hi. i'm migrating to another blog, where i'll be writing. it'll include other things i'm into, which may not be everyone's cup of tea, so i understand if you don't want to find me over there. i'm not going to delete this blog right now, but i won't be using it anymore. my new one is: @raspberrycinnamonpumpkin
not to be a tease, but i'm currently sitting on the completed prologue of that friends with benefits to lovers olympics story i mentioned. i will probably post it tomorrow on my new blog.
summary: You were young, and the whole world was at your feet. At eighteen, you managed to start a rock band, escape your hometown, and begin chasing your dreams. You toured, gained fame, and did what you loved most — making music.
But life has a way of rewriting the script. Just as quickly as you rose to the top, you fell from it. You were kicked out of the very band you founded and, broke and defeated, returned home with your tail between your legs.
What you couldn’t stand the most, however, was the fact that your high school enemy had suddenly gained everything you had lost. And he reminded you of it almost every day, lingering around you like a ghost. Over time, though, once you grew used to his unexpected presence in your life, you began to wonder what you had really hated him for in the first place — and whether you still hated him at all.
content: enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn, hurt/comfort, strong language, shy ilia, mean and messy reader, reader has anger issues, anxiety, miscommunication, rock band, bassist!reader, reader has a 70s rockstar aesthetic, mentions of cigarettes, sex, alcohol and drugs, almost famous/daisy jones and the six vibes, happy ending, dysfunctional family, injury and blood
word count: 10,7k
author's note: 3 more chapters to go... even though this was originally supposed to be only 2 parts 😭 but I got attached to the reader and I still have a few ideas left lol. The worst is behind us now. I remembered that in the age of the internet the reader would probably get cancelled 💀 so I wanted to touch on that a little... buuut Ian and Penny will pay for their crimes. Also, one of my friends recently found a tiny stray kitten in a ditch and ended up adopting it, and that kinda inspired this little plot point haha. English isn't my first language, so sometimes I get a bit carried away with metaphors and comparisons. Anyway, enjoy <3
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When you finally clawed your way out of sleep — a sleep that felt less like rest and more like an extension of the night you'd spent in the bar — you were struck at once by a vast, terrifying post-drunk realization: you didn't understand the world (your second realization was that you were spectacularly hungover).
It wasn't merely that the world made no sense to you — you didn't know how to exist inside it. It frightened you, governed by rules you had spent your entire life bending until they almost broke. Back when you were touring with your band, you had lived as though reality itself revolved around you, a universe handcrafted to your own reckless design. Stability meant nothing. Taxes meant nothing. Savings accounts, college, having a permanent place to live, settling down with someone — none of it had ever mattered. Music was the only thing that counted, along with passing a shared joint around the cramped tour bus that had become your home. As long as there was a bass in your hands, tomorrow simply didn't exist.
But ever since reality had caught up with you — a world stripped of every comforting illusion, overwhelming in its honesty and almost frightening in its sheer indifference, filled with the problems of ordinary people instead of a rockstar drifting from one concert to the next, one party to another — you had felt hopelessly lost.
You didn't know how to adapt. You were one colossal, walking disaster. The fact that you'd somehow ended up in Ilia Malinin's bed, spending half the night soaking a stuffed animal his fans had given him with your tears, was proof enough of just how far you'd fallen.
You rolled onto your other side and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, trying to chase away the last stubborn traces of your dream. You hadn't even managed to gather your thoughts or piece together everything that had happened the night before when a high-pitched scream ripped through the room.
"Oh my days... NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Startled by the sudden outburst, you jerked upright so quickly that you regretted it instantly. The room spun violently, and a wave of nausea crashed over you. What surprised you even more than the scream itself was the sight of Ilia sitting at his computer, looking utterly devastated. As far as you remembered, he was supposed to have been at the rink first thing that morning.
Unless you'd been so drunk you'd imagined half the conversations you'd had with him — the softness in his voice, the quiet kindness he'd shown you. No one else would have taken care of you. No one else would have brought you home.
The realization hit harder than the hangover. Apart from William, who had enough problems of his own, Patrick, and aunt Andrea — who, if anything, seemed to tolerate you less with every passing day — you had no one. Only Ilia, your high-school enemy. Everyone else hated you.
"What the hell are you doing, you absolute jackass?" you yawned. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
Even with the black headphones covering his ears, Ilia seemed to hear you. He slid them down around his neck and slowly turned in his chair, offering you an apologetic look.
"Uh..." He scratched the back of his neck. "Playing a video game?" He sounded genuinely sheepish, visibly embarrassed for waking you.
You frowned.
"At seven in the morning?" you muttered. "I thought you had practice."
Ilia froze for a moment, clearly unsure how to answer.
"Uh... yeah. I did." He paused awkwardly before adding, "It's... two in the afternoon."
At first, you were convinced he was joking.
Your gaze drifted from him to the digital clock resting on his nightstand, beside an open notebook where, judging by its well-worn pages, Ilia probably scribbled down profound thoughts and painfully awful poetry. For a long moment, an uncomfortable silence settled between you. He simply watched you, studying your perfectly blank expression, searching for some clue to the storm gathering behind your eyes.
Only then did it sink in. You practically launched yourself out of bed like a startled cat. Speaking of cats, Mysti was lazily observing you from the cat tree. You ignored her existence entirely, far too consumed by the horrifying realization that you'd slept through half the day and that aunt Andrea, after coming home from work, discovering you'd vanished along with the spectacular mess you'd left behind, had probably already packed your belongings and dumped them out on the porch.
Panicking, you snatched up your jeans, which Ilia had thoughtfully moved from the middle of the floor onto the pile of plushies. The moment you bent down, you barely managed to suppress a violent wave of nausea.
"Why didn't you wake me up?!" you squeaked, frantically trying to force your foot through the right pant leg. You nearly toppled over in the process. Ilia awkwardly averted his eyes. "Shit, shit, SHIT! I'm so screwed, bro." You finally managed to yank your jeans up. "I was supposed to have a job interview at the bakery at twelve!" You fumbled with the button at your waist, your fingers refusing to cooperate. "Fuck!"
"What? No, I'm talking about my little sister." Ilia suddenly turned back toward his computer. "Yeah, I know, she swears like craaazy. I seriously need to tell my mom." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "No, I didn't bring a girl home! I'm telling you, it's Liza." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my God, dude, don't be weird." A sigh escaped him. "Hang on, I'll be back in a sec."
You turned toward him, utterly bewildered. You assumed he was talking to someone on Discord. You sincerely hoped it wasn't one of his old high school friends — the same ones who had never bothered hiding how much they despised you. Then again, judging from what little you'd seen on social media, that whole friend group had fallen apart shortly after graduation. You imagined it couldn't have been easy for Ilia to keep old friendships alive once he'd become a full-time athlete. Besides, most of them had stayed close with his ex-girlfriend, and from everything you'd heard, their breakup had been anything but amicable.
"Who are you talking to?" you asked, sinking back onto the bed.
Your skull felt as though it might split open at any second. Your tolerance for alcohol had become embarrassingly low. Even back when you were in the band, you had always been the one who drank the least. Ian and Penny practically lived from one party to the next, while you and Dean usually lingered somewhere on the edges, watching the chaos instead of becoming part of it.
I wonder how they're doing now, you caught yourself thinking. You'd blocked Ian and Penny on every social media platform imaginable, while Dean almost never posted anything. Were they working on a third album? Did they ever regret getting rid of you?
"My best friend, Jacob," Ilia explained cheerfully. "Sorry, I kinda forgot to mute my mic. But my webcam isn't turned on, so he didn’t see you."
"Okay..." You sighed, absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeve of his oversized hoodie, which, much to your surprise, had been incredibly comfortable to sleep in. "So?" You looked back at him. "Why didn't you wake me up?" A crooked smile tugged at your lips despite your misery. "I could've just snuck out through the window this morning." You shrugged dramatically. "You know... like a ninja."
Ilia let out a quiet laugh beneath his breath.
“Well, you were kinda drunk and really upset, and I figured you could use the sleep, Miss Ninja.”
His words wrapped around your heart like an invisible hand, squeezing just enough to steal your breath. He sounded as though he had been genuinely worried about you. Letting you crash at his place was one thing, but actually caring whether you were alright — that belonged to an entirely different universe. You parted your lips, ready to thank him, only to catch yourself at the last possible second. You refused to abandon the role you had so carefully built — the angry, rebellious rockstar forever at war with the world — especially in front of Ilia, the one person you kept insisting you were supposed to hate.
“Great,” you muttered instead, rubbing your eyes. Your lashes felt stiff and heavy, and only then did the dreadful realization strike you; you'd never taken your mascara off. You had committed the greatest skincare sin imaginable: you'd fallen asleep wearing makeup.
“My parents aren't home,” Ilia said. “They're still at the rink. Sarah asked them to stay longer before Worlds since Alysa pulled out and she's taking her spot.” You hadn't the faintest idea who Sarah was. “So you can just leave through the front door. Coast is clear.”
For some reason, even though you'd already missed your job interview and still had to retrieve your purse from The Hideout, you weren't in any hurry to leave. Ilia's room, despite looking as though it belonged to an overgrown teenage nerd, possessed an odd, comforting warmth that settled quietly beneath your skin.
Or perhaps it wasn't the room at all. Perhaps it was simply Ilia.
Your feelings had become such an impossible knot that nothing felt certain anymore, nothing cleanly divided into black and white. You weren't even sure why you supposedly hated Malinin anymore.
Or rather, why you kept clinging so stubbornly to that lie.
“And you're sure they don't know I slept here?” you asked, preferring reassurance over the horrifying possibility of running straight into Roman or Tatiana sitting in the living room watching television.
Ilia's confidence visibly faltered. You fixed him with a stern look.
“Well... I mean...” he trailed off awkwardly, pushing the gold-rimmed glasses that had slipped down the bridge of his nose back into place. “If Liza didn't rat me out... then probably not.”
“Okay. Good.” You released a visible sigh of relief. “Your mom would probably kill me.” You studied him for a beat before narrowing your eyes. “By the way... why are you screaming like a five-year-old girl? Those shrieks could've woken Sleeping Beauty.”
He scratched the back of his neck.
“Jacob and I are playing Geometry Dash, and I can't beat this level.”
“Which one?”
You climbed reluctantly out of bed and slowly shuffled toward his gaming setup. Mysti followed every step with her luminous green eyes. The instant her tail twitched and she leapt gracefully from the cat tree, you froze in place and waited until she disappeared through the half-open door before daring to move again.
Meanwhile, Ilia looked at you with open confusion, as if he couldn't imagine why you'd possibly care which level had defeated him.
“Uh... the sixth one,” he answered after a long pause, spinning back toward his monitor.
You stopped beside his desk and leaned over the screen, squinting thoughtfully. Your elbow swung a little too wide and nearly knocked an almost-full can of Coke Zero straight onto his keyboard. Ilia didn't even register the near catastrophe; he was far too busy watching your every movement with growing panic, as though you were about to pull a hammer from behind your back and smash his computer into pieces.
Or, even worse — turn out to be a better gamer than him. Which, frankly, seemed far more likely.
“Can't Let Go?” you scoffed. “Come on. A five-year-old could beat that level blindfolded. Seriously? I thought you were trying to clear a Demon level or something.” You frowned, snapping your fingers as you searched your memory. “Y'know... the one with all the moving objects and all that crazy shit. What's it called again? Theory...”
Ilia stared at you with eyes so wide they looked ready to fall out of his head, as though he were sitting in the kiss-and-cry waiting for his scores and had just discovered he'd broken another world record. Or learned Pokémon were real.
“Theory of Everything 2?” he finished, his voice shooting into an unmistakably high, disbelieving register.
“Oh, yeah, that one.” You snapped your fingers again with effortless nonchalance. “That one was actually pretty tough, from what I remember. I didn't beat it until my third attempt.”
Ilia blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
“On your third try?!” he blurted, nearly knocking over his can in the process and almost tipping himself straight out of his chair. “YOOO! Yo, you're lying!”
“Why the fuck would I?” you shot back, genuinely offended that he'd dare accuse you of making something like that up. “About a stupid game?”
“It is not stupid!” he protested, puffing out his lips in a childish pout.
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't suppress the smile tugging stubbornly at the corners of your mouth. It dawned on you then that every ounce of anger you'd carried toward him — the resentment that had burned inside you until only yesterday, the bitterness you'd nursed for years — had vanished together with the last traces of alcohol still lingering in your bloodstream.
For one fleeting moment, you felt sixteen again, sitting beside him at the skate park as if the years in between had never happened.
“Whatever. Move, asshole.”
You shoved at both him and the chair, trying to claim his spot at the desk so you could show him how the game was actually supposed to be played. Stretching out your hand, you reached for the controller, but he jerked it protectively out of your grasp at the last second.
You glared at him.
“Noo, wait! I wanna beat it myself!”
“Then quit whining, you baby. Let me play,” you insisted.
“No!”
“Ilia-”
“I know I can beat it!”
For several long seconds you weighed your options: let it go or keep arguing. Backing down had never been in either of your natures. At last, you sucked in a dramatic breath through your teeth. There was no turning back.
Before you could reconsider, propelled by the sheer force of your stubbornness — wild and impulsive as a squall rolling in over open water — you simply lowered yourself onto Ilia's lap and scooted the chair closer to the desk, bringing both of you with it.
“Shut the fuck up,” you warned him, though he'd already lost the ability to say anything at all.
The words died somewhere in his throat, taking what remained of his confidence with them. He went utterly still, not even protesting when you slipped the console from his hands. He simply obeyed, staring at you as though you'd descended from heaven wrapped in celestial robes.
You hesitated before starting the level. Only now did it fully register that your wounded pride had landed you squarely in Ilia's lap, practically crushing him beneath your weight. The arrogance drained from you in an instant. You regretted your decision almost immediately. Beneath you, you could feel the warmth of his toned thigh, left bare beneath his shorts, and that single, impossible awareness refused to leave your mind, making it nearly impossible to focus on the razor-thin cube jumps and delicate ship maneuvers that demanded absolute precision.
Somehow, despite your racing heart, your uneven breathing, and the sweat gathering on trembling fingers that kept slipping against the controller, you cleared every obstacle flawlessly and finished the level in record time.
“It's really not that hard,” you laughed nervously, finally daring to glance at Ilia for the first time since you'd so spectacularly invaded every inch of his personal space. “See?”
He looked as though he'd just walked out of a sauna. A warm blush flooded every inch of his face, his cheeks burned a furious crimson, his soft pink lips hung slightly parted, and his widened blue eyes overflowed with utter disbelief. You couldn't tell whether he was more stunned by your outrageous behavior or by how effortlessly you'd beaten the level he'd been struggling with.
A notification flashed in the corner of the monitor. Your gaze drifted toward the Discord icon. Jacob was relentlessly trying to get Ilia's attention in the chat. Taking advantage of the fact that Malinin still appeared completely frozen, you expanded the Discord window and decided to answer Sánchez yourself.
“How did you...” Ilia finally managed.
He shifted slightly beneath you in the chair, though there wasn't the faintest trace of discomfort in the movement.
“O.” Another pause. “O.” He looked like a fish stranded on dry land, desperately gasping for air. “O. Bro, I'm speechless.” He dragged a hand down his face, nearly knocking his glasses clean off his nose. “You're actually insane.” He stared at the timer in open disbelief. “Eighty-three seconds?! That's a fricking record!”
“And that was my first run in, like, a milion years,” you replied, your voice positively dripping with pride. You hadn't even realized you'd broken the record — especially while being so hopelessly distracted.
"Yooo..." Ilia finally snapped out of his daze and looked back at the monitor, only to realize you were typing to Jacob. "Wait, whaaat are you doing?"
Pure instinct took over. He caught your wrist, gently lifting your hand away from the keyboard before drawing it between the two of you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist and holding it close against his chest.
You froze. The gesture stole every coherent thought from your mind. Unfortunately for him, you'd already hit Enter.
"Your friend's asking why you turned your mic off," you said with maddening composure. "I told him you're jerking off under the desk."
Ilia knew you well enough by now to believe you were fully capable of something that unhinged, and panic flashed across his face as he whipped around to inspect the chat. He braced himself for vulgarity, public humiliation, social death… only to sag with visible relief. Instead, you'd written that he'd muted himself because his mom had started vacuuming the hallway, and the noise was drowning him out.
"You are an evil woman," he muttered, shooting you a look that sparkled with reluctant amusement.
Then he realized he was still holding your hand. His fingers released your wrist so quickly it was almost clumsy, anxiety flickering across his features as though he'd suddenly wondered whether he'd crossed a line.
Ironically, out of the two of you, you were still the one sitting in his lap long after the game had ended. You wanted to get up — you genuinely did. But your legs refused to cooperate, as weightless and unreliable as spun cotton.
"Finally," you giggled under your breath, your voice stripped of every ounce of its usual bravado. "A compliment."
"So..." Ilia ventured, affecting casualness while, behind those blue eyes, already constructing an elaborate plan that somehow involved dragging you into gaming sessions and eventually onto a Twitch stream. "Did you play anything else? Fortnite? WoT? Minecraft?"
"Whoa, slow down there, cowboy." You cut him off before his enthusiasm could gather momentum. "I'm not THAT much of a loser. I only played browser games and The Sims back in middle school."
"Right..." He cast you a quick sidelong glance — the same unconscious little side-eye he'd apparently developed whenever he grew flustered, something you were now certain he didn't even realize he did. "You're way too cool to be a gamer."
"Exactly." You grinned.
Silence settled between the two of you, delicate and uncertain, neither of you quite knowing how to be the first to disturb it. The amusement gradually faded from Ilia's face, replaced by something infinitely softer — a tenderness left unspoken, lingering quietly beneath the surface. He watched you with quiet concentration, studying your face as though it were a Renaissance masterpiece hanging in a silent gallery or the painted likeness of a saint illuminated by candlelight inside an old cathedral. Then, without warning or ceremony, he lifted his hand and gently cupped your cheek, his movements slow with careful intent, never breaking eye contact as his thumb swept lightly beneath your eye.
You stopped breathing.
The warmth of his touch against your skin unraveled something inside you. That tiny spark of affection summoned emotions across your face that Ilia had never witnessed before — a face usually carved from marble or twisted into defiance now softened by unfamiliar vulnerability. Among them flickered something almost primal: fear itself, the terror of surrendering control... and of losing something too precious to name.
A strange sensation washed over you, bewildering in its sweetness, carrying with it the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. You couldn't remember the last time anyone had treated you with such tenderness — or the last time you had allowed yourself to become this vulnerable. Your lips parted, yet for a moment language abandoned you altogether. A deep, aching gentleness settled inside your chest, and for several heartbeats you did nothing except look into Ilia's pale blue eyes while the fracture opening inside you widened with frightening ease.
You could no longer tell where the resentment you'd stubbornly tried to reserve for Malinin ended and where something dangerously close to affection began. You couldn't find the dividing line. Perhaps, you realized, boundaries were nothing more than inventions of the human mind.
You sprang to your feet so abruptly that the fragile intimacy shattered in an instant. Inside your head, the moment had stretched into an eternity. In reality, it had lasted only seconds.
Ilia instinctively rolled his chair backward, startled by your reaction, a tiny vertical crease appearing between his brows.
"What the fuck, Ilia?!" you blurted, slipping back into your familiar armor of anger with practiced ease.
"Sorry," he answered immediately. "You had an eyelash." He held up his fingertip like evidence before a jury, a single dark lash resting against the pad of his finger. "See?"
"Oh." Heat rushed to your face. You were almost certain your ears had turned bright red. "Um... thanks?"
"No problem."
You leaned your full weight against his desk, lowering your gaze to the carpet scattered with Mysti's black fur. You felt almost drunk again; your head swam, except now the alcohol had been replaced by a storm of emotions colliding inside your chest. You needed air. You needed distance.
You needed a moment to gather the scattered pieces of yourself.
"Fuck, I probably look like a raccoon that crawled out of a dumpster," you muttered, grasping at the first excuse that came to mind. "Can I use the bathroom real quick?"
"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead." For reasons even he couldn't quite explain, Ilia suddenly found himself unable to meet your eyes. Instead, he fixed his attention on the two beaded bracelets wrapped around his wrist. "I'll... try that level again," he mumbled. "Maybe beat your time."
You let out a quiet scoff.
"Ha. Good luck with that."
Ilia's nose scrunched into a broad grin, the way it always did after a flawless skate when he stood at center ice, basking in the thunderous applause washing down from the stands, before he slipped his headphones back over his ears.
Moving slowly toward the door, still replaying the last few seconds over and over inside your mind, you let your gaze wander around Ilia's room, trying to memorize every little detail that daylight now revealed so much more clearly than the darkness had the night before. Star Wars figurines stood guard across the shelves beside stacks of geography books; framed photographs captured a tiny Ilia smiling on the ice; there was even a cartoon portrait commemorating the competition where he'd landed his first quad Axel, while skateboards lined the walls in neat display — somehow escaping your notice the previous night entirely.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing when your eyes landed on his name, spelled out in oversized decorative letters mounted proudly above the closet door.
The contrast was nothing short of bewildering. You couldn't wrap your head around the fact that an Olympic medalist, a two-time — perhaps soon-to-be three-time — World Champion, a record-breaker, someone so influential and revered within the skating world, slept in a bedroom that looked as though it belonged to an overgrown toddler, squealed with delight over video games like an excitable little kid, and meticulously filled sticker albums with soccer players.
Ilia Malinin possessed an astonishing number of different selves. And you couldn't help wondering what other versions of him still remained hidden beneath the surface.
Guided by little more than instinct, you wandered quietly through his house on the balls of your feet. With every step, your unease grew, fueled by the nagging fear that his parents might actually be home after all, and that you would have absolutely no believable explanation for your presence. Finding the bathroom proved surprisingly easy. You never ventured upstairs, convinced that Liza's bedroom — and Tatiana's and Roman's — were up there, while the downstairs hallway held only two doors, the first opening into the laundry room.
