lazy. soft.
“hi,” she murmurs, like they didn’t just do all that, like she’s starting over again.
his eyes flick over her face, slower this time. quieter.
“hi.”
she reaches up, pushing his hair back a little where it fell forward, fingers lingering longer than necessary. “you look at me like that again and i’m gonna think you’re obsessed.”
“you already think that.”
“because it’s true,” she hums, pleased with herself.
usually, this is where he’d say something back. something low, something that makes her feel it all over again. usually he leans into it, lets her drag it out, lets her keep going until it turns into something else.
but he doesn’t.
he just watches her for a second longer.
then shifts slightly, not pulling away completely—just enough that the space between them isn’t suffocating anymore.
it’s small.
she notices anyway.
her hand slides down from his hair to his neck, thumb brushing there absentmindedly. “you’re quiet again.”
“tired,” he says, like it’s simple.
“mm. you weren’t tired five minutes ago.”
that almost gets a reaction.
almost.
his mouth twitches like he’s debating whether to respond, then he just exhales through his nose, glancing away for half a second like something else pulled his attention.
she follows it instinctively.
nothing’s there.
when she looks back at him, his expression is the same—but not really. something’s pulled tighter underneath it. more controlled.
she tilts her head, studying him now instead of teasing.
“you do that a lot,” she says.
“what?”
“go somewhere else.” her fingers press lightly at his neck, bringing his attention back to her. “like you’re not here.”
he doesn’t answer right away
just looks at her again. steady. unreadable in a way he wasn’t earlier.
“i’m here,” he says finally.
“you are,” she agrees, softer now. “just not like… before.”
there’s a pause.
not uncomfortable. just… heavier than it should be.
so she does what she always does when things feel too serious.
she smiles, lighter, leaning up just enough to brush her mouth against his again, quick and playful. “it’s okay. i’ll fix it.”
his hand tightens slightly at her waist. “fix what?”
“you,” she says easily. “you’re being weird.”
that does it. not a full reaction—but enough. his jaw shifts. subtle. controlled. “i’m not being weird.”
“you are,” she insists, nudging his shoulder with hers. “you’re like—” she makes a vague motion with her hand, “—all serious. it’s annoying.”
“yeah?” his tone is still even. too even.
“yeah. i liked you better when you were obsessed with me.”
that pulls his eyes back to hers fully.
something flickers there. quick. hard to place.
“i am,” he says.
she smiles immediately, satisfied. “good.”
but it doesn’t feel the same.
she can tell.
not because of what he said—but because of how he said it. like it costs him more now. like he’s choosing his words instead of just letting them happen.
she shifts under him slightly, pulling the throw blanket up without thinking, tucking it around herself as she settles back into the couch.
“stay,” she murmurs, softer now, reaching for him again like it’s automatic. “don’t go all quiet on me.”
he hesitates.
just for a second.
then he lays back down beside her instead of over her this time, arm still coming around her, pulling her into his side.
it’s still warm.
still familiar.
still him.
she relaxes into it easily, head tucked against his shoulder, fingers tracing lazy patterns against his chest like she always does when she’s half-distracted, half-content.
“missed this,” she mumbles.
his arm tightens just slightly around her.
“yeah.”
she smiles to herself, eyes closing for a second.
it feels right.
it should feel right.
but after a moment, she tilts her head just enough to look up at him again.
“say it again.”
he glances down. “what?”
“that,” she says, nudging him. “the my love thing.”
his expression stills. “why?”
“because i like it,” she says, like it’s obvious. “and you don’t say it enough.”
he looks at her for a long second. then away. “not a big deal.”
she frowns slightly.
“it is to me.”
he doesn’t answer.
and this time, when the silence settles in, it doesn’t feel soft.
it feels like something she can’t quite reach.
the next morning, she wakes up to an empty bed.
it takes her a second to register it, still half asleep, face pressed into his pillow, arm stretched across where he should be. the sheets are still warm though, which makes her frown a little less, eyes barely opening as she shifts onto her back.
“rafe,” she mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
no answer.
she blinks a few times, staring up at the ceiling, then rolls over again like maybe he’ll just appear if she waits long enough. he doesn’t. her lips purse slightly.
“rude,” she mutters to herself, pushing herself up on her elbows, hair falling into her face. she glances around his room like he might be hiding in it, like this is some kind of game, but it’s quiet. too quiet.
then she remembers. gym. of course.
she flops back down for a second, dramatic, staring at the ceiling again like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. then she sighs, long and exaggerated, and finally drags herself out of bed. his shirt is the first thing she grabs.
it’s half hanging off a chair, wrinkled, smelling like him, and she pulls it over her head without thinking, letting it fall down her thighs. she doesn’t bother with anything else, just tugs it into place and runs her fingers through her hair a few times, trying to make herself look less like she just woke up, even though she kind of likes that look on herself. he definitely does.
she glances at herself in the mirror briefly, tilts her head, then shrugs. good enough.
the hallway is quiet when she steps out, bare legs brushing against each other as she walks, still waking up fully. she’s smiling a little already though, because she knows exactly how this is going to go.
he’s going to act like he didn’t expect her. like he wasn’t thinking about her at all and she’s going to ruin that. the gym doors are glass, so she sees him before he sees her.
he’s on the far side, back to her, moving through a set like it’s routine, controlled, focused in that way he gets when he’s locked into something. there’s something about it that makes her pause for a second, just watching him.
he looks… good. different, a little, but good. she pushes the door open quietly anyway. he doesn’t notice right away. which is annoying.
so she leans against one of the machines, arms crossed loosely, watching him finish, letting the silence stretch just enough. then, sweetly, “you’re so annoying.”
he stops. not abruptly. just… stills for a second before setting the weight down properly, turning his head slightly like he already knows it’s her.
