English is not my first language!! Im sorry for all the mistakes in grammar and punctuation, i tried my best. For more info about this fic I suggest coming back to my previous post💕
I only own Valeriyas and Jasmine’s character.
September 2023 Reston Virginia
“Ilia where are you!!”
As any day could begin i Malinin’s household.
“Upstairs watching tv!!”
As Valeriya climbed the stairs and stood next to the couch.
“No way i told you i will be watching outerbanks. Move!!”
As Ilia pushed her away she slapped him in the head.
“Auchh leave me alone im watching Jacob perform right now, isnt it important for you too??”
“I dont know who’s Jacob, I dont care who’s Jacob. But who i do care is Drew Starkey so you better move or im calling mom!!!”
“What!? Jacob is my friend you stupid…!!!”
“MOOM I WANT TO WATCH A SHOW AND ILIA WON’T LET ME!!”
January 2024
“Hey Ilia can you lend me some money??” She asked standing against the frame of his door. She grow up a lot,soon she will be 17.
“What?? No way i gave you 20 last week”
“Come onn Ilia be a good big brother and help your sister” she said walking up closer to him. Ilia was sitting in his gaming chair playing fortnite. “Who are you playing with?”
“Jacob”
“Who?”
“Jacob, Valeriya come on its been long enough for you to acknowledge him”
“Never met him, how am i supposed to know he is not some imaginary friend of yours? “
“He is indeed real!” Ilia said and threw 10 dollars her way
“Thank you” she said and gracefully left the room.
“You better pay me back!!!!” She heard her brother yell at from behind her which she completely ignored.
“Fucking idiot”
“What did you say??”
Valeria turned around just to find Tatiana standing near the laundry room,with a hard look on her face.
“ uhmmm nothing mom nothing important” she said as she hurried up stairs to her bedroom.
February 2024
There was only two things that Valeriya was always certain about, living up to her parents name will be very difficult. As they are both olympians and national champions the journey seemed impossible for many, but not her. Second one, the ice is where she belongs. Since the first steps that she took,in those too big rental skates at her local rink, it became clear for her that this is what she’s meant for. So she trained. Very hard. She studied at home to train in the hours when normal kids go to school. Unlike her brother who trained after.
And it was all so perfect, she trained, she progressed and win. She won a lot, every junior competition where she went, she ended up on the podium. She thought that her future is promised, she will make the Malinin’s name even greater, her name will be written next to the legends. She will be the one. And she was, until her brother decided that he will train a little bit more, until he skipped these hangouts with his friends to do off ice. It wasn’t like she hoped he will fail, but when he jumped that quad axel and made history she couldn’t help but feel jealous. Because that was supposed be her. After that SkateQuest stopped feeling like the place she wanted to be at. Everyone was all over the moon for Ilia, he was a hero for those little kids who started skating after they saw the history being made. And the worst part? Now she was Ilia malinin’s sister, not Valeriya Malinina.
The 2022 olympics in Benjing seemed like a chance to rebuild everything she worked so hard on her whole life. After qualifying to the Olympics at just 15 she was scared but ready. Ilia did not qualify, sure she felt bad for her brother but also she never felt more unstoppable. Now that Ilia was out of her way, she could really show what she’s capable of. The russians were a big threat, Trusova’s quads , Scherbakova’s artistry and Valieva who was the best at the time. Also Valeriya still had Alysa Liu right behind her.
So she skated, gave the performance of her life. She did only two quads but it was enough bring her to the 3 place. But after Anna’s performance the whole podium shifted. Valeriya Malinia placed 4 after the free skate, and goes home without any medal.
The breaking point came when Valeriya placed 11 at the four continents championships in china. When she came back home,she made a very difficult decision
“You want to what!?!?” She heard her best friend Jasmine scream through the phone.
“Oh my gosh chill Jas please you’re gonna wake my parents!”
“Oh Im sorry but how do you expect me to react after dropping something like that at midnight!!Okay i accually need to think. So you want to change coaches , rink, club and move out!? Alright thats fine now im absolutely convinced that you’re going crazy” Jasmine said
“God i knew you will react like that, but just hear me out okay??” Valeriya said with a sad look on her face
“Fine, go on”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time now. But i never thought that i will ever be so sure. You know things have been quite hard for me lately. I thought i needed a break from skating, but couldn’t stand not skating for more than a week ,so i went on vacation and it also didn’t do much. I feel so drained Jasmine, I NEED a big change in my life, the breaking point was the four continents championships. and i know that the whole situation is still fresh and that im just a human and I cant always win, i hear i all the time when something goes wrong or not as i planned.”
There was a short pause before Valeriya took a deep breath and continued.
“You know i love my parents and i love Ilia and Liza. But its like im drowning in Ilia’s success and cant swim. He’s everywhere Jasmine, everywhere! They even put a massive poster of him in the chilling room. And it feels like everyone forgot about me, I know it sounds like i want everyones attention on me and only me but its not like that. Its like i lost my own legacy! My parents are amazing coaches and everything i can do now is because of them. I know they love me just as much as they love Ilia. But they already have so many students, also ilia takes so much time on ice lately to prepare some crazy shit as always.My mom has been coaching Sarah more often lately, and it just feels like everyone kind of gave up on me. If i dont stand up on my own then no one will pick me up. So i want to stand Jasmine, I want to be the skater that younger me thought i will be. But I cant do it here, not anymore.”
There was a brief silence before Jasmine spoke.
“Okay, I see it Val and i see you. You know i always have your back. Im sorry that i reacted like that before, i guess i was just shocked. Now i see why you feel that way” Jasmine said calmly now but hint of a sadness could be heard in her voice.”Tell me more Val”
Two weeks later
After over 12 days of convincing her parents that her plan was a good idea and promising that she will visit home often and call them at least 4 times a week, Valeriya found her self gathering her things to pack into the suitcases. Then she heard a soft knock on the doorframe. When she turned around she found Ilia standing there leaning against it.
“Hey… just wanted to ask if you need any help” Ilia said quietly
“Uhmm actually you can put there in this box” she said pointing at the trophies standing on the shelf.
As ilia started carefully putting them into the box. A thought pushed its way out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“Are you leaving because of me?”
Valeriya stooped packing and turned around to face him. His face nit filled with sadness and concern.
“What..?”
“Be honest with me Val” he said now Frustrated
As she took a deep breath her answer came out short and quiet not as she intended. “ you’re part of it”
As saddnes took over Ilias face she had to stop the tears from coming out of her eyes.
“Dont blame yourself Ilia, thats just the way things work”
“Im sorry, im so sorry Val i never thought….”
She didn’t let him finish as she wrapped her arms around him tightly, squeezing him in a emotional embrace.
After Long hours of packing, she was ready to go. She kissed her mom and dad goodbye. Hugged Liza for so long that she almost stopped feeling her arms. And shared one last hug with ilia.
“ Behave well sis and don’t be much of pain in ass for your new coaches. Progress, learn and make a lot of new friends, but only friends” he said with a serious look on his face
“ damn that sounded like an advice from a grandpa Ilia “ she said with a laugh
Ilia rolled his eyes “ i just want to make sure you will be happy”
“ i know Ilie thank you” she said with a big smile
“ Alright honey you have to go now to skip the traffic” Tatiana said softly
Valeriya stepped inside the car and started the engine. There was a 5 hour drive before her to Newburgh New York. Where she will begin her new Ice skating journey at Ice time Sports complex, in Hudson Valley Figure Skating Club.
But only if she knew who also trains at this rink, in this club. And what journey, not exactly connected to sports awaits for her.
Alright guys i know this is short as hell but I needed to start this series somehow, and also i felt like if I don’t post it now then i will never do it . I promise there will be more details in the next chapters about basically everything that it might be lacking now. Also feel free to comment and tell me your opinion. Its my first fiction ever and im kinda nervous that its total crap, so if it is tell me so i won’t write next chapters.
Okay so this will my first fic ever and im kinda shitting my pants so there’s a chance that i will delete that. Before everything i want you to know that english is not my first language.
So the fic will be about Ilia Malinin’s sister x Jacob Sanchez. Im still thinking about the name so if you got any ideas feel free to comment. I dont think that i will contain any smut in this but if i change my mind you will be informed. Also im not sure how many chapters i will write. Also to prevent any problems the main theme of this fiction was inspirated by Cruel summer by @philoph4bic which i really recommend. But the story will be different.💗 Please be patient with me, i never wrote a fic on tumblr so im still learning things.
None of the photos belong to me, also the characters are real people not my creation besides the main character !!
Request: (From @bandito-baddie)so using like the "best friends that are a little too close" trope, theyre both on team usa and they start actually hanging out with them and go like 🤨 like weirdly intimate pda and emotional connection, and maybe like amber or even chock/bates are like privately confronting reader and ilia like "whats happening w you two" like zoom in on ilia and someones like asking him about reader, similar to the other fic where they like list a bunch of things and ilia's just like "yeah we do all of that" and he realizes that he like loves reader and IDKKKKK
Warnings: apart from extreme obliviousness? none
Word Count: 1.4k words
Estimated Reading Time: 5 minutes
A/N: yesterday's exhibition gala was a work of art, i loved every second of it. also writing this from Maddie's POV was really fun. Also currently have five more requests in my inbox, so i'm working on them as fast as i can, but uni and work are picking up a bit so pls be patient, i promise i'll get to them all <3
Masterlists | Ilia Malinin Masterlist | Taglist
Madison sat on the couch, doing her best to keep her head still as Ellie skillfully braided her hair. She kept her eyes on the far end of the room, and after a particularly disturbing move, kicked Evan, who was sitting in front of her playing Uno with Alysa, Isabeau, and Danny.
“Ow, what was that for?”
From the far end of the couch, Amber blew on her nails, waiting for the coat of polish to dry. She was watching just as intently as Madison.
“Look at them.”
Evan looked.
“What’s wrong?”
Ugh, men.
“Ilia and (Y/n). Look at how they’re behaving.”
Evan turned towards them, tilted his head like a confused puppy.
“They’re…playing video games?”
Which was technically true. They were playing Mario Party together on (Y/n)’s Switch, laughing at whatever was happening on screen.
That wasn’t the point though.
“Evan, that’s not what she means.”
Thank you, Amber. Truly a lifesaver, that woman.
“She’s practically sitting in his lap, and he keeps kissing her hair, are you seeing that?”
Evan looked even more confused now, but it was Danny who spoke up.
“I mean, it’s not like you can talk much, Maddie, you and Evan are worse. So what if they’re a bit heavy on the PDA?”
Her husband nodded.
“Young love… I think it’s sweet.”
Isabeau and Alysa looked at each other.
“Do they not know?”
How could they not know? Did they not listen to them in the interviews?
“What don’t we know?”
Oh, great heavens, they genuinely had no idea.
“Guys… they aren’t dating.”
“What?”
Ilia and (Y/n) lifted their heads following the men’s confused scream, and Madison smiled and waved off their worry. As soon as they’d gone back to playing, she looked down.
“Be quiet!”
From the look on their faces, you’d think their whole world had crumbled.
“What do you mean they’re not together? They act the same way we do.”
Yes, she was aware, thank you.
“Do you guys not pay any attention in the interviews? They’ve said multiple times that they’re ‘not dating’ and they’re just ‘best friends’.”
She emphasised the words with air quotes, rolling her eyes.
“The most surprising thing for me is how they can still call each other best friends after having slept together so many times.”
Everyone’s heads snapped towards Alysa as she set down a change colour card.
“Yellow.”
She looked up at them, as if she hadn’t just dropped the biggest bomb of the century.
“Oh, right, you guys don’t know about that, I forgot.”
No, obviously they didn’t know, Alysa.
“Okay, so you guys remember that night we all went clubbing? Well, (Y/n) and I had planned to go have breakfast the morning after at a café we found. So I went and knocked on her door at around ten to see if she was ready to go, and Ilia opened the door, in very little clothes might I add. He said she was just finishing getting ready in the bathroom and she’d be right out, then went right back to bed.”
Madison felt her unfinished braid start to come undone as Ellie’s fingers went slack.
“So we walked to the café, ordered our food, and I asked her what happened last night, like if there was a change in their relationship status, you know. She said that apparently, every time they go out and have something to drink, they end up going home together because, and I quote, they’re really close friends so it makes sense that they’d help each other blow out some steam every once in a while.”
Madison was flabbergasted. Shocked to her very core. Just when she thought this situation couldn’t get any worse.
“We need to do something. Urgently.”
.•*¨•..•¨`•.☆
And so they hatched a plan.
It was unanimously decided that Maddie and Evan would be the ones leading the intervention, being two skaters in a longstanding, healthy relationship.
The first step was to approach them each individually, appeal to their sense of logic, and hopefully get this handled quickly and (mostly) painlessly.
It would have been a great plan, if those two had any hint of logic in their young brains.
“Okay, Ilia, follow my thought process here.”
It was indeed a dire day when Evan Bates had to be the logical one.
“You said she’s the most important person in your life, you spend all your time together, you’ve kissed– For fuck’s sake, you had sex. Multiple times.”
“Yeah, cause she’s my best friend. That’s just what we’re like, there’s nothing romantic to it, just really deep friendship.”
She could’ve sworn she saw tears in her husband’s eyes. Hers might have looked the same.
Naively, she thought this was just male obliviousness, and confronting (Y/n) would go much better.
Oh, how wrong she was.
“Listen guys, I appreciate your concern, but not everyone is like you, you know? Ilia and I, we’re just really close friends, there’s nothing more to it. I know that on the outside this behaviour might seem strange, but it really is just friendship.”
They were hopeless.
Back to the drawing board.
“Okay, I think I know where we went wrong. We can’t just send in the most well-adjusted couple we know and expect them to get it. We need a real intervention. Like the ones they had in How I Met Your Mother. We need a big banner with red letters on it.”
Madison couldn’t see how that would help, but they were out of ideas, so.
.•*¨•..•¨`•.☆
Ilia and (Y/n) stared at the banner from their comfortable position on the couch. She sat with her legs in Ilia’s lap, head on his shoulder, and he held her close to his body.
Team USA stood underneath the banner.
“I’m just going to start by saying that we’re holding this intervention out of love for you.”
Madison started. Calmly, diplomatically, as she’d practiced.
“And because you’re causing us physical pain with your stupidity.”
Yes, that too, but they weren’t meant to say it like that, Evan.
“Is this about the dating thing? Cause we’ve told you already, we’re just friends.”
Madison was very rapidly losing what was left of her sanity.
“Right, let’s recap, shall we?”
Amber started counting on her fingers.
“You spend all your time together, you’re practically always touching, you’ve literally had sex, multiple times. You’re one shared apartment away from being a married couple!”
The two averted their eyes.
“No. No way.”
Maddie felt faint.
“It was convenient! We train together all the time anyway, and college dorms suck, it was the best option.”
Alysa hummed.
“Just out of curiosity, how many rooms does your apartment have?”
“Two, of course.”
Well, at least that—
“One for us, and one for the cats.”
Nevermind.
“Although to be fair they only hang out there during the day or if we have visitors, cause they like to sleep with us in bed at night.”
Madison looked at the others.
“I’m out of ideas.”
In an unexpected twist, Danny was actually the one who managed to figure it out.
“Okay, let me just ask a question then. Ilia, what is love to you? Romantic love. How do you define it?”
He furrowed his brows for a bit.
“Well, it’s… Someone who’ll be with me through everything. Who’ll cheer me on when I’m doing well and comfort me when I’m not. Someone who’ll remind me that there’s more to life than skating…”
He trailed off, and Danny moved on to his next victim.
“What about you, (Y/n)?”
She gnawed on her lip nervously.
“Someone who’ll make me feel safe, mostly. Someone who, when I’m with them I can just feel calm, you know? Someone I can see myself hanging out with for the rest of my— oh.”
Both of them looked shell-shocked. Madison felt her heart fill with a tentative hope.
“Oh.”
Could it be? Could this have worked? Could their suffering be coming to an end?
“Ilia…”
“I know.”
“Are we?”
“Apparently so.”
“We’re in a relationship.”
Maddie shed a tear. She couldn’t help it.
“Guys… it worked.”
She looked at the young couple, staring into each other’s eyes with the same kind of love she saw reflected in Evan’s every morning.
Yeah, as far as she was concerned, this mission was a success.
in case you're wondering, yes, i'm still mad that chock/bates didn't win the gold medal, but i'm dealing with it by writing them being cute and in love in a humorous situation here. hope you guys liked it, and if you did, don't forget to comment/like/reblog because your praise is what keeps me motivated
Summary: Six months after their breakup, the Olympics bring him back to her in the most unexpected way. After everything unravels on the ice, he reaches for the one person who still feels like home. She lets him in, even knowing how dangerous that familiarity is... his voice on the phone, his body on her sofa, the old habits returning far too easily, until the distance between them collapses all the way back to her bed. Because despite everything, she still cares. And worse, she still loves him.
Warnings: no use of y/n, angst, a lot of drama, breakup and talking about the breakup, exes reconnecting, flashbacks, he's a little bit of a cry baby, mature themes implied, english is not my first language, not much to warn really... (I didn't proofread this as I usually do so excuse any huge mistakes or silly repetitions)
Author’s note: This came to me while writing To Someone From a Warm Climate, so there are a few similar themes. I seem to be a sucker for those out-of-breath, movie-style doorstep love confessions, but what can a girl do about it?