You paused in the doorway. A dark suitcase lay sprawled open across the floor, Ilia's skates tossed carelessly inside alongside a heap of wrinkled clothes that, judging by their condition, hadn't been washed since he'd returned from Milan.
You shook your head in quiet disapproval. Not that you had any moral high ground. The bowl from your cereal was probably still sitting in Andrea's sink, the trash remained stubbornly unemptied, and you had no doubt you'd earn yourself another lecture for both.
You opened the second door and stepped into the bathroom, flicking on the light. The room was neat enough, save for a scattering of water droplets glistening across the tile floor and a small hand towel carelessly abandoned over the edge of the sink.
Suddenly, your jeans vibrated. Only then did you remember your phone was still tucked into your pocket. You pulled it out and glanced at the Instagram notification.
The moment you saw who had messaged you, shock crashed over you so violently that the phone slipped from your hand, landed squarely on your foot, and tore a loud curse from your throat.
Lucky for you, it hadn't hit the tiles instead. Tatiana probably would've murdered you if you'd smashed up her bathroom.
"BRO, YOU OKAY?!" Ilia squeaked from somewhere beyond the walls, evidently hearing you through his headset. His voice dripped with concern.
"Yup!" you shouted back, still grimacing as pain pulsed through your toes.
Muttering under your breath at your own spectacular clumsiness, you bent to retrieve your phone.
Speak of the devil. Only moments ago, you'd been dwelling on your former bandmates, and now one of them had decided — for reasons entirely beyond your understanding — to reach out.
imnotdean2004: hey 👋
You opened Instagram and tapped on the message that had arrived only seconds earlier. One hand lingered on the bathroom doorknob while you debated whether answering at all was a terrible idea.
Curiosity won; it always did. You locked the bathroom door, let your back slide slowly down against the wood until you were sitting on the cool tile floor, then finally began typing your reply.
your_username: no, i'm not writing 8 songs for your new album. Bye
The reply came almost instantly, as though Dean had never even left your shared chat. You let out a derisive snort, your lips tightening into a hard line as surprise settled over your features at what you'd just read.
imnotdean2004: c'mon, don't be like that 😭 i just wanted to see how you're doing
your_username: like shit
imnotdean2004: saw on Ilia Malinin's story that yesterday you played at The Hideout
Switching from your private conversation with Dean back to your home feed, you immediately saw that Ilia had, in fact, posted something — a rarity ever since returning from Milan. You tapped the circular icon of his story at the top of the screen, and a short video unfurled before your eyes: a fifteen-second clip he'd filmed during yours and Patrick's performance. He hadn't tagged you, yet your face was unmistakably visible, your voice carrying clearly through the recording.
Your fingers trembled as you typed:
your_username: okay? and?
imnotdean2004: you were really good. who's that drummer you were playing with? he's actually insane. dude's got potential
your_username: don't worry about him. and since when do u even follow ilia on ig? 🤨
imnotdean2004: i mean... he's an Olympian lol. the guy's famous. if he follows me back maybe i'll get some extra clout or smth
imnotdean2004: the real question is – since when are you hanging out with him? Girl, you literally hated him in high school.
your_username: none of your business. Fuck off before I block you.
imnotdean2004: alright, alright. i miss u
imnotdean2004: the band's just not the same without you.
your_username: then leave the band. simple as that 🤷
imnotdean2004: or u could apologize to Ian and Penny and come back.
your_username: after they lied about me, called me a slut, and destroyed my career? yeah. not happening.
your_username: you're better than them, Dean. leave.
He left you on seen.
The conversation with Dean was one thing, but what unsettled you far more was the story Ilia had posted — or rather, the consequences it would inevitably bring. On social media, you were public enemy number one; after the so-called ‘sex scandal’ with Ian, you'd lost thousands of followers, and in the first chaotic days after the controversy erupted, you'd even been forced to temporarily delete your accounts. Although a handful of people had remained on your side throughout the artificially manufactured, utterly fabricated conflict, you knew you were despised by Ian's and Penny's fans alike, so with a knot tightening in your stomach you hurriedly combed through Ilia's profile, anxious to see what people had made of a story that featured you so prominently.
It looked bad — far worse than you'd expected. It painted the picture of two close friends, of an Olympic champion showing up to support your gig, and it certainly didn't help that only a few days earlier you'd followed all of his accounts again.
It took barely any scrolling before the comments beneath his newest Instagram post began flashing across your screen like venom-tipped arrows.
BRO IS THAT Y/N ON YOUR STORY 💀 why are you slumming it with her 😭 go focus on Worlds instead
Address me.
OUT OF EVERY GIRL YOU CHOSE Y/N?! I swear I can't defend you anymore bro.
bet she's fucking him lol that's all she can do apparently
Problematic queen and king.
never liked you anyway, u r glazed af
seems that homewreckers stick together 🫠
The longer you scrolled, the tighter your stomach twisted into painful knots, your heart climbing relentlessly into your throat. Your own social media hadn't escaped the fallout either. You wisely stayed away from Twitter — people there were especially merciless. The newest comments beneath your latest TikTok were already more than enough.
First Ian, now Ilia? Bfr 😂
Girl, leave Ilia alone, he's way too good for u.
You like the attention SO much that now you're showing up with Olympians 😭 pathetic
So you're into figure skaters now?
Thankfully, before you could dig yourself into even uglier insults, your phone battery died, its screen fading into black.
As cruel and vulgar as the abuse aimed at you was, it barely stirred anything inside you anymore; you'd grown accustomed to carrying hatred the way sailors carried salt on their skin. But seeing that same venom spill onto Ilia's name hollowed something out inside your chest.
You weren't angry with him for posting the video — quite the opposite. If anything, the gesture had quietly flattered you. Long ago, Ilia had stopped sharing fragments of his private life with the internet, posting almost nothing besides figure skating and his cats.
You simply couldn't bear the thought of ruining the reputation he'd worked so hard to build.
In a world that had finally begun speaking out against misogyny in the media, somehow you had been left behind, forgotten in the dust. No one had wanted to hear your side. Perhaps if only Ian had spread those lies, someone might have stood up for you — but all it had taken was the false testimony of another woman, and your name had been condemned beyond redemption.
It didn't help that you'd always been known as the band's most arrogant — and meanest — member. That much, at least, was your own doing. You still believed you were an exceptional musician, and on that point, you had absolutely no intention of becoming humble.
With trembling hands, you slipped your dead phone back into the rear pocket of your jeans and drew several slow, deliberate breaths, trying to quiet the frantic pounding beneath your ribs. You hauled yourself off the floor and, through a haze clouding your vision, reluctantly faced the bathroom mirror; just as you'd expected, your makeup was utterly ruined. Dark, dried streaks of mascara — the unmistakable relics of last night's tears — shadowed the delicate skin beneath your waterline. You looked like misery given human form, a portrait painted in exhaustion and heartbreak, and yet only moments ago Ilia had looked at you as though you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Or maybe that had only existed inside your own head.
You were hungover, sleep-deprived despite having slept for hours, and your own traitorous feelings had begun weaving knots inside your mind that you no longer knew how to untangle. You were more lost than you'd ever been.
You had no idea what to do in the face of the tidal wave of hatred that had crashed over both of you. You refused to drag Ilia down with you, and so, your emotions splintering in every direction, you arrived at a decision that felt as sudden as it was inevitable. The sooner you prevented his reputation from being destroyed, the better. It was enough that you alone carried the crushing burden of being universally despised.
You had never hated anyone more fiercely than you hated Ian and Penny in that very moment.
Even though you were no longer part of the band, they still found new ways to haunt you, to grind you beneath their heels. First they'd destroyed your career, then your honor and your pride, and now they'd reached for the one thing that had barely begun to blossom — a fragile friendship with Ilia.
Refusing to look at your reflection any longer than absolutely necessary, you twisted the faucet open with a sharp, impatient jerk and bent over the sink. Icy streams lashed your burning cheeks. You cupped water in your hands and swallowed a mouthful, then another, and another. It did nothing to soothe the wild stampede beneath your ribs, and the thought of ending whatever this was between you and Ilia before you ruined his life too lingered stubbornly in the back of your mind.
You were a walking disaster at this point.
In the end, common sense prevailed. Before you could rethink your decision or surrender to the selfish part of yourself begging you to stay, you hurried back toward Ilia's room.
You found him exactly as you'd left him: hunched over his computer, still playing Geometry Dash, laughing at something Jacob had just said. He was so completely absorbed in the new level that he didn't even notice you step back inside.
"Hahaha, yooo, sick."
You knew your temper. You knew exactly how this was going to end. Even so, you drew one slow, steadying breath, already certain of what you were about to do.
"Hey, dickhead." You tapped him on the shoulder and, without warning, pulled his headphones off. "Explain this." You pointed toward the phone lying beside his keyboard, its keys glowing faint, red light.
Still seated, Ilia slowly turned with his chair until he was facing you, yet his eyes wandered somewhere over your shoulder, as though they were afraid to meet the storm gathering in yours. He looked utterly bewildered.
Something tightened painfully in your stomach, and for a fleeting heartbeat your anger softened. The remorse that flickered across your face died almost as quickly as it had appeared. A second later, you fixed him with a look sharp enough to draw blood. He never even noticed it.
"What the hell, Y/N?!" he blurted, his voice tangled between genuine confusion and wounded indignation at your sudden explosion. "Explain what? I seriously don't know what you're talking about."
Jacob's triumphant yell burst through the discarded headset.
"I knew it wasn't Liza!"
Ilia shot to his feet so abruptly that the chair rolled backward across the floor, then hastily closed Discord, abandoning his friend without so much as a single word of explanation.
“Why did you record me and Patrick and put it on your Instagram story?” you demanded, pouring every ounce of fury you could muster into your voice. “Did you even ask for my permission? Y'know, consent to share someone's image and all that shit, does that ring a bell?”
Ilia's gaze darted away.
“Well... you guys played really well, so I thought…”
“Thought what?” you cut him off before he could finish, desperate to end this as quickly as possible because you knew that if the argument dragged on any longer, you'd be the one who broke first. “That you'd swoop in like some fairy godmother and save me? The great Ilia Malinin is gonna rescue the doomed rock star's reputation? Why the hell would you think I want people associating me with you?” The words spilled from your mouth like broken glass. “Delete it. Now.”
You didn't mean a single word you'd just said. Not one.
But you gave nothing away.
Your ears rang with the deafening thunder of your heartbeat, your entire body prickled with static as though lightning had settled beneath your skin. Across from you, Ilia flushed crimson — part shame, part anger. His hands trembled almost imperceptibly, his breathing turned shallow, and panic blossomed inside his chest like frost spreading across glass. He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to run.
“Well... no,” he answered at last, his mouth settling into an unhappy line.
“Delete it, Malinin,” you growled. “I fucking mean it.”
The fire burning in your eyes bored into him with such ferocity that, almost involuntarily, Ilia took a step backward. You parted your lips as if another blow was waiting to be delivered, but the words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat.
“What is your problem? Are you scared Penny and your friends are gonna see you hanging out with me?”
Rage surged through you. The thought that he still believed you cared about those people made your blood boil. You couldn't have cared less about some backstabbing, talentless idiot who, in her entire life, had never managed to produce a single thoughtful idea, whose weed-fried brain was nothing more than a murky abyss whose depths, paradoxically, contained absolutely nothing but sludge.
“Maybe,” you lied, betraying both yourself and everything you truly felt, punctuating the word with a careless shrug. “Just delete it, goddammit!”
Your reaction only deepened the irritation flickering across his face, and your hostility awakened something equally stubborn inside him — the instinct to finally stand his ground. He stepped toward you, circling until he'd blocked the doorway, cutting off your escape from his room.
“Oh my God, stop yelling at me, alright?!” This time, it was he who met you with a cold, lingering stare. “You're actually unbelievable.” A bitter scoff escaped him. “No wonder nobody likes you. Keep acting like a bitch, and you're gonna end up completely alone.” He broke off, dragging his fingers through the short, messy strands of his hair. “I shouldn't have come when you asked me.” His voice cracked with frustration. “I'm so stupid.”
“Finally,” you replied with poisonous satisfaction, “you admitted it. Now get out of my way. I'm in a hurry.” Your jaw tightened. “I need to get my purse and bass guitar back. And for fuck’s sake, delete the damn video.”
You tried to shoulder past him. The collision was light, but it was enough. His patience snapped like a violin string stretched too tightly. His hand shot out, firm around your upper arm, and with one decisive pull he stopped you in place. The unexpected force behind the gesture made you instinctively flinch, your shoulders curling inward.
Ilia looked ready to erupt. His pale brows drew together in anger, a faint vein surfacing near his hairline, throbbing with barely restrained fury. You wrenched yourself free from his grip.
“I'm so fucking tired of fighting with you.” Exhaustion crept into his voice, dull and heavy, as though every argument you'd ever had had settled inside him. “Why do you keep treating me like shit? I know you don't like me because of... well, everything that happened in high school, but that was, what, four years ago? I told you I was sorry.”
You had no answer, so you reached for the oldest one you knew.
“I don't care how many years ago it was.” Your eyes hardened. “You were still a dick.”
“Like you were some kind of saint,” he shot back, his words edged with equal bitterness. “We were fucking teenagers, Y/N. I said stupid shit, you said stupid shit — it doesn't matter anymore.” He shook his head, disbelief clouding his expression. “I thought we'd finally, like, cleared all that up.”
You laughed. It was dry, artificial. The sound resembled a flock of black birds tearing through an empty sky. Humility had never belonged to your nature, and admitting your own faults was a language you still refused to learn.
“Of course it fucking matters!” you snapped. “Besides, I was bored, wasted, and desperate, that's why I texted you. It wasn't some huge deal, Malinin. Did you seriously think I was nice to you because I actually liked you?” You laughed again, harsher this time. “I was drunk as hell. That's it.” The tension between you stretched until it felt ready to tear the room apart, and somewhere along the way you'd both forgotten what the fight had even been about. “Jesus fucking Christ,” you muttered, your voice dripping with contempt. “You seriously live in some fantasy land.” You looked at him as though he were someone infinitely distant. “I almost feel sorry for you.”
The look that crossed Ilia's face made you regret your words the instant they left your mouth, but there was no reaching after them now, no gathering them back before they'd done their damage. His forehead furrowed, his expressive eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly, and his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, the corners sinking downward beneath a weight they could no longer bear. You had seen that exact expression only once before — on the ice in Milan, after the final notes of his four-minute free skate had faded into silence.
“So... you just use people whenever you feel like it?” he asked quietly, no longer able to look you in the eye. He sounded defeated. “And I really thought you'd changed.”
Those few words alone were enough to push you to the brink of emotional collapse. More than anything, you wanted to sink onto the floor and cry.
If someone had told you only a few days earlier that you'd end up feeling guilty after arguing with Ilia Malinin, you would've laughed in their face. Now it felt as though every cruel word you hurled at him had ripped another piece of your heart clean out of your chest.
This time, you were the villain. Or perhaps you had been all along.
“Yeah, well...” Your voice, paradoxically, softened, melancholy bleeding through every syllable. “I'm just as awful as I was in high school.” You swallowed. “And you're still just as dumb.” You had to leave. Immediately. “Adiós, quad flop.”
“And people say I'm the egotistical, rude asshole,” he muttered bitterly beneath his breath, a humorless scoff escaping him. “Honestly? Maybe they're right. I am rude when I'm in a bad mood...” He shook his head. “But clearly they've never heard you talk.”
“Clearly.”
Without another unnecessary word, you walked out of his room, your head bowed like someone returning from a battle they'd never stood a chance of winning, refusing to look back.
You were still wearing the oversized hoodie he'd lent you to sleep in. Its familiar scent wrapped around you like a ghost. Your eyes filled with tears. Never in your life had your heart hurt this much — not when the band had thrown you out, not when Ilia and his friends had laughed at you online, not even when Patrick had spilled juice all over your nearly antique copy of Rolling Stone with John Lennon on the cover.
This time, you were your own executioner. You had inflicted this wound yourself.
For once in your life, you'd tried not to be selfish, tried to do something for someone else's sake, and somehow you'd still managed to sound like the world's greatest egotist, someone who, instead of protecting Ilia, had only succeeded in hurting him.
Apparently, that was all you knew how to do. Leave ruin in your wake. Start fights. Break people. Disappoint them. Maybe your mother, Penny, and all those former fans hadn't been wrong about you after all.
As you stepped out of the Skorniakov-Malinin house, it felt as though you had willingly descended into the Ninth Circle of Dante's Inferno. It was no coincidence that at the very heart of Hell stretched the frozen lake of Cocytus — the eternal symbol of betrayal in its purest, most unforgivable form — for its glacial stillness echoed with unsettling perfection both the merciless betrayal you'd committed against Ilia and the bleak March sky hanging over the world, as cold, silent, and merciless as the guilt slowly entombing your heart.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
At first, you were relieved that Ilia had left for the Czech Republic so quickly. Ever since the night you spent in his room, your pathetic drunken spiral into existential despair, and the spectacular argument you'd picked over one stupid Instagram story, you had been far too embarrassed to face him. You suspected he wasn't exactly eager to run into you either. If he'd merely disliked you before, now he had every right to hate you with his whole heart.
Besides, you had other disasters demanding your attention.
After missing your job interview at the bakery, getting into a fight with your aunt over taking out the trash, and enduring a painfully uncomfortable phone call from Sophie's mother — who had discovered your rather infamous musical career along with the scandal attached to your name, decided you were a disgraceful role model for her daughter, and promptly fired you — you wanted nothing more than to crawl into a snake's den and never emerge again.
You worried constantly about your future, which seemed to grow darker with every passing day, and you stood only a single step away from declaring open war on your mother; you were convinced she had orchestrated your dismissal as Sophie's nanny. Deep down, you knew your instincts were right. The moment your dear mother learned you'd returned to Virginia, she'd undoubtedly rushed to mention to your employer exactly what an irresponsible, crazy junkie her daughter supposedly was.
And although, during those first few days after Ilia's departure, those catastrophes occupied nearly every waking thought, it took only a single photograph of him posing beside a group of fans outside the Stages Hotel — one that flashed across your Instagram feed — to awaken the guilt you'd been trying so desperately to smother.
He looked heartbreakingly sad.
The comments beneath the photo blamed exhaustion, the crushing pressure of competing for the first time since the Olympic disaster, and the weight of everyone's expectations, yet you couldn't shake the terrible feeling that you'd had a hand in that sorrow yourself.
You had been unbelievably cruel to him. And you'd done it for one reason only: beneath the carefully constructed image of a fearless, untouchable woman lurked a coward who couldn't bring herself to tell the truth.
You didn't even bother pretending otherwise anymore. You couldn't convince yourself you'd been justified, nor could you lie that none of it had affected you. It had, far more than you wanted to admit.
In a feeble attempt to ease the guilt clawing at your conscience, you decided to watch his performance at the World Championships, despite the fact that it demanded a level of divided attention bordering on impossible.
As fate would have it, precisely when the final three groups of skaters stepped onto the ice at Prague's O2 Arena, you were busy looking after Sean.
Fortunately, you were clever enough to solve that problem with minimal effort. Instead of making Sean pancakes for breakfast and forcing him through another math worksheet, you simply took him to Patrick's and his dad's music shop, stopping for hot dogs on the way — because who exactly decided that was murder for your liver? Probably some smug doctor who'd never known happiness.
Sean required remarkably little convincing. All you had to do was promise that, in exchange for keeping quiet around his parents, you'd let him have pizza for dinner (again, who decided pizza was unhealthy?) and extend his computer time by another two hours that evening.
You couldn't be entirely sure Sean wouldn't rat you out anyway, but you were putting your faith in junk food's unmatched powers of persuasion. At the moment, the kid was your only source of income, and you were gambling quite a lot by neglecting his education and dragging him all over town instead, but for Ilia — you were willing to take that risk.
God. You sounded like some hopelessly lovestruck teenager.
Except you weren't in love. You didn't even like him. You just wanted to feel a little less like an awful human being after snapping at him and calling him every name under the sun immediately after he'd gone out of his way to help you.
“This thing is so freaking long and boring,” you complained, staring blankly at the tiny screen of your phone, where the live broadcast from Prague flickered before your tired eyes. “I'm literally gonna fall asleep. At least hockey players beat the crap out of each other. They knock rivals's teeth out. These guys just... glide around the ice, jump every once in a while, fall over, and everyone still claps. I seriously don't get it.”
You sincerely hoped nobody besides Patrick and Sean had heard that. If those words ever reached figure skating Twitter, you'd end up even more cancelled than you already were for allegedly destroying Ian's and Penny's relationship.
“Then why are you even watching it?” Patrick asked.
“I'm waiting for Ilia,” you replied, irritation creeping into your voice as yet another ice resurfacing break interrupted the competition before the final twelve skaters.
You'd never actually watched an entire skating competition before and had no idea they lasted this absurdly long — more than five hours. You regretted waking up at the crack of dawn and turning on the livestream from the very first group, but you figured it was a fitting form of penance.
Besides, there was a first time for everything.
“So figure skating in general is boring, but Ilia's skating isn't?” Patrick pressed, watching you curiously from behind a shelf of classical records while absentmindedly dusting it with a feather duster.
“Yup, something like that.” You shrugged. “Bro, don’t expect too much from me. I'm just a simple viewer who doesn't know shit about figure skating.” You pointed lazily at the screen. “I see a backflip — I’m interested.”
“Right.” Patrick rolled his eyes dramatically. “Interested in the backflip. Sure.” He snorted. “So that's the only reason you're watching Ilia? Because he does backflips?”
He paused just long enough for the grin spreading across his face to become deeply concerning. “Definitely not because you've secretly got a crush on him... and because his ass looks insanely good in those costumes.”
“Whose ass looks insanely good in a costume?” Sean piped up, finally looking away from the Rubik's Cube he'd been obsessively solving.
Heat rushed straight to your face. You shot Patrick a glare cold enough to freeze hell over.