“morning,” he says.
like this is normal. like he didn’t just leave her in his bed. she pushes off the machine, walking toward him slowly, eyes dragging over him in a way that’s not subtle at all.
“you left me,” she says, soft, accusing in a way that isn’t serious.
he watches her come closer, expression steady. “you were sleeping.”
“yeah,” she agrees, stopping right in front of him. “with you.”
“you looked comfortable.”
she tilts her head, unimpressed. “i would’ve been more comfortable if you were still there.”
his jaw shifts slightly at that, something flickering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t take the bait right away, so she steps closer until there’s barely any space between them, her hands coming up without asking, resting lightly against his chest like they always do.
“you didn’t even wake me up,” she adds, quieter now, like she’s actually a little offended.
“didn’t want to.”
“why?” she scoffs.
“because,” he says, looking down at her, voice lower now, “you were sleeping.”
she narrows her eyes at him, then smiles, slow and teasing. “you’re lying.”
he exhales through his nose, like he’s already tired of her. “about what, baby?”
“you just didn’t want me distracting you,” she says, fingers pressing lightly into his chest, sliding a little like she’s proving her point. “which is rude, by the way. i’m very motivating.”
“you’re not motivating.”
“i am,” she insists, stepping even closer, like that’s possible. “you just don’t have self control.”
that gets a reaction. small, but there.
his hand comes up, wrapping around her wrist, not stopping her, just holding it there.
“you came down here to start something?”
“no,” she says immediately, smiling up at him. “i came down here because you abandoned me.”
“didn’t abandon you.”
“felt like it.”
“you’re dramatic.”
“you like it.”
his grip tightens just slightly. “sometimes.”
she beams, clearly pleased with herself, then glances around the mostly empty gym before looking back at him again. “you missed me?”
he looks at her for a second longer than necessary. “you’ve been awake for ten minutes.”
“answer the question.”
he doesn’t right away. just studies her, thumb brushing once against her wrist, absent, like he’s thinking about it more than he should. “yeah,” he says finally. simple. easy.
it makes her soften immediately, even if she tries to hide it. “good,” she murmurs, stepping closer again, her other hand sliding up his arm, slow, like she’s not even thinking about it. “because i woke up and you weren’t there and it was kind of upsetting.”
“you survived.”
“barely.”
he almost smiles at that. almost. she catches it anyway.
“there it is,” she says quietly, leaning in just enough that her voice drops with it. “i knew you weren’t that serious.”
“i’m not serious.”
“you are,” she insists, brushing her mouth just near his jaw, not quite a kiss. “it’s weird.”
his hand shifts from her wrist to her waist, steady, grounding. “you’re the weird one.”
she hums, pleased, leaning into him like she won. “i know.” for a second, it feels like everything settles back into place. easy. familiar.
she presses a quick kiss to his jaw, then pulls back just enough to look at him again, eyes bright, a little smug.
“next time,” she says, tugging lightly at his shirt, “you wake me up.”
his hand stays at her waist, firm.
“next time,” he repeats.
“yeah,” she nods, like it’s obvious. “don’t leave me.”
there’s a pause.
small.
barely noticeable.
but it’s there.
his grip tightens just slightly, eyes on her face in a way that feels a little too focused for something so simple.
“you’ll be fine,” he says.
she rolls her eyes immediately, nudging him.
“not the point.”
he doesn’t argue.
just looks at her for another second, then pulls her a little closer, hand still steady at her waist like he hasn’t decided to let go yet.
and she lets him.
her roommate is already at her desk when she gets back, hunched over her laptop, glasses slipping down her nose, typing like the world is going to end if she stops.
she barely looks up when the door swings open.
“you’re late,” she says, flat.
“i was with him,” she answers just as flat, already kicking her shoes off and heading straight for her closet. “priorities.”
that gets a glance.
a long one.
“you’re always with him.”
“because i like him,” she shoots back, like it’s obvious, pulling out two tops and holding them up in the mirror. “help me pick. i’m already behind.”
her roommate sighs, pushing her glasses up properly now, turning in her chair. “which party is this again?”
“mine,” she says, grinning a little. “obviously.”
“that doesn’t narrow it down.”
“the one tonight,” she laughs, tossing one of the tops onto her bed. “don’t be annoying.”
“i’m not being annoying, you just never tell me anything.”
“i tell you everything,” she insists, already halfway out of her shirt, not even caring. “you just don’t listen.”
“i listen,” her roommate says, watching her dig through her clothes. “you just talk in circles about him.”
she pauses.
just for a second.
then keeps moving.
“i do not.”
“you do,” she says, matter-of-fact. “you either talk about how obsessed he is with you or how he’s being weird.”
she turns, pointing at her. “he has been weird.”
“you say that every week.”
“because he is every week,” she argues, grabbing a skirt this time and holding it up. “it’s like a cycle. he’s normal, then he gets all quiet and serious, and then he’s normal again. it’s annoying.”
“maybe he’s just… like that.”
“no,” she says immediately. “he wasn’t like that before.”
her roommate raises an eyebrow. “before what?”
she opens her mouth.
closes it.
shrugs.