The Winter Olympics arrived with stakes far lower than she ever could have imagined six months ago.
The television stayed on almost constantly. The volume remained low, just above a whisper, the commentators speaking like distant figures in another room.
She told herself it was because she did not need them.
She already knew everything there was to know. Every statistic, every record, every narrative they loved repeating. They always said the same things anyway. Prodigy. Revolutionary jumper. The boy who changed the sport.
The boy who did it.
But the truth was simpler and far less rational: hearing strangers say his name that loudly felt wrong.
Ilia Malinin.
For a time, that name had belonged to her world. Not only the arenas, or the headlines and the commentators speaking with rehearsed awe.
Just him.
Her Ilia, once.
Now the world’s.
Six months ago it had been raining the night they ended things. The kind of cold rain that turned the windows gray and made the kitchen lights feel different.
The room still smelled faintly of that stupid lemon cleaner. She had wiped the counters that morning out of habit, not knowing the day would end with them standing on opposite sides of the same kitchen island, speaking in careful, measured voices.
There had been no yelling. No slammed doors. No dramatic last words worthy of a movie. Just the quiet realization that his life was moving faster and growing larger than the small, ordinary rhythm of hers could follow.
Now he was halfway across the world chasing Olympic gold.
And she was sitting cross legged on her couch in an oversized sweater that once had belonged to him, refreshing the competition schedule on her laptop between papers that needed grading.
Being a literature teacher was not glamorous.
No one chanted your name in arenas. No one replayed your work in slow motion. No one analyzed your choices frame by frame.
But it gave her long evenings. Long evenings to watch him.
She followed everything in silence. Every practice clip posted online. Every shaky interview filmed in crowded hallways. Every warm up camera angle where he rolled his shoulders the way he always did before a jump, the small ritual she recognized even before the commentators pointed it out.
Sometimes she wondered if he even knew how many people were watching him now. Sometimes she wondered if he still rolled his shoulders the same way when no cameras were there at all.
Every day felt like a quiet internal battle.
Not to reach out. Not to send a simple message. Something harmless, something small. Just a quick good luck.
Her fingers hovered over his name more times than she cared to admit, the familiar shape of it glowing on her phone like an open door she had promised herself not to walk through.
She knew, deep down, that the message wouldn’t really be for him. It would be for her.
She was the one who missed him. The one still clinging to the memory of what they had been, reaching for some small confirmation that she had not imagined it all. Some foolish part of her liked to imagine the reply. Something dramatic, something hopeful like:
Thank god you don’t hate me.
Please come back.
But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew exactly what it was. Wishful thinking dressed up as hope.
The night of the men’s individual final arrived like a storm gathering on the horizon.
On the television, the arena glowed in cold electric blue. The ice looked impossibly bright, smooth as glass beneath the lights, almost too perfect to trust.
One by one the skaters before him stepped onto it. And one by one, they fell.
Not all of them, but enough that a quiet dread began creeping into her chest. Jumps unraveled midair. Blades slipped where they shouldn’t have. Programs that were supposed to be clean and triumphant dissolved into messy recoveries.
She stared at the screen, frowning. Something had to be wrong.
Was the ice bad? Had someone messed up the temperature? Had some ridiculous accident happened, like soap somehow getting on the surface and turning it into a polished death trap?
Would soap even make it more death trapy than it already was?
Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe everyone was just terrified. The Olympics had a way of doing that to people.
She hugged her knees a little tighter on the couch, eyes fixed on the screen, clinging to a single stubborn hope.
Please not him.
Then Ilia stepped onto the ice. Even through the television she recognized it immediately, that quiet confidence in the way he carried himself. It always looked effortless from the outside, almost casual.
But she knew better. She knew the years behind it. The discipline. The relentless repetition. The mornings that started before sunrise and the falls no one ever saw. All of it lived in the way he pushed off and began to skate.
Her fingers curled into the sleeves of her sweater.
“C’mon,” she murmured softly, though there was no one in the room to hear it.
The program began beautifully. The first jump rose clean into the air, the rotation fast and effortless, the landing crisp. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
The second followed just as well.
For a moment it looked like the storm that had swallowed everyone else had simply passed him by.
But somewhere halfway through the program, something shifted.
It was subtle at first. The kind of thing only someone who had watched him hundreds of times would notice. A landing came down a little too sharp. Then another.
A slight hesitation where there was usually certainty.
And then a stumble she had never seen from him before, small but unmistakable, the kind that made her sit up straighter on the couch as her heart lurched in her chest.
By the time the music ended, the arena applauded. But the sound was polite, not the thunder it should have been.
When the scores appeared on the screen, her stomach sank so quickly it felt almost physical, like the floor beneath her had shifted.
Eighth.
The number sat there in bright, merciless digits while the commentators began their careful, professional explanations.
For a moment she simply stared.
Eighth in the world was extraordinary. Any other skater would have celebrated it. Any other athlete would have worn that placement like a badge of honor. But not him.
Not Ilia. Of course not.
Not after everything he had built, everything he had pushed the sport toward, every impossible expectation that now seemed to follow him wherever he stepped onto the ice.
The camera cut to the kiss-and-cry.
There he was, sitting under the harsh lights, shoulders relaxed, posture composed. And he smiled.
It was the same smile she had seen a hundred times before, the one he used in interviews when something hurt but he refused to show it. Polite. Controlled. Just convincing enough that people who didn’t know him well would believe it.
She knew that smile all too well.
Her chest tightened as if something inside it had been quietly pulled too tight.
Without thinking, she reached for her phone.
Then she stopped.
What would she even say? Hey, sorry you just lost the thing you’ve spent your entire life chasing. The thought sounded ridiculous the moment it formed.
She set the phone down on the coffee table.
Picked it up again.
Her thumb hovered over his contact anyway, as if it had a mind of its own.
Don’t.
She stood up suddenly and began pacing the small length of her apartment, restless energy pushing her from one wall to the other. The television continued murmuring behind her, the commentators already moving on to careful discussions about future competitions, future opportunities.
Future.
She sat back down.
Stood again almost immediately.
Her hands were sweaty.
Her mind filled with memories she hadn’t invited but couldn’t stop. Late night practices where the rink was nearly empty. His fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, white from the cold. The quiet certainty in his voice when he used to say, I just want to do it well. That’s all.
Finally she sat on the edge of the couch again and opened his contact. The screen glowed softly in the dim room.
“Okay,” she whispered to herself, as if permission had to be spoken out loud.
Her heart pounded as she went to press call but before her finger could reach the glass, her phone vibrated sharply in her hand.
Ilia calling.
She froze.
For a brief, strange moment she almost laughed.
Then she answered.
“Hey.”
Silence.
Not the empty kind. The breathing kind. The kind that trembled.
She closed her eyes.
He wasn’t speaking but she could hear it. The quiet, uneven breath of someone trying not to cry and failing.
Her voice softened.
“Hey… it’s okay.”
Still nothing, so she kept talking.
“I was watching,” she said gently. “Watched all of it. And listen to me, okay? That… it doesn’t erase anything. Not the years, not the work, not the way you owned the ice in every other competition that came before this.”
She heard him inhale sharply.
“I know it hurts right now,” she continued. “Of course it does. But you are still you. One competition doesn’t take that away.”
Silence.
But she could feel him listening.
“You’ve been carrying the weight of the whole world on your shoulders for months. Anyone would stumble under that.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“And hey,” she added softly, voice almost a whisper now, “I just wanna know if you’re okay.”
Another breath, shakier this time.
She kept going, words spilling out like something she’d been holding in for half a year.
“You’re allowed to be upset. You’re allowed to cry. But don’t you dare think this makes you any less extraordinary. It doesn’t.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“You’ve given so much to skating. To everyone watching… It was a fluke and nothing more…”
The silence stretched.
Then finally his voice. It sounded small and raw.
“Can I come over when I come back?”
Her breath caught. A long pause.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”
Another silence.
Then he murmured:
“I didn’t think you still cared.”
She looked out the window at the dark winter street but she didn’t answer.
❅
The knock came days later, just after sunset.
Just three careful taps against the wood, like whoever stood outside wasn’t entirely sure they were allowed to be there. She had known it was him before she even reached the handle. Still, her heart beat strangely as she opened it.
And there he was.
Ilia looked smaller than he ever had on television. Not physically, he was still taller than her, still broad-shouldered from years of training, but without the arena lights, without the cameras and roaring crowds, he looked almost… ordinary.
Human.
His hair was messy from what she guessed had been hours in a plane. His hoodie hung loose over his frame. There were faint shadows under his eyes she didn’t remember being there before.
For a second neither of them moved. Six months is a strange amount of time.
Long enough to build distance. Long enough to learn new habits. Long enough to imagine the other person becoming someone different.
Still, standing there in her doorway, Ilia still felt achingly familiar. His gaze searched her face like he was confirming she was real.
She noticed everything at once.
The redness of his eyes that told her he’d been crying, making them appear bluer than they were. The quiet vulnerability in them that he never showed anyone else. The way his fingers flexed when he was nervous. And suddenly the six months between them felt both enormous and completely nonexistent.
She didn’t even think, just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him and heard him exhale like someone who had been holding his breath for days. His arms came around her tightly, too tightly at first, like he was afraid she might disappear if he didn’t hold on.
His head dropped into the familiar place between her shoulder and neck. The weight of it there felt so natural it almost hurt. Her fingers found his hair without thinking, threading gently through the golden blond strands at the back of his head.
He shivered slightly at the touch.
For a moment they just stood there in the doorway, holding each other. Her heart beat steadily against his chest. His breath warmed the side of her neck.
She whispered softly, the words barely louder than the winter wind outside. “Of course I still care.”
The sentence felt simple. An answer to the last thing he had told her over the phone days ago, but the truth behind it stretched across years. Across early morning practices and midnight grocery runs and arguments about nothing and quiet Sundays on this very couch.
She pulled back slowly, just enough to look at him. Up close she could see the exhaustion more clearly now.
“You look terrible,” she said gently, hand finding his cheekbone and caressing it lightly.
He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Jet lag. Public humiliation. Emotional breakdown. You know.”
She snorted despite herself.
“Come on.” Her voice came out softer than she intended.
He followed her in.
Slowly.
The apartment still smelled the same. Faintly of vanilla, woven into everything in a way that didn’t scream in your face but became impossible to ignore once it settled in. It wasn’t just from one place either. It layered itself into the air, into the fabric of the couch, into the quiet stillness of the room, until it felt less like a scent and more like something structural, something that belonged there as much as the walls did.
She baked often and never casually. Everything she made carried that same signature, a little more vanilla than necessary, added with intention rather than habit. It wasn’t accidental. She knew exactly how much she was putting in, always pushing it just slightly past what the recipe called for. And it didn’t stop in the kitchen. Her shampoo carried it. Her soap. The perfume she picked out, the ones he had gifted her… Even the small, almost forgettable things, like the hand cream by the bed, followed the same pattern. Vanilla, again and again, consistent to the point where it stopped feeling like a preference and started to feel like a decision she had made about herself a long time ago.
And then there were the books.
They filled the space in a way that was hard to overlook. Shelves stretched across the walls, taking up more room than they probably should have, but giving something back in return. Character. Weight. A sense that the apartment hadn’t been arranged so much as it had grown into itself over time. The collection made no real sense from the outside. Old books with worn spines sat beside new ones that had barely been opened. Serious titles pressed up against light, almost forgettable reads. There was no visible system, no order that explained the way they were placed, but it never felt chaotic. It felt personal.
Together, it created something distinct. The sweetness of vanilla, the dryness of paper, the faint trace of dust that came from things being kept rather than replaced. It was warm without being overwhelming, familiar without being melancholic. It didn’t just smell like a place where someone lived. It smelled like her, in a way that made it impossible to separate the space from the person who occupied it.
He didn’t say anything, but his chest tightened.
Ilia stepped in slowly, like someone walking into a memory. His eyes moved over everything. The stained coffee table. The soft yellow lamp in the corner that was always on because she hated “the big light”.
The couch.
His gaze lingered there.
The couch sat exactly where it always had.
The same one he had spent hours on. Legs stretched out, ankle wrapped in ice, half-paying attention to whatever movie she had put on while she talked over half of it anyway. The same place where time had passed without either of them really noticing, where entire evenings blurred into something quiet and familiar.
He moved toward it without thinking. Sat down like his body remembered before he had the chance to question it.
The cushion dipped beneath him in the exact same way it always had, the fabric shifting slightly under his weight, settling around him like nothing had changed.
For a second, it almost felt like it hadn’t.
Then something pressed awkwardly into his back.
He paused, frowning slightly, reaching behind him until his fingers brushed against something soft.
Of course.
He pulled it out, glancing down at the small penguin plushie in his hand, its worn fabric and slightly uneven shape exactly as he remembered it.
“Sorry, Mr. Quackles,” he murmured, the words coming out automatically, because they had been said too many times to require thought.
He stood just long enough to place it on the armchair beside the couch, setting it there with the same absent care he always had, before sitting back down again.
Across the room, she hadn’t moved.
Still leaning against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed like she needed something to anchor herself in place.
She watched him.
Every movement. Every small, familiar action that should have meant nothing and somehow meant everything.
It took an absurd amount of effort not to cry right then and there.
Because it wasn’t just what he was doing, it was how easily he did it.
Like the last six months hadn’t existed. Like he hadn’t had to relearn anything. Like he hadn’t spent all that time somewhere else, building routines that didn’t include her, and then walked back in and slipped into this one without hesitation.
The memories came back all at once.
That first time she had brought him here.
They hadn’t made it past the couch. Everything had been too fast, too close, hands everywhere, laughter still caught between breaths as they stumbled into each other like they couldn’t quite believe this was actually happening.
He had reached behind her, barely thinking, grabbing the plushie to toss it out of the way so he could lay her down properly.
And she had stopped immediately.
“Hey!”
The word had cut through everything so sharply it almost didn’t fit the moment. He had blinked at her, completely thrown off, still too close, still trying to catch up.
“What?”
“That’s Mr. Quackles!” she said, like it should have been obvious, like he had just done something deeply offensive.
He had followed her gaze to the toy on the floor, then back to her, confusion written all over his face along with swollen lips and messy hair.
“The penguin?” he asked slowly. “His name is Mr. Quackles?”
“I was six and I thought it was a duck.”
There had been a pause.
“That’s poor recognition of birds. Even for a six-year-old.”
She hit him lightly on the arm, but with enough force to make her point.
And somehow neither of them had broken character. The conversation stayed completely serious, like this was a real issue that needed to be addressed before anything else could continue.
“Still, he lives here,” she had said, firm, like that alone settled it.
He had lifted his hands slightly in surrender.
“Understood.”
Then stood up, picked the plushie back up with exaggerated care, and placed it on the armchair beside the couch.
“Sorry, Mr. Quackles,” he had murmured, adding a small, unnecessary nod for emphasis.
Then turned back to her, like nothing had happened, reaching for her ankle and pulling gently until she was lying back fully against the cushions.
“Where were we?”
It had become a routine after that. Something small and seemingly insignificant.
Every time he sat on the couch, he would move the penguin first. Always the same way. Always with that same quiet apology.
She had laughed about it once, told him he didn’t actually have to do that every single time but he had just shrugged and kept doing it anyway like it mattered because she had said it mattered even if it was just once.
Even now.
Six months later.
Six months of distance, of silence, of learning how to exist without each other… And he still did it.
Without thinking, without hesitation. Like it had never stopped being true.
And that… That hurt.
Not sharply. Not in a way she could push away or get angry at. Just somewhere familiar, somewhere deep enough that it caught her off guard.
He looked up then, catching her staring at him.
“What?” he asked.
There was no defensiveness in it. Just a quiet kind of caution, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he had done this time, but was already preparing to adjust if he needed to.
She exhaled softly, her gaze dropping for a second before finding him again.
“You’re the only one who knows that name.”
Her voice came out quieter than she intended, the words carrying something lighter on the surface, but heavier underneath. A small smile followed, almost automatic, like it was there to soften what she hadn’t said.
His expression shifted. It was subtle but she saw it.
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly like he hadn’t bothered to fix it properly since getting off the plane, then let his gaze drift around the room again.
Taking it in.
Slower this time.
“It’s all the same…” he murmured.
There was something in the way he said it. Not surprise exactly. Not disappointment either. Just… something in between. Like he hadn’t been sure what he would find when he walked in, and now that he had, he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
A pause.
“Didn’t think I’d be back, you know?”
The words landed without force, but they lingered. They settled somewhere low in her chest, warm and heavy at the same time, blooming into something she couldn’t immediately name.
Because she had thought the same thing.
More than once.
More than she wanted to admit.
That whatever this was, whatever they had been, had already happened. That it belonged firmly in the past now, something finished whether they had properly ended it or not.
And yet here he was. Sitting on her couch. Apologizing to a stuffed penguin like nothing had changed.
She crossed her arms, shifting her weight slightly against the counter, using the movement to steady herself before the moment could deepen into something harder to manage.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said.
Light. Just enough edge to keep things from slipping somewhere too real too quickly.
He looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting almost immediately.
“Too late.”
When she finally pushed herself off the counter and walked over, it wasn’t abrupt. It was measured, like she was giving herself time to decide if this was a good idea even as she was already doing it.
She sat on the opposite end of the couch.
Not too close but not far enough to make it obvious.
Just… careful.
For a moment, neither of them acknowledged the distance. Then, almost at the same time, they started talking.
Slowly at first. Like they were both testing the ground, making sure it would hold.
Neutral things.
Safe things.
Travel delays. Long lines. The kind of exhaustion that came from airports and time zones rather than anything personal.
He talked about the Olympic Village, about how everything felt slightly off no matter how well it was organized. She just nodded, asked small questions, let him keep going.
Then the media.
He rolled his eyes a little at that, something more familiar slipping through as he spoke about the sheer number of interviews, the repetition, the way every answer started to sound the same after a while.
It was easy.
Too easy.
Like they had both silently agreed not to touch anything that mattered yet. At one point, he shifted slightly, leaning forward just enough as he got into the rhythm of a story.
“I walked into the wrong room,” he said, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “Everything looks the same there. Same hallways, same doors, same… everything.”
She huffed softly, already picturing it.
“And then this huge guy just stares at me and goes…” He straightened slightly, lowering his voice, exaggerating the tone. “‘You’re definitely not supposed to be here.’”
She made a face at him.
Subtle. Barely there. But enough for him to notice.
Something between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment, her nose scrunching just slightly, lips pressing together like she was holding back a comment she didn’t need to say out loud.
He stopped mid-sentence.
Just stopped and pointed at her.
“There.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“That face.”
Her expression shifted automatically, the previous one disappearing into something more defensive and neutral.
“What face?”
He didn’t answer right away just looked at her and then he smiled. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t push, didn’t try to make the moment bigger than it was.
“You’re the only one who does that face.”
There it was. That quiet, inconvenient reminder that no matter how much time had passed, there were still parts of her he knew without effort.
“Tragic,” she said, dry. “I should work on that. Clearly very embarrassing.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” he replied immediately. Then, quieter, like he was correcting himself mid-thought. “It’s just… very you.”
She looked away first, trying to break whatever that moment had been before it grew legs.
“Right,” she said, clearing her throat lightly. “Well. I’ll try to be less me...”
“Please don’t,” he said, too quickly again.
Shit, she thought.
The words came out before he could filter them, and for a second it hung there, a little too honest, a little too unguarded. He leaned back into the couch, like physically putting distance between himself and what he had just said.
She didn’t comment on it, just let it settle for a second before changing topics.
“So,” she said, shifting slightly as she pulled one leg up under her, turning more toward him as she reached for her phone. The movement felt casual, but there was still a layer of awareness underneath it, like she was choosing something normal on purpose. “Should we order something? I haven’t eaten since lunch…”
He looked at her immediately.
Not just a glance. A look. The kind of look she knew too well.
Her stomach dropped a little before he even said anything, because she could already see it forming in his head: the lecture. The one about consistency, about fueling properly, about how skipping meals wasn’t something she could afford, not with her schedule, not with the amount of hours she spent on her feet.
She met his gaze with a warning look before he could open his mouth.
Don’t. Not today. Not now. It’s what it said.
“What do you think about chinese?” she added quickly, almost too quickly, eyes dropping back to her phone like the decision had already been made and he was just catching up.
He didn’t answer right away.
And for a split second, she thought she hadn’t moved fast enough, that he was still going to say something…
“With the fried rice and the fried chicken?” He leaned back, letting his head fall against the couch with a dramatic exhale that turned into something dangerously close to a moan. “That place is the best.”
She huffed softly, a small smile pulling at her lips as she scrolled through the app, pretending to focus on the menu even though she already knew exactly where this was going.
“Yeah,” she said, quieter now. “Haven’t had it in a while.”
A while.
The words sat strangely in her chest because a while wasn’t just a while. It was six months. Six months of not ordering from that place. Six months of not thinking about it too much because thinking about it meant thinking about why she shouldn’t think about it.
It was their place.
She paused slightly, her thumb hovering over the screen.
It was their place because of that night.
The memory came back easily. Too easily. She winced faintly at it, the corner of her mouth lifting despite herself.
They had just come back from one of those events.
Not competitions. Worse.
The kind where no one was wearing skates and the only ice was the one keeping the alcohol cold. Everything looked polished and expensive and slightly uncomfortable. Everyone wore tuxedos and dresses that fit well, the people smiled too much and talked about things that didn’t actually matter.
He hated it. On this particular occasion he hated it more because he had been cranky before they even arrived.
Because he hadn’t eaten.
Because everything had been rushed so they could be there on time, and even then they weren’t.
Because by the time they got there, the only “food” available was tiny, carefully arranged things that barely counted as a bite.
Finger foods. He had looked at them like they were personally offensive.
“I’m not eating that,” he had muttered at one point, staring at something that probably cost more than an actual meal but looked like it would disappear if he breathed too hard near it. That small crease on the bridge of his nose, in between his browns, had settled permanently on his face from the annoyance.
So instead he drank.
A bit excessively, she might add.
By the time they got back to her apartment, she was half carrying him inside. He wasn’t heavy in a way she couldn’t manage, but he wasn’t helping either, his weight leaning into her as he mumbled into her shoulder.
Something about food.
Something about how good she smelled.
Something about wanting to go to bed.
It was all slightly incoherent, the words blending together in a way that made it very hard not to laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek the entire way inside. Failed to hold it in more than once.
She got him to the bedroom somehow, guiding him down onto the edge of the bed where he sat, swaying slightly like his balance hadn’t quite caught up with him yet.
She stood in front of him, reaching for his tie, fingers working it loose with practiced ease.
His eyes were barely open.
“I really, really want to eat something,” he said in a whine.
She smiled despite herself, tossing the tie onto the bed as she moved to the buttons of his shirt.
“I told you,” she said gently, her voice soft in a way that came automatically when he was like this. “I’ll make your oatmeal after you take a shower.”
His nose scrunched in immediate rejection.
“I don’t want oatmeal.” He said the word like it had stabbed him.
She paused, glancing at him, already preparing to suggest something else. Something still within his plan. Something reasonable.
“I don’t want protein bars,” he continued, his voice gaining just enough force to interrupt her before she even spoke. “Or fruit. Or bland chicken. Or those stupid rice crackers…”
He looked up at her, suddenly more focused, his face turning redder by the second.
“You know they’re not real crackers, right?”
She blinked.
“I… what?”
“They’re lying,” he said, completely serious. “There’s no way those count as crackers.”
She stared at him trying very hard not to laugh at his tantrum.
And then—
He sniffled.
Actually sniffled.
Her expression shifted immediately to worry.
“Ilia…”
“I’m so tired of following a stupid diet,” he said, and now there were tears in his eyes. Actual tears.
She froze, completely caught off guard.
Because this… this was new.
She had seen him in every kind of bad state before. Exhausted to the point of silence, frustrated to the point of snapping, hangry in a way that made him irrationally offended by everything around him. She had taken care of him through the flu, when he was dramatic and whiny and impossibly clingy. She had rubbed his back on nights he was so sore he claimed, with complete seriousness, that he was about to drop dead on the spot.
But this was different.
He had never cried over something small.
“I want fat,” he continued, his voice wobbling slightly now, his face getting red in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol anymore. “And greasy. And something drenched in oil. I want the kind of food people say will give you cancer…”
He looked at her, completely serious, completely devastated.
“Give me the cancer. I don’t care. I just want something that tastes good.”
And then he started crying. Actually crying. Over food.
Her brain stalled for a second, trying to process what was happening in front of her.
Because it was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
And at the same time… It wasn’t?
Not really.
Not when she thought about how controlled everything in his life was. How measured. How nothing was ever just… easy.
His hands found her waist, pulling her closer without hesitation, his face pressing into her just below her chest like he needed somewhere to put all of it.
She didn’t think, just held him because there wasn’t anything else to do.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, her hand moving to his hair, fingers threading through it gently. “It’s okay.”
He didn’t respond, just stayed there holding on to her like it was oxygen.
“We can eat something fat and greasy tomorrow,” she said softly, pulling back just enough to guide his face up so he would look at her.
His face was wet, his eyes glassy. He looked completely wrecked in a way she’d never seen before.
“It’s okay, baby,” she added, quieter now. “I’ll get you some water, okay?”
He nodded lightly. Still pouting slightly as she stepped away.
It took her less than three minutes. Three minutes to walk to the kitchen, fill a glass, and come back.
Three minutes.
In that time he had somehow unlocked his phone. Opened an app. And ordered what was, objectively, an unreasonable amount of food.
The first thing he saw with the word “fried” in front of it.
No hesitation.
No logic.
Just ordered it and passed out shortly after.
Fully. Didn’t even make it under the covers.
She had stood there for a second, glass in hand, staring at his unlocked phone in disbelief when the order notification came through.
Then looked at him.
Then back at the phone.
Then back at him.
“You’re unbelievable,” she had muttered, even as she pulled the blanket over him.
He didn’t move or react in any way. He was completely out.
Until the doorbell rang.
Then he came back to life instantly, like someone had flipped a switch.
One second completely out, the next pushing himself up from the bed with sudden, almost alarming purpose. It had the dramatic energy of one of those old movie scenes where a creature rises from the dead to unleash chaos—Dracula, the mummy, something ominous and unstoppable.
Except it was just Ilia.
Half-asleep, hair a mess, on a very urgent mission to collect what could only be described as enough fried rice to feed a family of seven.
And that had been it. That had been the start of their favorite place, of the story they told too many times, of something small and ridiculous that had somehow stuck and somehow made them closer.
And just like that, they were back there again.
Sitting on the carpet, food spread out across the coffee table in a way that was excessive and completely unnecessary, cartons open, plastic containers half-stacked, chopsticks abandoned and picked back up between bites. They kept talking over each other, interrupting, laughing at things that weren’t even that funny, the kind of laughter that came more from familiarity than from the actual joke.
Afterwards, they moved to the couch without really deciding to. Just drifted there the way they always had, settling into positions that made sense without needing to be discussed.
She was half laying down, one leg thrown loosely over his, back pressed to the armrest. His feet were propped up on the coffee table, one hand resting on her knee casually.
She cracked hers open first, the sound small but sharp in the quiet that had settled after the laughter.
“A thrilling time is in your immediate future,” she read, her voice light, almost amused. “Well… sure hope it is.”
She glanced up at him as she said it, something softer sitting just beneath the words.
He cracked his next. Unfolded the paper. Paused for a little longer than necessary.
“Your luck is only yours to lose.” He read it flatly, but there was something underneath it. Something quieter. He didn’t look at her when he said it, his gaze staying on the small strip of paper like it held more weight than it should have.
She inhaled slowly, pushing herself up from where she had been resting and moving closer to him without making it a big thing. Her hand found his arm, fingers curling lightly around it as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“It was never luck to begin with,” she murmured, her voice low enough that it barely carried beyond him. “I’m sorry…”
He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it, just slightly, his cheek brushing the top of her head.
“Yeah… I’m sorry too.” He said softly. “Can I tell you something bad?”
“You know you always can.”
Neither of them moved.
“I thought you’d hate me after I lost,” he admitted, the words coming out slower now, like he had held onto them longer than he wanted to. “You only ever saw me win.”
She didn’t even flinch at the words. It was something she had picked up on a few months into the relationship. Not in so many words, not like this, but in the way he carried things, in the way he deflected, in the way he pushed himself harder than anyone asked him to.
That quiet, persistent fear that what people loved about him wasn’t him, just what he could do.
“You could retire tomorrow,” she said, her voice steady, matter-of-fact in a way that left no room for interpretation. “Quit skating completely. Become a stamp collector or something equally as tragic like a museum tour guide...”
A small breath of a laugh escaped him at that.
“And it wouldn’t change how I feel about you.”
He shifted slightly.
“Feel?” he asked.
She lifted her head then, turning just enough to look at him properly.
“Well… yeah,” she said, a little quieter now. “Just because it’s over doesn’t mean everything goes to waste, right?”
She searched his face for a second before continuing.
“I’ll always be here for you. And I know you’ll always be here for me. Because we love each other and…” she exhaled softly, almost amused at how impossible it was to explain something that simple. “We love each other and there’s nowhere else to put it but here.”
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the room around them.
“At this couch. At this food. At Mr. Quackles.” She said it like it was obvious, like it made perfect sense.
There was a pause.
Then, she continued, quieter this time.
“Sometimes I think it would be easier if I hated you. If you had cheated or if I only cared about your rankings and medals… maybe then this would just… go away.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around his arm without her noticing.
He didn’t answer right away. She felt the shift before she saw it, the way his body went still under her hand, the way his breathing changed just slightly, like something had caught somewhere deeper than he expected.
Because there wasn’t an easy response to that.
There wasn’t a version of this where he could fix it with the right words.
His hand moved, almost absentmindedly, until it found hers where it rested against his arm. His fingers closed around it slowly, like the gesture didn’t need to be thought through, like it had always belonged there. The grip wasn’t tight, not urgent, but steady in a way that said more than anything else he had managed to put into words.
He wasn’t letting go.
“I love you too,” he murmured like it was an answer.
She smiled softly, holding his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something quiet and fragile passing between them before she let her head settle back against his shoulder. It felt easier there, safer somehow, tucked into the familiarity of him.
Part of her didn’t want to let go. Didn’t want to break the closeness they had slipped back into so effortlessly.
And the other part of her just didn’t want him to see the tear that slipped free, tracing silently down her cheek before she could stop it.
They didn’t say much after that. There wasn’t really anything left that needed to be said, not without making it heavier again, and neither of them seemed willing to do that. The quiet settled naturally, and it didn’t take long before sleep followed, drawn in by the familiarity of being close like that again.
It was sometime in the middle of the night when she woke up.
Cold.
A faint draft slipped through the room from the window that had been left slightly open, just enough to make her shiver as she blinked awake. For a moment, she didn’t move, still sleepy, until she became conscious of something else.
Their hands.
Still intertwined, resting on his lap exactly where they had fallen asleep.
She stared at them.
At the way his fingers still held hers, even now, even unconsciously.
And suddenly her mind was awake.
Too awake.
Thoughts came all at once, fast and loud in the quiet of the room. About tomorrow. About what this was. About how temporary it all felt if she let herself think about it too much.
About how much she didn’t want it to end.
About how much she didn’t want to lose him again.
Her chest tightened as she took a slow breath in.
Then another.
And before she could think it through any further, before she could stop herself, she made a decision.
A small one.
But not really.
She let go of his hand and shook him lightly, careful but enough to wake him.
“Ilia…”
Her voice came out soft, still thick with sleep as his eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first.
“Come on,” she murmured. “Let’s go to bed…”
He frowned slightly, still caught somewhere between asleep and awake.
“To bed?” he repeated, his voice rough, confused.
She let out a small breath that was almost a quiet laugh.
“Well… do you want to have a stiff neck tomorrow?” she said, her tone gentle, teasing in a way that softened the moment. “Your dad would kill me if you had to miss practice because of a stiff neck.”
That seemed to land somewhere in his half-asleep brain. He pushed himself up slowly, still not fully there, but already following her lead without question.
She stood first, then held out her hand and he took it immediately.
Of course he did.
And just like that, they moved down the short hallway. Into the bedroom he knew just as well as she did.
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask anything, didn’t pause to check if this was still allowed, if this still made sense. He just walked into the bedroom like he had done it a hundred times before, like his body remembered the way even if everything else had changed. When he reached the bed, he slipped into his side without thinking, settling into the same place he had always taken, as if that detail had remained untouched by the past six months.
She noticed immediately.
Not because it was surprising, but because it wasn’t. Because she hadn’t really used that side since. Not properly. Not without becoming aware of the empty space beside her, of the way the bed had felt too big in a way that didn’t quite make sense.
He turned onto his side almost as soon as he laid down, like sleep was already pulling him under again. His eyes closed, his breathing beginning to slow, and then his arm moved across the space between them. It was instinctive, the kind of movement that came from habit, from something his body hadn’t unlearned.
He was searching for her.
Even now. Even like this.
She watched it happen for a second, something in her chest tightening at how natural it still was, how easily he reached for her like there had never been a gap between then and now. And instead of stopping it, instead of pulling back or creating space the way she knew she probably should, she let it happen.
She let his hand find her.
Let him pull her closer until the distance between them disappeared, until she was back in the space that had once felt like hers without question. The familiarity of it settled over her quickly, too quickly, softening the edges of everything she had been holding onto all day.
There was no resistance left in her.
Not tonight.
“This okay?” he murmured, his voice quiet and unfocused, the words slipping out half asleep, barely formed as they pressed into the pillow.
His hand settled at her waist, warm and steady, grounding in a way that made it harder to think about anything else.
Her own hand moved over his, resting there, holding it in place like she needed to anchor herself to something real, something she could feel instead of overanalyze.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
And this time, there was no hesitation in it, no second-guessing or pulling back. Just a quiet, certain answer she allowed herself to give without questioning what it meant beyond that moment.
At 5h30 in the morning his biological clock did it’s thing. He woke up without an alarm.