“Oh, fuck off, Pat. Worry about your own ass.” Then you pointed accusingly at Sean. “And you, you little gremlin — quit eavesdropping.” You groaned dramatically and buried your face in your hands. “Will both of you just leave me alone?”
Sean found your outrage and frustration absolutely hilarious. The Rubik's Cube had apparently lost its appeal, because for the entirety of the fifth group's skate he did nothing but heckle you, tossing snide little comments your way whenever the opportunity presented itself. You shooed him off with an absent-minded wave of your hand and told him to occupy himself with something remotely productive if he wanted any chance of playing computer games that evening. Sean dramatically lowered his head in defeat before disappearing between the towering shelves of vinyl records, leaving a trail of destruction in the wake of his sticky little hands.
You paid him no mind. Your attention remained utterly consumed by the broadcast as the men of the final group stepped onto the ice one after another, each introduced beneath the arena lights by the announcer's measured voice. The screen flashed from one skater to the next — Nika Egadze, Kevin Aymoz, Adam Siao Him Fa — and then, finally, Ilia appeared.
You shifted in your seat, and your heart immediately began hammering against your ribs. He looked focused, composed, and quietly confident, carrying himself with the effortless assurance of someone who had long since learned how to silence the deafening roar of expectation.
"So..." Patrick's voice drifted lazily through the shop. "I was thinking maybe next week we could play some Genesis at The Hideout. What d'you think?"
"Mhm," you murmured without truly hearing a single word he'd said.
The only thing that existed for you was Ilia as he glided through his warm-up laps. When he peeled off his athletic zip-up jacket, revealing the shimmering upper half of his costume beneath the arena lights, a smile escaped you before you could stop it.
Maybe the whole Viking outfit wasn't nearly as hideous as you'd insisted it was. Now that your blind, stubborn resentment had loosened its grip, you found yourself noticing more and more things about Ilia that you actually liked.
"Or Phil Collins," Patrick continued, clearly entertaining himself by teasing you while you weren't listening. "Another Day in Paradise. Or In the Air Tonight. I'll send you the bass tabs later tonight. You won't even have anything to play until halfway through the song. Plenty of time to shotgun a beer and smoke a cigarette."
"Yuppp. Sounds good," you answered absent-mindedly, biting down on your lower lip as nervousness wound itself tighter and tighter inside your chest.
The six-minute warm-up came to an end. Your nerves were already more frayed than they had ever been before walking onto any stage.
"And you're really gonna sit there and tell us you haven't fallen for him?" Patrick drawled. "You're such a liar."
That accusation, at last, pierced through the haze surrounding your thoughts.
"What?" you blinked, genuinely bewildered. You hadn't the faintest idea what had been happening around you. Your heart — and every wandering fragment of your attention — had been in Prague all along.
"This." Patrick tilted his head, fixing you with an infuriatingly knowing look. "You like Malinin, don't you?"
Entirely uninterested in Nika Egadze's skate — though you were fairly certain he was doing well — you slowly shook your head, all the while trying to murder Patrick with your eyes alone. Unfortunately, he had long since grown immune to your temperament, and intimidating him had become increasingly difficult over the years.
Besides, you couldn't actually kill him. You still needed him as your unpaid servant, your emergency wallet, and your future drummer, should you ever change your mind and decide to start another band.
If even Dean, with standards impossibly high and opinions sharper than broken glass, had recognized genuine talent in him, then perhaps the two of you really did have a future as musicians.
Provided you changed your image. And your surname.
"Did you smack that stupid, balding excuse for a head on something this morning or what?" you shot back. "Of course not. I despise him."
Not a trace of conviction accompanied the words. If anything, your answer only confirmed Patrick's suspicions. You could no longer hide your growing fondness for Ilia. Besides, you'd already betrayed yourself with the way you'd looked at him back at The Hideout. Patrick might not have been the brightest person on Earth, but he was observant, and he had an irritating talent for reading everything left unsaid.
"Right," he snorted. "And I'm Elvis Presley."
You rolled your eyes so dramatically they nearly disappeared into the back of your skull.
"As if. You wish."
Your playful sparring was shattered by a tremendous crash. The deafening clatter of vinyl records hitting the floor made you nearly drop your phone face-first onto the ground. You and Patrick whipped your heads around in perfect synchrony.
Sean was crouched between the shelves, clumsily gathering records off the floor before attempting to shove them haphazardly back onto the rack. Your gaze landed on the iconic black sleeve of, Back in Black by AC/DC clenched in his tiny hands, and your heart seized in horror.
"You dipshit, what have you done?!" Patrick barked, launching himself across the shop with all the grace of a goalkeeper making a desperate save before snatching the records away from Sean with righteous indignation.
"Hey!" you protested immediately. "Don't insult my source of income! Only I get to do that!"
Sean puffed out his chest proudly before sticking his tongue out at your drummer.
"Yeah, motherfucker. Watch who you're talking to."
A laugh burst from your lips the moment the profanity left the boy's mouth. Patrick, meanwhile, was considerably less amused. He glanced back at you over his shoulder with the expression of a man who had just identified the mastermind behind a mass homicide.
You merely offered an innocent shrug, your attention drifting back toward your phone screen, where Nika sat in the Kiss&Cry between two plush hedgehogs, waiting for his scores beneath the harsh brilliance of the arena lights.
"And you see what you've done?" Patrick returned the records to their proper places before throwing his hands into the air in theatrical despair. "You've taught a child to curse."
"And I'm proud of it," you shot back without a shred of remorse. "Besides, he would've learned sooner or later anyway. I bet every kid in his neighborhood swears like a sailor. Now both of you, shut up and get over here, Ilia's about to skate."
You beckoned them over with a lazy wave of your hand.
Patrick joined you reluctantly, while Sean had already discovered a brand-new source of entertainment: rummaging through a dusty box filled with old music magazines.
You shifted sideways to make room for Patrick beside you, and together, in rare silence, you watched Kevin's program set to Lady Gaga — which fascinated you far more than you would have expected — followed by Adam's performance.
The instant Ilia stepped onto the ice, your anxiety climbed to its highest peak, as though it were you about to perform before the thousands gathered inside Prague's arena. Without even realizing it, you grabbed Patrick's hand and squeezed hard enough to nearly snap his fingers.
"Damn," Patrick muttered, genuinely impressed. "That dude's got one hell of a fanbase."
You pressed your lips together, fighting with everything you had to suppress the smile threatening to bloom across your face. The next three minutes vanished almost before they had begun. You barely registered each of Ilia's jumps. One heartbeat blurred into the next until he struck his final pose, and the arena erupted into thunderous applause.
The moment he skated toward center ice and bowed, a shower of plush toys rained down around him — Toothless plushies, naturally, making up the overwhelming majority.
"Holy shit..." Your eyes almost sparkled as you watched him leave the ice and wrap his father in a tight embrace. "He did it."
"Well, obviously he did," Patrick replied with a grin. "He's the quad god, after all. And you, my dear..." He nudged your shoulder knowingly. "You've got the most obvious crush on him I've ever seen."
You shoved him with all your strength, nearly knocking him onto the floor.
"Shut the fuck up." You folded your arms, pretending to refocus on the broadcast. "And you'd better start practicing Keep Yourself Alive before our next gig. Roger Taylor's drumming on that track is an absolute masterclass."
Two more skaters remained after Ilia. You, however, wanted nothing more than to congratulate him immediately. Patrick talked you out of it, insisting you'd only come across as desperate. In the end, you waited another hour before finally messaging Ilia.
By then, you'd taken Sean out for ice cream at your old workplace. Carrie had already grown thoroughly sick of the sight of you and made it abundantly clear — for what felt like the hundredth time — that she had absolutely no intention of hiring you back.
Oddly enough, it didn't bother you in the slightest. You were still so overwhelmingly happy about Malinin's victory that even another rejection couldn't put a dent in your mood. You looked positively euphoric, as if someone had slipped pure sunlight straight into your bloodstream.
your_username: saw your short program
your_username: i don't know anything about scoring or any of that stuff, but you skated really well.
your_username: obvi... considering you broke your record or whatever.
your_username: anyway, good luck on Saturday. i hope you win.
None of your messages were even marked as seen, even though you'd noticed he was active. Maybe his DMs were overflowing with spam and yours had simply vanished beneath it. Or maybe he just didn't want anything to do with you anymore.
The thought settled inside you like bitter sediment at the bottom of a glass. You couldn't blame him. Instead of talking to him — of communicating like a normal adult — you had treated him horribly.
You hated how utterly fucked up you were.
The disappointment of being ghosted, however, faded faster than you'd expected.
A few hours after the short program, you found yourself sitting hunched on your bed, absentmindedly twisting the edge of your blanket between your fingers as you replayed every event of the day over and over in your mind, searching for some hidden logic that refused to reveal itself, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't quite understand why, for the past several minutes, you'd been staring into a pair of amber, feline eyes, wide and faintly frightened.
You honestly couldn't tell which one of you was more terrified.
It had been pure impulse, and you had always lived by your impulses. After Sean's parents returned and you happily entrusted him to people considerably more responsible than yourself, you met up with your aunt, and the two of you went grocery shopping together. As you were walking back toward Andrea's car, you noticed her.
A tiny ginger kitten.
She was curled into herself in the middle of an empty parking space, her ragged, rain-soaked coat clinging to her fragile body, staring up at the two of you with such heartbreaking sorrow that it stole the breath straight from your lungs. She looked homeless.
You couldn't even remember the exact moment you'd decided to pick her up. Though she weighed almost nothing, it felt as though you were lifting solid iron, your arms suddenly burdened by the astonishing weight of your own reckless decision.
And just like that, you'd adopted an abandoned cat.
Your gaze wandered across your room, submerged in soft darkness, searching for somewhere your newest companion might feel safe. You hadn't the faintest clue what kittens actually needed. You hoped the veterinarian — who, judging by Andrea's immediate warning in the car that she wasn't contributing a single cent to this venture, would undoubtedly cost you a small fortune — would explain everything tomorrow.
You could've asked Ilia. He had two cats, after all. But there was no way you were humiliating yourself even further by messaging someone who hadn't opened a single text you'd sent him that morning.
"So..." you whispered into the stillness of the night, awkwardly reaching out to stroke the kitten. She shrank away from your hand, still too wary to trust you. You narrowed your eyes. "You're not gonna scratch me... right?"
A tiny, uncertain meow answered you. You sighed. Easy enough.
Ilia had earned himself a little medal for the highest score in the short program. You, meanwhile, had somehow ended up with a cat to take care of. March, it seemed, had developed a rather peculiar talent for surprises.
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: 9,1k
author’s note: enjoy.. ;) ! 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 chapter contains sexual content, MDNI
The sun is spilling through the room when the familiar noises wake you up.
It’s Dusty gnawing at the door of her cage, high squeaks piercing the quiet room. Ilia is laying on his stomach next to you, his cheek squished against the pillow, his arm stretched out like he's searching for you. You don't realize it for a couple of seconds, shifting next to him and closing your eyes in hopes that Dusty will grow silent soon enough, but then it hits you. Your eyes widen. It's way past dawn and Ilia is still in your room, twisted in your sheets, peacefully sleeping next to you.
"Ilia," you whisper, leaning down to gently shake him, but it doesn't work. You glance at Dusty, who has grown even noisier after seeing you wake up, eager to get your attention. Looking at the door like Jace is about to burst in at any second, you swallow, shaking Ilia with a little more force. "Dammit, wake up!"
His eyes flutter open, his eyebrows knitting in confusion and his mouth slightly agape as he squints up at you. There are faint creases on his cheek, his lips are slightly fuller, and his blonde hair is all messy. The sight is so beautiful that it makes your chest tighten.
"What's wrong?" he mumbles in a groggy voice, laying his head back on the pillow so softly that you can't even find it in yourself to scold him. His eyes snap shut tight again. "It's so early."
"You promised to go back to your room."
"But your bed is so comfy," he sighs, rolling over onto his back and rubbing his eyes. He looks up at you, realizing from your tone that it's serious. "Actually, I've always wanted to sleep in it. It's so soft and cozy. And the sheets smell so nice."
"It's not the sheets. It's the Victoria's Secret body mist."
"So it's you," he grins, sitting up as he extends his arms to trap you in a hug. You push him off with a smile, trying to maintain a strict expression.
"Go back to your room."
"It's a Sunday morning and Jace usually sleeps until, what, 1 p.m. or 2 p.m.?"
"It's not a risk I'm willing to take."
"Fine," he exhales, pursing his lips as he gets up. He glances at Dusty, who has grown quieter, her curious eyes fixed on the two of you. Her tiny hands are clutching the bars, her expression so innocent and sad that it softens you. You crouch down to finally take her out. "Aww, Dusty… Wait, don't let her out yet!"
His voice rises, but it's way too late. She's already out, your fingers dug into her soft fur as you gently scratch her. You turn toward him, a playful smile dancing on your lips as you pad over.
"Don't you wanna pet her?"
"Wasn't I supposed to leave?" he tries to joke.
You roll your eyes at his defensiveness. It's been years and he still isn't used to Dusty's company, which is a bit annoying. "Overcome your fear and hold her."
"I do not fear her," he insists, but the tone of his voice and the reluctant way he caresses her fur say the exact opposite. You nudge her into his hands and he almost drops her, his hands shaking. Surprisingly, Dusty doesn't try to wriggle free from his touch. "She feels so… warm."
"Isn't she cute?"
"Very much," he grins, cradling her in his arms like she's one of his cats. "Just like the owner."
Then, he proceeds to smack a loud kiss onto your cheek, the heat rushing to your face at the innocent affection. You make him let Dusty go, gently pushing him out of your room while promising him that you'll meet him down in the kitchen for breakfast.
As you start making your bed, you spot a crumpled tissue laying on the nightstand. A stupid smile plasters itself across your face as you recall the night before, a familiar, electric feeling settling deep in your stomach.
"Did you get back with your ex?"
"Ew, no."
"Then what has gotten you giggling like that?"
You squint at Allie, who is spinning in her chair, an almost stupid smile plastered on her face as she types out a response on her phone, her nails clinking against the screen. She’s never been much of a texter—especially not someone whose face lights up with every single notification—until recently. It makes you wonder if it has something to do with a boy, because in your experience, it always does.
"No one."
Her face suddenly turns serious, locking her phone as she straightens her spine. You don't press her, because you don't like it either when you're texting Ilia and others bring up your stupidly excited face. So far, only Ziggy and Cam know the truth, and you would've told Allie too if she didn't have a habit of speaking before thinking.
"Mhm, sure." You give her a teasing smile, your eyes snapping back to your phone as you feel her staring at you. A few seconds pass before she exhales, shaking her head. You stare up at her in confusion.
"Girl, fuck you," she rolls her eyes at you, taking you aback with her sudden outburst. "Acting like you've not been sneaking around with your brother's best friend."
"What the hell, Allie?!" You look around with a horrified expression, getting up from the floor and spinning her chair around so she's forced to face you. "Are you insane?"
"Me and the people on X, right?" She gives you an annoyed expression, referring to the discussion that's been going on Twitter for the last few days.
You hadn't intended it, but when you streamed on Twitch with Ilia, you ended up wearing that blue t-shirt that belonged to him. Never in a million years would you have expected the fans to dig up old pictures of him, realizing that the t-shirt you were wearing was the exact same as his. It was enough to spark a discussion, along with compilations of snippets from the stream where fans claimed it was a soft-launch. You'd be lying if you said the implications didn't flatter you.
"Oh wow, you don't even try to hide it anymore," she rolls her eyes once again, slapping your hand away when you try to tug on her braid. "Although I gotta say, I'm disappointed you didn't tell me sooner. You don't trust me?"
"Of course I do!"
"Then why didn't you tell me?!"
"Because you have a habit of speaking before thinking!" You slap a hand over her mouth, forcing her to shut up before the whole cafe hears about your secret affair. "Might as well take a mic and announce it publicly!"
She licks your palm. Your expression turns disgusted as you pull your hand away, quickly washing it under the tap water. Allie looks incredibly content with the outcome, her expression smug now that she has finally made you admit your secret out loud.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're gloating," you huff, wiping your wet hands on your apron. "It's your turn to spill."
"I'm not in love like you," she waves it off, trying to pass it off as something casual. But even if she insists otherwise, you know the look on her face and the change in her behavior. She's falling for someone.
It's 10 p.m. when Jace picks you up. It's raining nonstop as he drags your bike into the trunk, asking about Allie's absence. She had to leave fifteen minutes earlier to catch a ride from a friend, leaving Jace slightly disappointed that he didn't get a chance to flirt with one of your friends again.
It's evening when you get back home after going to the movies with Allie. You're not surprised to find Jace and his friends hanging out in the living room, Ilia having texted you prior that he would be coming over along with them. The table is cluttered with empty beer cans and snack packages, making you internally roll your eyes at their inability to clean up after themselves before they start playing.
Josh is the first one to notice you. He waves, a bright smile plastered on his face as he calls out your name. Out of all Jace's friends, he's your favorite.
Well, obviously after Ilia.
"Hey, everyone."
You smile at them, your eyes landing on Ilia just a fraction of a second longer than the others as his lips curl into a subtle smirk. Jace is too engrossed in the game to turn around and acknowledge you, playing Call of Duty on a television screen split into four squares. Ilia is the only one left out, harboring a dislike for the game just as you do.
"Ew," you can't help yourself, your face twisting into a disgusted expression. "Why do you all keep playing it? The latest versions suck."
"Says a girl who plays Valorant," Max chuckles, rolling his eyes. "You don't like it because it's harder."
You snort, a genuine laugh spilling out of your mouth, mirrored by the others—excluding Max himself.
"Bro, everyone who has played both games knows that COD is so much easier."
"Yeah! Like, in Valorant, you move a millimeter while shooting and your bullets end up in a different zip code," Josh chimes in, agreeing with his twin, Jack.
Jack glances at you from time to time with a weird expression you can't quite decipher. You refuse to look back at him, his comment from a month ago still leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
Jace yells at the screen, entirely on your side. "Yeah, my sister would clear you out in COD and she has barely even played it, you stupid shit."
"I'd like to see her try," Max challenges.
"Yeah, no thanks," you snort at him.
You turn to head up the stairs, planning to feed Dusty before Cam and Ziggy call. Tonight, the chances are high that you can finally rank up, and excitement bubbles up in your chest at the mere possibility. You reach the top of the stairs, stopping briefly to reply to Allie, when you hear Jace's voice break through the noise of the game, the sharp edge of annoyance instantly clear.
"Did you just stare at my sister's ass?"
You freeze. Your eyes widen in pure panic as you immediately imagine Ilia's horrified expression. Your palms go slick and sweaty against your phone as you lock the screen, but it's not Ilia's voice that replies.
"What?" Jack snorts, a defensive chuckle escaping his throat. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did. Your eyes followed her all the way up the stairs. Don't bullshit me."
"You're delusional, bro."
"I recognize that dirty look on your face," Jace's voice rises, his tone dead serious now. "Don't you dare try anything with her."
"Does that threat only apply to me?" Jack shoots back.
"What?" Jace’s voice sounds genuinely confused.
You grip the wooden staircase railing, unlike your brother acutely aware of exactly what Jack could be hinting at.
"You're the one ogling my sister," Jace snaps.
"Am I?"
"Bro, shut the fuck up and just own it," Josh intervenes, and you can practically picture him forcefully nudging his twin in the shoulder to shut him down.
"It applies to everyone in this room," Jace’s voice drops, cold and severe, sending a chill straight down your spine. You don't even want to imagine the look on Ilia's face right now. "She's off-limits. End of discussion."
No one dares to say another word. You stand frozen at the top of the landing for a full minute, physically unable to walk away, almost as if you're waiting for them to bring you up again. But the living room quickly and awkwardly changes the topic back to the game.
A moment later, Ilia loudly excuses himself to get a glass of water. Peeking through the banister, you catch the tense line of his jaw as he walks past the living room toward the kitchen. He doesn't look up, completely missing you standing there.
And later that night, long after the guys have gone home and you're laying in bed texting him in the dark, neither of you mentions a single word about it.
When Ilia sets off on his family cruise vacation, he leaves his cats with you. Since Jace is allergic to them—in the literal sense, not just because he’s a dog person—you have no choice but to temporarily evict Dusty to another part of the house. Instead, you help Ilia drag his cat tree into your room, setting up pillows and blankets to make them feel at home.
"Miu Miu usually likes to wake me up pretty early, so keep her out of the room if she starts doing that," Ilia explains, cradling Mila, the newest member of his quadcat family, in his arms. She is basically attached to him. Jace joked that it only took Ilia getting three cats for him to finally end up with one that didn’t hate him. "Mysti won't bother you. This little one might try to cuddle up to you, though."
"I feel like she's gonna be very sad when you leave."
"Yeah, please don't remind me," he exhales, pressing soft kisses onto Mila's head as she purrs warmly against his chest.
You smile at the sight, your heart threatening to burst with adoration. "You know, someone else is going to miss you, too."
"Yeah, I know," he smiles, his eyes subtly darting toward Mysti, who is already perched high up on the cat tree, staring out the window. "Secretly, she loves to cuddle me."
You look at him with a disappointed, raised eyebrow. Confusion washes over his face for a few seconds before the realization hits him, a wide grin breaking across his lips.
"I'm gonna miss you, too."
He leans in, placing soft kisses on your cheeks just like he did with Mila. The door is shut tight, and both of you know Jace has absolutely no interest in watching Ilia's cats settle into your room. You don't shy away from his touch, instead slipping your fingertips into his hair when his lips finally slide over yours.
"Make sure to send me pictures from the cruise."
"Of course," he looks at you like it's not even up for discussion. "I'll bore you with them."
"And make sure to put on sunscreen."
"Yes, ma'am."
Then, he has to leave, and you are left in the quiet company of his cats. You leave your bedroom door cracked open so they can wander out if they get bored, but Mysti and Miu Miu stay put on the tree, both of them fast asleep. Mila settles directly onto your stomach, her tiny body warm against yours. A comfortable drowsiness washes over you, and eventually, you close your eyes, too.