“before,” she repeats, like that explains anything, turning back to the mirror. “this one? or this one?”
“second one,” her roommate says without hesitation.
“thank you,” she says, already pulling it on, satisfied.
there’s a second of quiet, just the sound of her moving around, grabbing her makeup bag, sitting on the edge of the bed.
then, softer, “you really like him, don’t you?”
she rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite to it.
“obviously.”
“like… a lot.”
she pauses, mascara wand hovering for a second.
then shrugs again, casual, like it doesn’t matter.
“yeah.”
her roommate watches her for a second longer.
“and he likes you.”
“i know,” she says, smiling a little to herself now, going back to her lashes. “he’s obsessed with me.”
“that’s not what i asked.”
she laughs, shaking her head. “you’re overthinking it.”
“i don’t think i am.”
“you are,” she insists, standing up again, smoothing her outfit down. “we’re fine. he’s just… weird sometimes.”
“you keep saying that.”
“because it’s true.”
her roommate doesn’t argue again. just watches her grab her phone, check herself one last time in the mirror, then turn toward the door. “don’t wait up,” she says, already halfway out.
“i never do.”
the party is loud before she even gets inside.
music, voices, people packed together, the kind of energy that hits all at once and makes her grin immediately. this is her space. her people. her night. “there she is,” someone calls the second she walks in.
she doesn’t even know who it is, but she laughs anyway, already being pulled into it, into them, into everything. drinks get pushed into her hand. she doesn’t say no. she never does. time blurs fast after that.
music gets louder, or maybe she just stops noticing it. she’s dancing, laughing, talking to people she barely knows, people she does know, people who keep telling her she looks good tonight, and she soaks it up easily, like she always does.
someone spins her around, she nearly trips, laughs harder.
“careful,” a voice says, close to her ear.
“i’m fine,” she insists, even though she’s already grabbing onto someone else to steady herself.
her phone buzzes at some point.
she feels it.
ignores it.
she’s too busy, too warm, too light, too everything.
she doesn’t think about him.
not really.
not until much later, when the music starts to feel like too much and her head feels heavier than it should.
she says her goodbyes lazily, hugging people she probably won’t remember hugging, grabbing her phone and her things without really checking anything, and stumbles her way out into the cooler air.
the walk back is slower.
quieter.
her thoughts finally catching up to her a little, though they’re still fuzzy around the edges.
she fumbles with her keys at the door, drops them once, laughs at herself, then finally gets it open.
the room is dark.
she doesn’t think anything of it at first.
just kicks her shoes off again, moving inside, already reaching to turn on the light when something makes her stop.
someone’s sitting on her bed.
she freezes.
just for a second.
then her eyes adjust
him.
he’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, staring at the floor like he hasn’t moved in a while.
he doesn’t notice her.
that’s what makes her stomach drop a little.
she’s never seen him like that.
not like this.
not when he thinks no one’s looking.
“hey,” she says softly.
he looks up immediately.
too fast.
like he didn’t expect to be caught.
his expression shifts the second he sees her, something closing off, something familiar snapping back into place.
“hey.”
she watches him for a second.
then walks over slowly, quieter now, the haze from earlier fading just enough.
“what are you doing here,” she asks, softer.
“came to see you.”
“you didn’t text.”
“didn’t think i needed to.”
normally, she’d tease him for that.
she doesn’t.
she steps closer instead, stopping right in front of him, studying his face like she’s trying to catch what she saw before it disappeared.
“you okay.”
“yeah,” he says.
too quick.
she tilts her head slightly.
“you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
she doesn’t argue.
just moves.
climbs into his lap like it’s second nature, like she always does, legs settling on either side of him, arms coming up around his shoulders without asking.
this time, she’s slower about it.
careful.
“tell me,” she murmurs, softer now, her voice right by his ear.
his hands come up automatically, resting at her waist, but there’s no pressure behind it yet. no grounding, no pulling her closer.
just there.
he exhales once.
slow.
“i got a call.”
she stills slightly.
“about what.”
he looks at her properly now.
and there’s something there that she hasn’t seen before.
something heavier.
“one of my guys,” he says, voice quieter than usual. “he didn’t make it.”
her chest tightens immediately.
“what.”
“happened this morning.”
she blinks, trying to process it through the lingering fog in her head.
“you mean… like—”
“yeah.”
the word lands heavier than anything else.
for a second, she doesn’t know what to say.
she’s never seen him like this.
never seen him not know what to do with something.
so she does the only thing she can think of.
she leans in, pressing her face into the side of his neck, arms tightening around him, holding him there like that might help somehow.
“i’m sorry,” she whispers.
his grip on her waist finally tightens.
just a little.
like he needed that.
like he didn’t know he did until she did it.
he doesn’t say anything.
just holds her there, quiet, the room settling around them in a way that feels completely different from earlier.
“i’m here,” she murmurs again, softer this time, like she’s trying to convince him of it. “okay?”
he nods once.
barely.
it’s not enough for her.
it’s never enough for her.
so she shifts, sliding off his lap just long enough to grab his hand, tugging at him lightly.
“come here,” she says, quieter now, gentler than she’s ever been with him.
he doesn’t resist.
lets her pull him up, lets her guide him the two steps to her bed like he’s not really thinking about it, like he’s just following because she asked.
she climbs on first, scooting back against the pillows, then looks at him expectantly.