No hesitation, no grogginess, just that immediate, practiced awareness that came from a life built around routine. For a second, he didn’t move, still caught in that quiet space between sleep and everything else.
The first thing he noticed was the smell.
Vanilla.
Soft. Familiar. Close.
He blinked slowly, and it took him a moment to realize why it felt so present, so immediate.
His face was buried in her hair.
The corner of his mouth lifted, a small, instinctive smile forming before he could stop it. It was warm. Easy. The kind of reaction that didn’t need to be thought through.
But it didn’t last.
The realization came just as quickly.
He had to leave.
It hit harder than he expected, sharper than it should have been for something so obvious. Of course he had to leave. Of course this wasn’t something he could just stay in. He had practice. He had a schedule. He had a life that didn’t pause just because last night had happened.
Still... he stayed there for a second longer. Just one. Then he moved carefully, slow enough not to wake her as he slipped out from under the covers.
She didn’t stir.
He stood there for a moment, looking down at her. She was sleeping deeply, her face softer than it had been at any point the night before, all the tension gone, like sleep had taken everything complicated and set it aside for a few hours.
Something in his chest tightened.
He let himself stand there longer than he should have.
Just looking like he was trying to memorize it.
Then he exhaled quietly and turned away before he could think too much about it.
He walked over to the desk by the window, the early morning light just starting to filter in, faint and pale. He picked up a pen, hesitating for half a second.
He could text her. It would have been easier. Faster.
But she had said it once - more than once, actually - how much she liked handwritten things. The novelty of them. The way they felt more intentional, more… real.
So he wrote.
Simple. Straightforward. No overthinking.
Early practice. Had to go.
Thank you for always being here.
And still caring.
Ilia
He stared at the note for a moment after finishing, pen still in his hand, like something else might come to him if he just gave it a second longer. Like there was a version of this where he could add the right sentence and make it clearer, make it easier, make it mean exactly what he felt without leaving anything open.
But there wasn’t.
Nothing he could add wouldn’t either complicate it or say too much. And somehow, saying too much felt worse than not saying enough.
So he let it be.
He folded the paper once, careful but not precise, and walked back toward the bed. The room was still quiet, the early light just beginning to touch the edges of things. He placed the note on the nightstand on her side, adjusting it slightly so it wouldn’t be missed, like that detail mattered more than it probably should.
Then he paused.
Just for a second.
Long enough to feel it again, that hesitation, that pull to stay, to undo the decision before it fully settled.
But he didn’t.
He leaned down instead, his movement slow and controlled, like he was trying not to disturb anything. His lips brushed softly against her forehead, the contact so light it barely counted as touch.
She didn’t wake. Didn’t shift. Didn’t react at all.
And for some reason, that made it harder.
He pulled back slowly, his gaze lingering on her for just a moment longer.
Then he straightened.
Turned around.
And left.
❅
She thought about him all day.
Not in a dramatic, all-consuming way at first. Just… constantly. Quietly threaded through everything she did, like her mind kept circling back before she could stop it.
While teaching, she caught herself losing track mid-sentence, having to repeat instructions because her thoughts had drifted somewhere else entirely. While grading papers, she reread the same paragraph three times without registering a single word. At some point she made tea, set it down by the window, and then forgot about it completely, standing there longer than necessary, staring outside without actually seeing anything.
Still thinking about him.
The apartment didn’t help. Every corner of it felt… occupied.
Not physically. Not in any way that made any real sense. But the memory of him was everywhere. In the couch where he had been laughing just hours before, in the kitchen where they had stood too close without acknowledging it, in the bedroom where the sheets still held the shape of where he had slept because she didn't have it in her hear to make the bed just yet. She wanted the evidence he was actually there.
That was the worst part.
Not the thoughts, they came and went, loud at times, quieter at others, something she could almost manage if she focused hard enough. It was the feeling that refused to fade. That faint, lingering awareness of where his hands had been, like her body hadn’t caught up with the fact that he wasn’t there anymore, like some part of her still expected him to be just within reach. Like she would turn around a corner and he would be there waiting.
It made everything else harder to ignore.
She picked up the note more times than she could count. Each time with the same small hesitation, like maybe this would be the moment it read differently, like something would shift if she looked at it long enough.
She read it.
Set it down.
Picked it up again.
There was a strange kind of hope in it, quiet and irrational, that there was something hidden between the lines, something she had missed the first time around. Some meaning tucked into the spaces, some indication that it wasn’t as simple as it looked.
But it was.
There was nothing else there.
No hidden message. No second layer.
Just a few straightforward words, written carefully and left behind.
Simple.
Too simple.
She checked her phone more times than she wanted to admit.
Unlocked it.
Locked it.
Opened messages that hadn’t changed.
Nothing.
No text.
No missed call.
No notification.
By the end of the afternoon, she started trying to make sense of it.
Not emotionally, not in the way that felt honest, but in a way that felt stable enough to stand on. Something she could hold onto without it shifting under her every few minutes. She began building a version of it that made sense, piece by piece, smoothing over the parts that didn’t fit.
Last night was just that. A night.
He had needed something familiar, something steady, someone who knew him outside of everything else that defined him. And she had been there. It didn’t have to mean more than that. It didn’t have to turn into something bigger just because it had felt that way in the moment.
That was all.
It didn’t change anything.
They were still over.
That hadn’t shifted just because they had spent a few hours slipping back into something that used to be easy. It didn’t undo the reasons they had ended. It didn’t erase the distance or the timing or everything that had made it impossible before.
A gentle goodbye.
That’s what she told herself it had been. Not something explosive or final in a way that shattered everything, but something quieter. Something that settled into place without breaking anything on the surface, even if it left something unresolved underneath.
There’s some good in goodbyes, she told herself.
There had to be.
She tried to move on with the day after that. Tried to follow through with the version of it she had decided on, like if she committed to it fully, it would eventually feel true.
She ate, or at least she tried to, even though everything tasted muted and distant. She put on a movie, letting it play in the background while she stared at the screen without following any of it, the dialogue passing by without meaning. At one point she called her mom, hoping for distraction, for something loud and engaging enough to pull her out of her own thoughts, but for once there was nothing. No story, no gossip, nothing that held her attention long enough to make a difference.
Everything felt flat.
Distant.
Like she was moving through the day instead of actually being in it.
So she kept herself busy. Or at least she tried to. She cleaned things that didn’t need cleaning, rearranged books that had already been arranged, opened and closed apps on her phone without doing anything meaningful with them. Small, repetitive actions that were supposed to fill the space but never quite did.
Because underneath all of it, there was one thing she couldn’t ignore.
He hadn’t reached out.
Not once.
No text. No call. Not even something small and insignificant that could have been brushed off as casual.
Nothing.
And it was starting to drive her insane.
Her mind filled in the silence quickly, faster than she could control, jumping from one possibility to another without stopping long enough to question any of them. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe it had meant nothing to him. Maybe it had meant too much and that was why he stayed quiet. Maybe he was already moving on. Maybe he had never really come back at all.
She could feel herself spiraling.
She knew she was.
And still, she couldn’t stop it.
So when the knock came at 10:12 p.m., it cut through everything.
It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It landed sharply against the quiet of the apartment, breaking through the spiral of her thoughts with a kind of precision that made her go still for a second. The noise didn’t just interrupt her, it pulled her out completely, like someone had reached in and shut something off mid-sentence.
For a brief moment, all she felt was relief.
Relief at being forced to stop thinking.
Relief at something external demanding her attention.
She stood there for a second, staring at the door, her mind trying to catch up to the present before her body did. Then she moved, almost automatically, crossing the small distance and reaching for the handle before she could overthink it.
She opened the door.
And there he was.
Again.
Ilia stood on the other side like he had been there all day, like he hadn’t just left that morning with a quiet note and no promise of anything else. He looked slightly out of breath, shoulders rising and falling just a little too quickly, like he had taken the stairs instead of the elevator and hadn’t quite recovered yet.
“Hey,” he said.
It was simple. Casual, even. Like this was normal, like showing up at her door twice in less than twenty four hours didn’t require explanation.
She blinked at him, still catching up.
“Hey?” she echoed, the word coming out uncertain, like she needed to say it just to confirm he was actually there.
Because he wasn’t supposed to be.
Not again.
Not like this.
He ran a hand through his hair, the movement restless, familiar in a way that made her breath catch slightly. He looked like he had been thinking too much, like whatever had brought him here hadn’t been a quick decision.
“I tried to go back to real life today,” he said.
She leaned slightly against the doorframe without realizing it, grounding herself in something solid as she watched him.
“And?”
He let out a breath, something close to a laugh but without any real humor behind it.
“And it sucked.”
That caught her off guard.
A small laugh slipped out before she could stop it, quieter than usual but still there.
“I'm listening,” she said.
He stepped a little closer then, not enough to crowd her, not enough to push, just enough to close the distance that had felt too deliberate since she opened the door. It changed the space between them in a way that made it harder to pretend this was casual.
“I thought losing the Olympics was the worst part of this year,” he said. His voice shifted as he spoke, the steadiness giving way to something more honest, something less controlled. “But breaking up with you felt actually worse.”
Her heart stuttered. Actually stuttered.
Like it had missed a beat and hadn’t quite found the rhythm again.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t interrupt.
Just stood there, watching him.
“I kept thinking about yesterday,” he continued, the words coming faster now, like he had already gone over this too many times in his head and didn’t want to lose the thread of it. “About how easy it was. About how nothing felt forced. About how it didn’t feel like something that was over.”
He swallowed. “I don’t want it to be a last night.”
She didn’t move.
It wasn’t a conscious decision, just instinct. Like any shift, any reaction, might disrupt something fragile that had just taken shape between them.
“So I was wondering…” he said, quieter now, the edge in his voice smoothing into something more careful.
“Yeah?” she asked, matching him without meaning to, her voice just as soft, like anything louder would be too much.
He looked at her then.
Not past her, not around her.
At her. Direct. Steady. Without the hesitation he had carried earlier.
“…if maybe we shouldn’t let it go yet.”
The silence that followed stretched between them, not empty, not awkward, but full in a way that made it impossible to ignore. It held everything that hadn’t been said, everything that had been avoided, everything that still hadn’t found a place to settle.
He let out a breath, then rushed slightly, like he needed to say the rest before he lost his nerve.
“I know I messed things up,” he said, the words coming out without hesitation, like he had already gone over them too many times to soften them now. “I made that decision for both of us. About schedules, about how it wouldn’t work. And I shouldn’t have.”
His hand dropped from his hair, his fingers flexing slightly at his side like he didn’t know where to put them, like he needed something to hold onto and couldn’t find it.
“I should’ve talked to you. Actually talked to you. Not just… decided.”
There was a small crack in his voice then, barely there, but enough that it shifted something in the space between them.
“Because all it took was one night,” he continued, quieter now, but steadier in a different way, like the certainty had settled in after everything else. “One night to realize I don’t want a version of my life where this… where you… aren’t in it.”
She felt it.
Every word.
Not loud, not overwhelming, but precise in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Each one landing exactly where it wasn’t supposed to, exactly where she had spent the entire day trying to build something solid enough to keep them out.
So he stood there in her doorway, like he had nowhere else to be, like this was the only place that made sense to him right now. Like this was the answer he had come to and there wasn’t another version of it waiting behind it.
“Do you think,” he asked, his voice quieter now, but steadier than before, “we can try again?”
AN: Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, you might also like my 6 part story To Someone From a Warm Climate. It has a similar vibe, just with a slower, more gradual start but stick with it, I promise it pays off. 💛
𝓸r ── .✦ you weren't in a good place as his friend; his mental state was never any stronger. jumping into a relationship would only make things worse, though neither of you chose to believe it. what was once soft, calming touches, late-night talks, and sweet glances turned to something that lacked it all. only physicality. and when the final constraint snapped, it all fell apart.
⟢ 𝓻achel: i got a request to write an ilia fic inspired by wicked game by chris isaak, and my heart, like, dropped. that song is so gut-wrenching and it literally haunts my tenth-grade self's dreams. that said, this shit is not for the weak </3 i'm like...sad now. but i have plenty more requests to complete that aren't heartbreaking! happy reading (update for anyone who cares: just saw this video of ilia to wicked game!)
── tags below the cut .ᐟ
𝓬ontent: implied sex, neither reader nor ilia are mentally stable, depictions of depressive states, overworking, hurt/no comfort, stale ending
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
it was never meant to work out; you were a two-hour drive away, tucked in the corner of the library at all hours of the night for school, and tied up at work almost every afternoon. yet even on the off-chance you even had free time, that was occupied, too, because all of it was reserved for him.
you don't remember when exactly your relationship's strength faltered. you and ilia had been together for two years, and you were both in dark places before you entered the relationship. ilia was still dealing with the heavy weight of not being sent to beijing. he'd been facing the pressure head-on since then, working himself to the bone just to prove himself good enough. you were there, silently, as a friend.
neither of you was in the headspace to maintain a relationship — you both knew that — but it didn't stop you from wishing, or from spending every passing second wondering. from staying awake late at night, even when you were hours away and meant to be focused on your studies, listening to ilia's soft voice tell you about his day through your phone's quiet speaker. you'd been going through the motions for months, and you both knew deep down that your feelings had always been shared, but in fear of destroying what already existed, you suppressed them.
it was december of 2023 when something changed; the air between you shifted irreversibly.
you'd been home for winter break, skating mindless laps around the rink with the newfound experience you'd gained from hours of joining him during practice sessions, just to spend time with him. he felt more at home on the ice than anywhere, yet at times, that very place was the parasite that had been slowly tearing him apart from the inside out.
you stressed the pressure that you'd been feeling in your own life, from the seemingly endless hours of studying at school, being away from everything you knew, even if it was only a two-hour drive. you knew going into the program that law wouldn't be easy. you'd fallen into a bad mental state at the end of your senior year of high school, after the messy breakup with your ex, your parents' divorce, and the creeping fear for the one person that mattered most to you; everything fell into a slow decline, and you couldn't handle it.
ilia had taken you a few blocks away afterward, buying a pair of small hot chocolates and walking on the sidewalk with his shoulder pressed against yours, cold air dusting red over his cheeks as he prompted you to speak. he listened silently, offering the easiness of his presence to you. and in that, he realized just how badly both of you had been suffering.
it started with a comforting kiss, meant to be nothing more than a sweet gesture to ease your nerves. and it was, until a one-time event turned into a handful, then became sporadic hour-long sessions, of soft touches and hands tangled in strands of hair, mouths working in slow tandem to unravel the stress knotting within your bodies.
with time, it became meaningful. you'd lace your fingers between his in public, he'd place a hand on your hip as he guided you around the rink when few others were near, and he'd whisper into your ear when you were alone, the sound of his smile wisping into the air in the gentle caress of his voice.
you never labeled what it was; it wasn't casual, it wasn't physical — it was everything. at times, the only aspect of your entwined lives that even felt like purpose. yet, you never spoke a word of it to anyone other than yourselves, locking its existence in your hearts and throwing away the key.
when you returned to school, life seemed a little easier. like a baby taking its first steps, you eased yourself into a balance, allotting time for work and ilia together and letting his presence be the positive influence it was meant to be. meanwhile, ilia spent most days at the rink. roman watched carefully, helping him through the ups and downs, supporting him endlessly at his competitions.
and by the day's end, you would be on the other end of the line, whispering soft praises into the microphone until his eyes would drift shut. as he slept, he could finally rest, even if just for a few hours. by the end of the next season, he'd won seven consecutive titles, and he intended to uphold that streak.
but that would only complicate things further.
schoolwork suddenly became heavier; you'd be awake until three or four in the morning, studying textbooks and writing papers, analyzing articles until your eyes could barely focus on the pages. your aid only handed out so much money, and with the new programs, books, and supplies you'd need, you had to apply for an off-campus job just to afford the schooling. you never told ilia, instead saying you "needed something to occupy you."
you didn't want to be a charity case for ilia or his family, so you kept it to yourself; let the days and nights blur into one, lose ten to fifteen hours of sleep a week to stay afloat. you hadn't heard from your father in months, as he'd moved away and found a job on the other side of the country, and your mother rarely had a word to say to you when she wasn't drowning herself in wine and guys from the bar.
ilia, on the other hand, pushed his body to its limits (and further). the voice in his head weighed on his shoulders, practically screaming at him to get his act together, or he'd miss his opportunity yet again. so he pushed, and he pushed, and he pushed, until the only thought left swirling around in his mind was improving.
but when the sun would set, and he'd sink into his bed, his knees aching from the relentless training, all he wished for was you. and when he'd pick up the phone, weakly dial your number, and listen to the steady ring emanate from the speaker, his stomach curled in. some nights, you didn't answer anymore. some nights, you did.
"ilia?" you'd asked one night, glasses perched at the tip of your nose as you sat in front of your laptop, books askew on the desk beside it.
"hi," he'd whispered back, voice weak with tiredness. you didn't have to ask to know he'd had a long day. you could hear it in the tone of his voice, sadness behind it that he probably tried to mask.
"hey," you replied, wearing a smile as you placed the phone onto the desk, fingers tactfully pressing the keys on your keyboard as you finished the sentence you'd been writing. "how was your day?"