Ilia celebrates the 4th of July on the cruise, while you celebrate with your family at your dad's friend's house, leaving the gathering early with the excuse that you don't want to leave the animals alone at home for too long. Dusty has made herself comfortable in Jace's room, but she offers you even less affection than she rarely does anyway, your brother constantly joking that she's mad at you.
A week passes in a blur, and before you know it, he is back. He surprises you, picking you up after a late-night shift at the cafe. His nose is a little sunburnt, but overall he has kept his promise; the golden tan compliments his skin, almost shimmering under the dim streetlights.
"You look so good."
"So do you."
"My hair is a mess and I stink of coffee and cinnamon."
"I do find the smell comforting," he mumbles into your neck, pulling you flush against him one more time. "I brought you a present."
"From the cruise?"
You raise an eyebrow, following him to the car. He holds the door open for you, signaling for you to climb in as he carries your bike to store it in the trunk. You settle into the passenger seat that has gradually become yours, fixing your hair in the mirror in an attempt to look better for him—despite him already seeing you, and despite knowing that he doesn't care about a messy hair.
By the time he gets into the driver's seat, you have already texted your father that you're grabbing burgers with Allie, indicating that you will be home later than you usually are. Ilia stretches his hand toward the backseat and pulls out a thick book, the Sudoku grid illustration on the cover making you chuckle.
"You mentioned that you completed the one your father brought you."
"I did," you smile at him, leaning over to smack a loud kiss on his cheek to show your gratitude. "Thank you."
"Although Liza was a little suspicious that I was getting you a gift," he raises an eyebrow, exhaling at his sister's behavior like she’s giving him a hard time. "She said, and I quote, that I was being 'unusually generous.'"
"But you've brought me gifts before."
"Yeah, but I might've gotten you another gift, too," he grins, his smile on full display as your stomach basically flips upside down. "I guess two gifts is a bit suspicious."
"Aren't you gonna show me?"
"Won't you thank me first?"
"I already thanked you," you raise an eyebrow, anticipating exactly where this is going. "Wasn't it sufficient?"
"No, the second gift requires more than a kiss on the cheek."
You huff, rolling your eyes, but you still lean in. You capture his lips with yours as you close your eyes, hearing him sigh in pure bliss. His fingertips slip into your hair, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning over the center console. His hands grip your hips as you settle into his lap, his fingertips tracing your bare legs.
"I told my dad I was staying out with Allie," you breathe out, sweeping your eyes over his face as a small smirk turns up his lips. "We don't have to go back yet."
"Good. I wasn't planning to."
He kisses you again, harder this time, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt as his tongue slides into your mouth. It's all too much and still not enough. You want nothing more than to let him peel your clothes away when he cups your breast through your thin bra, but you're in the car. Even though the street is dead quiet, thinking of doing anything more here is insane.
"Ilia," you pull back, your chest heaving up and down. His mouth is glistening as he furrows his eyebrows, sensing the slight panic in your voice. You lick your lips, swallowing hard so you can even out your breath.
"What is it?"
"What's my second present?"
He stares at you for a fraction of a second, and then his face breaks out into a wide smile. He rolls his eyes, not even slightly mad about the interruption. You climb off his lap and slide back into your own seat, turning your whole body toward him so you can just stare at him as he talks about whatever comes to mind, simply because you've missed him so much.
"A couple of days ago my manager called me," he starts explaining, licking his lips as he drags out the words, giving you the impression that he's trying to gauge your reaction to whatever he’s about to say. "You know, after the Olympics, I've been getting quite a lot of offers."
"You just had to quickly brag about it, huh?"
"Absolutely," he grins. "And this one might be the best one I have ever received."
"Is it a Dior partnership?" Your eyes practically sparkle with excitement, shifting in your seat so you can lean in closer to him. "Is it a Calvin Klein ad?"
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head like you've said something impossible. "I don't think anyone wants to see me in a Calvin Klein ad."
"I do."
"Well, we can arrange something. You don't need Calvin Klein for that."
"Okay, now spill," you tug at his arm, completely impatient for the news. "What is it?!"
"I got invited to a movie premiere."
"Oh! Which one?"
"Spider-Man."
He says it like he’s testing the waters. It takes you a couple of seconds to process, and then your eyes widen, your mouth left slightly agape as he chuckles at your reaction.
"Oh my god."
"Yeah."
"Oh my god, you're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," you laugh, unable to control your excitement. "That's insane."
"We're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," he corrects gently, the playful smile on his lips turning incredibly soft.
You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you stare at him.
"They said I can bring a plus-one," he says, his blue eyes holding yours with absolute certainty. "And of course I'm taking you with me."
For a moment, your heart beats so hard and fast it feels like it's bruising your ribs. A cold rush of panic and dizzying excitement sweeps through your veins, leaving your palms sweaty.
Sensing the silent shock taking over your body, Ilia reaches out and slides his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand tightly between his warm palms to ground you.
"Yeah," he whispers, his grin widening. "We're going to London."
"Shut up," you shake your head, tears instantly prickling the backs of your eyes. You squeeze your eyelids shut, refusing to let the words sink in because it feels like a dream you're about to wake up from. "No way. Ilia, don't joke."
"Yes way."
And then, even though you try not to, tears of pure excitement escape your eyes. He laughs softly, pulling you against his chest while you sob into his shirt, scolding him for making fun of you during a moment like this.
No one is surprised to learn that Ilia chose you to take to the premiere.
Jace is actually more excited about it than you are—having absolutely no clue what this three-day getaway in London could turn into behind his back.
In a week, you leave for London. Betty covers your shifts at the cafe without making a fuss, even though Allie is away on vacation, too. Jace is the one to drive you both to the airport, and he's the very first one to text you asking for updates every few hours.
You end up sharing a hotel room with Ilia, but even that doesn't come as a surprise to your brother. Jace instantly assumes that Ilia is the one sleeping on the couch. You silently agree with him, sharing a brief, knowing glance with Ilia as you both press your lips together to keep from laughing.
"It's so comfy," Ilia sighs, jumping onto the king-sized bed and burying his head in the pillows. He closes his eyes with a content groan. "Come here."
"Comfier than mine?"
"Come and find out."
The mattress dips beneath your weight as you climb onto it, settling next to him with a soft smile stretching across your face. He immediately slides his arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he drapes his leg over yours, anchoring you to him.
"What if we nap for a while?" he mumbles into your neck. "Then we can grab some breakfast and explore the city. Around evening, the stylists will come by so we can choose our looks, do the fittings, and get them tailored if needed."
"After ten hours of travel, of course I want to sleep."
"Good."
He nuzzles his head deeper into your shoulder, his arm locked securely around your waist as his fingers lace with yours. His breath falls softly against your skin. You close your eyes and finally let sleep take over—this time with no rush, no alarms, and not a single trace of worry in your bones.
People in London don't pay attention to you. In the busy crowd, you're able to hold his hand in public, kiss him on the streets, and just be together like you're meant to.
You end up choosing the black dress, the rhinestones adorning the structured corset sparkling under the lights. It matches his suit perfectly, and your breath hitches in your throat when you see him fully dressed for the first time.
Although it's not his first time walking a red carpet, he's not entirely used to the madness either. His palms are sweaty when he takes your hand and leads you toward the crowd. You're incredibly anxious, feeling so many eyes on you, feeling out of place in a glamorous lifestyle that everyone else seems to blend into so easily. But he squeezes your hand tightly and reassures you, his smile so comforting that it immediately eases your panic.
"And what if I kiss you right now?" he murmurs, his voice teasing, his eyes edged with a soft admiration as he gazes at you.
"Jace will gouge his eyes out when he sees the pictures."
"You're so beautiful, it's criminal not to do anything," he sighs, keeping his hand resting on your lower back. It's respectful and casual, but enough to show everyone that you've come together and you're with him. "I'm gonna backflip into misery."
You laugh, and then the photographers start shouting his name. You don't know which camera to look at, and for a whole thirty seconds you hold your breath and try to smile despite the panic fluttering inside, but his arm is secure around your waist and it's more than enough to ground you.
A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you finally walk into the lobby. It's free of flashing cameras and excited shouts, and people are already talking, sipping champagne as they chat away. Ilia is introduced to some people, and you stand beside him, awkwardly looking at them while they talk, occasionally answering whatever they happen to ask you too, though you don't have much to contribute to the conversation.
The spider-web-garnished cocktails catch your eye, and you instantly hurry over to try them, Ilia waiting to take a sip from your glass because he's convinced he won't like it.
"It's… decent," you try not to wince, offering him a sheepish smile as you hand it over. "It's sweet."
"Your face says otherwise."
"I fear they don't serve apple juice here, Ilyusha."
"Stop making fun of me," he nudges you with a teasing smile, leaning in close. He whispers something to you, and your eyes widen as you look in the direction he points—Tom and Zendaya are walking in.
"I'm gonna faint."
"Don't."
"I'm not leaving this theater until I get a photo with them."
"You will."
He reassures you, chuckling at your enthusiasm that almost resembles panic. You don't get a chance to talk to them right away, and by the time you get close enough, you have to head inside to watch the movie, your seat assigned right next to Ilia's. Throughout the whole movie your eyes are fixed on the screen, and he keeps looking over to make sure you're doing okay, happy just watching you have a great time.
Before you leave for the night, you excuse yourself to the restroom. You can't help but laugh at your reflection staring back at you from the mirror because you look almost ridiculous with the wide smile on your face. But because you aren't used to wearing high heels, your feet are slowly starting to give out. You wince as you slip one shoe off to fix a band-aid that already has a blood stain on it. You dig into your purse only to find it completely empty of what you need—your phone, a mini lipstick, and mascara are taking up all the space.
You groan, almost burying your face in your hands before remembering you can't ruin your makeup. "Oh, great!"
"Need some help?"
You freeze at the familiar voice. You look up with wide eyes to find Zendaya staring at you with a warm smile. The words die in your throat, your palms going sweaty as you nervously chuckle and mumble something almost too incoherent. She doesn't mind your awkwardness at all, offering you some band-aids and chatting away with you while she fixes her makeup in the mirror. Your heart is almost bursting out of your chest. She compliments your dress, and her warm, down-to-earth energy makes you feel instantly welcome.
When you finally step back out, Ilia is waiting.
"What took you so long?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern as he leads you out of the lobby so you can head back to the hotel to change for the afterparty.
You grin, clutching his arm tightly. "I just talked to Zendaya," you gush, your voice full of pure admiration. "And she told me my dress looks beautiful!"
"It's not the dress, it's you."
"That's not the point!"
He laughs, letting you tell him all about the restroom encounter for the entire ride back.
Once you're back in the quiet sanctuary of the hotel room, the transition is quick and intimate. He stands behind you, his warm hands helping you zip up the short, sleek dress you've chosen for the afterparty, and in return, you help him restyle his hair, running your fingers through the strands that have become messy from the London wind.
The afterparty is louder, warmer, and much more relaxed. The room is bathed in low lighting with a heavy bass vibrating through the floor. Without the cameras and the formality of the red carpet, everyone is just themselves, having fun.
You and Ilia slide into the crowd easily, and the highlight of the night comes when you run into Zendaya again near the lounge area—only this time, Tom is right there with her. She recognizes you and to your surprise both of them recognize Ilia, your boyfriend blushing when they highlight his talent. The four of you stand together for a few minutes, chatting casually about the movie and how much you're enjoying London, before you finally get the group photo you've been hoping for all night.
Once they wave goodbye and head back into the crowd, you stare at the picture on your phone in sheer disbelief, while Ilia just laughs, pulling you flush against his side with a quiet "told you so" smile.
It's midnight when you return to the hotel, both of you still giggling as you stumble into the dark room. Your feet are aching from wearing heels for the entire evening, forcing you to lean heavily against Ilia's arm as he leads you inside. Before he even flips the bedside lamp on, casting a soft, warm glow across the room, you have already kicked off your shoes. You pad across the carpet and sprawl across the bed, letting out a long sigh of relief.
"It was the best night of my life," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, still entirely starstruck as the memories rush through your mind. "It literally feels like a dream."
You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking over at Ilia. He is already unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, watching you with a soft, quiet smile that feels infinitely more intimate than anything on the red carpet. Sliding off the mattress, you reach behind your back to pull down your zipper, but your fingers are trembling too much to get a grip.
Suddenly, the brush of his warm fingertips against your exposed spine makes you freeze.
"Let me help you," he murmurs.
His voice is low in the stillness of the room as he steps up behind you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you stand perfectly still, silently letting him.
The metal teeth of the zipper glide down with a soft hiss. You let the fabric of the dress slowly slip from your torso. As the cool air of the hotel room hits your bare skin, a shiver runs down your spine—your chest tightening not just from the temperature, but from the sheer anticipation of what is about to happen. You swallow hard, your palms growing slick at your sides as you slowly turn around to face him.
His gaze sweeps over your body, slow and reverent, before finally settling on your eyes. The warmth of his hands as he reaches up to cup your cheeks is almost overwhelming.
"So beautiful," he whispers.
He leans in, softly pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so incredibly gentle that your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting slightly as he begins to pepper slow, warm kisses down your jawline and the sensitive column of your neck. His hands slide down to grip your hips, pulling you close enough to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
You let him guide you back toward the edge of the bed. Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, helping him ease it off his shoulders until it pool on the carpet beside your dress. He gently coaxes you down onto the mattress, hovering over you as you map the line of his bare chest, your fingers gripping his biceps when his hand slides slowly, deliberately between your thighs. A soft, breathless moan escapes your throat.
"Ilia," you whisper his name. It feels like a plea, a quiet prayer, as a sweet, familiar heat begins to bloom in your stomach, igniting your skin everywhere he touches. "I've never done this before."
He pauses, his fingers stilling against you. His chest heaves up and down, matching the shallow, uneven rhythm of your own breath. He looks down at you, searching your face, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. There is an intensity in his blue eyes, a sudden, protective softness that makes the breath catch in your throat.
"Do you want to?" he asks softly, giving you space, making sure you feel entirely safe.
You look up at him, feeling more exposed and entirely perceived than you ever have before. But looking at the tenderness in his face, the fear melts away, leaving only a certainty.
"Yes," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. "With you."
A wide smile stretches across his face just before he leans in to kiss you again—much fiercer this time. He sweeps his tongue over yours, catching the breathless whimper that escapes your throat as his hands slide down your hips, hooking into the sides of your underwear and smoothing them down your legs. Your back arches against the mattress, your body reacting instantly to the direct, steady circle of his thumb. This time, you don't even try to hold back. You don’t smother the sounds or slap a hand over your mouth to hide them. Instead, you let him hear everything, shamelessly whispering his name against his lips as you wrap your bare legs tightly around his waist.
When the overwhelming peak finally washes over you, bringing tears of pure release to your eyes, he leans down to kiss them dry. He pulls back just enough to strip off his pants, and through your smudged mascara, you look up at him. Seeing his bare silhouette in the soft lamp light makes your chest tighten with a sudden ache. Biting your lower lip in quiet anticipation, you part your legs, welcoming him closer.
He settles between your thighs, tearing the small, square foil package open with his teeth. You watch him with quiet, curious eyes as he rolls on the condom. You swallow hard, trying to force your muscles to relax against the pillows, but your eyes drift to the ceiling as a sudden rush of nervous heat sets your veins on fire.
"Hey."
Sensing the sudden shift in your posture, Ilia gently traces his fingers along your jawline, coaxing your gaze back to his. His expression is calm and patient—a quiet anchor in the middle of all your thoughts.
"We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he promises softly. "It's okay."
"No, I am," you insist, shaking your head to clear the lingering doubt.
To prove it to him—and to yourself—you cup his face in your hands, pulling him down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Under the softness of his touch, any trace of anxiety washes away. You let him take a piece of you, giving yourself over to him completely. He is gentle with you, so careful and sweet, and it's everything you had ever wanted—everything you had spent years secretly dreaming of.
"So, does MJ get her memories back?"
"Do you want me to spoil the movie for you?" You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you look at Liza.
She is ecstatic to hear all about the premiere, making you recount every single detail over again even though you’ve already talked to her on the phone about it. Tatyana observes the scene with an amused expression, chopping chocolate for the cake Ilia has been requesting ever since before you two even got back. He is sitting at the table with you and Liza, but unlike you, he’s having a late breakfast after sleeping in, while you help his little sister bedazzle her figurines.
"I guess not," Liza says after a while, thoroughly contemplating the spoiler with a focused look on her face. "Was it better than No Way Home?"
"I mean... I was too excited when I watched it, so I don't think I can fairly criticize it without a rewatch."
"Fair enough."
"Aren't you guys gonna ask me for my opinion?" Ilia asks between bites, his voice muffled. All you can stare at is the smear of jam stuck to the corner of his lips. The sudden desire to reach over and wipe it clean off him—in a way that is not at all appropriate for the family kitchen—is almost ridiculous. "I was there too, you know."
"Do you even have enough vocabulary to analyze a movie?" Liza asks.
"Liza," Tatyana warns, shooting her a look to behave, even though she is desperately trying not to laugh. "What did we talk about?"
"Sure, Mom. I won't make fun of your loser son."
"This 'loser' attended a major movie premiere and you didn't," Ilia points out.
"Wait till I grow up," she bites back, an annoyed expression plastered on her face as she glares at her brother.
"I don't know what I did to deserve such a bratty attitude."
"It's a universal experience," you jump in, less to defend Liza and more to tease him. "Jace goes through the same thing every day. It's kind of like our job."
"I don't remember you being this mean when you were twelve."
"Well, I wasn't mean to you."
"Wonder why," Tatyana notes, amusement dripping from her voice.
You groan at her comment, burying your face in your hands in sheer embarrassment because you know exactly where this is going.
"I remember once you asked me what Ilia's favorite color was," Tanya continues, highly pleased with herself. "And then you made your dad buy you a dress in that exact color for the first day back to school. I think it was your second or third year?"
"Tanya, please stop."
Ilia is the only one laughing, a smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes lock onto yours. Liza rolls her eyes as if the story has personally offended her, huffing when she accidentally picks up the wrong color rhinestone.
You help Tanya decorate the cake while Ilia watches in silence, cradling Mila in his arms. Later, Jace comes over because it's a sweet occasion his appetite can't possibly miss. Once Tanya and Liza leave for practice, you’re stuck with the boys, finishing up the bedazzled F1 car figure Liza left for you to complete, trusting you with the fine details she doesn't quite trust herself with yet.
"Dude, did you see Jake Gyllenhaal?" Jace asks.
"Nope, he wasn't there."
"Aw, man. That's a shame," Jace sighs in disappointment, drumming his fingertips against the wooden table. "How was London, anyway? I didn't have time to properly chat with you two."
"Yeah, everything was great," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the tiny Ferrari logo. "Except the English breakfast, of course."
"I dunno, I liked it," Ilia shrugs.
"Well, you only ate the bacon, eggs, and tomatoes, Ilia."
"Did he keep you awake?"
Your head snaps up, glaring at Jace with a confused expression as a sudden jolt of panic surges through you. You don't dare look at Ilia, but you see his fork freeze halfway to his mouth. Jace notices your raised eyebrows and quickly offers a cover-up.
"Sometimes he snores so loudly."
"Literally, you're the one who snores," Ilia huffs, recovering quickly. "It's definitely not me."
"No, he doesn't snore," you agree, keeping your voice carefully casual. "I fear that's you, Jace."
"Well, then I don't see any other reason why you wouldn't enjoy the trip."
"Yep. I enjoyed everything... a lot."
To get a reaction out of him, you put a deliberate, slow emphasis on the last words, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. Only you and he know the heavy implication behind them. But his timing is horrible. Just as the words leave your mouth, he takes a sip of his juice and immediately chokes. His eyes widen, a fit of coughing overtaking him as Jace cluelessly pats him on the back, completely oblivious to what actually provoked the reaction.
Jace is about to say something, but his phone buzzes, and he’s immediately on his feet to take the call in the other room.
The moment the kitchen door swings shut, you let out a laugh. You reach across the table to fix his hair, offering him a playful, apologetic stroke of your fingers.
"You're cruel," he mutters.
"I'm sorry," you giggle, leaning in to press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek. "You should've seen your face. Thank god Jace wasn't looking at you."
"You know, I was thinking about it..." he starts, his expression turning serious, careful, as if he's trying to gauge your reaction. "I think it's time to tell him."
You don't reply immediately, a sudden wave of anxiety washing over you at the thought of what's to come once Jace finds out. He notices the instant shift in your mood, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand between his. His palms are warm, grounding.
"We can't keep hiding forever," he mumbles, looking at you with absolute certainty. "It's not fair to us. He's going to go a bit mental whenever he finds out, so we might as well save ourselves the time."
"He's going to hate you."
"I know."
"For a few weeks," a soft smile touches your lips, though it carries a trace of sadness. "But eventually, he'll understand... he has to."
"I'll tell him the second I get back from New York," he promises, lacing his fingers securely through yours. "He can rage at me all he wants. I don't want to hide you anymore."
"I don't want to either."
He leans in, stealing a quick, lingering kiss just before Jace walks back into the kitchen, resuming his conversation, completely oblivious to the shift that had occurred in his absence.
A few days later, Ilia sets off for the Sun Valley show, planned to travel directly to New York afterward for his magazine afterparty and the Time 100 Sports Gala. You patiently wait for him to return, your chest bubbling with a restless mixture of excitement and terror for the moment the truth finally comes to light.
"Pass."
"Bitch, how?" Allie rolls her eyes at you, personally offended that the attraction to the celebrity guy she's currently thirsting over isn't mutual. You simply shrug. "He is, like, so hot."
"Not to me."
"Why? Because he doesn't look like a twink who dyes his hair?"
"Oh, you cunt!" You tug at her wavy hair, slapping her hand away when she tries to do the exact same to yours.
Playing 'smash or pass' with Allie is a fun way to kill time—as long as you agree with her. The second you don't, she makes sure to drag Ilia into it, teasingly referring to him as either a low-testosterone man or a twink. You always roll your eyes, knowing she’s only jesting, but you still defend your ground. "Says the girl who is exclusively into alpha males."