“c’mon.”
he watches her for a second.
then climbs in beside her.
she doesn’t give him space to overthink it, immediately curling into his side, one leg thrown over his, arms wrapping around him again like she’s trying to keep him there.
this time, he pulls her in too.
it’s automatic.
his arm wraps around her, hand settling at her back, pressing her closer until she’s tucked right against him.
that part feels normal.
familiar.
she relaxes into it instantly, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to his breathing, slower than hers, heavier.
“better?” she asks quietly.
he hums something that could be a yes.
she tilts her head up slightly, looking at him.
“you wanna talk about him?”
his eyes flick down to hers.
then away.
“no.”
she nods.
“okay.”
she lets it go.
for now.
her fingers start moving against his shirt without thinking, tracing little patterns like she always does when she’s trying to calm herself down, or him, or both.
it’s quiet for a minute.
just them.
just breathing.
she shifts a little closer.
“you’re okay, right?” she asks, softer now, like she’s not sure she should.
he doesn’t answer right away.
she feels his chest rise under her cheek, then fall.
“i’m fine.”
she pulls back just enough to look at him.
“you’re not.”
his jaw tightens slightly.
“i said i’m fine.”
“yeah, i heard you,” she says, not backing off, not this time. “i just don’t believe you.”
he looks at her then.
really looks at her.
and for a second, it feels like he’s about to say something real.
something honest.
something she can actually hold onto.
but then it closes off again.
like a door shutting.
“it’s different,” he says instead.
she frowns.
“what is?”
“this,” he gestures vaguely, like he doesn’t even know how to explain it. “you don’t get it.”
that lands wrong.
she goes still for a second, her grip on him loosening just slightly.
“don’t get what?”
he exhales, already looking away again.
“nothing.”
“no,” she says, pushing herself up a little, eyes on him now. “don’t do that. you just said something and then—what am i not getting?”
he shakes his head once, like he doesn’t want to do this.
“it’s not something i can explain.”
“then try,” she insists, softer now, but there’s something under it. frustration, maybe. confusion. “i’m literally right here.”
“i know you are.”
“then why are you acting like i’m not?”
that makes him go quiet.
too quiet.
she stares at him for a second longer, waiting.
he doesn’t say anything.
doesn’t reach for her.
doesn’t fix it.
so she huffs softly, dropping her gaze, laying back down again but not as close this time. there’s still space between them now. not much, but enough that she notices.
“you’re being weird,” she mutters.
“i’m not.”
“you are,” she says, turning her head to look at him again. “i’m trying to be here for you and you’re just… shutting me out.”
“i’m not shutting you out.”
“then what are you doing?”
he doesn’t answer.
again.
and that’s what gets her.
not anger.
not snapping.
just… nothing.
she stares at him for another second, then looks away, pulling the blanket up a little higher over herself.
“whatever,” she says quietly.
the word sits there between them.
he doesn’t argue.
doesn’t pull her back in right away.
just lies there, staring at the ceiling like he’s somewhere else again.
and for the first time since he walked in, she doesn’t reach for him either.
she just stays where she is
close enough to touch.
but not touching.
the next few days feel normal enough that she almost convinces herself she imagined it.
not completely normal.
just enough.
he texts her more again. shorter messages, but still. he calls her baby over the phone one night and it catches her off guard enough that she smiles at her wall like an idiot for five whole minutes afterward. he picks her up from class twice that week, one hand lazy on her thigh while he drives, listening to her ramble about some girl in her sorority she can’t stand.
it’s easier when she doesn’t push.
she starts realizing that.
when she lets him come to her, things feel okay again. not perfect, maybe, but familiar enough that she stops picking at it so much.
so she tries.
really tries.
she’s sitting on his kitchen counter one night while he cooks something simple, legs swinging lightly against the cabinets, wearing one of his hoodies and tiny shorts underneath that he definitely noticed five minutes ago and pretended not to.
“you’re burning it,” she says, watching him stir something in a pan.
“i’m not burning it.”
“it smells burned.”
“that’s because you don’t know what garlic smells like.”
she gasps softly, offended. “wow.”
he glances at her finally, unimpressed. “you eat like a twelve year old.”
“and yet you’re still in love with me.”
his jaw shifts slightly at that.
small.
barely there.
but she notices it.
she notices everything.
still, this time, he answers.
“unfortunately.”
she grins immediately, pleased, sliding off the counter before walking over to him. her arms wrap around his waist from behind, cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.
“that wasn’t very convincing.”
“wasn’t supposed to be.”
“good,” she hums. “because i’m adorable.”
he snorts softly under his breath.
actually snorts.
it makes her smile against his back.
there he is.
she squeezes him once before moving around to stand in front of him instead, hands sliding up his chest slowly.
“you missed me today?”
“you saw me this morning.”
“that’s not what i asked.”
his eyes flick down to her.
then back up again.
“yeah,” he says quietly.
it warms her immediately.
“see?” she says softly, smug again now. “you’re getting better.”
“better at what?”
“being normal.”
that makes something shift.
she feels it under her hands before she fully sees it, the way his shoulders tense slightly, the way his expression closes off for half a second too long.
then it’s gone again.
“i was always normal,” he says.
she smiles lightly, pretending not to notice.
“sure.”
he goes back to cooking after that, quieter again, but not in the bad way. at least she tells herself it’s not the bad way.
later, they end up on the couch together, her sprawled across him while some movie plays in the background neither of them are really watching.
she’s mostly focused on bothering him.