"it was alright," he'd mumbled, turning onto his side. his necklace caught on his faded gray hoodie, the one he'd worn almost every time he saw you, your scent etched into the fabric. "are you working?"
"yeah…just cranking this assignment out. i might actually finish pretty early tonight."
"i don't want to bother you."
you pulled your inner cheek between your teeth, gnawing until a small shot of pain emitted. "you're not bothering me, ilia."
and that's how things became — short, dismissive, infrequent. casual.
even the little time you had left wasn't enough anymore. it couldn't eradicate the ache in your chest every time his name popped up on your phone, the loneliness that plagued your chest as you sat silently in bed, or for ilia, everything. the "golden boy" persona he'd somehow adapted just a few months before the milan olympics, the pressure that was beginning to build, like snowflakes falling onto grass, slowly covering every inch until finally, all that is seen is the white blanket.
the mask.
you'd finally returned in mid-december, greeting him at his door with a long, quiet hug. your arms had wrapped tightly around his neck, while his hands pressed into your lower back, his face buried in your shoulder. the wisp of wind fanned over your bodies, but neither of you moved, too afraid of shattering the one moment both of you desperately needed.
his breath shook against your skin. you pulled him closer, mumbling a soft apology into his shirt as your lips pressed a kiss to his chest, then his shoulder, then the underside of his jaw as you rose to your toes.
his eyes were unfamiliar when their gaze landed on your face. he leaned down, and you'd met him halfway, mouths colliding desperately while his arms kept you close.
you'd fallen into bed with him minutes later, the door snugly shut behind you as he peeled his t-shirt off and tossed it away. his hands roamed your body, refamiliarizing himself with every last inch that he fought so hard not forget with every passing day.
"i need you," he'd murmured into your exposed collarbone, the tips of his freshly-bleached hair brushing the skin around it. "please."
your compliance was voluntary because you needed it, too. amidst the overwhelming stress, the late nights, and the complete lack of control over your own life, the one thing you could always fall back on was ilia. he would always be there to absorb the weight, despite his own struggles poisoning every last thought in his head.
tangled up in the sheets, mouths devouring one another, fingers laced together with white knuckles, the worries finally released from your bodies and evaporated into the warm air. for the first time in months, your only thought was ilia; not work, not cramming, not the notion of giving up. just the person you loved, above you, all around you, consuming you with his presence until there was nothing left.
yet, something unidentifiable still sat in the deepest crevice of ilia's head; something lodged so deep that even you couldn't evict it.
as he held you in his arms, stroking your hair gently while his thumb rubbed patterns into your waist, ilia stared blankly at the wall beside him. the medals, the plaques, and the posters stared back at him like a threat.
it won't work, they screamed at him. you don't have time for her.
that thought bloomed eerily in his stomach, creeping up to his heart as every day passed.
the strain on your mind and body had become so strong that you opted out of skating with him, instead leaning over the boards to watch. you'd study every jump and sequence, the little intricacies sprinkled into his programs and practices that only you might notice. but you also watched every fall, every step out, and every disappointed shake of his head as he regained himself.
the look had returned; it was unmistakable. ilia was trapped in his head again, and as you stood by — the edge of the boards suddenly feeling as if they were bruising your forearms — you realized that this wasn't enough.
you weren't enough.
perhaps, that was when the first crack finally surfaced in your relationship. when both of you had finally come to terms with the terrifying fact that you were still far too fractured for any of this. that all the last two years had done was put a band-aid on a bullet wound.
yet, you kept trying, and your relationship slowly became a routine. you'd spend a small portion of the day with him, find something mundane to occupy yourselves with, and you'd inevitably end up in his bed. every single time.
eat a meal; fuck. watch an episode of a show; fuck. go for a walk like you used to; fuck.
by the time you had to return to campus, you realized that you and ilia had barely even talked, save for the occasional words spoken between rounds, when your minds were too foggy to address anything of substance. it was all transactional; a means to no visible end that left your lives stagnant.
and as you wrapped your arms around him, parting with a kiss that seared against your lips like punishment, an ache throbbed in your chest that you hadn't felt in years.
the only stable aspect of the relationship was sex.
and god, that stung.
you drowned yourself in your studies the moment your foot stepped on campus grounds again, as if you'd never left, only worse. with the pressure weighing down on your chest, you felt like you couldn't breathe. february approached with malice, and you'd barely had time to settle back into the torturous routine before the single worst month could begin.
ilia was everywhere; on your social media feeds, on television stations across campus, in the local fast food joint with a coca-cola promotion. but worse, he had a residency in your head that you didn't want to pay for.
you should have been there, plain and simple. you should have made time for it, after years of watching him abuse himself over and over for this very moment. you were the one person he needed, rather than wanted, and instead, you let fear crush any semblance of hope left in your body and decided to overload your own life. you used it as an excuse, yet you'd been orchestrating it the whole time.
as you watched the broadcast on your phone's small screen, condensation dripping down the glass of water and landing on your hand, a smile perked at the corner of your mouth. ilia was doing well — really, really well — and you'd convinced yourself the reason was that you weren't there to burden him, to bring him down.
but it faltered fast, for you couldn't be so naïve.
the individual free skate was the final nail in the coffin. you saw the look flash on his face before he could even take his starting pose; you'd studied every inch of his face, every small indicator of his thoughts, for years, until you knew him better than you knew yourself.
every mistake the relationship housed manifested on the ice, and you were both to blame. someone should have spoken up, rather than letting the fire burn beneath you until it all eventually boiled over; the denial, the constant suppression, and the deflection through sex. over time, you'd hollowed yourselves out. it was the exact outcome you'd feared all along, and in thinking you could somehow reverse it, you'd only made it worse.
so much worse.
you slammed your laptop shut, letting the noise echo off the library's walls. the librarian hushed you, but you didn't bother to listen, haphazardly shoving everything into your bag, yanking the zipper closed, and slamming the door behind you. tears brimmed in your eyes, but you tried to will them away, unwilling to let them affect you in front of everyone.
not a soul on the entire campus knew that you even knew ilia; that fact alone should have been enough.
your heart weighed heavily in your chest as you gathered a pile of clothes and stuffed them into a duffel. tears burned your cheeks when you finally allowed them to fall, and they blurred your vision, but you didn't care anymore, anxiously packing as much as you could fit until the bag was full, swinging it over your shoulder as you ran out the door.
"fuck," you cried angrily to no one, the car's interior muffling the noise so you were the only one to hear it, to suffer as you drove back.
the sight of ilia's broken face had been scorched into your vision. and you were blaming yourself for it.
you couldn't return to your house, where your mother would be — or maybe, wouldn't be — and you'd be trapped with your own thoughts until you inevitably snapped. so you went to the only place you knew you could survive, at least for a week or two, until you would see him.
you broke down in tatiana's arms, sobbing into her shoulder as you whispered "it's not gonna work" over and over, until your voice tore in half and shattered in your throat.
she let you stay as long as you needed, making up the guest bedroom with fresh sheets and blankets to keep you comfortable. she ushered you inside to settle in, shutting the door behind her as you dropped your bag on the mattress and let out a deep sigh. you padded into the bathroom to wash your face, let the steam rise and seep into your skin, and inhaled a deep, long-overdue breath that settled in your lungs.
you didn't know what to make of the person staring back at you through the mirror; you didn't recognize her. her hair was tousled, her skin sported dark circles, and she wore a tired expression that transcended her features. the girl you were before any of this was gone, and she'd been replaced by a shell, who worked herself tirelessly until she had nothing left to give, and who pushed the one person away that ever made her feel safe.
but most importantly, the girl looking back at you never should have fallen in love with ilia; that's what twisted the knife in your heart.
you pulled on the gray sweatshirt you'd swiped from him (though he never protested it), letting the soft fabric embrace your figure as you stepped out of the bathroom and flicked the light off. your feet carried you quietly through the hallway, past the guest bedroom, until you were planted in front of ilia's door. you swallowed, bringing a palm to the cold surface, and nudged it open.
not an item had been moved out of place since you'd last seen it. his jacket was still slung across the back of his chair, the sheets were untucked at the foot adjacent to the wall, and your half-empty bottle of perfume still sat atop his nightstand, though the cap was visibly loosened.
you smoothed a hand over the mattress and sat on the edge, turning sideways and carefully lowering your head onto his pillow as you pulled your legs to your chest. your eyes scanned the room, filled with familiarity and a darkness that blanketed over his belongings.
the medals hung neatly on the wall closest to you, alongside the poster someone had made for him. his name was spelled in shiny gold lettering above his closet, where the left door had been left a quarter of the way open. his desk was tidy, but it was lived in — a chip in the wood that you remembered him trying to fix with a paint marker that wasn't even the proper color.
and front and center — like a painful reminder — was a photo of you, perched beside the bottle on his nightstand. it had been taken a few nights after he kissed you for the first time. you looked happy.
tears stung in your eyes, and you let them run down your face, hot and punishing as the skin turned red in their wake. the pillow smelled like him: warm, sweet, a hint of coconut that you'd grown to recognize in nearly an instant.
you stayed like that until your eyes drifted shut, and your body quietly cried itself to sleep.
the following week was dull. your phone would buzz in your pocket, an occasional email from a professor, your friend who hadn't even noticed your disappearance until thursday. or ilia.
a tentative text that you never returned; a photo of him with snoop dogg (whom he'd been ecstatic to meet); a missed call just before his gala performance. a voicemail.
"hey. i'm about to go on. i knew you wouldn't answer, but i just…needed to hear your voice. even if it was just from that recording."
"i miss you. i'm sorry."
you watched the program with red-rimmed eyes, the phone heavy in your palm as you tried to keep from loosening the vice grip that was digging a mark into the side of your finger. it was a routine you didn't recognize. because you hadn't been there.
you couldn't even cry. the tears wouldn't fall. you stared at the screen with nothing behind your eyes and a hollowness in your chest, curled up on ilia's bed, though it offered no comfort to your trembling body. he showed every struggle, every thought, every last ounce of pressure he received from the world to be everything; you knew, and you weren't there for him through any of it.
instead, you'd pull him into the very bed you were shamefully sitting on to "talk."
you were on the edge of his bed, clean sweatshirt slung over your shoulders, fingers gently brushing miu miu's cream fur, when the front door creaked open. the cat jumped from her place in your lap and strutted out of ilia's bedroom, toward the noise coming from the bottom of the stairs.
the sun had set hours before, darkness clouding ilia's room, save for the dim lamplight illuminating from his nightstand. your heart lurched in your chest, and you carefully rose to your feet. your ears followed the sound downstairs: a door closing, the refrigerator pouring water, tatiana's voice a low hum as she greeted her son at the foot of the stairs.
footsteps quietly padded up the staircase and entered the hallway. you smoothed your palms over your thighs and let the heat from your fingertips linger. you felt your pulse in your chest, your fingers, your head; everywhere.
the blond tips of his hair came into view first, followed by his face, exhaustion lacing his features as if it had been brewing for years, and maybe it had.
the moment his eyes caught you, the bag on his shoulder dropped to the floor, and his arms were around your waist, pulling you against him until you could barely breathe. his body melted into yours, and his lips parted with a sigh that caught in the back of his throat. you couldn't stand the way his hand shook on your back, his breathing unsteady in your ear.
"we can't keep doing this, ilia," you'd whispered, an ache registering in your stomach when he pulled back, still holding onto you like a lifeline.
"what?" his voice small, fraying around the edges.
"us," you confirmed quietly. his eyes shifted into staleness, brows twitching just barely enough for you to catch it. you swallowed, skating your palm up until it landed softly on his shoulder. "the back and forth. this game we're playing, ilia…it's not fair to either of us."
a tear sprang to the corner of his eye; it cascaded down his cheek, catching on his jaw. your thumb lifted to brush the drop away, and ilia's eyes closed as he fought to stay composed. he could hardly speak, but he forced the words out of his mouth.
"i'm sorry," he whispered. "i should have been better for you."
"it wasn't you, ilia," you reassured him, shaking your head as your palm gently pressed into his cheek and coaxed him to lean into your touch. "it was never going to work. we both knew that, right? and we tried…but it didn't."
"yeah."
"some things other people can't fix," you swallowed as his fingers squeezed the fabric of your hoodie. "i can't keep being the reason you torture yourself, ilia. i can't watch you tear yourself in half knowing there's nothing i can do about it, because i'm broken, too."
ilia nodded and loosened his grip. "i know."
you inched closer, tilting your head up to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. his fingers flexed at your back, and he lifted a hand to your face, brushing your hair away from it. he returned the kiss carefully, as if it could somehow solve everything, and he relaxed under your touch for the last time, savoring every last second.
he looked down at you with bloodshot eyes as he removed his hands from your body and placed them back at his sides.
"i love you."
tears finally welled in your eyes, and your throat began to constrict as you nodded softly. "i know," you whispered back with a sad smile that burned itself into his vision.
you couldn't bring yourself to say it back; it would hurt too much.
ilia felt you brush past him and walk out the door, but his gaze remained fixed on the opposite side of the room. on the nightstand, your photo, the half-empty bottle. he knew that being with you wouldn't have fixed things, not permanently. and he knew that you were both foolish to ever believe that it would, even if it once felt like it had.
but it didn't stop ilia from wondering if any of this was worth it.
summary: Ilia Malinin is a referee’s worst nightmare: charming when it serves him, but cocky and impulsive the moment things don't go his way. It’s impossible not to harbor a prejudice against a player like him—especially when you’re assigned to official his high-stakes away match. But in the heat of the moment, things get a little too intense on the pitch... and the fury might just continue off it.
word count: 5,5k
author’s note: and the surprise fic drop! with world cup around, I had to do this.. english is not my first language, so I hope you keep that in mind! any feedback, questions, writing tips, and criticism will be greatly appreciated! this one-shot contains sexual content, MDNI!
It comes almost the moment you slip into the soft sheets and your head hits the pillow—dreams sometimes pleasant, sometimes scary, sometimes nonexistent, but nevertheless, it comes. It is entirely unlike you to be tossing and turning in your sheets at 3 AM, unable to find a comfortable position, especially when you have a match to referee tomorrow.
It wasn't even supposed to happen. You were called up as an assistant referee for the Chelsea vs. Manchester United game. But the evening before the match, right after you had checked into the hotel and gone down to the restaurant to enjoy a late dinner with your colleagues, the main referee left the table early. A few hours later, he was admitted to the hospital, the exact reason remaining slightly unclear to you.
Maybe they thought you deserved a shot. Maybe they wanted to make headlines with the unusual choice of giving a young female referee a high-stakes Premier League game. Or maybe they just didn't have another option. Whatever the reasons, they chose you to referee the match, leaving a heavy mixture of both excitement and terror settled deep in your chest.
You've refereed hundreds of matches before, having received your certificate when you were still a teenager, but this occasion is completely different. It's almost the end of the season, and both teams are ruthlessly fighting for the final points needed to secure a top-four spot for the Champions League. The tension is almost visible in the damp London air. Your mind races with every possible scenario the match could take, weighing every decision and opportunity.
Somewhere in the middle of those thoughts, you finally fall asleep. But your mind never truly lets you rest, forcing you to blow your whistle in a dream while a crowd of angry players swarms around you, suffocating you in the dark.
"Are you nervous?"
"No," you lie, giving Oscar a tight smile. He nudges your shoulder in encouragement, his smile warm and bright, completely unlike yours.
Both teams line up behind you in parallel rows. Some of the players are whispering, but most are dead silent, bouncing on their toes, nervously shifting, and breathing annoyingly loudly in the confined space. Your grip tightens on the match ball, your palms uncharacteristically sweaty.
Then, it's time. You lead the march out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, flanked by your assistant referees, with both teams trailing behind you as the stadium erupts into a deafening roar. Everyone lines up facing the main grandstand while the Premier League anthem plays over the loudspeakers, the television cameras gliding past to capture their focused faces one by one. You fight to keep your cool, keeping your chin up and maintaining a professional posture as the away team begins to walk down the line for the fair play handshakes.
You offer polite, tight nods to the passing players, but the moment his hand touches yours, a sudden jolt runs through you. The atmospheric pressure in the stadium seems to shift. He takes a second longer than the others, his grip lingering just enough to be intentional, his calloused palm warm against your skin. He looks at you with an intense, unreadable expression, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours as the corner of his mouth lifts into a subtle, knowing smirk. It's a look that says he knows exactly who you are—and that he knows you weren't supposed to be holding the whistle today.
Ilia Malinin is the type of player who commands equal parts adoration and hatred. Fans love him for his aggressive style and exceptional, game-changing skills; rivals hate him for the exact same reasons. To match officials, he is an absolute nightmare. He is a player who always demands to get his way, entirely unaccustomed to being told "no." Whether he's attempting to charm his way out of a yellow card with a flashy smile or running a big mouth to fiercely defend a dive, he is constantly pushing boundaries, testing patience, and trying to provoke a reaction out of everyone around him. You had spent the entire night mentally preparing yourself for his inevitable whining, theatrics, and pretenses, repeatedly reminding yourself not to let him get under your skin.
His arrogant persona seems to grow more formidable every year, and it certainly doesn't help that he has the looks to match. He is undeniably attractive, a fact the media loves to exploit. His blonde hair and blue eyes give him an almost ethereal appearance when he jogs across the pitch, damp strands sticking to his forehead, his expression perpetually cocky and his lips parted as he breathes heavily. He carries himself like he owns the stadium, and you can already feel the exhausting weight of having to keep him in line for the next ninety minutes.