"I am not!"
"Sure."
You give her a mocking smile. She opens her mouth to argue, but the soft chime of the front door bell interrupts her. Giving you one last annoyed look, Allie disappears into the kitchen, leaving you alone to take the order.
With a customer-ready smile already plastered onto your face, you turn toward the counter. But it falters for a fraction of a second when your eyes lock with hers.
"Hey!" Macy says your name, leaning over the counter to pull you into a brief side-hug.
You return it, giving her a tight smile. She is a sweetheart and has never actually done anything to earn your dislike—even though, sometimes, you desperately wish she would. Instead, you're just left with an unpleasant, heavy sinking in your stomach every time she walks into the cafe. Thankfully, it doesn't happen often, even though she lives just a few blocks away and this is technically her local spot.
It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable feeling to face the girl Ilia used to date for almost two years, especially now that you're secretly involved with him. You've hung out with her multiple times in the past because your friend groups forced it, and even though you two were never close and you don't owe her anything, it still feels like you’ve broken some unwritten girl code. It's a bitter, constant reminder that she once had the man you spent years quietly yearning for.
"Long time no see! How are you?" she asks warmly.
"I'm great, Macy." You smile, trying to sweep the ugly feeling aside. She really is beautiful, with her flawless porcelain skin and big, doe-like brown eyes. "Your new haircut looks great on you."
"Haha, thanks! I got bored and chopped it off myself a couple of days ago." She waves it off like it's nothing, even though her hair looks absolutely perfect and effortless—result you've never quite achieved even with the help of professionals. "Guess who missed the pistachio rolls?"
"Well, you arrived at the perfect time. They're fresh out of the oven."
You grab the bakery tongs, carefully choosing the fluffiest, most golden roll from the display. She watches with a smile as you place it into a cardboard box. "Would you like a flat white with that?"
"God, I wish," she sighs, burying her face in her hands. "But I'm trying to cut down on the caffeine. I've gone a bit off the rails lately."
"Haha, totally understandable."
"How's university going?" she asks after she pays, lingering at the counter. You find yourself wishing she would just take her box and go, but she keeps the conversation flowing. "You finished your first year, right?"
"Yep. Surprisingly, it went a lot smoother than I was prepared for."
"Of course it did, you're super smart," she says with a teasing nudge to your shoulder. "And how's Jace? I haven't seen him around in a while."
"He's a lot buffer than he used to be, but otherwise, he's exactly the same," you chuckle, rolling your eyes. "Annoying, I mean."
"I saw your photos at the Spider-Man premiere," Macy’s voice suddenly quietens, her tone shifting as if she is carefully navigating onto sensitive ice. "You must have been absolutely thrilled."
"Yeah," you smile, the memory of that magical night briefly warming you. "I really was."
"Good. You deserved it."
Macy hesitates for a second. You think she's finally about to leave, but she stays put, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the silver rings on her hand.
"How's, um… how's Ilia?"
"He's alright," you shrug, keeping your voice light and casual, desperately hiding the ugly twist of jealousy gnawing at your insides. "He's just preparing for the upcoming season."
"Of course he is," she chuckles softly, her eyes drifting to the floor.
There is a heavy pause. You get the distinct, terrifying feeling that she wants to say something she isn't quite sure she should. A cold trace of worry begins to spread through your veins.
"I actually saw him once since he came back from the tour," she says quietly.
The words land like lead, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. Your heart starts thumping violently against your ribs, your jaw tightening as you force yourself to keep breathing.
A smile touches Macy's lips, filled with something that looks painfully like regret.
"We, um… we tried to fix things. But it didn't work." She shrugs, giving you a tight, melancholy look.
You want to reach across the counter and slap a hand over her mouth—anything to make her stop talking. But you just stand there, completely frozen, pouring every ounce of your energy into keeping your face entirely blank.
"He came over at night. I think we both just needed to see if the spark was still there. We spent the whole night talking… well, not just talking." she chuckles and something twists deep inside your chest, a breath knocking out of your lungs as you grip the chair behind the counter, your hands digging into the leather. "But by the morning, it was clear we’ve just grown too far apart. I'm glad we had that one last night, though. It was a nice way to finally close the chapter."
She lets out a soft sigh, finally looking up at you with those big, innocent brown eyes, completely unaware of the heavy, suffocating feeling pressing down on your chest. Macy doesn't seem to notice the way the air has left your lungs.
"Anyways, it was nice seeing you!" The easy enthusiasm slips right back into Macy's voice, and she grins. "I should get going before this roll gets cold!"
"Yeah," you barely manage to breathe out, fighting with everything you have to keep your voice from breaking. "Enjoy it, Macy."
"Bye!"
You wave her off, and the very second the door clicks shut behind her, the fragile mask shatters. You break down, your chest heaving violently as the realization crashes over you. Pressing a trembling palm to your chest, you gasp for air, tears instantly blurring your vision before streaming hot down your face.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Allie’s face is a mask of pure horror when she bursts out of the kitchen. She immediately crouches down beside you, frantically trying to coax out what's wrong. You can't bring yourself to say a single word. Instead, you just weep into her arms, and she lets you, wrapping her arms tight around you and holding your head against her chest.
But the ticking clock reminds you that you’re still at work. Forcing yourself up on shaky legs, you head straight to the employee bathroom to freshen up. You slide the lock into place and lean against the sink, staring at your tear-stained, pale reflection in the mirror.
Hundreds of thoughts race through your mind, but one loops relentlessly. Her words. The nostalgia in her voice. The sad, knowing smile. The implication was as clear as day: He slept with her. After he got back from the tour. When he was supposed to be yours.
Your mind frantically scrambles backward, trying to piece the timeline together. The first night he came back, he had stayed over, waking you up in the middle of the night over those stupid blankets. The next day, he went out with Jace and the guys. They had played that humiliating game, and then they all stayed over.
And then it hits you.
Four pairs of sneakers on the floor the next morning. The lingering assumption that either he or Josh had left in the middle of the night. Did he leave that night to go to Macy's? The exact night he had brushed you off like a joke? Did he spend those hours wrapped around her while you wept yourself to sleep in your bedroom?
It would explain everything. The next afternoon, he had visited you at the cafe, casually claiming he was "just in the neighborhood." And Macy lives just blocks away. It drives you insane because everything makes sense—even when you desperately, frantically want it to be a lie.
With trembling, sweaty fingers, you pull out your phone. Through blurry vision, you open the home security app. Your dad had installed cameras covering the driveway and front porch years ago, always paranoid about safety. You’d only used the app a handful of times in high school, mostly to see if Jace was sneaking out.
Now, you scroll back through the archives, skipping past weeks of footage until you find the exact date. Your heart thumps violently against your ribs, a loud roar in your ears.
And then, you see it vividly. It isn't Josh, but Ilia.
The time stamp on the screen reads just after 3:00 AM. You watch his familiar silhouette quietly step out of the house, his movements cautious as he cuts across the grass toward the driveway to get into his car. To drive to her.
The truth settles into your bones like ice. He spent the night with her, and he only came running back to you after he realized he couldn't have her anymore. You were never his choice. You were just the safe, convenient second option he settled for because the girl he actually wanted wouldn't take him back.
You violently wipe your face dry, the devastating hurt suddenly giving way to a hot, burning anger that flares deep in your chest.
You spend the final hour of your shift in agonizing silence, refusing to say a word to Allie because you know if you speak, you will completely crumble. On the cycle ride back home, you can think of nothing but the two of them, twisting in the sheets together while you were crying in the dark.
When you finally push the front door open, the house is entirely silent. As expected, no one is home. There is no one there to witness your breakdown, and no one to pick up your pieces, promising you that everything will be fine.
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: 9,1k
author’s note: enjoy.. ;) ! 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 chapter contains sexual content, MDNI
The sun is spilling through the room when the familiar noises wake you up.
It’s Dusty gnawing at the door of her cage, high squeaks piercing the quiet room. Ilia is laying on his stomach next to you, his cheek squished against the pillow, his arm stretched out like he's searching for you. You don't realize it for a couple of seconds, shifting next to him and closing your eyes in hopes that Dusty will grow silent soon enough, but then it hits you. Your eyes widen. It's way past dawn and Ilia is still in your room, twisted in your sheets, peacefully sleeping next to you.
"Ilia," you whisper, leaning down to gently shake him, but it doesn't work. You glance at Dusty, who has grown even noisier after seeing you wake up, eager to get your attention. Looking at the door like Jace is about to burst in at any second, you swallow, shaking Ilia with a little more force. "Dammit, wake up!"
His eyes flutter open, his eyebrows knitting in confusion and his mouth slightly agape as he squints up at you. There are faint creases on his cheek, his lips are slightly fuller, and his blonde hair is all messy. The sight is so beautiful that it makes your chest tighten.
"What's wrong?" he mumbles in a groggy voice, laying his head back on the pillow so softly that you can't even find it in yourself to scold him. His eyes snap shut tight again. "It's so early."
"You promised to go back to your room."
"But your bed is so comfy," he sighs, rolling over onto his back and rubbing his eyes. He looks up at you, realizing from your tone that it's serious. "Actually, I've always wanted to sleep in it. It's so soft and cozy. And the sheets smell so nice."
"It's not the sheets. It's the Victoria's Secret body mist."
"So it's you," he grins, sitting up as he extends his arms to trap you in a hug. You push him off with a smile, trying to maintain a strict expression.
"Go back to your room."
"It's a Sunday morning and Jace usually sleeps until, what, 1 p.m. or 2 p.m.?"
"It's not a risk I'm willing to take."
"Fine," he exhales, pursing his lips as he gets up. He glances at Dusty, who has grown quieter, her curious eyes fixed on the two of you. Her tiny hands are clutching the bars, her expression so innocent and sad that it softens you. You crouch down to finally take her out. "Aww, Dusty… Wait, don't let her out yet!"
His voice rises, but it's way too late. She's already out, your fingers dug into her soft fur as you gently scratch her. You turn toward him, a playful smile dancing on your lips as you pad over.
"Don't you wanna pet her?"
"Wasn't I supposed to leave?" he tries to joke.
You roll your eyes at his defensiveness. It's been years and he still isn't used to Dusty's company, which is a bit annoying. "Overcome your fear and hold her."
"I do not fear her," he insists, but the tone of his voice and the reluctant way he caresses her fur say the exact opposite. You nudge her into his hands and he almost drops her, his hands shaking. Surprisingly, Dusty doesn't try to wriggle free from his touch. "She feels so… warm."
"Isn't she cute?"
"Very much," he grins, cradling her in his arms like she's one of his cats. "Just like the owner."
Then, he proceeds to smack a loud kiss onto your cheek, the heat rushing to your face at the innocent affection. You make him let Dusty go, gently pushing him out of your room while promising him that you'll meet him down in the kitchen for breakfast.
As you start making your bed, you spot a crumpled tissue laying on the nightstand. A stupid smile plasters itself across your face as you recall the night before, a familiar, electric feeling settling deep in your stomach.
"Did you get back with your ex?"
"Ew, no."
"Then what has gotten you giggling like that?"
You squint at Allie, who is spinning in her chair, an almost stupid smile plastered on her face as she types out a response on her phone, her nails clinking against the screen. She’s never been much of a texter—especially not someone whose face lights up with every single notification—until recently. It makes you wonder if it has something to do with a boy, because in your experience, it always does.
"No one."
Her face suddenly turns serious, locking her phone as she straightens her spine. You don't press her, because you don't like it either when you're texting Ilia and others bring up your stupidly excited face. So far, only Ziggy and Cam know the truth, and you would've told Allie too if she didn't have a habit of speaking before thinking.
"Mhm, sure." You give her a teasing smile, your eyes snapping back to your phone as you feel her staring at you. A few seconds pass before she exhales, shaking her head. You stare up at her in confusion.
"Girl, fuck you," she rolls her eyes at you, taking you aback with her sudden outburst. "Acting like you've not been sneaking around with your brother's best friend."
"What the hell, Allie?!" You look around with a horrified expression, getting up from the floor and spinning her chair around so she's forced to face you. "Are you insane?"
"Me and the people on X, right?" She gives you an annoyed expression, referring to the discussion that's been going on Twitter for the last few days.
You hadn't intended it, but when you streamed on Twitch with Ilia, you ended up wearing that blue t-shirt that belonged to him. Never in a million years would you have expected the fans to dig up old pictures of him, realizing that the t-shirt you were wearing was the exact same as his. It was enough to spark a discussion, along with compilations of snippets from the stream where fans claimed it was a soft-launch. You'd be lying if you said the implications didn't flatter you.
"Oh wow, you don't even try to hide it anymore," she rolls her eyes once again, slapping your hand away when you try to tug on her braid. "Although I gotta say, I'm disappointed you didn't tell me sooner. You don't trust me?"
"Of course I do!"
"Then why didn't you tell me?!"
"Because you have a habit of speaking before thinking!" You slap a hand over her mouth, forcing her to shut up before the whole cafe hears about your secret affair. "Might as well take a mic and announce it publicly!"
She licks your palm. Your expression turns disgusted as you pull your hand away, quickly washing it under the tap water. Allie looks incredibly content with the outcome, her expression smug now that she has finally made you admit your secret out loud.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're gloating," you huff, wiping your wet hands on your apron. "It's your turn to spill."
"I'm not in love like you," she waves it off, trying to pass it off as something casual. But even if she insists otherwise, you know the look on her face and the change in her behavior. She's falling for someone.
It's 10 p.m. when Jace picks you up. It's raining nonstop as he drags your bike into the trunk, asking about Allie's absence. She had to leave fifteen minutes earlier to catch a ride from a friend, leaving Jace slightly disappointed that he didn't get a chance to flirt with one of your friends again.
It's evening when you get back home after going to the movies with Allie. You're not surprised to find Jace and his friends hanging out in the living room, Ilia having texted you prior that he would be coming over along with them. The table is cluttered with empty beer cans and snack packages, making you internally roll your eyes at their inability to clean up after themselves before they start playing.
Josh is the first one to notice you. He waves, a bright smile plastered on his face as he calls out your name. Out of all Jace's friends, he's your favorite.
Well, obviously after Ilia.
"Hey, everyone."
You smile at them, your eyes landing on Ilia just a fraction of a second longer than the others as his lips curl into a subtle smirk. Jace is too engrossed in the game to turn around and acknowledge you, playing Call of Duty on a television screen split into four squares. Ilia is the only one left out, harboring a dislike for the game just as you do.
"Ew," you can't help yourself, your face twisting into a disgusted expression. "Why do you all keep playing it? The latest versions suck."
"Says a girl who plays Valorant," Max chuckles, rolling his eyes. "You don't like it because it's harder."
You snort, a genuine laugh spilling out of your mouth, mirrored by the others—excluding Max himself.
"Bro, everyone who has played both games knows that COD is so much easier."
"Yeah! Like, in Valorant, you move a millimeter while shooting and your bullets end up in a different zip code," Josh chimes in, agreeing with his twin, Jack.
Jack glances at you from time to time with a weird expression you can't quite decipher. You refuse to look back at him, his comment from a month ago still leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
Jace yells at the screen, entirely on your side. "Yeah, my sister would clear you out in COD and she has barely even played it, you stupid shit."
"I'd like to see her try," Max challenges.
"Yeah, no thanks," you snort at him.
You turn to head up the stairs, planning to feed Dusty before Cam and Ziggy call. Tonight, the chances are high that you can finally rank up, and excitement bubbles up in your chest at the mere possibility. You reach the top of the stairs, stopping briefly to reply to Allie, when you hear Jace's voice break through the noise of the game, the sharp edge of annoyance instantly clear.
"Did you just stare at my sister's ass?"
You freeze. Your eyes widen in pure panic as you immediately imagine Ilia's horrified expression. Your palms go slick and sweaty against your phone as you lock the screen, but it's not Ilia's voice that replies.
"What?" Jack snorts, a defensive chuckle escaping his throat. "No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did. Your eyes followed her all the way up the stairs. Don't bullshit me."
"You're delusional, bro."
"I recognize that dirty look on your face," Jace's voice rises, his tone dead serious now. "Don't you dare try anything with her."
"Does that threat only apply to me?" Jack shoots back.
"What?" Jace’s voice sounds genuinely confused.
You grip the wooden staircase railing, unlike your brother acutely aware of exactly what Jack could be hinting at.
"You're the one ogling my sister," Jace snaps.
"Am I?"
"Bro, shut the fuck up and just own it," Josh intervenes, and you can practically picture him forcefully nudging his twin in the shoulder to shut him down.
"It applies to everyone in this room," Jace’s voice drops, cold and severe, sending a chill straight down your spine. You don't even want to imagine the look on Ilia's face right now. "She's off-limits. End of discussion."
No one dares to say another word. You stand frozen at the top of the landing for a full minute, physically unable to walk away, almost as if you're waiting for them to bring you up again. But the living room quickly and awkwardly changes the topic back to the game.
A moment later, Ilia loudly excuses himself to get a glass of water. Peeking through the banister, you catch the tense line of his jaw as he walks past the living room toward the kitchen. He doesn't look up, completely missing you standing there.
And later that night, long after the guys have gone home and you're laying in bed texting him in the dark, neither of you mentions a single word about it.
When Ilia sets off on his family cruise vacation, he leaves his cats with you. Since Jace is allergic to them—in the literal sense, not just because he’s a dog person—you have no choice but to temporarily evict Dusty to another part of the house. Instead, you help Ilia drag his cat tree into your room, setting up pillows and blankets to make them feel at home.
"Miu Miu usually likes to wake me up pretty early, so keep her out of the room if she starts doing that," Ilia explains, cradling Mila, the newest member of his quadcat family, in his arms. She is basically attached to him. Jace joked that it only took Ilia getting three cats for him to finally end up with one that didn’t hate him. "Mysti won't bother you. This little one might try to cuddle up to you, though."
"I feel like she's gonna be very sad when you leave."
"Yeah, please don't remind me," he exhales, pressing soft kisses onto Mila's head as she purrs warmly against his chest.
You smile at the sight, your heart threatening to burst with adoration. "You know, someone else is going to miss you, too."
"Yeah, I know," he smiles, his eyes subtly darting toward Mysti, who is already perched high up on the cat tree, staring out the window. "Secretly, she loves to cuddle me."
You look at him with a disappointed, raised eyebrow. Confusion washes over his face for a few seconds before the realization hits him, a wide grin breaking across his lips.
"I'm gonna miss you, too."
He leans in, placing soft kisses on your cheeks just like he did with Mila. The door is shut tight, and both of you know Jace has absolutely no interest in watching Ilia's cats settle into your room. You don't shy away from his touch, instead slipping your fingertips into his hair when his lips finally slide over yours.
"Make sure to send me pictures from the cruise."
"Of course," he looks at you like it's not even up for discussion. "I'll bore you with them."
"And make sure to put on sunscreen."
"Yes, ma'am."
Then, he has to leave, and you are left in the quiet company of his cats. You leave your bedroom door cracked open so they can wander out if they get bored, but Mysti and Miu Miu stay put on the tree, both of them fast asleep. Mila settles directly onto your stomach, her tiny body warm against yours. A comfortable drowsiness washes over you, and eventually, you close your eyes, too.
Ilia celebrates the 4th of July on the cruise, while you celebrate with your family at your dad's friend's house, leaving the gathering early with the excuse that you don't want to leave the animals alone at home for too long. Dusty has made herself comfortable in Jace's room, but she offers you even less affection than she rarely does anyway, your brother constantly joking that she's mad at you.
A week passes in a blur, and before you know it, he is back. He surprises you, picking you up after a late-night shift at the cafe. His nose is a little sunburnt, but overall he has kept his promise; the golden tan compliments his skin, almost shimmering under the dim streetlights.
"You look so good."
"So do you."
"My hair is a mess and I stink of coffee and cinnamon."
"I do find the smell comforting," he mumbles into your neck, pulling you flush against him one more time. "I brought you a present."
"From the cruise?"
You raise an eyebrow, following him to the car. He holds the door open for you, signaling for you to climb in as he carries your bike to store it in the trunk. You settle into the passenger seat that has gradually become yours, fixing your hair in the mirror in an attempt to look better for him—despite him already seeing you, and despite knowing that he doesn't care about a messy hair.
By the time he gets into the driver's seat, you have already texted your father that you're grabbing burgers with Allie, indicating that you will be home later than you usually are. Ilia stretches his hand toward the backseat and pulls out a thick book, the Sudoku grid illustration on the cover making you chuckle.
"You mentioned that you completed the one your father brought you."
"I did," you smile at him, leaning over to smack a loud kiss on his cheek to show your gratitude. "Thank you."
"Although Liza was a little suspicious that I was getting you a gift," he raises an eyebrow, exhaling at his sister's behavior like she’s giving him a hard time. "She said, and I quote, that I was being 'unusually generous.'"
"But you've brought me gifts before."
"Yeah, but I might've gotten you another gift, too," he grins, his smile on full display as your stomach basically flips upside down. "I guess two gifts is a bit suspicious."
"Aren't you gonna show me?"
"Won't you thank me first?"
"I already thanked you," you raise an eyebrow, anticipating exactly where this is going. "Wasn't it sufficient?"
"No, the second gift requires more than a kiss on the cheek."
You huff, rolling your eyes, but you still lean in. You capture his lips with yours as you close your eyes, hearing him sigh in pure bliss. His fingertips slip into your hair, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning over the center console. His hands grip your hips as you settle into his lap, his fingertips tracing your bare legs.
"I told my dad I was staying out with Allie," you breathe out, sweeping your eyes over his face as a small smirk turns up his lips. "We don't have to go back yet."
"Good. I wasn't planning to."
He kisses you again, harder this time, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt as his tongue slides into your mouth. It's all too much and still not enough. You want nothing more than to let him peel your clothes away when he cups your breast through your thin bra, but you're in the car. Even though the street is dead quiet, thinking of doing anything more here is insane.
"Ilia," you pull back, your chest heaving up and down. His mouth is glistening as he furrows his eyebrows, sensing the slight panic in your voice. You lick your lips, swallowing hard so you can even out your breath.