“if you loved me,” she says seriously, tracing shapes against his arm, “you’d buy me that necklace i sent you.”
“the ugly one?”
she gasps again. “it is not ugly.”
“looked cheap.”
“you looked cheap when i met you and i still gave you a chance.”
his hand tightens once against her thigh.
“careful.”
she smiles immediately.
there it is again.
that low warning tone that had been missing lately.
“or what?” she asks sweetly.
his eyes move to her finally, slower this time.
steady.
“you know exactly what.”
heat curls low in her stomach instantly.
she shifts on top of him slightly, leaning closer, pleased with herself for getting him to react again.
“missed that,” she murmurs.
“yeah?”
“mhm.” she presses a quick kiss to his jaw. “you were being boring.”
his hand slides higher on her thigh automatically, firm enough to make her breath catch slightly.
“i’m never boring.”
“you kinda were,” she teases softly. “all quiet and moody.”
his fingers pause for half a second.
then keep moving.
“thought you liked me quiet.”
“not that quiet.”
he looks at her for a second after that.
something unreadable flickering there again.
she hates when he does that.
when he looks at her like he’s thinking something he won’t say out loud.
so she leans in before it can settle too much, kissing him first this time, slow and distracting on purpose.
he kisses her back immediately.
warm.
familiar.
his hand sliding into her hair like muscle memory.
and for a little while, it feels easy again.
like maybe they figured it out.
like maybe she was overthinking everything after all.
until she pulls back eventually, smiling a little, still close enough to feel his breath against her mouth.
“you know what i realized?”
“what?”
“you’re way nicer to me when i’m distracting you.”
his expression stills slightly.
“that right?”
“mhm.” she brushes her nose against his lightly, playful. “otherwise you start acting all weird and existential.”
he doesn’t laugh.
doesn’t tease her back.
just looks at her for a second too long again.
and this time, when he speaks, his voice is quieter.
“you think everything’s a joke.”
the smile slips from her face a little.
not completely.
just enough.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“nothing.”
there it is again.
that word.
nothing.
like he keeps saying things he doesn’t actually want her to hear.
she pulls back a little more now, studying his face.
“no, seriously. what does that mean?”
he shakes his head once, eyes already moving away from hers.
“drop it, baby.”
and the way he says it makes something small tighten in her chest. “no, rafe,” she says immediately, pulling back fully now. “what the fuck does that mean?”
his jaw tightens. “nothing.”
“stop saying that.” her voice sharpens before she can help it. “you keep saying shit and then acting like i’m crazy for asking what you mean.”
“because you drag everything out.”
“because you never explain anything.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, leaning back against the couch like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “not everything needs to turn into a discussion.”
“yeah, well, when my boyfriend starts talking in riddles every five seconds, i’m gonna ask questions.”
“you’re proving my point.”
she stares at him.
“what point?”
his eyes flick toward her again, colder now. more guarded.
“that you don’t take anything seriously.”
her expression changes instantly. “excuse me?”
“everything’s a joke to you,” he says, calmer than her somehow, which only makes it worse. “everything gets laughed off or teased or turned into something else.”
“oh my god,” she scoffs, sitting up straighter. “because i’m trying to make you feel better?”
“that’s not what you’re doing.”
“then what am i doing?”
he looks at her for a second too long before answering, “avoiding it.”
that lands harder than she expects.
she laughs once, disbelieving. “you literally won’t talk to me.”
“because you don’t get it.”
“stop saying that!” she snaps now, frustration finally bleeding through fully. “what the fuck is there to get, rafe? seriously? you act like i’m stupid every time i ask you something.”
“i don’t think you’re stupid.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
he rubs a hand over his face briefly, like he’s trying to keep himself under control. “you live in this fucking bubble,” he says finally, voice lower now. “school, parties, your friends, stupid little arguments that don’t matter. you think all of this is supposed to stay light all the time because that’s what you’re used to.”
she goes still. just for a second. then her eyes narrow.
“wow.”
“i’m not insulting you.”
“you literally are.”
“i’m explaining it.”
“no, you’re talking down to me.”
his jaw flexes hard at that. “i’m not talking down to you.”
“you basically just called my life stupid.”
“i said it’s different.”
“yeah, different from yours,” she shoots back. “you act like because you’re older and miserable and emotionally constipated now, suddenly i’m childish for not acting the same.”
his eyes harden immediately. “watch your mouth.”
“or what?”
“don’t start that shit with me right now.”
“why?” she challenges, voice sharper now. “because i’m not sitting here nodding along while you act like you’re above me?”
“that’s not what this is.”
“then what is it?”
he stands up suddenly, the movement quick enough to make her blink.
“you wanna know what it is?” he asks, looking down at her now. “it’s exhausting trying to talk to someone who turns everything into a fucking joke because they don’t wanna deal with anything real.”
her mouth falls open slightly. “that’s so unfair.”
“is it?”
“yes!” she stands too now, staring up at him. “i’ve been trying to be there for you all week and you keep shutting me out, but somehow i’m the problem because i don’t sit around brooding like you?”
“you don’t listen.”
“because you don’t say anything!”
“because you don’t hear me when i do.”
they’re too close now, and she doesn’t even realize it happened.
his voice is low, rougher now, and her chest is rising too fast, anger and something else twisting together so tightly she can’t separate them anymore.