You forcefully push the thoughts away, stepping into the center circle and calling over the two captains, Bruno Fernandes and Reece James. You briefly introduce yourself and flip the coin, the two men staring each other down with intense focus. Bruno wins the toss, choosing which side of the pitch United wants to defend first.
With the formalities concluded, your assistants sprint to their respective touchlines, and the Fourth Official heads toward the benches. Standing alone in the dead center of the pitch, you check your watch one last time, glance up to ensure the broadcasters are ready, and raise the whistle to your lips.
You blow a sharp, loud blast. The game has started.
For the first twenty minutes, the match is a tactical chess game. You run diagonal sprints across the pitch, positioning yourself close enough to see the ball but far enough to stay out of their lanes. Every few seconds, you glance at your assistant on the touchline, ensuring your positioning stays synchronized.
Then, the first real test comes.
The match is barely fifteen minutes in when a Chelsea midfielder and one of Ilia's teammates collide heavily while chasing a ball. To the stadium, it looks like a simple crash, but from your angle, you see the United player pull down the Chelsea midfielder by his jersey.
You blow a sharp blast on your whistle, pointing the other way to award Chelsea a free kick.
The home crowd cheers, but the decision doesn't please everyone. From the corner of your eye, you see someone jogging over to you, catching the flash of his blonde hair when he gets close. His breath is even, a frustratingly calm smile playing on his face.
He stops right in your space, the faint scent of his perfume lingering around you. A few damp strands of blonde hair stick to his forehead, his blue eyes gleaming with pure amusement as he looks at you.
"Ref, come on," he says, his voice smooth, almost innocent. "They just ran into each other. There's no way that's a foul on us."
"Martínez grabbed the jersey, Malinin. It's a foul. Move back," you respond, keeping your voice flat and professional as you try to walk past him to position yourself for the free kick.
He lets out a soft, almost mocking chuckle, effortlessly jogging backward right alongside you so you can't ignore him. You have a feeling he won't leave you alone. "A jersey tug? Really?"
"Are you questioning my decision, Malinin?" you ask, stopping dead in your tracks.
"Me?" he chuckles, flashing you his white teeth. A sharp spike of irritation hits your chest. His overly familiar, casual attitude is maddening. "Never—"
"Drop the commentary and get back into position before I give you a yellow card," you cut him off, giving him a warning look, your tone matching the expression. "Now."
He raises his hands in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth twitching into an arrogant smirk. He holds your gaze for an extra second, clearly thrilled that he managed to get a reaction out of you, before finally turning around to chase the play.
The match is intense, but you can already feel the underlying pressure that always carries a quiet dread—the fear that the moment a tough call goes against them, the players will stop seeing you as a professional official and start seeing you as a woman they can intimidate.
A few minutes later, a heavy tackle in the midfield breaks the play. A Chelsea defender, known for his aggressive attitude, storms up to you when you don't pull out a yellow card for United.
"Are you even watching the same game?" he spits, waving his hand aggressively right in front of your face. "Come on, open your eyes. This isn't a charity match, love."
The word love hits you like a slap. Your blood runs cold, a familiar spike of rage tightening your chest. He would never say that to a male referee. He's trying to diminish your authority, trying to make you feel small. Before you can even open your mouth to flash a yellow card for the blatant disrespect, a shadow falls over both of you.
It's Ilia, somehow always managing to be in your space every time the game stops for a reason.
Ilia steps right into the space between you and the Chelsea defender, his frame completely blocking him from you. He doesn't look angry; instead, that familiar, irritatingly calm smirk is plastered across his face.
"What did you just call her?" Ilia asks, his voice dangerously smooth as he pokes a firm finger directly into the defender's chest.
"Get lost, blondie, this has nothing to do with—"
"I think it does," Ilia cuts him off, poking him again, harder this time, deliberately trying to provoke him. "You're crying about a tackle because you're too slow to keep up with it. Are you getting outpaced? Is that why you're throwing a tantrum like a child?"
The defender’s face flushes with fury as he steps up to Ilia, shoving him back. Before the confrontation can spiral into a full physical fight, teammates from both sides instantly swarm the area. A couple of Chelsea players quickly grab their defender by the jersey, pulling him back as he keeps shouting, while Fernandes and Mount haul Ilia away by his shoulders, forcing him out of the huddle.
You stride over to the Chelsea player who is still being held back by his teammates and flash a yellow card directly into his face. Once he's dealt with, you turn your sharp gaze onto Ilia, who is leaning back against a restraining arm, entirely unfazed.
"Go back to your position, Malinin."
"Yes, ma'am."
He catches your eye for a brief second as if to say you're welcome, before finally shaking off his teammate to jog back into position. Your chest heaves as you watch him go, a knot forming in your stomach that you desperately ignore.
The second half is barely five minutes old when the stadium erupts.
A teammate passes the ball perfectly across the grass, cutting right through the Chelsea defense. Ilia sprints out of nowhere, catching the ball on the run. His leg whips through the air, and the ball slams directly into the back of the net.
It's a goal.
The stadium goes wild. Ilia turns around, sliding on his knees across the grass, his arms wide open as his teammates crash into him to celebrate. The arrogant expression dances on his face, his smile wide and impossible.
You don't react yet. Through your earpiece, your assistant’s voice is sharp and immediate: "He started running too early. He was offside. Call it off."
You don't hesitate. You blow a loud blast on your whistle and wave your arms across your body. The goal is canceled.
The roar of celebration instantly shifts into a wave of furious boos from the Manchester United fans. Within seconds, a sea of red jerseys swarms you. Five, six, seven players surround you in a tight circle, waving their hands and yelling over one another, a mixture of desperation and disbelief on their faces as they try to get you to change your mind.
You stand strong on your ground, refusing to let them crowd you, using sharp hand gestures to push them away from your space. You're yelling at them to back off, and then Ilia finally breaks through the crowd. He is breathing heavily from the sprint, damp blonde strands of hair sticking to his forehead, but he doesn't join the screaming. Instead, he blocks out the rest of the circle, extending his hand to touch your shoulder in a way that's supposed to convince you of his reasoning—but you back off, not letting him touch you. The smooth, playful charm he had earlier is starting to crack under pure frustration.
"Ref, come on," he says, his voice breathless, irritation seeping into it. He stops less than a foot away, his chest heaving. "I timed that perfectly. I was right in line with the defender!"
"You were past the defense before the pass was made," you respond, keeping your voice flat and professional, refusing to waver under his intense stare. "It was offside."
"You've got to be kidding me!"
His voice turns deeply frustrated, but you don't answer him, waiting for the VAR booth to review the footage. He stays right at your elbow, running his mouth, completely unable to let it go. He is convinced of his own reasoning and desperate for the video to prove him right.
"You'll see it on the replay, ref, seriously," Ilia says, his voice low but urgent as he tracks your steps. "The left-back played me on. It was a perfect play. Tell them to look at the frame where the ball is kicked."
"Malinin, stand back and let them do the check," you warn, keeping your eyes away from him, focusing entirely on the audio in your ear.
Finally, the voice in your earpiece speaks: "Confirming the on-field decision. The attacker's shoulder was offside. No goal."
You drop your hand from your ear and blow a sharp whistle, waving your arms across your body to officially disallow the goal.
"The decision stands. Offside," you declare.
The news hits him like a physical blow. His frustration boils over, his eyebrows drawing together, his blue eyes turning almost dark as he refuses to accept it. "No way! That's impossible!" he snaps, shaking his head in disbelief and stepping right back into your space. "Is this a joke?! You guys are literally throwing our momentum away on a bad guess!"
"The check is complete, Ilia," you say, his name slipping past your lips before you can stop it. You can't help but match the rising volume of his voice. "There are professional officials in the booth reviewing every single angle with millimeter accuracy. It's not a guess, it's a fact. Now move."
"That's bullshit!"
"Watch your mouth!" you fire back instantly, your voice sharp and cutting.
Before the confrontation can boil over any further, Fernandes quickly steps between the two of you. He puts a heavy, firm hand on Ilia’s chest, pushing him a couple of steps back. He turns to you with his hands raised, his voice almost apologetic. "Sorry, ref. He’s just frustrated."
"Keep your players under control."
"Yes."
You turn on your heel, walking away toward the center circle to let Chelsea take their free kick, but Ilia isn't done. Even with his captain right in front of him, he just can't leave it alone. Behind your back, his voice carries clearly over the stadium noise, laced with bitterness.
"Unbelievable," Ilia mutters loudly to his teammate, spitting out the next words. "Ruining the whole match because they don't know how to do their fucking job. It’s an absolute joke."
You stop dead in your tracks, the anger boiling within you. You don't even turn around first; your hand goes straight to your breast pocket, your fingers locking onto the smooth plastic. You whip out the yellow card, striding right past the captain and flashing it directly in Ilia's face.
The captain lets out a heavy sigh, throwing his hands up, but Ilia stops dead. His eyes snap to the yellow card. For a split second, the anger in his face freezes, and then a sarcastic chuckle escapes his lips. He shakes his head, looking down at the grass and then back up at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he expected it.
"Play restarts with a free kick for Chelsea," you say, your voice completely unyielding. "Get back to your position."
He shakes his head once again, the bitter amusement gleaming in his blue eyes, before he finally turns around to jog away.
You ignore the boos coming from the United stands, feeling the anger radiating from you at his foolish confidence. What gives him the right to think he knows better than professionals with years of expertise in such things?
The game resumes, more intense than ever as both teams struggle to score. Throughout the remaining match you catch him throwing you looks, his stare almost burning your skin.
Then it happens for the third time.
They are pulling and shoving for position as they chase a long ball. Ilia wins the positioning, but the Chelsea defender lunges, and both of them crash violently into the turf.
It happens right in front of you. You blow your whistle, but instead of pointing toward the Chelsea goal for a United free kick, you point the other way. You've called the foul against Ilia for pulling the defender down first.
Ilia scrambles up from the grass, his face completely flushed, sweat pouring down his skin, his breathing ragged. He storms directly into your space, his expression dark as he loses his composure entirely.
"Are you fucking blind?!"
"Mind your language!"
He almost screams right in your face, his raw rage drawing out the roar of the stadium. "He pulled me down! He was holding my shirt the entire run!"
"You grabbed his shoulder first! Back up right now!" you yell back, matching his volume, your own adrenaline spiking as you refuse to let him intimidate you.
"That's a lie and you know it!" He steps even closer, his hot breath fanning against your face. "You’ve been looking for an excuse to ruin this game for us all night! You're incompetent!"
"I'm incompetent?!" You finally lose your cool, the professionalism you learned to carry yourself with vanishing completely under his intense stare. "You keep whining about the whole match instead of actually doing your job on the pitch!"
"Oh, like you do yours?!" he lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head like he can't believe it. "You sure you're here refereeing like you're supposed to?! You're just favoring them over us for the whole match!"
"Back off right now! I'm warning you for the last time!"
"I won't back off! It's a pathetic call and a pathetic—"
You don't let him finish. In one sharp, explosive motion, you rip the straight red card from your back pocket and thrust it high into the air, right between his eyes.
"Get off the pitch! You're done!" you shout, your voice ringing with unyielding authority.
Ilia stops instantly, his sentence cut short. He stares at the red card, his chest heaving up and down. For a second, his fists clench at his sides, his jaw tightens so hard the veins in his neck bulge, and he looks like he might actually explode right there on the grass.
But then, the rage suddenly drains out of him.
Something shifts in his eyes. It’s as if something inside him completely breaks. This match meant everything to him, the season was on the line, and his own temper just threw it all away. He looks down at you, his lips slightly parted, his blue eyes suddenly looking completely defeated.
He doesn't say another word. He just turns around slowly, his shoulders slumping as he begins the long, lonely walk off the pitch toward the tunnel.
Standing in the center circle with the red card still tight in your grip, you watch him. The heavy adrenaline in your chest suddenly sours. For a fleeting second, you feel a twinge of guilt creeping into you—but you quickly push it away, focusing entirely on the game ahead of you.
The match ended exactly the way you feared it would.
Facing ten men, Chelsea finally broke through Manchester United’s defense in the 87th minute, slotting home a goal. The moment you blew the final whistle, relief washed over you, the exhaustion of the past two hours consuming you as you exited off the pitch.
You couldn't stop thinking about him on the way back to the hotel, not even when you'd showered and changed, not even when you replayed the moments on your laptop, once again making sure it wasn't you who did anything wrong.
It was his fault; he kept running his mouth despite warning him a thousand times. Another referee would have booted him off the pitch way earlier than you did—that's what you kept telling yourself. You had been patient. You had done your job.
It is late evening when you hear a knock on the door. You slide down from the bed to open it and let the visitor in, presuming it’s Oscar, who often plays card games with you whenever you two are assigned together.
You open the door, a smile stretched on your face, but the moment your eyes meet his, your expression falls. Your eyebrows draw together as you look at him with wide eyes.
"What are you doing here?!"
Ilia pushes right past you, brushing your shoulder as if he hadn't even heard you speak. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a loud thud. You look at him with a shocked expression, almost amazed at his audacity, the words lost in your mouth.
He is wearing a black hoodie, the gray sweatpants hanging from his hips. His blonde hair is damp, his expression still as stubborn as it was a few hours earlier on the pitch.
"You can't just barge into my room! This is unacceptable!"
"Why? Because it's unprofessional?" he mocks, letting out a bitter snort at your reaction. "Just like the way you refereed our high-stakes game, right?"
"You have the audacity to come here and scream in my face after what you did?!"
"You booted me off the pitch!" he spits out, his voice raising. "You gave me a straight red card when you know exactly how much the team needs me. The season is literally ending, and you threw me out!"
"You received exactly what you deserved! I gave you a red card because you were acting like the asshole you are!" You point a trembling, furious finger toward the door, signaling him to leave. He doesn’t even blink. Infuriated by his stillness, you bring your hands up, slapping them against his broad chest to physically shove him away.
He doesn’t move an inch. He stands there like a wall, absorbing the impact as his jaw tightens.
"Blame it on your own pathetic temper!" you yell, your breathing turning ragged. "Leave right now, or I swear—"
"You swear what, huh?" he challenges you, taking a step toward you, his eyes almost sparkling as he tries to break your composure. "The little authority you had was left right back on the pitch, ref."
He drags out the last word, dripping it in mockery, reducing your entire career and the whistle around your neck to a joke.
Rage surges through your veins, making your throat go dry. Your hands curl into tight fists at your sides, your chest heaving as you glare at him. You are closer now than you had been on the pitch—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to smell the scent of his cologne
"Get out," you whisper, your voice shaking with an anger that is rapidly blurring into something suffocating. "I mean it, Ilia."
"Make me," he mutters, his voice dropping breathless. He doesn’t back down; instead, he leans into your space, his jaw tight as his eyes drift down to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. "You love being in charge, don't you? You loved pulling those cards out. You loved ruining my night."
"You ruined it yourself because you wouldn't shut your mouth!" you yell back, your hands flying up to grab the fabric of his hoodie, intending to push him toward the door.
But he catches your wrists in a tight grip. He doesn’t pull away—he steps even closer, pressing his chest right against yours, his hot breath fanning against your face as his voice lowers.
"I was onside. It wasn't a foul."
"You're delusional."
"And you're a liar."
"You're insane!" you fire back, your voice cracking with irritation. "A bitter loser who keeps crying just because he lost!"
"Shut up!"
"Make me," you said, mimicking his own words from earlier. A breathless chuckle escapes your throat, but the laughter dies instantly because he leans in, crashing his mouth into yours and knocking the breath right out of your lungs.
You push at his chest at first, your mind screaming at you to pull away, but then the moment gets to you. That familiar, heavy feeling flares in your stomach—the exact one you had desperately tried to ignore every single time he stood in your proximity on the pitch, and just seconds ago when he was screaming into your face.
He abruptly stops, pulling back just an inch as if to search your face for a reaction. But you don’t move. Your expression is completely dazed, almost drunk on the sheer rush of him. Satisfied, he leans right back in, kissing you even more forcefully as he nudges you backward toward the bed. Your legs blindly follow his lead until the back of your knees hit the frame, the mattress dipping beneath you as you sink down onto the sheets, his heavy weight immediately following you down.
He takes off your t-shirt in one fluid motion, then rips his hoodie over his head to reveal the toned chest you’d seen hundreds of times online. But now he is actually here, looming over you in the dim light of your room. His large hands roam hungrily over your body, sliding down to pull your panties down your legs.
He pauses for a fraction of a second, a dark, breathless smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth as he looks down at you.
"Don't got anything more to say, ref?"
"Shut the fuck up, Malinin."
"Gladly." he mumbles against your lips.
You wrap your legs around his waist, feeling his bare chest onto yours, the hardness pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants. His mouth is warm against yours, sucking your bottom lip, his tongue swirling around yours. His hands slip upward, cupping your breasts, and a soft moan escapes your throat when he pulls his mouth away. He trails wet, deliberate kisses down your neck and chest, his fingertips brushing over the hardened buds in an almost agonizingly slow way. He's teasing you, his eyes almost dark as they sweep over your face, his lips wet and red, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"You're awfully quiet, ref."