"What is it?"
"What's my second present?"
He stares at you for a fraction of a second, and then his face breaks out into a wide smile. He rolls his eyes, not even slightly mad about the interruption. You climb off his lap and slide back into your own seat, turning your whole body toward him so you can just stare at him as he talks about whatever comes to mind, simply because you've missed him so much.
"A couple of days ago my manager called me," he starts explaining, licking his lips as he drags out the words, giving you the impression that he's trying to gauge your reaction to whatever he’s about to say. "You know, after the Olympics, I've been getting quite a lot of offers."
"You just had to quickly brag about it, huh?"
"Absolutely," he grins. "And this one might be the best one I have ever received."
"Is it a Dior partnership?" Your eyes practically sparkle with excitement, shifting in your seat so you can lean in closer to him. "Is it a Calvin Klein ad?"
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head like you've said something impossible. "I don't think anyone wants to see me in a Calvin Klein ad."
"I do."
"Well, we can arrange something. You don't need Calvin Klein for that."
"Okay, now spill," you tug at his arm, completely impatient for the news. "What is it?!"
"I got invited to a movie premiere."
"Oh! Which one?"
"Spider-Man."
He says it like he’s testing the waters. It takes you a couple of seconds to process, and then your eyes widen, your mouth left slightly agape as he chuckles at your reaction.
"Oh my god."
"Yeah."
"Oh my god, you're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," you laugh, unable to control your excitement. "That's insane."
"We're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," he corrects gently, the playful smile on his lips turning incredibly soft.
You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you stare at him.
"They said I can bring a plus-one," he says, his blue eyes holding yours with absolute certainty. "And of course I'm taking you with me."
For a moment, your heart beats so hard and fast it feels like it's bruising your ribs. A cold rush of panic and dizzying excitement sweeps through your veins, leaving your palms sweaty.
Sensing the silent shock taking over your body, Ilia reaches out and slides his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand tightly between his warm palms to ground you.
"Yeah," he whispers, his grin widening. "We're going to London."
"Shut up," you shake your head, tears instantly prickling the backs of your eyes. You squeeze your eyelids shut, refusing to let the words sink in because it feels like a dream you're about to wake up from. "No way. Ilia, don't joke."
"Yes way."
And then, even though you try not to, tears of pure excitement escape your eyes. He laughs softly, pulling you against his chest while you sob into his shirt, scolding him for making fun of you during a moment like this.
No one is surprised to learn that Ilia chose you to take to the premiere.
Jace is actually more excited about it than you are—having absolutely no clue what this three-day getaway in London could turn into behind his back.
In a week, you leave for London. Betty covers your shifts at the cafe without making a fuss, even though Allie is away on vacation, too. Jace is the one to drive you both to the airport, and he's the very first one to text you asking for updates every few hours.
You end up sharing a hotel room with Ilia, but even that doesn't come as a surprise to your brother. Jace instantly assumes that Ilia is the one sleeping on the couch. You silently agree with him, sharing a brief, knowing glance with Ilia as you both press your lips together to keep from laughing.
"It's so comfy," Ilia sighs, jumping onto the king-sized bed and burying his head in the pillows. He closes his eyes with a content groan. "Come here."
"Comfier than mine?"
"Come and find out."
The mattress dips beneath your weight as you climb onto it, settling next to him with a soft smile stretching across your face. He immediately slides his arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he drapes his leg over yours, anchoring you to him.
"What if we nap for a while?" he mumbles into your neck. "Then we can grab some breakfast and explore the city. Around evening, the stylists will come by so we can choose our looks, do the fittings, and get them tailored if needed."
"After ten hours of travel, of course I want to sleep."
"Good."
He nuzzles his head deeper into your shoulder, his arm locked securely around your waist as his fingers lace with yours. His breath falls softly against your skin. You close your eyes and finally let sleep take over—this time with no rush, no alarms, and not a single trace of worry in your bones.
People in London don't pay attention to you. In the busy crowd, you're able to hold his hand in public, kiss him on the streets, and just be together like you're meant to.
You end up choosing the black dress, the rhinestones adorning the structured corset sparkling under the lights. It matches his suit perfectly, and your breath hitches in your throat when you see him fully dressed for the first time.
Although it's not his first time walking a red carpet, he's not entirely used to the madness either. His palms are sweaty when he takes your hand and leads you toward the crowd. You're incredibly anxious, feeling so many eyes on you, feeling out of place in a glamorous lifestyle that everyone else seems to blend into so easily. But he squeezes your hand tightly and reassures you, his smile so comforting that it immediately eases your panic.
"And what if I kiss you right now?" he murmurs, his voice teasing, his eyes edged with a soft admiration as he gazes at you.
"Jace will gouge his eyes out when he sees the pictures."
"You're so beautiful, it's criminal not to do anything," he sighs, keeping his hand resting on your lower back. It's respectful and casual, but enough to show everyone that you've come together and you're with him. "I'm gonna backflip into misery."
You laugh, and then the photographers start shouting his name. You don't know which camera to look at, and for a whole thirty seconds you hold your breath and try to smile despite the panic fluttering inside, but his arm is secure around your waist and it's more than enough to ground you.
A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you finally walk into the lobby. It's free of flashing cameras and excited shouts, and people are already talking, sipping champagne as they chat away. Ilia is introduced to some people, and you stand beside him, awkwardly looking at them while they talk, occasionally answering whatever they happen to ask you too, though you don't have much to contribute to the conversation.
The spider-web-garnished cocktails catch your eye, and you instantly hurry over to try them, Ilia waiting to take a sip from your glass because he's convinced he won't like it.
"It's… decent," you try not to wince, offering him a sheepish smile as you hand it over. "It's sweet."
"Your face says otherwise."
"I fear they don't serve apple juice here, Ilyusha."
"Stop making fun of me," he nudges you with a teasing smile, leaning in close. He whispers something to you, and your eyes widen as you look in the direction he points—Tom and Zendaya are walking in.
"I'm gonna faint."
"Don't."
"I'm not leaving this theater until I get a photo with them."
"You will."
He reassures you, chuckling at your enthusiasm that almost resembles panic. You don't get a chance to talk to them right away, and by the time you get close enough, you have to head inside to watch the movie, your seat assigned right next to Ilia's. Throughout the whole movie your eyes are fixed on the screen, and he keeps looking over to make sure you're doing okay, happy just watching you have a great time.
Before you leave for the night, you excuse yourself to the restroom. You can't help but laugh at your reflection staring back at you from the mirror because you look almost ridiculous with the wide smile on your face. But because you aren't used to wearing high heels, your feet are slowly starting to give out. You wince as you slip one shoe off to fix a band-aid that already has a blood stain on it. You dig into your purse only to find it completely empty of what you need—your phone, a mini lipstick, and mascara are taking up all the space.
You groan, almost burying your face in your hands before remembering you can't ruin your makeup. "Oh, great!"
"Need some help?"
You freeze at the familiar voice. You look up with wide eyes to find Zendaya staring at you with a warm smile. The words die in your throat, your palms going sweaty as you nervously chuckle and mumble something almost too incoherent. She doesn't mind your awkwardness at all, offering you some band-aids and chatting away with you while she fixes her makeup in the mirror. Your heart is almost bursting out of your chest. She compliments your dress, and her warm, down-to-earth energy makes you feel instantly welcome.
When you finally step back out, Ilia is waiting.
"What took you so long?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern as he leads you out of the lobby so you can head back to the hotel to change for the afterparty.
You grin, clutching his arm tightly. "I just talked to Zendaya," you gush, your voice full of pure admiration. "And she told me my dress looks beautiful!"
"It's not the dress, it's you."
"That's not the point!"
He laughs, letting you tell him all about the restroom encounter for the entire ride back.
Once you're back in the quiet sanctuary of the hotel room, the transition is quick and intimate. He stands behind you, his warm hands helping you zip up the short, sleek dress you've chosen for the afterparty, and in return, you help him restyle his hair, running your fingers through the strands that have become messy from the London wind.
The afterparty is louder, warmer, and much more relaxed. The room is bathed in low lighting with a heavy bass vibrating through the floor. Without the cameras and the formality of the red carpet, everyone is just themselves, having fun.
You and Ilia slide into the crowd easily, and the highlight of the night comes when you run into Zendaya again near the lounge area—only this time, Tom is right there with her. She recognizes you and to your surprise both of them recognize Ilia, your boyfriend blushing when they highlight his talent. The four of you stand together for a few minutes, chatting casually about the movie and how much you're enjoying London, before you finally get the group photo you've been hoping for all night.
Once they wave goodbye and head back into the crowd, you stare at the picture on your phone in sheer disbelief, while Ilia just laughs, pulling you flush against his side with a quiet "told you so" smile.
It's midnight when you return to the hotel, both of you still giggling as you stumble into the dark room. Your feet are aching from wearing heels for the entire evening, forcing you to lean heavily against Ilia's arm as he leads you inside. Before he even flips the bedside lamp on, casting a soft, warm glow across the room, you have already kicked off your shoes. You pad across the carpet and sprawl across the bed, letting out a long sigh of relief.
"It was the best night of my life," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, still entirely starstruck as the memories rush through your mind. "It literally feels like a dream."
You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking over at Ilia. He is already unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, watching you with a soft, quiet smile that feels infinitely more intimate than anything on the red carpet. Sliding off the mattress, you reach behind your back to pull down your zipper, but your fingers are trembling too much to get a grip.
Suddenly, the brush of his warm fingertips against your exposed spine makes you freeze.
"Let me help you," he murmurs.
His voice is low in the stillness of the room as he steps up behind you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you stand perfectly still, silently letting him.
The metal teeth of the zipper glide down with a soft hiss. You let the fabric of the dress slowly slip from your torso. As the cool air of the hotel room hits your bare skin, a shiver runs down your spine—your chest tightening not just from the temperature, but from the sheer anticipation of what is about to happen. You swallow hard, your palms growing slick at your sides as you slowly turn around to face him.
His gaze sweeps over your body, slow and reverent, before finally settling on your eyes. The warmth of his hands as he reaches up to cup your cheeks is almost overwhelming.
"So beautiful," he whispers.
He leans in, softly pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so incredibly gentle that your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting slightly as he begins to pepper slow, warm kisses down your jawline and the sensitive column of your neck. His hands slide down to grip your hips, pulling you close enough to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
You let him guide you back toward the edge of the bed. Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, helping him ease it off his shoulders until it pool on the carpet beside your dress. He gently coaxes you down onto the mattress, hovering over you as you map the line of his bare chest, your fingers gripping his biceps when his hand slides slowly, deliberately between your thighs. A soft, breathless moan escapes your throat.
"Ilia," you whisper his name. It feels like a plea, a quiet prayer, as a sweet, familiar heat begins to bloom in your stomach, igniting your skin everywhere he touches. "I've never done this before."
He pauses, his fingers stilling against you. His chest heaves up and down, matching the shallow, uneven rhythm of your own breath. He looks down at you, searching your face, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. There is an intensity in his blue eyes, a sudden, protective softness that makes the breath catch in your throat.
"Do you want to?" he asks softly, giving you space, making sure you feel entirely safe.
You look up at him, feeling more exposed and entirely perceived than you ever have before. But looking at the tenderness in his face, the fear melts away, leaving only a certainty.
"Yes," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. "With you."
A wide smile stretches across his face just before he leans in to kiss you again—much fiercer this time. He sweeps his tongue over yours, catching the breathless whimper that escapes your throat as his hands slide down your hips, hooking into the sides of your underwear and smoothing them down your legs. Your back arches against the mattress, your body reacting instantly to the direct, steady circle of his thumb. This time, you don't even try to hold back. You don’t smother the sounds or slap a hand over your mouth to hide them. Instead, you let him hear everything, shamelessly whispering his name against his lips as you wrap your bare legs tightly around his waist.
When the overwhelming peak finally washes over you, bringing tears of pure release to your eyes, he leans down to kiss them dry. He pulls back just enough to strip off his pants, and through your smudged mascara, you look up at him. Seeing his bare silhouette in the soft lamp light makes your chest tighten with a sudden ache. Biting your lower lip in quiet anticipation, you part your legs, welcoming him closer.
He settles between your thighs, tearing the small, square foil package open with his teeth. You watch him with quiet, curious eyes as he rolls on the condom. You swallow hard, trying to force your muscles to relax against the pillows, but your eyes drift to the ceiling as a sudden rush of nervous heat sets your veins on fire.
"Hey."
Sensing the sudden shift in your posture, Ilia gently traces his fingers along your jawline, coaxing your gaze back to his. His expression is calm and patient—a quiet anchor in the middle of all your thoughts.
"We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he promises softly. "It's okay."
"No, I am," you insist, shaking your head to clear the lingering doubt.
To prove it to him—and to yourself—you cup his face in your hands, pulling him down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Under the softness of his touch, any trace of anxiety washes away. You let him take a piece of you, giving yourself over to him completely. He is gentle with you, so careful and sweet, and it's everything you had ever wanted—everything you had spent years secretly dreaming of.
"So, does MJ get her memories back?"
"Do you want me to spoil the movie for you?" You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you look at Liza.
She is ecstatic to hear all about the premiere, making you recount every single detail over again even though you’ve already talked to her on the phone about it. Tatyana observes the scene with an amused expression, chopping chocolate for the cake Ilia has been requesting ever since before you two even got back. He is sitting at the table with you and Liza, but unlike you, he’s having a late breakfast after sleeping in, while you help his little sister bedazzle her figurines.
"I guess not," Liza says after a while, thoroughly contemplating the spoiler with a focused look on her face. "Was it better than No Way Home?"
"I mean... I was too excited when I watched it, so I don't think I can fairly criticize it without a rewatch."
"Fair enough."
"Aren't you guys gonna ask me for my opinion?" Ilia asks between bites, his voice muffled. All you can stare at is the smear of jam stuck to the corner of his lips. The sudden desire to reach over and wipe it clean off him—in a way that is not at all appropriate for the family kitchen—is almost ridiculous. "I was there too, you know."
"Do you even have enough vocabulary to analyze a movie?" Liza asks.
"Liza," Tatyana warns, shooting her a look to behave, even though she is desperately trying not to laugh. "What did we talk about?"
"Sure, Mom. I won't make fun of your loser son."
"This 'loser' attended a major movie premiere and you didn't," Ilia points out.
"Wait till I grow up," she bites back, an annoyed expression plastered on her face as she glares at her brother.
"I don't know what I did to deserve such a bratty attitude."
"It's a universal experience," you jump in, less to defend Liza and more to tease him. "Jace goes through the same thing every day. It's kind of like our job."
"I don't remember you being this mean when you were twelve."
"Well, I wasn't mean to you."
"Wonder why," Tatyana notes, amusement dripping from her voice.
You groan at her comment, burying your face in your hands in sheer embarrassment because you know exactly where this is going.
"I remember once you asked me what Ilia's favorite color was," Tanya continues, highly pleased with herself. "And then you made your dad buy you a dress in that exact color for the first day back to school. I think it was your second or third year?"
"Tanya, please stop."
Ilia is the only one laughing, a smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes lock onto yours. Liza rolls her eyes as if the story has personally offended her, huffing when she accidentally picks up the wrong color rhinestone.
You help Tanya decorate the cake while Ilia watches in silence, cradling Mila in his arms. Later, Jace comes over because it's a sweet occasion his appetite can't possibly miss. Once Tanya and Liza leave for practice, you’re stuck with the boys, finishing up the bedazzled F1 car figure Liza left for you to complete, trusting you with the fine details she doesn't quite trust herself with yet.
"Dude, did you see Jake Gyllenhaal?" Jace asks.
"Nope, he wasn't there."
"Aw, man. That's a shame," Jace sighs in disappointment, drumming his fingertips against the wooden table. "How was London, anyway? I didn't have time to properly chat with you two."
"Yeah, everything was great," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the tiny Ferrari logo. "Except the English breakfast, of course."
"I dunno, I liked it," Ilia shrugs.
"Well, you only ate the bacon, eggs, and tomatoes, Ilia."
"Did he keep you awake?"
Your head snaps up, glaring at Jace with a confused expression as a sudden jolt of panic surges through you. You don't dare look at Ilia, but you see his fork freeze halfway to his mouth. Jace notices your raised eyebrows and quickly offers a cover-up.
"Sometimes he snores so loudly."
"Literally, you're the one who snores," Ilia huffs, recovering quickly. "It's definitely not me."
"No, he doesn't snore," you agree, keeping your voice carefully casual. "I fear that's you, Jace."
"Well, then I don't see any other reason why you wouldn't enjoy the trip."
"Yep. I enjoyed everything... a lot."
To get a reaction out of him, you put a deliberate, slow emphasis on the last words, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. Only you and he know the heavy implication behind them. But his timing is horrible. Just as the words leave your mouth, he takes a sip of his juice and immediately chokes. His eyes widen, a fit of coughing overtaking him as Jace cluelessly pats him on the back, completely oblivious to what actually provoked the reaction.
Jace is about to say something, but his phone buzzes, and he’s immediately on his feet to take the call in the other room.
The moment the kitchen door swings shut, you let out a laugh. You reach across the table to fix his hair, offering him a playful, apologetic stroke of your fingers.
"You're cruel," he mutters.
"I'm sorry," you giggle, leaning in to press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek. "You should've seen your face. Thank god Jace wasn't looking at you."
"You know, I was thinking about it..." he starts, his expression turning serious, careful, as if he's trying to gauge your reaction. "I think it's time to tell him."
You don't reply immediately, a sudden wave of anxiety washing over you at the thought of what's to come once Jace finds out. He notices the instant shift in your mood, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand between his. His palms are warm, grounding.
"We can't keep hiding forever," he mumbles, looking at you with absolute certainty. "It's not fair to us. He's going to go a bit mental whenever he finds out, so we might as well save ourselves the time."
"He's going to hate you."
"I know."
"For a few weeks," a soft smile touches your lips, though it carries a trace of sadness. "But eventually, he'll understand... he has to."
"I'll tell him the second I get back from New York," he promises, lacing his fingers securely through yours. "He can rage at me all he wants. I don't want to hide you anymore."
"I don't want to either."
He leans in, stealing a quick, lingering kiss just before Jace walks back into the kitchen, resuming his conversation, completely oblivious to the shift that had occurred in his absence.
A few days later, Ilia sets off for the Sun Valley show, planned to travel directly to New York afterward for his magazine afterparty and the Time 100 Sports Gala. You patiently wait for him to return, your chest bubbling with a restless mixture of excitement and terror for the moment the truth finally comes to light.
"Pass."
"Bitch, how?" Allie rolls her eyes at you, personally offended that the attraction to the celebrity guy she's currently thirsting over isn't mutual. You simply shrug. "He is, like, so hot."
"Not to me."
"Why? Because he doesn't look like a twink who dyes his hair?"
"Oh, you cunt!" You tug at her wavy hair, slapping her hand away when she tries to do the exact same to yours.
Playing 'smash or pass' with Allie is a fun way to kill time—as long as you agree with her. The second you don't, she makes sure to drag Ilia into it, teasingly referring to him as either a low-testosterone man or a twink. You always roll your eyes, knowing she’s only jesting, but you still defend your ground. "Says the girl who is exclusively into alpha males."
"I am not!"
"Sure."
You give her a mocking smile. She opens her mouth to argue, but the soft chime of the front door bell interrupts her. Giving you one last annoyed look, Allie disappears into the kitchen, leaving you alone to take the order.
With a customer-ready smile already plastered onto your face, you turn toward the counter. But it falters for a fraction of a second when your eyes lock with hers.
"Hey!" Macy says your name, leaning over the counter to pull you into a brief side-hug.
You return it, giving her a tight smile. She is a sweetheart and has never actually done anything to earn your dislike—even though, sometimes, you desperately wish she would. Instead, you're just left with an unpleasant, heavy sinking in your stomach every time she walks into the cafe. Thankfully, it doesn't happen often, even though she lives just a few blocks away and this is technically her local spot.
It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable feeling to face the girl Ilia used to date for almost two years, especially now that you're secretly involved with him. You've hung out with her multiple times in the past because your friend groups forced it, and even though you two were never close and you don't owe her anything, it still feels like you’ve broken some unwritten girl code. It's a bitter, constant reminder that she once had the man you spent years quietly yearning for.
"Long time no see! How are you?" she asks warmly.
"I'm great, Macy." You smile, trying to sweep the ugly feeling aside. She really is beautiful, with her flawless porcelain skin and big, doe-like brown eyes. "Your new haircut looks great on you."
"Haha, thanks! I got bored and chopped it off myself a couple of days ago." She waves it off like it's nothing, even though her hair looks absolutely perfect and effortless—result you've never quite achieved even with the help of professionals. "Guess who missed the pistachio rolls?"
"Well, you arrived at the perfect time. They're fresh out of the oven."
You grab the bakery tongs, carefully choosing the fluffiest, most golden roll from the display. She watches with a smile as you place it into a cardboard box. "Would you like a flat white with that?"
"God, I wish," she sighs, burying her face in her hands. "But I'm trying to cut down on the caffeine. I've gone a bit off the rails lately."
"Haha, totally understandable."
"How's university going?" she asks after she pays, lingering at the counter. You find yourself wishing she would just take her box and go, but she keeps the conversation flowing. "You finished your first year, right?"
"Yep. Surprisingly, it went a lot smoother than I was prepared for."
"Of course it did, you're super smart," she says with a teasing nudge to your shoulder. "And how's Jace? I haven't seen him around in a while."
"He's a lot buffer than he used to be, but otherwise, he's exactly the same," you chuckle, rolling your eyes. "Annoying, I mean."
"I saw your photos at the Spider-Man premiere," Macy’s voice suddenly quietens, her tone shifting as if she is carefully navigating onto sensitive ice. "You must have been absolutely thrilled."
"Yeah," you smile, the memory of that magical night briefly warming you. "I really was."
"Good. You deserved it."
Macy hesitates for a second. You think she's finally about to leave, but she stays put, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the silver rings on her hand.