“you know what your problem is?” she says, staring right up at him. “you think just because you’ve seen worse things than me, you get to decide my feelings don’t matter.”
his eyes flash. “i never said that.”
“you don’t have to.”
“you act like everything’s about you.”
she laughs sharply. “oh, fuck you.”
“there you go.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“every time something gets uncomfortable, you lash out.”
“because you’re being an asshole!”
his hand suddenly braces against the back of the couch beside her head. not aggressive. just there. pinning her attention completely.
“and every time you don’t know what to say,” he says quietly, “you start acting bratty because it’s easier than actually talking.”
her breath catches slightly.
damn him for that. because he’s right, and they both know it. she hates that he can still do this, still look at her like that even when she’s pissed at him, like he sees straight through her.
“you’re unbelievable,” she mutters, but it comes out weaker now.
his eyes drop to her mouth for half a second, then back up.
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
there’s still anger there. still tension.
but it’s changing now, twisting into something hotter, heavier, the space between them suddenly feeling way too small. she should step back. she doesn’t. neither does he.
“you piss me off so bad sometimes,” she says quietly.
his hand tightens slightly against the couch. “you don’t make it easy.”
“you think you’re so much smarter than me.”
“didn’t say that.”
“you think it.”
“baby—”
“don’t baby me right now.” that almost sounds like a warning when he repeats it.
“baby.”
heat crawls up her spine instantly. she hates that too. hates that her body reacts to him even now, even like this.
his other hand finds her waist slowly, steady and warm through the thin fabric of his shirt she’s still wearing. “you done yelling at me?” he asks quietly.
“no.”
“doesn’t sound very convincing.”
she glares at him. he looks at her mouth again.
and that’s it. that’s the thing that snaps whatever was left holding the argument together. she kisses him first. hard. angry enough that their teeth nearly knock together.
he reacts immediately, hand tightening at her waist as he pulls her flush against him, the kiss turning rough almost instantly, all heat and frustration and too much feeling shoved into one thing.
she makes a small sound against his mouth when he pushes her back against the couch again, and he swallows it immediately, kissing her deeper like he’s trying to shut both of them up at once.
his hand slides up her side. hers tangle into his shirt. everything feels too hot all at once, anger melting into something dizzy and reckless and familiar.
“you’re so fucking difficult,” he mutters against her mouth.
“you love it,” she shoots back breathlessly.
his grip tightens.
then suddenly he’s pulling her fully into his lap, her breath catching as his mouth moves to her jaw, her neck, and right above her tits.
she doesn’t waste a second and strips of her clothes.
he looks her over, his eyes full of love of lust. rafe latches his mouth around her hard nipple, making her gasp and wrap her around around his neck.
she moans as he swirls his tongue around the sensitive pebble, “rafe…want your cock.”
he immediately pulls out his hard member and slams into her, releasing her nipple and kissing her.
she tugs at his hair while whining. rafe thrusts faster and harder by the second, overstimulating her while also rubbing her clit with his free thumb.
she cries out and cums, him following in lead. he softens inside of her and kisses the corner of her mouth.
over the next few days, she avoids him so completely it starts feeling ridiculous.
not intentional at first.
not fully.
the first day, she just doesn’t answer because she’s still angry. her chest still burns every time she replays the argument in her head, every time she remembers the way he looked at her while saying it, calm and sharp at the same time, like he’d already decided she wouldn’t understand him before she even opened her mouth.
the second day, avoiding him becomes easier.
because now she knows he’s looking for her.
she spots his truck outside one of her lecture halls that afternoon and immediately turns around so fast she nearly walks straight into someone behind her.
“shit,” she mutters, grabbing onto the wall.
“you okay?” a guy from her class asks, confused.
“perfect,” she says quickly, already walking the other direction.
her heart pounds the entire way across campus.
stupid.
so stupid.
she doesn’t even fully understand why she’s doing this.
it’s not like they broke up.
they’ve argued before. constantly, actually. little arguments, bigger ones, dramatic ones that ended with her storming off and him dragging her back by the waist ten minutes later because neither of them could stay mad long enough to make it matter.
but this one feels different.
quieter.
worse.
because he didn’t yell.
he didn’t lose control.
he just looked at her like she was exhausting him.
like loving her was starting to feel harder than it used to.
and maybe that isn’t what he meant.
but it’s what she heard.
which is the problem.
by the third day, her phone is full of missed calls.
she stares at the notifications from across the room while her roommate types away at her desk like none of this is happening.
“you know,” her roommate says eventually, without looking up, “at some point, this stops being avoidance and starts becoming psychological warfare.”
she’s sprawled face-down across her bed, one arm hanging off the side dramatically.
“i’m not avoiding him.”
“right. and i’m not failing calculus.”
she groans into her pillow.
“he pissed me off.”
“obviously.”
“like… really pissed me off.”
“yes,” her roommate says dryly. “i gathered that from the fact you almost had a breakdown because he viewed your instagram story.”
she lifts her head immediately. “i did not almost have a breakdown.”
“you stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes afterward.”
“that’s unrelated.”
her roommate finally looks over at her then, expression unimpressed.
“you miss him.”
she immediately drops her face back into the pillow.
“no i don’t.”
“you literally sleep in his shirts when you’re mad at him.”
silence.
“that’s not the point.”