"I thought we agreed on that you'd shut up."
"I don't have a condom."
"Is your timing just the same as it is on the pitch?" you tease him, a mocking chuckle escaping your throat as his jaw tightens for a second. You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking up at him through your lashes. "Not so great, I mean."
"Are you willing to let me show you?"
"Are you willing to finish what we've started, or are you gonna keep running your mouth again?"
That seems to push him. He gets off the bed, pulling down his sweatpants and underwear as you stare at him unashamedly, a familiar feeling burning deep inside your core, your mouth watering at the sight. He looks ethereal, the sight so beautiful that your chest physically tightens. He seems to notice the reaction he elicits from you, a knowing smile stretching on his face as he hooks his fingers around your ankle, yanking you down to his level.
Without a single word he sinks into you and a gasp leaves your mouth, his ragged breath fanning over your ear, a shiver running down your spine. He keeps thrusting into you even before you can catch a breath, setting a pace that makes you close your eyes, unashamed moans tearing through you as his hips snap into yours. You dig your fingers into his back, keeping your eyes shut as he presses his head into your shoulder, sucking on your collarbone. You know the marks will form, ugly bruises you won't be able to cover entirely, but you can't bring yourself to open your mouth and stop him, not when it feels so good, not when your body is completely undoing beneath his, craving his touch desperately.
Hooking your legs around his waist, you clench around him. His head snaps backward as he curses out, ragged breaths escaping his throat. You feel tears pricking your eyes, the intensity of it slowly washing over you as you mumble out the words incoherently.
"Turn me over."
"What?" He seems to not hear you the first time, his brows slightly furrowed as he stops for a fraction of a second, his gaze carrying a worry you weren't expecting from him. You swallow, repeating the same words as you bite back a moan. "Why?"
"So I don't have to look at you," you choke out, a soft chuckle escaping his throat at your stubbornness.
He does what you ask him to, flipping you over with a single movement as you clutch your hands into the sheets, arching your back instinctively as his sweat-slicked chest presses flush against your spine. He digs his fingers into your hips, his mouth hot against your shoulder as he curses out, the words barely registering to you as the tears quietly stream down your face, the intensity making you breathless, almost unable to take it anymore.
Then, you feel his damp fingertips on your jaw. He tilts your chin, forcing you to look up. Suddenly you catch a reflection of yourself in the mirror through your blurry vision—your hair in disarray, your mouth agape.
"Look at yourself, ref." His voice is low, sending shivers down your spine. His blonde hair is a mess, his face flushed with heat, his lips red and wet. "Look how pretty you look beneath me."
You reach behind, pulling his hair back as a moan escapes his throat, slowly losing that rhythm as the climax approaches. The knot in your stomach tightens and then you feel a familiar feeling washing over you, burying your head down in the sheets as you softly curse out.
He keeps his promise. You watch him over your shoulder as he pulls out, his chest heaving up and down as he hunches back on his knees, wiping the sweat that coats his forehead. Your limbs are spent, useless, but you manage to roll onto your back, tilting on your elbows so you can properly look at him, memorizing the sight so you can imagine it over and over vividly.
Then he does what you don't expect him to. He slowly reaches out, his fingers gently brushing the tears away from your face. His expression is soft, a lazy smile stretched across his face, his gaze dropping to your lips once again before he looks at you.
"I didn't know you could be so vocal, ref."
"Shut up."
You roll your eyes, leaning in to kiss him once again because you can't get enough of him. He slowly pushes you down on the bed, his movements unhurried unlike the minutes before.
He presses his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss, before trailing them down to your jaw, placing gentle kisses over the sensitive skin of your neck. He lingers over the fresh marks he left on your collarbone, his tongue soothing the bruises in a way that makes your chest tighten for an entirely different reason.
He rests his head on your chest, his breathing rising and falling heavily against yours as you instinctively slip your fingers into his hair.
"Where do you live?" he murmurs, his fingers tracing a line down your arm.
"London," you reply quietly, your voice a little breathless.
He shifts slightly, lifting his head to look down at you. His usual arrogant smirk is completely gone, replaced by a soft expression as he holds your gaze.
"I'm free this weekend," he says, his voice casual but his eyes searching yours intently, the meaning behind his words obvious.
"Is that so, Malinin?" you whisper, a lazy smile stretching across your face, mimicking his. "So am I."
He chuckles, burying his head down in your neck as his grip on your waist tightens. You stare up at the ceiling, completely unable to conceal the smile that refuses to leave your face.
summary: For as long as she can remember, it always started with him—the boy next door and her brother’s best friend. Over the years, an innocent childhood crush became a habit, a secret she got used to keeping to herself as she stayed stuck in the role of the nerdy little sister. Now that summer has arrived, things are finally beginning to melt under the heat—and it might just turn cruel.
word count: 6,3k
author’s note: just dropping this without further comment..! english is not my first language, so I hope you keep that in mind! any feedback, questions, writing tips, and criticism will be greatly appreciated!
You’re the first one to wake up in the morning. Jace is snoring on the couch, Max and Jack squeezed together on the other side of it. You wonder where he is, glancing at the hallway to check whether his shoes are there or not, but it’s impossible to tell. All of the four pairs of trainers are the exact same type that guys with no fashion taste usually wear, scattered messily across the floor with a few of them flipped upside down like they just kicked them off the second they stumbled through the door. Someone must’ve left early—either Josh or Ilia. You don’t bother fixing them; you don’t lift a single finger to tidy up anything around the house today. Instead, you go through your usual morning routine and lock the front door behind you, slamming it a bit harsher than necessary in hopes of waking at least one of them up. The raw hurt and disrespect from last night are lingering, settling into your chest even heavier than yesterday.
Due to a deeply warped rear wheel rim—the metal frame having bent into a useless "S" shape after you hit a brutal pothole a few days ago—and the incredibly slow service of the local repair shop, you’re forced to walk to the cafe instead of cycling. Your prized vintage sage green Electra cruiser bike, with its thick cream-colored tires, had to be left at the mechanic for five whole days while they wait for matching parts to arrive.
The confectioner has already arrived an hour before you, the fresh, comforting smell of warm cinnamon buns hitting your nose the exact second you step inside the cafe.
The day moves painfully slow. You spend the hours taking orders, decorating buns, trying out new latte art techniques, and thinking about last night for the thousandth time. Despite the years of hearing him shyly gushing over his school crushes, despite the fact that he had a girlfriend for almost two years, and despite the years of him never showing a single shred of romantic interest in you, you always had this small, stubborn spark of hope. You always believed that some day, one day, he’d finally look at you differently.
But his comment last night—the careless, easy way he brushed you off to his friends like you were never even an option—finally broke something inside you.
Maybe it was the exact wake-up call you actually needed. It was time to get over this pathetic teenage infatuation that you had labeled as something greater just because you liked the idea of being in love. You needed to move on, completely and permanently, instead of dwelling on some guy who didn’t even acknowledge you as a girl.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey,” you hear his voice through the speaker, the tiredness heavy in his tone. “I’m at the airport. Just waiting for Jace.”
“How was the flight?”
“Average. I didn’t like their sandwich. You make better ones.”
You chuckle, a soft smile stretching across your face as you pull your clothes out of the locker, ready to change out after a long, boring afternoon. “I just finished my shift. I’ll make them for you when you get home.”
“No, don’t bother. I’m not hungry, just rest.”
“Have you talked to Jace today?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, he was pretty hammered last night,” you shrug, not exactly proud to tell on your brother, but unable to completely harbor the lingering resentment over last night—over him for bringing those guys home in the first place. “Just wanted to make sure he was actually awake this time to come and get you.”
“Did he throw a party again?”
“Haha, no,” you laugh, mentally recalling when you had successfully talked him out of it by bringing up the strict threats your dad had made throughout the years whenever Jace acted irresponsible. “Okay, I gotta go change. I’ll see you later.”
“See you later. Love you, kid.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
You hang up, locking the locker door behind you. Wriggling out of the staff t-shirt—which is a size too small for you—takes a bit of effort, leaving your breath slightly uneven. By the time you’re changed into your regular clothes, you wave goodbye to the rest of the staff, their almost envious stares following you out because you finally get to go home.
Busy scrolling through your playlist to choose a song for the walk, you don’t see him at first. Not until you look up from the screen to push through the glass exit door, almost colliding straight into his chest.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” Your voice is almost confused. You furrow your brows, quickly taking in the sudden, unexpected sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I was nearby. Thought I could swing by.”
“Yeah, I think they still have some buns left.” Your voice is flat and dismissive, practically blowing him off as you slide right past him through the door.
He calls out your name before following you onto the sunlit pavement, placing his palm gently on your shoulder to stop you in your tracks.
“I’m not here for the buns, obviously,” he laughs, his teeth on display. No matter how furious you are, no matter how desperately you stare at his face trying to find some flaw—some pathetic attempt to start forcing yourself to forget about him—all you can think of is how pretty his eyes look in the daylight.
“Did you finish your shift?” he asks.
“Obviously...?”
“Where’s your bike?”
“At the repair shop.”
“Oh, what happened to it?” His brows draw together, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun that’s hitting him directly in the face, making his skin almost glow. “Wait, you’re walking home?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m going home too. Let’s go.”
He subtly wraps an arm around your shoulder, leading you toward his parked car like it’s not even up for discussion. You want to protest, desperately trying to come up with a valid excuse he will actually buy, but your mind goes completely blank. Before you can even open your mouth to argue, you’re already sitting in the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt.
He must be waiting for you to start the conversation like you usually do. You can feel him repeatedly glancing in your direction as he pulls out into traffic, but you stubbornly keep your eyes pinned to your phone screen, mindlessly scrolling through social media in total silence.
“So…” you hear him start. His voice is a bit more strained than it was minutes ago, almost like he recognizes the heavy tension in the air, acutely aware there’s a reason behind your unusual attitude. “How did you spend last evening?”
“As usual.”
“So, Valorant night?”
“Yes.”
“Cool.”
You almost snort at him, his voice painfully awkward. Subtly glancing at him, you realize he’s nervous; his posture is almost stiff as his fingertips drum on the wheel, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Did you, um… did you enjoy the gaming session?”
“Did you enjoy playing Fuck, Marry, Kill in my living room?”
The words snap out of you before you can stop them. You turn toward him with your full body, the demand in your voice impossible to brush off. You watch his face get hotter, his throat bobbing hard before he looks at you with an apologetic expression, sighing like you’ve just confirmed one of his worst fears.
“You heard?”
“The part where you all discussed girls like a piece of meat?” The resentment slips into your voice, your palms growing sweaty at your sides. “Or the part where you involved me in your disgusting jokes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix anything!”
“Jack was drunk, okay?” He sighs again, and before you have a chance to open your mouth to rage at him, he pulls up to the side of the road. Shifting in his seat so he can look at you directly, his expression softens into the exact same look he always gets when he realizes his mindlessness has caused you real harm.
“It doesn’t excuse it,” Ilia rushes out, his voice lowering. “I’m not defending him. Jack was being an idiot. He always says stupid shit when he’s had too much to drink, and you know how he gets. He was disrespectful and disgusting. But the second your name came up, I told him to shut his mouth. I completely shut it down.”
“Oh, so you want me to praise you for doing the bare minimum?”
“That’s not what I said at all!”
“Is that what happens every time Jace passes out?” Your voice changes, shifting from defensive anger to raw hurt, and his expression instantly falls at your vulnerability. “You guys reduce me to a joke everyone laughs over?”
“What?!” He shakes his head fast, looking at you as if you’re losing your mind. “You think I’d let them do that?! You seriously think I’d sit there and laugh at you??”
“Well, yeah. To be fair, you don’t even have the right to laugh at me—you’re a bigger loser than I could ever be!”
“Okay, this is insane.” He lets out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head as if it helps him erase what you just said. “I understand that you’re upset about it, but I swear to you, no one thinks of you like that. Literally everyone adores you! It was just a stupid, thoughtless game because they were drunk!”
“You weren’t drunk though, were you?!”
“I wasn’t!” he finally raises his voice, matching your energy. Unlike your deep hurt, it's pure, desperate frustration seeping from him. “And that’s why I shut it down! I did what any decent person would do! What else did you want me to do over a stupid drunken joke?!”
You stare at him, your chest heaving up and down. Your throat tightens at his utter obliviousness, your inner self screaming at him to just open his eyes—to see it, to realize that you wanted him to defend you because you wanted him to see you as something more than just Jace’s little sister. You wanted him to see you as a option. As a woman.
But you don’t tell him. Even though the confession is threatening to burst right out of you, something in your stomach twists almost painfully, forcing the words back down.
He sighs heavily when you don’t answer him, running a hand through his hair and leaning back into his seat like he’s done everything in his power to fix this. You turn away to stare through the windshield, your heart thumping violently against your ribs as hot tears prick your eyes. You desperately try to blink them away, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“Just drive,” you mutter, unlocking your phone again to continue what you were doing, trying your best to ignore his presence, which suddenly feels suffocating in the car.
“Are you still mad at me?” he asks quietly.
When you don’t answer, he stretches his hand across the console, his palm gently touching your shoulder to get your attention. Even though his face is completely full of regret, you can’t find it in yourself to just forgive him. You know this isn’t actually about the crude joke Jack made. It’s about something much bigger—something he doesn’t see, or maybe something he just doesn’t want to see, completely refusing to acknowledge it.
“I’m just upset at the situation,” you lie, your voice dropping into a quiet, empty tone. “I know you meant no harm.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you wave it off, forcing your tone to slip effortlessly back into your usual, casual baseline. “Let’s just go home. I have to cook for Dad.”
“Okay.”
The rest of the ride is short, spent in a heavy silence. He doesn’t ask you anything further, even when you briefly thank him and say goodbye. It’s obvious that he isn’t convinced by your fake assurance, but he lets it drop anyway. Maybe he thinks you just need a little time to cool down. Or maybe, you think bitterly, he just doesn't care all that much.
Once inside, you feed Dusty, cuddling with her on the couch for a while before your dad gets home. You don’t intend to, but the sheer exhaustion of the day and the suffocating weight of your conversation with Ilia finally catch up to you. You fall fast asleep, only jerking awake when Jace rolls the heavy suitcases into the house. Presuming you’re upstairs, he yells out that they’re finally home.
“I’m right here, you donut,” you mutter, blinking away the sleep.
“Oh, didn’t see you there,” he grins, walking over to the couch to lean against the back of it and stare down at you. His gaze shifts to Dusty, who is unusually calm, almost politely sitting on your stomach. He extends an affectionate hand, rubbing her head. “Hey, Dusty—”
Before he can even scoop her up, Dusty bolts off your stomach, sprinting out of the living room. You yell at Jace to close the front door, and he starts cursing loudly, chasing your chinchilla around the house. He ultimately slips on the floor, groaning in pain just as you see her stop right at the top of the stairs, looking down at him with what feels like a subtle smile.
“Hey.” You feel a soft, comforting kiss on your temple. You briefly pull your dad into a warm hug before walking up to scoop Dusty up, completely ignoring Jace, who is still sprawled on the floor, glaring at you like you’ve personally betrayed him. “How was work?”
“Moderately mundane.”
“Is that so?” Your dad raises his eyebrows, unzipping his suitcase. You roll your eyes, already anticipating exactly where this conversation is heading. “Maybe you should quit.”
“You know, other parents beg their children to get a job.”
“You don’t need a job yet,” he counters smoothly. “You’re responsible and dutiful, and you have to focus on your studies.”
“Now, where was that attitude towards me?” Jace complains from the floor, already sighing because he knows the inevitable answer.
“Unfortunately, you’re none of those things listed above, Jace.”
“Thanks, Dad. Super supportive of you.”
“Here,” your dad says, extending his hand toward you. The book feels solid and slightly heavy as you take it, a grin breaking across your face. It’s a Sudoku book, one of your absolute favorite leisure activities. “Bought it at the airport.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“The house seems clean. Did Susie drop by?” He looks between you and Jace with an expectant expression.
You glance pointedly at your brother, waiting for him to give you the credit you deserve. Susie helps out around the house a few days a week to clean and prepare meals, and you always end up gossiping with her about her daughters while you share updates about your university studies and creative stories. Jace merely points a finger at you, no words needed for the implication, and your father chuckles, shaking his head in that way that indicates he’s long since gotten used to his son being lazy.
“Tatyana invited us over for dinner on Saturday,” your dad announces.
“Is she the one cooking?” Jace asks.
“Obviously,” he replies, both of them visibly excited about the prospect of a good meal.
You don’t stay to listen to the rest, heading up to your bedroom to finally put Dusty back in her cage. You flip to a random page in the Sudoku book and start solving it, trying to drown out your thoughts. Even though you’ve really missed Tatyana’s cooking, you’re already mentally scrambling for excuses to bail out. You just don’t have the emotional bandwidth to sit at a dinner table with him, pretending everything is completely fine while the anger still burns hot within you.
The evening passes quickly enough between filling out the grid numbers, playing a few rounds of Valorant with Cam and Ziggy, and eventually watching a sitcom with Jace and your father. Then the house goes dark, and it’s night. You find yourself texting Allie, who is aggressively pushing plans on you that you never actually agreed to, insisting on taking you to a concert for some artist you’ve never even heard of.