"How's, um… how's Ilia?"
"He's alright," you shrug, keeping your voice light and casual, desperately hiding the ugly twist of jealousy gnawing at your insides. "He's just preparing for the upcoming season."
"Of course he is," she chuckles softly, her eyes drifting to the floor.
There is a heavy pause. You get the distinct, terrifying feeling that she wants to say something she isn't quite sure she should. A cold trace of worry begins to spread through your veins.
"I actually saw him once since he came back from the tour," she says quietly.
The words land like lead, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. Your heart starts thumping violently against your ribs, your jaw tightening as you force yourself to keep breathing.
A smile touches Macy's lips, filled with something that looks painfully like regret.
"We, um… we tried to fix things. But it didn't work." She shrugs, giving you a tight, melancholy look.
You want to reach across the counter and slap a hand over her mouth—anything to make her stop talking. But you just stand there, completely frozen, pouring every ounce of your energy into keeping your face entirely blank.
"He came over at night. I think we both just needed to see if the spark was still there. We spent the whole night talking… well, not just talking." she chuckles and something twists deep inside your chest, a breath knocking out of your lungs as you grip the chair behind the counter, your hands digging into the leather. "But by the morning, it was clear we’ve just grown too far apart. I'm glad we had that one last night, though. It was a nice way to finally close the chapter."
She lets out a soft sigh, finally looking up at you with those big, innocent brown eyes, completely unaware of the heavy, suffocating feeling pressing down on your chest. Macy doesn't seem to notice the way the air has left your lungs.
"Anyways, it was nice seeing you!" The easy enthusiasm slips right back into Macy's voice, and she grins. "I should get going before this roll gets cold!"
"Yeah," you barely manage to breathe out, fighting with everything you have to keep your voice from breaking. "Enjoy it, Macy."
"Bye!"
You wave her off, and the very second the door clicks shut behind her, the fragile mask shatters. You break down, your chest heaving violently as the realization crashes over you. Pressing a trembling palm to your chest, you gasp for air, tears instantly blurring your vision before streaming hot down your face.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Allie’s face is a mask of pure horror when she bursts out of the kitchen. She immediately crouches down beside you, frantically trying to coax out what's wrong. You can't bring yourself to say a single word. Instead, you just weep into her arms, and she lets you, wrapping her arms tight around you and holding your head against her chest.
But the ticking clock reminds you that you’re still at work. Forcing yourself up on shaky legs, you head straight to the employee bathroom to freshen up. You slide the lock into place and lean against the sink, staring at your tear-stained, pale reflection in the mirror.
Hundreds of thoughts race through your mind, but one loops relentlessly. Her words. The nostalgia in her voice. The sad, knowing smile. The implication was as clear as day: He slept with her. After he got back from the tour. When he was supposed to be yours.
Your mind frantically scrambles backward, trying to piece the timeline together. The first night he came back, he had stayed over, waking you up in the middle of the night over those stupid blankets. The next day, he went out with Jace and the guys. They had played that humiliating game, and then they all stayed over.
And then it hits you.
Four pairs of sneakers on the floor the next morning. The lingering assumption that either he or Josh had left in the middle of the night. Did he leave that night to go to Macy's? The exact night he had brushed you off like a joke? Did he spend those hours wrapped around her while you wept yourself to sleep in your bedroom?
It would explain everything. The next afternoon, he had visited you at the cafe, casually claiming he was "just in the neighborhood." And Macy lives just blocks away. It drives you insane because everything makes sense—even when you desperately, frantically want it to be a lie.
With trembling, sweaty fingers, you pull out your phone. Through blurry vision, you open the home security app. Your dad had installed cameras covering the driveway and front porch years ago, always paranoid about safety. You’d only used the app a handful of times in high school, mostly to see if Jace was sneaking out.
Now, you scroll back through the archives, skipping past weeks of footage until you find the exact date. Your heart thumps violently against your ribs, a loud roar in your ears.
And then, you see it vividly. It isn't Josh, but Ilia.
The time stamp on the screen reads just after 3:00 AM. You watch his familiar silhouette quietly step out of the house, his movements cautious as he cuts across the grass toward the driveway to get into his car. To drive to her.
The truth settles into your bones like ice. He spent the night with her, and he only came running back to you after he realized he couldn't have her anymore. You were never his choice. You were just the safe, convenient second option he settled for because the girl he actually wanted wouldn't take him back.
You violently wipe your face dry, the devastating hurt suddenly giving way to a hot, burning anger that flares deep in your chest.
You spend the final hour of your shift in agonizing silence, refusing to say a word to Allie because you know if you speak, you will completely crumble. On the cycle ride back home, you can think of nothing but the two of them, twisting in the sheets together while you were crying in the dark.
When you finally push the front door open, the house is entirely silent. As expected, no one is home. There is no one there to witness your breakdown, and no one to pick up your pieces, promising you that everything will be fine.
okay, what the fuck!!!! i know there’s a rational explanation for why you gave me everything i wanted, including tom and zendaya, and then took it all away. right? right????
Hiii so usually i wouldn’t ask for a ‘part 2’ if you can call it that cause i know you mainly do one shots, but you did that one ilia x reader post where he had four daughters and I just imagined it so funny if reader noticed she was feeling kinda nauseous lately and whilst Ilia was in the kitchen making breakfast, she went and took a pregnancy test
Surprise surprise it was positive and she just went into the kitchen like: ‘bitch you better keep that dick to yourself from now on’ and straight up tells Ilia she’s pregnant cause at this point she’s just like ‘you did this, mate.’ And he turns to her like: ‘you’re joking’, ykkkk?
I lowky imagined it so funny cause they said after the fourth kid they’re done plus they’re youngest is only 10 months and then just BAM 😭
Thank you if you’d write it, if not, totally fine as well!! 💕
(i changed the ages a tad and make it a bit different)
Here we go again…
.
Morning in the Malinin house was never quiet.
By 7:30, someone had already declared that cereal was “too crunchy,” someone else had hidden a shoe “for safekeeping,” and the baby had managed to remove one sock for what felt like the hundredth time.
Ilia stood in the kitchen, balancing a spatula in one hand and an 11 month old perched on his hip.
“How,” he asked his youngest daughter with mock seriousness, “do you keep taking the sock off? It’s actually impressive.”
She just giggled, proudly waving the tiny sock in his face.
His 6 year old wandered in.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I think Rosie flushed a Barbie shoe.”
“…Which Barbie?”
“The sparkly one.”
“…Cool.”
His 3 year old immediately defended herself.
“It was accident!”
“It was on purpose,” the 9 year old called from the dining room without looking up from her book.
“I KNOW YOU BUT BUT BUT WHA I?” the 3 year old yelled.
“It’s ‘i know you are but what am I’ , Rosie.”
Ilia sighed dramatically.
“It’s 7:30 in the morning…”
From upstairs, he heard the bathroom door click shut.
His wife had looked a little pale when she’d woken up.
“You okay?” he’d asked.
“Mhm. Just give me a minute.”
He figured she’d probably just needed a minute away from the circus.
Upstairs…
She stared at the pregnancy test sitting on the bathroom counter.
Two unmistakable pink lines.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because if she didn’t laugh, she’d cry.
Four girls.
Nine.
Six.
Three.
Eleven months…
They had literally agreed…
Done.
Finished.
Retired.
No more babies.
She looked down at the test again.
“…Seriously?”
Back downstairs…
Ilia flipped pancakes while humming to himself.
The baby was now trying to eat the spatula.
“Sweetheart,” he told her, gently rescuing it, “that’s…not food.”
Footsteps.
He looked up.
His wife walked into the kitchen.
Hair still messy.
Oversized sweatshirt.
Absolutely expressionless.
She didn’t say good morning.
Didn’t kiss him.
She simply held something out toward him.
He looked at it.
Pregnancy test.
Positive.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then looked at her.
She pointed at the test.
In the flattest, most sarcastic voice imaginable, she said,
“You better keep that dick to yourself from now on.”
Ilia froze.
Then a minute of silence…
“…This is our last.” she spit out.
Silence.
The pancakes started burning.
He didn’t notice.
He slowly looked from the test…
…back to her.
“…You’re joking.”
She stared.
“This is a prank.”
She said nothing.
He looked at the test again.
“No.”
Another blink.
“No, because…”
He pointed dramatically.
“We said we were done after 4.”
“I know.”
“We literally shook on it.”
“I remember.”
“We celebrated.”
“I remember that too.”
“We gave away the newborn clothes.”
“Mhm.”
He stared.
She sighed.
“Five it is.” she whispered.
Another beat.
“And then I’m getting tied.”
Ilia looked like his brain had completely stopped functioning.
“…Five?”
“Five.”
“Our fifth baby?”
“Unless someone else put that baby there.”
He gasped dramatically.
“I’ve been framed.”
She snorted.
“You are the crime.”
He covered his face.
“Oh my God.”
She folded her arms.
“You did this.”
“I did not do this by myself.”
“Oh, really?” she deadpanned.
“Pretty sure I remember exactly who was involved.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“…Fair.”
She laughed.
“So…”
“You’ve officially lost your bedroom privileges.”
“My what?”
“No touching.”
“What?”
“No flirting.”
“Babe…”
“No kissing.”
His eyes widened.
“That’s cruel.”
“No cuddling.”
He looked genuinely horrified.
“Okay, now we’re entering war crimes.”
She couldn’t hold the serious face anymore.
A laugh escaped.
He immediately wrapped both arms around her.
She sighed into his chest.
“You know…”
“What?”
“I really thought we were done.”
“I know.”
“I already packed away the baby swing.”
“I know.”
“I was looking forward to sleeping again.”
“…Yeah.”
She smiled despite herself.
“But…”
She looked down at the test.
“I guess somebody wanted one more sister or brother.”
He rested his forehead against hers.
“I think we’re pretty lucky.”
She smiled softly.
“I think we’re insane.”
“Both can be true.”
She laughed.
“Definitely.”
Just then…
“DAD!”
Their 9 year old appeared in the doorway.
“The baby is eating crayons.”
Ilia sighed.
“Again?”
“Again.”
The 6 year old followed.
“And Rosie colored on the dog.”
“I made him prettier!” Rosie yelled from somewhere in the living room.
Ilia walked to the dinning room to take the crayons from Sara…the baby in the high chair squealed triumphantly before tossing a blueberry directly at Ilia’s forehead.
His wife looked at him.
He looked at her.
Neither of them said anything.
Then they both burst into uncontrollable laughter.
The girls stared.
“Dad,” the 9 year old asked carefully.
“…Are you okay?”
Ilia wiped blueberry off his face.
He looked at his wife.
Looked back at the pregnancy test still sitting on the counter.
Then back at his daughters filling the house with happy chaos.
He smiled.
“I think,” he said, shaking his head with a grin, “our family just got a little bigger.”
His wife slipped her hand into his.
“One more,” she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head.
“One more.”
Then he grinned mischievously.
“…For the record…”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“I still think banning kisses is excessive.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, hush.”
He stole a quick kiss anyway.
She laughed against his lips before gently shoving his shoulder.
“I literally just told you to keep your hands to yourself.”
He raised both hands innocently.
“See? Hands.”
She laughed.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet…”
He wrapped an arm around her waist.
“…you married me.”
“I did.”
“Willingly.”
“I know.”
“Four—”
“Five,” she corrected.
He groaned dramatically.
“Five daughters/kids.”
She smiled warmly.
“I wouldn’t trade this crazy life for anything.”
He looked around at the happy noise, the pancake smoke filling the kitchen, the blueberry on the floor, four giggling girls…
Then back at the woman he’d built it all with.
“Neither would I.”
And somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, with another little surprise on the way…
I love your Ilia Malinin works🎀If it’s okay can I request a fic where he is dating a hockey player and celebrating with her?????
Hockey Girl
.
The final buzzer sounded. And your helmet hit the ice before you even realized you were crying.
The arena exploded.
Your teammates swarmed you, gloves flying, sticks clattering across the ice as everyone piled together in the biggest celebration of your career.
Champions.
You’d done it.
From somewhere in the stands came one very recognizable yell.
“THAT’S MY GIRL!”
You looked up.
Ilia was practically hanging over the railing, clapping so hard his hands had to hurt. He’d flown in after a week of training camp just to make the championship game, arriving only hours before puck drop.
The TV cameras found him immediately.
*Olympic champion figure skater Ilia Malinin was losing his mind in the front row.*
He didn’t care.
He was pointing at you with both hands like he wanted the entire arena to know exactly who he came to see.
You laughed through your tears.
Nearly thirty minutes later, after the trophy presentation, interviews, and approximately six thousand team photos, you finally spotted him waiting just outside the locker room.
Still wearing his arena visitor pass.
Still holding the bouquet of white flowers he’d somehow managed to keep alive through the chaos.
The second your eyes met…
You ran.
The equipment bag still hung awkwardly off one shoulder as you sprinted straight into him.
“Oof…”
He barely caught you before your momentum nearly knocked both of you over.
“You won,” he laughed, wrapping both arms around your waist. “You actually won.”
“I KNOW!”
You buried your face in his neck, laughing and crying at the same time.
“We won.”
“No,” he corrected gently. “You won.”
He leaned back just enough to cup your face.
“I’ve watched you wake up at five in the morning.”
He brushed a damp strand of hair away.
“I’ve watched you come home covered in bruises.”
His thumb wiped away another tear.
“I’ve watched you lose games that broke your heart.”
His smile softened.
“And today… I got to watch every single hour of that pay off.”
Your lip trembled.
“You really came.”
He looked offended.
“You thought I was missing the biggest game of your career?”
“You had training.”
“I told Mister Dad Man Roman I’d miss one day.”
“You skipped training?”
“For you?” He shrugged. “Easy choice.”
“You never skip training.”
“I do now.”
One of your teammates walked by carrying the championship trophy.
“Oh!” she grinned. “Boyfriend!”
Ilia looked up.
“You’ve gotta hold it.”
His eyes widened.
“Ms? Seriously?”
“You flew all this way.”
She handed him the enormous silver trophy.
He almost dropped it.
“Whoa!”
The entire hallway burst into laughter.
“It’s heavier than Olympic gold!” he said.
“See?” you laughed. “Hockey’s harder.”
“Oh absolutely not.”
He shifted the trophy onto one hip.
“I jump quads.”
“You almost threw out your back lifting a cup.”
“It caught me off guard!”
The photographers immediately noticed.
“There they are!”
“Oh, we need pictures!”
Within seconds cameras surrounded you.
You instinctively stood beside him.
Instead…
Ilia quietly stepped back.
“What are you doing?” you whispered.
He smiled.
“This isn’t my moment.”
He gently pushed you forward until you stood in front of the trophy.
“You earned this.”
“You can be in them.”
“I will.”
He wrapped one arm around your shoulders.
“But every picture should remind people who the champion is.”
Your heart melted.
An hour later the team rented out a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city.
Music echoed across the terrace.
Everyone was still wearing championship hats.
Someone had already started dancing on a table.
Your teammates immediately claimed Ilia.
“So…”
One of the veterans crossed her arms.
“We’ve heard about the famous boyfriend.”
“Oh no,” you muttered.
“We have questions.”
Ilia grinned.
“I’ll answer almost anything.”
“Who gets recognized more?”
“Hmm…”
He looked at you.
“Depends.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“If we’re at a skating event…”
He pointed at himself.
“If we’re at a hockey arena…”
He pointed proudly at you.
“…I’m just somebody’s boyfriend.”
The entire table cheered.
Later, after everyone else was busy dancing, the two of you slipped onto the quiet balcony overlooking the city lights.
You still wore your championship smile like a medal around your neck.
Ilia stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist.
“So…” he murmured.
“So?”
“When I won Worlds…”
“Mhm?”
“You baked me cookies.”
“I did.”
“When I won Grand Prix Final…”
“I made dinner.”
He nodded.
“Today you won a championship.”
You smiled.
“So?”
“I’ve been preparing.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“What did you do?”
He pulled out his phone.
“I may have rented a cabin.”
“What?”
“For four days.”
“You did?”
“No interviews. No cameras. No training. No practices.”
He kissed your temple.
“Just us.”
You turned around.
“You planned all that?”
“I started planning after your semifinal.”
“What if you lost?”
He shrugged.
“Then we’d still go.”
“Why?”
“Because whether you won or lost…”
He rested his forehead against yours.
“…I was going to celebrate the woman I love.”
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The city glittered beneath the balcony.
Inside, your teammates were chanting your name.
Outside, the world felt wonderfully quiet.
You reached up and straightened the slightly crooked collar of his jacket.
“You know…”
“What?”
“You looked really cute trying to lift that trophy.”
He gasped dramatically.
“I knew this was a setup.”
“You almost dropped it.”
“It attacked me.”
“The trophy attacked you?”
“It was aggressive.”
You burst into laughter.
He smiled at the sound, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Good,” he said softly.
“What?”
“There’s my girl. The one who laughs with no fear.”
reader gets a tattoo on their collar bone, and it's a small but visible "I", his initial. Ilia LOVES kissing their collarbone because of it (just a random thought 😪)
The tattoo had been a complete surprise.
Not because you’d hidden it from Ilia.
Well… maybe a little.
You’d spent weeks debating it before finally walking into a tattoo studio and getting a tiny, elegant “I” inked just beneath your collarbone. Nothing huge. Nothing dramatic. Just a single letter in delicate black script.
His initial.
You’d sent him a picture afterward with absolutely no explanation.
Just:
*pic*:)
The response had come thirty seconds later.
“WHAT IS THAT
IS THAT AN “I”
IS THAT MY “I”
OH MY GOD”
When he got home from practice that evening, he nearly dropped his skate bag.
You were sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone when he walked in.
His eyes immediately locked onto the tattoo peeking out from beneath your tank top.
He froze.
You smirked.
“What?”
“What do you mean what?”
“What?”
He pointed dramatically.
“That!”
You glanced down.
“Oh. This?”
“Yes, this.”
His eyes were practically sparkling.
“You got my initial tattooed on you.”
“It is just an I.”
“It’s my I.”
“It’s literally one letter.”
“It’s my letter.”
You laughed.
“You are being so ridiculous.”
“And you are amazing.”
The obsession started immediately.
And unfortunately for you…
It never ended.
A few days later, you were standing in the kitchen making coffee when arms wrapped around your waist from behind.
You smiled automatically.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
A second later you felt lips press against your shoulder.
Then your collarbone.
Right over the tattoo.
You laughed.
“Again?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“No.”
Another kiss.
“No?”
Another kiss.
“No.”
Another.
“Ilia.”
“I love it.”
You rolled your eyes.
“You love yourself.”
“That too.”
His favorite thing became sneaking kisses there whenever possible.
Watching TV?
Collarbone kiss.
Walking past you in the hallway?
kiss.
Waiting for an elevator?
Sneaky kiss.
Sitting together on the couch?
Lingering kiss.
At one point you were convinced he had forgotten how normal kisses worked.
One evening you were getting ready for dinner.
You stepped out of the bedroom wearing a dress with a slightly lower neckline.
Immediately his eyes found the tattoo.
Then they found you.
Then the tattoo again.
“Oh no.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“What?”
“I forgot how good that looks.”
“It’s been months.”
“I know.”
His gaze remained fixed.
“Still.”
You laughed.
“You look at it like I got it yesterday.”
“Because every time I see it, I remember that you willingly put my initial on your body.”
“You act like I proposed.”
“You basically did.”
Later that night, after dinner, you were curled up together on the couch.
His arm rested around your shoulders.
The movie had long since become background noise.
You felt him absentmindedly tracing the tattoo with his thumb.
The touch was surprisingly gentle.
“You know,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“I would’ve loved it no matter what.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
“But the fact that it’s my initial…”
He shook his head.
“I still can’t believe it.”
“You’ve been saying that for six months.”
“And I’ll say it for six more.”
You laughed.
“You’re impossible.”
“Maybe.”
He leaned down.
One soft kiss against your collarbone.
Right on the little letter.
Then another against your cheek.
And finally one on your lips.
“I just like being reminded you’re mine.”
Your heart fluttered.
You smiled against his mouth.
“Good.”
His grin appeared instantly.
“Because I really like being reminded you’re mine too.”
And before you could respond, he stole yet another kiss against the tattoo.
So this was sent to me as a request and I thought it was cute to do so here ya go.
Trends
Ilia Malinin x fem!skater
Summary: The fans love when you two do TikTok trends.
You and Ilia had been dubbed “the ice’s favorite couple” for so long that it felt like your official title now. Not world champions (though you both were), not record breakers (again, technically yes), but the couple. The one fans made edits of with heart filters and slow-motion replays of you two laughing in the Kiss-and-Cry. The one commentators mentioned with fond exasperation when your practices ran long because you kept trying to one-up each other’s spins.
But the real secret to your internet fame wasn’t the medals. It was the trends.
It started innocently enough. A bored evening in your shared apartment after a long day of training. Ilia had been scrolling on his phone, shirtless because “the his hoodie was too warm,” eating cereal straight from the box like a gremlin.
You’d pointed the camera at him. “A boy who’s jacked and kind,” your phone played.
Ilia had looked up, crumbs dripping down his chin, and immediately flexed with the cereal box still in his hand. The video blew up overnight. Comments flooded in:
“THE WAY HE LOOKED SO PROUD OF HIMSELF 😭”
“Ilia Malinin saw ‘kind’ and chose violence (affectionate)”
“POV: you’re dating a golden retriever with abs”
From there, it became tradition.
Today you were both at the empty training rink, golden hour light pouring through the high windows and turning the ice into liquid amber. Practice had technically ended thirty minutes ago, but neither of you could resist staying late when the rink felt like your own little world.
Ilia skated backward in lazy circles, hands in the pockets of his black training jacket, watching you with that soft, mischievous grin he only ever wore around you.
“Okay, next trend,” he called out. “I found a good one.”
You glided over, suspicious. “If this is the one where you pretend to drop me, I’m filing for couple separation.”
He laughed, that bright, boyish sound that still made your stomach flip even after two years together. “No, no. It’s ‘Things my partner does that make me blush.’ Easy points.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t blush. Your face is permanently set to smug.”