“it kind of is.”
she rolls onto her back dramatically this time, glaring at the ceiling.
because yes.
fine.
she misses him.
she misses him so much it’s actually embarrassing.
she misses stupid things too, which makes it worse.
the weight of his hand on her thigh while he drives.
the way he always reaches for her absentmindedly when they’re sitting together, like touching her became instinct somewhere along the way.
his voice when he’s tired.
the way he says “baby” when he’s annoyed with her.
she hates it.
hates that she can still feel him everywhere even when she’s actively trying not to.
her phone buzzes again on the nightstand.
she already knows who it is before she even checks.
you gonna keep running from me?
her stomach twists instantly.
another text comes before she can stop staring at the first.
this is getting old
she locks her phone immediately.
then unlocks it thirty seconds later.
stares at the messages again.
types:
maybe stop acting like an asshole then
deletes it.
types:
maybe i don’t want to talk to you right now?
deletes that too.
instead, she throws the phone across the bed with a frustrated sound.
“what did he say now?” her roommate asks.
“nothing.”
“that sounded aggressive for nothing.”
she sits up finally, pushing her hair out of her face.
“he keeps acting like i’m the one being unreasonable.”
“are you being unreasonable?”
she glares at her.
her roommate shrugs. “just asking.”
“he basically called me immature.”
“did he say those exact words?”
“…no.”
“then what did he say?”
she opens her mouth.
closes it.
because now that she’s trying to explain it out loud, it sounds stupid he didn’t actually say her life was meaningless. he didn’t actually say she was shallow. he just made her feel that way. and somehow that’s worse.
“forget it,” she mutters, getting off the bed. “i’m going out tonight.”
her roommate watches her carefully. “with who?”
“the girls.”
“to have fun or to make him mad?”
she pauses halfway through pulling open her closet then scoffs.
“obviously to have fun.”
her roommate doesn’t say anything, which is annoying, because somehow silence feels more judgmental.
the party that night is packed before she even gets there. music shaking the walls, girls crowded together in bathrooms, people spilling drinks already and yelling over each other like nobody has classes tomorrow. normally, this is easy for her.
normal. she’s good at this. good at being loud and wanted and glowing under attention. but tonight it feels slightly off, like she’s forcing herself back into a version of normal she can’t fully reach anymore.
still, she tries.
she lets herself get pulled into dancing almost immediately, laughing when someone nearly falls into her.
accepts a drink.
then another.
and another.
“there she is!” one of her friends yells, grabbing her hand. “you disappeared all week.”
“i was busy,” she lies easily.
“with your old man?”
she rolls her eyes instantly. “he’s thirty, relax.”
“exactly,” her friend laughs.
usually she’d defend him faster
tonight she just shrugs and takes another sip of her drink.
her phone buzzes in her purse.
saw your location
her stomach drops instantly. another message appears underneath before she can even breathe properly.
really, baby?
heat floods her chest immediately. she hates how two words from him can still do that. hates how guilty she suddenly feels even though she technically hasn’t done anything wrong.
“you okay?” the guy asks.
“mhm,” she lies. but her chest feels tight now. too tight. the rest of the party blurs after that. she keeps catching herself checking the door. checking her phone.
wondering if he’s actually angry or just hurt.
and the second thought makes her feel infinitely worse. because she knows him. knows how rarely he asks for things emotionally. so if he’s been texting her this much, calling her this much…
he probably really wanted her to answer. that realization follows her all the way back to her dorm.
the hallway is quiet when she finally stumbles upstairs hours later, heels dangling from her fingers, makeup slightly smudged from the heat of the party. she’s exhausted. tipsy enough that her thoughts feel slower now.
she pushes open the dorm door carefully, expecting darkness. instead, the lamp beside her bed is on and he’s sitting there.
her breath catches immediately.
he’s leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together like he’s been sitting there awhile.
waiting.
he looks up the second she walks in, and suddenly every ounce of alcohol in her system disappears because he looks tired. not angry. not cold. just tired.
his eyes move over her slowly, taking in the outfit, the heels in her hand, the smudged makeup, then back to her face.
“you ignored me,” he says quietly, and somehow that hurts worse than yelling ever could.
she stares at him from the doorway for a second too long, heart still pounding from the surprise of seeing him there.
“how did you even get in?”
“your roommate let me.”
of course she did. she drops her heels by the door a little harder than necessary, suddenly irritated again, all the guilt from earlier twisting into something defensive.
“you can’t just sit in my room waiting for me.”
his expression barely changes.
“i’ve been calling you for three days.”
“and i clearly didn’t answer.”
“yeah,” he says, jaw tightening slightly. “i noticed.”
she looks away first, which annoys her, because she’s still mad at him. she came into this room determined to stay mad at him.
but seeing him sitting there like that, tired and quiet and looking at her like he hasn’t slept properly in days, makes it harder.
“you could’ve texted me you were coming,” she mutters instead, crossing her arms tightly over herself.
“would you’ve answered?”
he exhales through his nose slowly, leaning back against the chair now. “that’s what i thought.”
something about his tone makes irritation spark hot in her chest again. “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“talk to me like i’m a child.”
his brows pull together immediately. “i’m not talking to you like a child.”
“you are.”
“because i asked why you ignored me?”
“because you keep acting like i’m insane for being upset with you.”
“i never said you were insane.”
“you don’t have to say it outright, rafe.”
he goes quiet at that. not calm quiet. the dangerous kind.
she recognizes it instantly. normally she’d back off a little here. tease him, soften it, crawl into his lap and distract both of them before it got too serious. but she’s too hurt now. too angry.