Before finally closing your eyes, you go through your follow requests to delete people—a chore that has become part of your nightly routine ever since the Olympics. Ever since Ilia completely blew up, you’ve been forced to keep your social media strictly private. Strangers keep trying to comment on your profile and share your photos online; half of them speculating about a non-existent relationship between the two of you, half of them laughing at the mere possibility of it. Some people call you ugly, while others praise you for doing absolutely nothing. Yet, the requests keep piling up, people desperate to get even a tiny glimpse into his life through you.
Jace, of course, happily benefits from the secondhand clout of being Ilia's best friend. He regularly entertains his thousands of followers with mindless thirst traps, even pulling in a few dedicated fan pages. Edits of him being shirtless flood your TikTok feed periodically, making you internally cringe every single time you swipe past them.
Locking your phone, you slip it onto the nightstand and stare into the dark. Deprived of distractions, your mind inadvertently wanders right back to the afternoon in the car. A heavy, suffocating feeling tightens around your chest. A single, hot tear rolls down your cheek into the pillow, no voice escaping your throat as the quiet house swallows your heartbreak.
Tatyana is disappointed when she first hears you aren’t attending dinner. Lying with an excuse about an unexpected shift at work is the most solid way to bail out, and you go all the way with the cover story, swapping your regular shift with Betty just in case anyone decides to double-check your whereabouts. Allie is the only one thrilled about the sudden change of plans, always vastly preferring your company over Betty, who spends the better part of her shifts whining relentlessly about either her boyfriend or the customers.
“Should I get a bob?” Allie asks.
“No,” you reply without looking up from your screen, your fingers mindlessly scrolling through X for any new Spider-Man promotional content.
“Why not?”
“Because longer hair suits you better.”
“You’ve never even seen me with short hair,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pops her gum with a loud, echoing smack.
It is almost 10:00 PM, and the cafe is entirely empty, scheduled to close in approximately fifteen minutes. Allie has already changed out of her uniform; her tight, black leather jacket makes a distinct, stiff noise every time she raises her hands—which, given how animated she is, happens a lot.
“I have an excellent imagination.”
Deciding it is finally time to change out yourself, you hop down from the high barstool. You pull your clothes out of the staff locker, slipping out of your uniform and into a washed-up, oversized graphic t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Jace sometimes jokingly complains that those specific shorts are too short, clearly enjoying playing the role of the overprotective older brother—a role he rarely actually occupies unless it really, truly matters.
When you walk back out, you are surprised to find Jace himself leaning comfortably across the counter, talking to Allie and flashing her his signature, effortless smile. Unlike you, Jace has an inherently flirty nature, possessing a natural ability to engage absolutely anyone in easy conversation. Maybe he should give his best friend some pointers, you think bitterly, a flash of resentment crossing your mind as you recall every single unsuccessful moment Ilia has ever tried speaking to a girl in front of you. Back in middle school, you used to tease him mercilessly about his awkwardness around girls—right up until you found yourself slowly crushing on him.
You snap back to the present, realizing neither of them has noticed you walk up. Allie doesn't seem particularly impressed by Jace’s charm, laughing over something he says in that polite, practiced way she always laughs at mediocre jokes to please tipping customers.
Jace finally notices you, his face instantly lighting up. He must be tipsy, you assume, tracking his loose posture.
“Hey, sis.”
“Are you drunk?”
“You think Dad would let me drive his car to pick you up if I were drunk?” Jace gives you a look of exaggerated disappointment, glancing over at Allie in a desperate hope that she will take his side.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the dinner?”
“Yes, and I’m here now so we can both go back together.”
“Yeah, no. I’m tired.”
“That’s nonsense,” he shakes his head, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulder and nudging you toward the glass entrance before you can even protest.
You wriggle free from his grip, double-checking with Allie to make sure the registers and doors are fully secure before you officially close up the cafe. Jace waits patiently by the door, acting the part of the chivalrous gentleman he claims to be by offering Allie a ride home—which she immediately accepts. Throughout the entire drive, the two of them chat away. Their words barely register to you as you keep your eyes glued to your phone, stubbornly scrolling.
You realize then that there is absolutely no way to bail out of this dinner anymore. Not without Ilia suspecting that you are still harboring massive anger toward him—assuming he even remembers the car ride at all.
Once Allie is dropped off, thanking both of you as she hops out, Jace immediately continues talking your ear off, physically unable to sit in a quiet car.
“The mechanic called me, by the way. Your bike is fixed.”
“Really?” you exclaim, your eyes practically sparkling as the heavy cloud over your mood lifts for a split second. “Thank God, finally! I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning.”
Jace chuckles. “I already picked it up.”
“Wow. When exactly did you become so considerate?”
“I’ve always been considerate, you ungrateful brat.”
You laugh, leaning forward from the backseat to playfully ruffle his perfectly styled hair. He immediately slaps your hand away before you can even touch his curls.
The ride ends disappointingly quickly, and before you know it, you are stepping through the front door of the Malinin household. You greet Tatyana and Roman, quickly deflecting the attention away from yourself by focusing entirely on Liza, who immediately starts animatedly telling you all about how she has started playing Valorant. You completely ignore Ilia, who is sitting at the dining table right next to Jace. He is stubbornly staring in your direction, clearly waiting for you to say literally anything to him besides the dry, fleeting "hello" you muttered when you walked through the door.
You try your absolute best not to look at him, which is incredibly difficult considering the vibrant red t-shirt he is wearing and the blond curls falling softly over his shoulders make him look maddeningly cozy.
“Eat, dear,” Tatyana says warmly, emerging from the kitchen with a plate piled high with food. The rest of the table is already moving on to dessert, Ilia mindlessly picking at a slice of cherry pie. “You must be starving after that shift.”
“Well, not really—I ate a little something at work—but I’m never going to say no to your cooking,” you joke. The comment elicits a bright chuckle from her as she rubs your shoulder in an affectionate, maternal way, sliding into the empty seat right next to you.
“Eat fast so we can play Valorant before my bedtime,” Liza chimes in, leaning over her own plate.
“Liza, let her be, she’s tired from work.”
“She’s never too tired for Valorant.”
You chew slowly, looking around the floor. “Where are the cats?” you mumble between bites, suddenly realizing the family pets haven’t run to greet you at the door like they usually do.
“Probably in my room,” Ilia answers. The sudden sound of his voice cuts through the air; he has completely stopped engaging in the sports conversation with the rest of the men at the table, his full attention snapping to you. “How was the shift?”
“Good.”
“I thought you didn’t work on Saturdays.”
“My schedule changes pretty often,” you lie smoothly, wiping your mouth with a napkin as you give him a perfectly casual, detached look.
Something in his expression shifts instantly. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint what the subtle change means—maybe it is the slight, tense pull of his lips, or the way his eyebrows knit together just a fraction of a millimeter—but it is clear that he is highly skeptical of your words.
“I see,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours, silently calling your bluff.
You don’t reply, fixing your eyes back on your plate and listening to Liza. Eventually, you follow her up to her room, despite Tatyana’s protests for you to stay and eat the cherry pie.
Liza fires up the game, eagerly asking for your tips and following them with thorough consideration. She eventually lets you take over the keyboard; you lean over the back of her chair to guide her, your expression intensely focused as you show her the skills you’ve obtained throughout the years. You completely lose track of time. You don’t even notice anyone entering the room—certainly not Ilia, who observes the scene quietly from the doorway until Liza calls him out, snapping you right out of your concentration.
“Leave us,” she almost groans, waving him off. “Go play your stupid Fortnite that you’re not even good at.”
“I’m literally just watching.”
“Well, I don’t want you to watch me,” she huffs, her eyebrows drawing tightly together. “Go!”
“She’s just mad because I was busy and couldn’t play Roblox with her earlier,” he quickly explains to you, raising his eyebrows to highlight the sheer dramatics of his little sister.
“You weren’t busy, you were shopping online for ugly clothes.”
“Liza!” He shakes his head, sighing in disappointment. Then, he points triumphantly to the clock on the wall. “It’s way past your bedtime, by the way.”
“Worry about your own sleep schedule.”
Right on cue, Tatyana walks into the room, gently reminding her daughter of her bedtime routine. Liza shuts off the computer with an annoyed expression, barely paying any attention to Ilia, who looks thoroughly amused by her temper tantrum. You say a warm goodnight to Liza, prepared to call off your own night and finally head home since Jace and your dad are way too busy engaging in a deep conversation with Roman over glasses of red wine. You prepare to say your goodbyes and leave, but the moment you leave Liza’s room, Ilia stops you. His fingers lock gently around your wrist, and an involuntary shiver runs through your entire body at the sudden contact.
“Don’t you want to see the cats?”
Despite the lack of any deeper meaning behind the question, the moment takes you completely aback. You find yourself shyly nodding at him, quietly following him downstairs to his room as the loud laughter and clinking glasses from the living room slowly muffle out. Mysti is asleep, lifting her head to look at you for a fleeting second before she closes her eyes again, cuddling further into her cat tree. Miu Miu, however, trots straight toward you, going completely limp the exact moment you scoop her up and cradle her against your chest.
It is undeniably weird. You are standing there petting his cats while he just observes the scene, both of you completely silent. Only the soft purrs and occasional quiet meows of Miu Miu pierce the stillness of the bedroom.
“Did you finish university?” he asks suddenly.
“No, I still have final exams left.”
“When?”
“In a week.”
“I’m streaming on Twitch next week,” he goes on, pivoting seamlessly as if he entirely switched the subject just because he didn’t know what else to say. He smiles at you, oblivious to the internal war you are currently fighting with yourself. You silently curse your own heart because, despite everything that happened, butterflies still flutter wildly in your stomach. It feels incredibly pathetic. “Maybe you can join me for a bit if you’re free. We haven’t played together in a while.”
The invitation takes you completely by surprise. As much as you desperately want to agree, and as hard as it is to turn him down when he is looking at you with such a genuine expression, you firmly shake your head. His lips press together into a thin line.
“You know I don’t like streaming on Twitch.”
“But you do it when Ziggy asks you to.”
“Yeah, because he’s my friend.”
“And I’m not?”
The tone his voice carries is accusatory, the way his eyebrows furrow together almost making it look like you’re the guilty one. A spike of panic floods your brain for a second, but it quickly mutates into anger. Your voice comes out completely flat as you keep stroking Miu Miu’s fur.
“Well, not exactly,” you shrug, your voice stripped of any emotion.
“What?” His face falls completely, his eyebrows raising like he can’t even comprehend what you’re saying. “What do you mean? We literally grew up together!”
“Yeah, because we’re neighbors and Jace is your best friend.”
“What does Jace have to do with us?”
“What us, Ilia?” you snap, your tone cutting and annoyed as you mentally remind yourself to keep things under control. “There’s no us. We talk sometimes and we hang out sometimes because you’re my brother’s best friend. That’s it. What is so surprising to hear about that?”
“Because I consider you my friend, and apparently, I’m just a 'brother’s best friend' to you.” He looks visibly frustrated, a sudden twinge of guilt creeping into your chest when you see just how deeply the comment has rubbed him the wrong way.
“You consider everyone your friend, Ilia. That’s not how it works.”
“You’re not everyone, are you?”
“I don’t see the point of this conversation,” you huff, rolling your eyes as you set Miu Miu down on the bed, ready to call it a night. “I’m going home. Goodnight.”
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can even protest, he crosses the room in two sharp strides and closes the door behind him, standing firmly in front of it to block your exit. He looks angry—maybe even angrier than you are—but before you can rage at him, he beats you to it.
“Why are you being so cold? Are you still mad because of Jack, or what?”
“Stop insisting that I’m some kind of loser who keeps dwelling on mediocre, tasteless jokes!”
“Then what is it with you?!” He throws his hands in the air, exhaling a sharp, frustrated breath when you don’t immediately answer him. “You’re always so sweet, and now you’re basically blowing me off because apparently we’re not friends? You’re reducing me to just one of Jace’s friends when we literally grew up together?! You’ve been acting weird ever since that stupid thing!”
“It’s not stupid!” you yell out, immediately regretting the volume in fear of someone downstairs hearing you. You can only hope the loud way Jace laughs in the living room is enough to overshadow any voice coming out of this bedroom. “It’s not stupid when you brushed me off as a joke! Like I don’t even exist outside the role of Jace’s sister!”
The words come out incredibly bitter, but a strange wave of relief washes over you the exact second you admit it out loud for the very first time. Days of built-up frustration and hidden resentment finally rip right through your defenses.
His face softens instantly at your reaction. The frustration drains from his features, leaving him looking almost apologetic. He licks his dry lips, his voice coming out much quieter. “That’s not…”
“You don’t even see me as a girl, right?” you cut him off. Your voice is almost quivering now, hot tears pricking your eyes before you desperately swallow them down. “I’m just Jace’s little sister. That’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
You try so hard to mask it, but it’s completely impossible to control the raw hurt in your voice—the sheer heartbreak. He looks at you with an intensely guilty expression, his lips pressed tightly together as he avoids your gaze. He fixes his eyes on his shoes for a long second while you stand there, waiting for him to do something. To say something. Anything.
You stare at him for seconds, maybe even minutes, completely losing track of time in the heavy silence. Finally, you sigh in utter defeat. Turning your body, you try to move past him to go through the door and just forget this ever happened—forget the burning humiliation and embarrassment tearing through you.
You push at his shoulder to clear a path, ready to tug at the doorknob and leave him behind, but his hand tightens around your wrist once again. This time, his grip is firm and powerful—almost forceful, completely desperate—as you try to wiggle your arm free.
“I didn’t mean that, okay?!”
“Just let me go—”
“No, you don’t understand!”
“What do I not understand?!” You push hard against his chest, barely making him budge before he catches your other hand, pinning them together to stop you from fighting him. “Spare me the humiliation and just let me go, alright—”
You don’t get a chance to finish. He doesn’t give you one.
Ilia slips his hand into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head up when you stubbornly refuse to look at him. He crashes his mouth into yours like it’s the only thing he knows how to do—the only thing he can desperately hold onto when his words have completely betrayed him.
You freeze instantly at his touch. The situation barely registers as your skin burns hot, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs as your body goes totally limp against him. Then, it hits you vividly. The solid, warm pressure of his mouth against yours, his familiar scent surrounding you, the subtle taste of cherry pie lingering on his tongue. You clutch at the fabric of his red t-shirt—first hesitantly, and then almost desperately—leaning your entire weight into his body. His hands lock tightly around your waist, flushing you completely against him as his lips move against yours. The feeling is entirely unfamiliar, beautifully strange, the exact kind you could easily get used to.
He finally pulls away when you are both entirely breathless, both of your chests heaving up and down as you stare at him, not quite knowing what to make of what just happened. He reaches up, his knuckles incredibly gentle against your skin as he brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. His deep blue eyes sweep over your features, intense and completely focused on you.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his lips red and wet just like yours. “I was a coward. I didn’t mean it.”
You don’t know what to say. You’ve dreamed of this exact moment for years, imagining it over and over again in your head, but you never actually prepared yourself for what comes afterward—when the reality is so wildly different from what you hoped for.
“Why did you kiss me?”
The question comes out hesitant, almost childishly quiet, entirely unlike you. Both of you already know the answer, but you need the reaffirmation. You need to hear the words come out of his mouth.
“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice drops, coming out almost shy as a faint trace of color hits his cheeks. “I lied that night because I didn’t want them to know. Because you’re Jace’s sister, and even though I’m not supposed to… I like you.”
Your heart drops at his confession, your face burning hot as you stand there, completely lost for words. Isn't this exactly what you wanted? Then why do you stand there frozen, unable to do anything, unable to say a single word?
Sudden panic floods your brain, and before the reality of it can trap you, you react on pure instinct. You tug down on the door handle, breaking his grip, and bolt out of the room. You sprint up the stairs despite him yelling out your name behind you.
Tatyana is in the kitchen tidying up, while the rest of the men are still deeply engaged in a loud, heated discussion over some sports team you have no knowledge of or interest in. Moving on sheer adrenaline, you quickly say goodbye to Tatyana, thanking her for the evening, and offer the others a breathless, barely coherent explanation about missing some type of tournament you forgot was scheduled. Jace calls out to you, confused, but you don't stop.
The moment you push through the front door and step outside, you let out a ragged exhale, closing your eyes. You cross the dark lawn separating your houses without looking back a single time, terrified that if you do, the gravity of what just happened will pull you right back under.
Only when you lock yourself away in your room does the realization fully hit you. Ilia just confessed to you. He kissed you. After all this time, after years of pining and scripting a moment like this in your head, it actually happened—and instead of reacting like any sane person would when they're madly in love with someone, you did the exact opposite and ran away.
A wave of intense embarrassment consumes you. You cover your face with your hands, letting out a muffled groan of frustration into your palms.
You only tilt your head up when you hear a distinct clinking noise coming from the corner of the room. You drop your hands to see Dusty shifting against the metal bars of her cage. She stares down at you from her little ledge, her twitching nose and bright eyes making it look like she is smiling at you almost mockingly.
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jacobvanloon
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