“you disappeared,” he says finally, voice lower now. “what was i supposed to think?”
“i don’t know,” she laughs sharply. “maybe that i didn’t wanna talk to you?”
“for three days?”
“yes!”
his jaw flexes hard. “that’s not how relationships work.”
“oh, and what? yours are all healthy and functional?”
that lands. she sees it immediately. but instead of apologizing, she keeps going because she’s frustrated and tired and emotional and he keeps looking at her like she’s something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.
“you don’t get to show up in my room acting hurt when you’re the one who started this.”
his eyes narrow slightly. “started what?”
“this whole thing!” she gestures wildly between them. “you acting like i’m immature because i don’t process things the same way you do.”
“that is not what i said.”
“it’s what you meant.”
“no,” he says sharply now, standing up suddenly. “it’s what you heard.” the room goes still.
her chest tightens immediately. because that’s the problem, isn’t it? she doesn’t even know anymore if she’s angry at what he said or angry at how deeply it got under her skin. “you think i don’t take anything seriously,” she says quieter now.
his expression shifts slightly. “i think you avoid things.”
“same difference.”
“it’s not.”
“to me it is.”
he drags a hand over his face, frustration finally cracking through properly now.
“why are you acting like i’m attacking you?”
she stares at him. actually stares. “because every time i try to be there for you, you push me away.”
“that’s not true.”
“yes it is!” she snaps. “you shut down and then act irritated when i can’t magically read your mind.”
“because not everything can be fixed with jokes and sex and pretending everything’s okay!” the words hit the room hard.
silence drops immediately after. her face changes instantly, hurt flashing across it so quickly he notices before she can hide it. “wow.”
“that’s not what i meant.”
“no?” she laughs once, but it sounds awful. “because it sounded pretty fucking clear to me.”
“baby—”
“don’t call me that right now.”
his mouth shuts immediately. and somehow that hurts too.
she turns away from him first, blinking hard as she grabs randomly at things on her desk just to have something to do with her hands. “you know what the worst part is?” she says quietly. “i actually tried.”
he watches her carefully now. “i know you did.”
“no, i don’t think you do.” she laughs again softly, shaking her head. “i tried so hard to understand you lately and every single time i got close, you made me feel stupid for it.”
“i never wanted you to feel stupid.”
“well, congratulations.” he takes a step toward her. she steps back immediately. that stops him cold.
and suddenly the room feels too small for both of them. her eyes are glossy now. she hates that. hates crying in front of people, especially him. “you know what?” she says, voice shaking slightly despite how hard she’s trying to control it. “maybe you’re right.”
his brows pull together. “about what?”
“about us being different.”
something flickers across his face immediately. “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“this.” his voice lowers dangerously. “don’t start talking like it’s over because we had one bad fight.”
she laughs weakly. “one?”
“baby—”
“no, seriously,” she cuts him off. “when’s the last time we actually talked without it turning into this?”
he doesn’t answer right away, which is answer enough.
her chest physically aches now, because she loves him. that’s the horrible part. she loves him so much she kept convincing herself this weird distance between them was temporary. something she could fix if she just loved him correctly enough.
but now she’s looking at him and realizing maybe she can’t. maybe he came back different in ways she doesn’t understand. maybe she stayed the same in ways that make him resent her for it. “i don’t wanna do this anymore,” she says finally.
his face goes completely still. “what?”
the second the word leaves his mouth, she nearly takes it back. because he looks genuinely caught off guard. like he thought they were just fighting. like this possibility never even crossed his mind, and somehow that makes it worse. her throat tightens painfully. “i can’t keep feeling like this,” she whispers.
“feeling like what?”
“like i’m too much for you.”
his expression changes immediately. anger disappearing so fast it almost looks painful. “you are not too much for me.”
“yes i am.”
“stop.”
“you think i’m childish,” she says, tears finally slipping down now despite how much she hates it. “you think i don’t understand anything real and honestly? maybe you’re right. maybe i don’t fit into your life anymore.”
“don’t say that.” his voice sounds rough now. desperate, almost.
she hates that too because part of her wants to run to him immediately, but she can’t do this anymore. can’t keep feeling him slowly pulling away while pretending everything’s fine. “i think we should break up.” silence. actual silence.
“you don’t mean that.”
she starts crying harder immediately because the worst part is she doesn’t know if she does. but she says it anyway. “i do.”
he looks away first this time. and somehow that hurts more than anything else tonight. his jaw works slightly like he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret. then finally he nods once. small. tight. “okay.” she wasn’t expecting that. not really.
she thought he’d fight harder. and the fact he doesn’t makes something inside her crack open completely. he grabs his keys from her desk slowly, movements controlled in that way he gets when he’s holding himself together by force. then he heads for the door. just like that.
he pauses when he gets to the door, turning to look at her. “i leave in two weeks.”
the room goes cold. she stares at him. “what?”
his eyes stay on hers now. steady. empty. “deployment came through yesterday.”
her breath catches so hard it physically hurts.“you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
everything inside her drops instantly. every bit of anger. every bit of pride. gone. “why didn’t you tell me?”
a/n: this is 11,026 words. it took me over two weeks to write and i really would appreciate if you reblog if you enjoyed❤️ this is also my first time making a super long tumblr fic so i hope its not super bad😭
Writer|Reader @in3edcuddles - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