“Challenge accepted.”
He pulled out his phone, propped it against the boards on a towel, and hit record. Then he skated back to you, took both your hands, and started.
“First,” he said, looking straight into the camera, “she does this little scrunchy face when she lands a triple axel. Like she’s personally offended the jump existed.” He demonstrated, nose wrinkled, eyes squinted, and you shoved his shoulder.
“Second,” he continued, undeterred, “she always steals my hoodies but leaves the sleeves too long so her hands disappear. It’s stupidly cute.”
You felt your face heating. “Ilia—”
“Third,” he said, softer now, turning to you instead of the camera, “she looks at me like I’m the best thing she’s ever seen even when I fall on my ass doing a quad. Every single time.”
The rink went quiet except for the soft scrape of your blades. Ilia’s thumbs brushed over your knuckles.
You swallowed. “My turn.”
You turned to the camera, still holding his hands.
“Things my partner does that make me blush,” you started. “He pretends he doesn’t speak English when fans ask for photos so he can hide behind me. He brings me soup when I’m sick and tries to feed me like I’m a baby bird. He—” your voice caught for a second, “—he kisses my skates before competition like they’re lucky charms even though he says it’s ‘just hygiene.’”
Ilia’s ears went pink. Victory.
The video ended with both of you laughing, foreheads pressed together, his arms looped around your waist as you spun slowly on the ice.
Later, you set your phone on the tripod in the sunny living room, adjusting the angle so it captured you perfectly in frame. The trending lipstick audio played softly as you queued it up. Ilia was somewhere behind the camera, just out of view on the couch, pretending to scroll on his phone while you filmed.
You hit record and smiled brightly at the lens, holding up a tube of deep crimson lipstick. You applied it smoothly across your lips first, then deliberately smeared a streak across your cheek with an exaggerated “oops” face.
“Oh nooo,” you said playfully to the camera, dabbing at the mess.
Before you could continue the bit, Ilia’s hand entered the frame from the side—strong, familiar, with that silver ring you’d given him on his finger. His thumb gently swiped across your cheek, “helping” clean the smear… but mostly just spreading it more while being adorably tender.
You giggled as his hand lingered for a second, then turned the camera around with a mischievous grin.
There was Ilia, already completely covered in your lipstick kisses.
Red prints decorated his face and neck like a map of affection: cheeks, forehead, jawline, the tip of his nose, even a few along his collarbone where his t-shirt dipped low. He looked up from his phone with a sleepy, amused smile, one eyebrow raised.
You laughed behind the camera. “I couldn’t resist. You were too cute after breakfast.”
Ilia reached out again, this time pulling you gently by the waist into the frame with him. His hand—still faintly smudged with your lipstick—rested on your hip as he looked straight into the lens.
“She ambushed me earlier,” he told your followers, gesturing at all the kiss marks with mock seriousness. “And now I’m her masterpiece.”
I tried to tag you in part 2 but I couldn’t find you. So here is part two
Five Feet Apart part 2
WARNING: Mentions of surgery, chronic illness
The weeks blurred into a fragile routine until the night everything tilted.
Ilia had pushed too hard again. The nurses adored him—he remembered their names, asked about their kids, cracked jokes during blood draws—but they also wanted to strangle him. “Mr. Malinin, you cannot do triple axels in the gym with sats at 89%,” they’d scold. He’d flash that disarming smile, apologize, then do it anyway two days later when the energy returned. Stubbornness was his sharpest blade.
This time, the blade cut back.
A sudden infection hit his already compromised lungs. By morning he was in distress, oxygen demands skyrocketing. They moved him to a higher-acuity room. By evening, he was on high-flow nasal cannula that still wasn’t enough. Doctors decided on emergency intervention—bronchoscopy first, then a thoracic procedure to clear scarring and infection under general anesthesia. Nothing life-ending, the surgeons promised, but serious enough that the entire floor felt the shift in energy.
You paced the lounge that night, five feet from where he usually set up his camera. The room felt hollow without him. Your laptop screen glowed with something new—not your usual angry prose, but a poem. Words you’d written in the dim light of 3 a.m. while worrying about him.
You titled it simply: Edges.
The next evening, after surgery, Ilia was back in his room but exhausted. He lay propped up in bed wearing a BiPAP mask that hissed rhythmically, forcing air into lungs that fought every breath. The ends of his blonde hair were damp with sweat, IVs snaking across both arms, monitors casting green light across his pale face. The stubborn sparkle was dimmed, but not gone—he still managed a weak thumbs-up to the nurse adjusting his settings.
“You’re supposed to rest,” the nurse reminded him gently. “No vlogging tonight, superstar.”
He gave her a tired salute. She rolled her eyes fondly and left.
You stood at the doorway, masked, gloved, keeping the careful distance even as your heart squeezed. They’d moved you to the room across the hall for the night so you could be close if things shifted. Hospital rules. Their rules.
Ilia’s eyes found yours. He lifted a hand and motioned you closer, then pointed at the chair five feet from his bed. You sat, clutching your notebook.
“How are you feeling?” You asked softly.
He gave a small shrug, the mask muffling his voice into a mechanical rasp. “Like I lost a fight with gravity… again.” A pause as the BiPAP pushed another breath into him. “But I’ll be back on the ice. Doctors said the scarring should improve after this.”
Typical Ilia. Already planning the comeback while his body was still fighting for air.
You opened your notebook, fingers trembling slightly. “I wrote something. While you were in surgery. I… I don’t read these to anyone. But I want you to hear it.”
He turned his head toward you, blue eyes steady despite the exhaustion and the mask fogging with each labored breath. The machines kept their steady rhythm—hiss, release, beep.
You began reading, voice quiet but clear:
Edges
You carve the air like it owes you beauty,
even when your chest fights every lift.
Shoulders squared against invisible blades,
the same ones that scar your lungs from within.
I watch the way pain makes you luminous—
not despite the struggle, but because of it.
Sweat at your temples like morning frost on ice,
each breath a deliberate program you refuse to scratch.
There is grace in your stubbornness,
in how you befriend the nurses who scold you,
then ignore their warnings with that half-smile
that says the disease will have to catch you first.
When the mask forces air you cannot pull alone,
you are still sketching futures with tired hands—
jumps that defy the weight in your chest,
spins that turn limitation into art.
You are beautiful in the fight, Ilia.
Not the polished version the cameras capture,
but this one—
raw edges, oxygen lines, and unyielding will—
a quad in human form,
landing every time on trembling blades.
I write this from five feet away,
afraid to touch what the world needs shining,
but closer than yesterday.
Keep breathing.
I’ll keep writing the words
until we both cross the distance.
When you finished, the room was silent except for the BiPAP’s mechanical whisper. Ilia’s eyes were closed, but not in sleep—tears slipped down the side of his face, catching in the mask’s seal.
He reached for the small whiteboard the nurses left him. With shaky handwriting, he wrote:
That’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.
Then, underneath: Thank you for seeing the ugly parts as art too.
Your own eyes burned. You wanted to cross the room so badly it hurt. Instead, you stayed in your chair, five feet of careful air between you two, and whispered, “You make me want to keep fighting for my white coat. Even on the days I hate this body.”
He wrote again, slower this time: We’re both stubborn. Good thing.
A small laugh escaped you, watery and real. The nurse came back in to check vitals, saw the moment, and quietly stepped back out, giving you the space the machines wouldn’t allow physically.
Ilia pointed at your notebook, then at himself, then made a small writing motion. Your turn next, he mouthed behind the mask. When I’m off this thing… I’ll draw you something new.
You nodded, closing the notebook against your chest like a promise.
Outside, the hospital lights flickered on against the coming night. Inside, between beeping monitors and forced breaths and careful distance, something stronger than your illnesses kept growing—one poem, one stubborn recovery, one shared understanding at a time.
He flopped dramatically onto the king-sized bed in your bedroom, the one you christened with far more successful activities than this current quest. The glow of his phone screen lit up his face, casting shadows that made his sharp jawline look even more sculpted—like he was posing for a post-competition vlog instead of doom-scrolling fertility forums at 10 PM. You, his wife, lounged beside him in one of your oversized sleep shirts, legs tangled in the sheets. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, as you scrolled on your own tablet with the focused intensity you usually reserved for analyzing Ilia’s triple Lutz footage. 
“Another month,” you sighed, your voice softening the frustration. You tossed the tablet aside and rolled into his side, resting your chin on his chest. “The app says I’m ovulating, the basal temp is perfect, and still… nothing. I feel like my uterus is ghosting us.”
Ilia wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer. His hand traced lazy circles on your back, the same gentle touch that had comforted you through unsure job interviews, bad managers, and that one terrifying pregnancy scare last year. “Hey, we’re in this together. The doctors said stress doesn’t help. We’ve got time. And honestly? I’m not complaining about the practice sessions.” He grinned, that boyish, cocky smile that always made your knees weak, even after years together.
You laughed softly, but there was a serious edge beneath it. “I know. I just… I want our little one so badly. Watching you with the kids at the rink, coaching them through their first jumps… it makes me picture it. Us, as parents. Your voice cracking just a little. “What if we’re doing something wrong?”
Ilia’s expression softened. He tilted your chin, kissing your forehead, then lips—slow, reassuring, full of that deep love that had carried you through the wedding night, tour exhaustion, and every jealous argument that ended in explosive makeup sex. “We’re not. But maybe we need to stop treating this like a training regimen. Less charts, more fun. Remember when we turned the kitchen into our personal sex shop surprise? That was ridiculous and hot.”
Your eyes sparkled with mischief. You grabbed his phone, pulling up a browser. “Fine. Let’s make it stupid. I have the perfect song, ‘Juno.’ Listen to this part.” You queued it up, the playful beat filling the room. Your voice joining in on the lyrics, teasing: “Wanna try out some freaky positions? Have you ever tried this one?”
Ilia barked out a laugh, nearly choking. “Oh, we’re doing this? Alright, Mrs. Malinin. Challenge accepted. Google, show us the dumbest positions for baby-making.”
What followed was a descent into glorious, sweaty absurdity.
Position One: The Wheelbarrow
Ilia started strong, channeling his athleticism. You got on all fours on the edge of the bed, giggling already. He grabbed your legs like wheelbarrow handles, lifting your hips while you braced on elbows. “This is supposed to get the sperm closer to the goal,” he grunted, lining up and sliding into you with a deep thrust that made you moan.
“Oh god, yes!” You gasped, voice husky. The angle was incredible, hitting that spot that made you see stars. He started moving, powerful and controlled, one hand steadying your waist while the other reached around to tease your clit. It felt serious for a moment—raw connection, his grunts mixing with your whimpers, the wet slap of skin on skin.
Then your arms buckled. “Ilia—my elbows! I’m sliding—ah!” You face-planted into the mattress with a muffled “Crap!” He tried to adjust, but momentum sent you both tumbling. His dick slipped out mid-thrust, and you guys collapsed in a heap of limbs, laughing hysterically.
“Ten out of ten for depth, zero for stability,” Ilia wheezed, rolling you over and kissing your neck. “You okay?”
“More than okay,” you purred, pulling him on top for a proper missionary reset. He entered you again, slower this time, eyes locked. “I love you. This is going to happen when it’s right.” The seriousness lingered as you moved together, tender and deep, your legs wrapped around him. But the mood lightened fast when he whispered, “Next one?”
Position Two: The Acrobat
You took charge this time, pushing Ilia onto his back. “My turn to explore you.” You straddled him reverse cowgirl style, then carefully leaned all the way back until you’re lying on his chest, head near his, legs bent awkwardly. It was like a contortionist act gone sexy. 
“Have you ever tried this one?” You quoted breathlessly, grinding down onto him. The stretch was intense—full exposure, his hands roaming your breasts, pinching your nipples while you rode him in shallow, teasing circles. It was filthy and vulnerable. You felt every inch of him, the angle pressing perfectly against your front wall.
“Fuck, you’re so tight like this,” Ilia groaned, thrusting up. His voice was wrecked, that dominant edge creeping in as one hand gripped onto your hip hard enough to bruise. You loved it—the mix of his control and your power. You reached back, tangling fingers in his hair, pulling as you clenched around him.
But sometimes core strength has limits. Your abs started burning. “Ilia, I—cramp! Quad Axel in the bedroom, my ass!” You tried to sit up, but balance failed. You both rolled sideways off the bed in a tangle, landing with a thud on the carpet. His cock, still hard and glistening, slapped against his stomach as he burst out laughing.
“Emergency dismount!” He declared, pulling you into his lap on the floor. You didn’t even make it back to the bed. He guided you down onto him again, facing him this time, and you guys fucked like that—desperate, laughing, you bouncing while he sucked marks into your collarbone. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Make that baby right here on the floor.”
The seriousness hit again in the aftershocks: you resting against his chest, his cum leaking down your thighs as you whispered about names—Sofia for a girl, maybe another Ilia for a boy.
Position Three: The Standing Wheelbarrow (Kitchen Edition, Because Why Not?)
You and Ilia migrated to the kitchen for “new terrain.” You braced your hands on the counter, Ilia lifting your legs again. Laughter echoed as he nearly dropped you into the sink. “This is how you break a hip before Nationals!”
But once he was inside you—deep, pounding from behind while you gripped the edge—it turned scorching. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back for messy kisses. “Gonna put a baby in you right here where we made those turnovers last week.” The dirty talk mixed with your moans; you came hard, clenching, and he followed, holding you up as your legs shook.
You both slid to the floor afterward, sticky and spent, sharing water and more serious pillow talk (floor talk?). “Whatever happens,” you said softly, tracing his Stars On Ice scar, “we’re a team. On ice and off.”
“Real talk,” he murmured. “All this nonsense… it’s because I want this with you. The laughs, the fails, the wins. If it takes a hundred ridiculous positions, I’m here.”
In the quiet, hours later as sleep pulled you under, the hope felt real—freaky positions or not, the love was the real fertility boost. And if a little chaos led to your future child? Well, that would make one hell of a vlog story someday.
Piping hot take: I don't give a shit if straight actors play queer characters as long as they do so with empathy and authenticity. When you say shit like "only queer actors should play queer characters" what you're actually saying is only OUT queer actors should play queer characters. If you're assuming an actor (or anyone else, for that matter) who hasn't declared their sexuality is straight, you are participating in heteronormativity.
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: 7,5k
author’s note: it took me like 2 weeks, but it's finally here! 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 chapter contains sexual content, MDNI
You stare at the screen again, Cam's voice slowly fading into the background. She's on FaceTime with you, showing you two dresses she has as options for a last-minute wedding invitation. Originally, she had planned to decline, but your and Ziggy's points were convincing enough that she decided to put her gaming console aside for one night, opting instead to spend time with her relatives.
"Is it, like, too slutty for a wedding?"
"No, it's perfect."
"But the cut is low."
"Well, it's not like you have the boobs to fill it out."
"Bitch," she chuckles, throwing you a half-annoyed, half-offended look. She squints at the screen because she still hasn't picked up her new prescription glasses, being the procrastinator she is. "Are you still dwelling on Ilia's text?"
"What am I supposed to reply?!"
"Tell him you'll talk to him once your exams are over."
"My exams are over in, like, two weeks," you sigh, leaning back in your gaming chair as you shut your eyes tight for a few seconds. You feel entirely overwhelmed by the single text message you haven't opened since this morning. It's almost 5 p.m. now.
The truth is, you're not really ignoring him. Sure, maybe you ran away after he confessed to you and kissed you, but it's not like you've seen him since then or have been deliberately avoiding him. And it's only been two days. You're just not actively seeking to resolve whatever happened because the whole situation scares you even more than the reality excites you. The embarrassment still lingers every time you relive those few seconds when you tugged the door handle and ran away as he called out your name.
"Why are you so uptight about this whole thing? It's Ilia."
"Yes, exactly!" you huff, rolling your eyes. Explaining something to your best friend is hard, especially when you don't even understand it yourself. "He kissed me and I ran away like an idiot!"
"And now you're acting like a bigger idiot because you keep ignoring him."
"I mean, I'm not exactly ignoring him."
"Oh, shut up," she exhales, throwing you a dirty look before she puts the black dress away in the closet, presumably brushing aside your opinion that it looks appropriate for a wedding. "Tell him you needed time to think and you'll talk to him soon."
"When is soon?"
"Honestly, I'm running out of patience with you."
"Alright, alright," you admit in a defeated voice, straightening your spine as if it somehow gives you the confidence you desperately need. "I'll figure something out."
"Yes, like you always do."
"But this is, like, an exceptional case."
"Are you going to keep ranting about that Russian boy, or will you help me finish my wedding look?"
You nod, leaning forward so you can see the jewelry options she's showing you. You try to bite back the comment that all of them are ugly—but you do, because it fits Cam's style perfectly and you are a good friend.
The call with her ends approximately twenty minutes later. You find yourself spinning in your gaming chair, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you type out several responses before aggressively hitting the delete button, never satisfied with the outcome. Eventually, you stop and ask yourself if it's really that serious. The next second, you've sent a message before fully thinking it through. Your heartbeat quickens just enough when you see that he has read it almost immediately.
You: I'm sorry. I know we need to talk.
Ilia: Are you home?
You: I'm kind of in the middle of something.
You panic when he doesn't respond. Your eyes widen as you realize he hasn't even opened your last message, meaning he's probably already on his way over. Cursing under your breath, you leap up from the chair. You frantically look around the room to find something to put on instead of your washed-out t-shirt, which has holes in the collar thanks to your habit of chewing on it whenever you're bored. A dark blue t-shirt that you snubbed from Jace's room at some point is in much better condition, complementing a pair of gray shorts that were also his before puberty fully had its impact on him.
The doorbell rings just as you're sprinting down the stairs. He knows your dad is still at work, and he also knows that Jace hits the gym around this time every Tuesday. There's not really a reason for him to hide or hold back, meaning you're forced to have this conversation even if you're not fully prepared for it. Maybe it's better this way, before you start overthinking and potentially ruining something that hasn't even started yet.
"Hi."
You give him a somewhat shy smile, stepping aside to silently welcome him in. He eyes you for a second, opening his mouth slightly as if he's about to say something, but ultimately decides against it. He's wearing one of the many Toothless t-shirts he owns, his shorts hugging him perfectly. You subtly eye him as he steps inside, wondering when exactly his glutes managed to grow like that.
"What are you up to?"
"Um… just the usual stuff," you shrug, heat rushing to your face despite trying so hard to sound casual. It's almost like you've completely forgotten how to talk to him.
He gives you an expectant look, the kind that encourages you to start talking, but the silence hangs heavy in the room. Your palms seem to grow sweaty, so you hide them at your sides as if they are the sole thing giving away your uneasiness and not the panicked expression plastered on your face.
"Can we just talk?" he asks abruptly, as if he's finally had enough of the awkwardness. He sighs, looking at you with slightly raised eyebrows—an expression you know well from when he's feeling sorry or worried about something. You shift uncomfortably, pressing your lips together as he continues. "It's me. Things don't have to be awkward."
"I know."
"Then why are you avoiding me?"
"I'm not," you exhale, resisting the urge to bury your face in your hands. Looking him straight in the eye is deeply embarrassing, especially when he shakes his head, his gaze hardening. "I'm just…"
"You're just what?" he presses, vaguely gesturing with his hands. "Look, I understand if you needed time to think, and I wanted to give you space, but you haven't talked to me in almost three days. You ran away after I kissed you. I just… I don't know what to think."
"I know it was a stupid thing to do."
"Are you still mad at me?"
The question takes you aback. You pause when his voice comes out quieter. The answer doesn't come easily because you haven't actually thought about it. All you could think about these past few days was the fact that Ilia kissed you, and that he actually liked you back—just as you had always wished he would.
"No," you reply after a while, concluding that you don't feel an ounce of the rage you felt a few days ago. "I ran away because I was confused and… scared. I'm just stupid."
"You're not." He shakes his head and steps forward, gently pushing your blue-light glasses back up after they had slid down your nose. You only wear them because of your dad's insistence; he always uses the excuse of being a doctor who "knows better" when he forces you and your brother to do things you don't really want to do.
"Usually I'm not, no, but running away that night was one of the most embarrassing things I've ever done."
"It doesn't top the talent show you did back in middle school."
"Oh, shut up," you groan at the memory, avoiding his gaze as he lets out a laugh. He tugs at your arm, pulling you toward him. It's as if the heavy tension completely breaks with the solo memory, a stark reminder that this is Ilia—the guy you grew up with, the boy you never need to shy away from. He stares down at you with a soft expression, fixing the pieces of hair that messily frame your face. "You weren't so great at that talent show either."
"I got first place."
"Just because you sucked less than the other kids doesn't mean you didn't suck."
The corner of his lip lifts, a smile stretching across his face as his voice loses its teasing edge. "As much as I enjoy this conversation, can we go back to where we started?"
"You like embarrassing me, don't you?"
"No, I just want to establish the fact that I like you," he repeats, more confident this time. His eyes search yours while you stare at him quietly, your chest tightening at the words that make you dizzy. They still feel unfamiliar, but you could easily get used to them. "And I'm sorry for being a coward and not sticking up for us when it mattered. I was a jerk that night."
"It hurt. A lot."
"I know."
"I've spent the last few years having a massive crush on you," you admit openly, your heart hammering against your ribs. Something twists in your stomach as you hold back, choosing not to tell him that your feelings are actually much greater than a silly crush. It's too soon, you tell yourself, clinging to the excuse. "And hearing you say that… it just destroyed me. You brushed me off like I was just Jace's annoying little sister you're forced to tolerate… And then you just confessed out of the blue when I was so mad at you, and I just…" You can't even finish the sentence, unable to find the words for what you felt in that moment. "It was a lot to take in."
"I'm sorry. I hate myself for how I handled that," he says, his voice apologetic. He reaches down, gently taking your hands in his, forcing you to look up at him. "The second Jack brought you up, I panicked. He kind of already knew, and I was afraid he would see right through me. And if Jack found out, Jace would find out."
The image of your brother flashes across your mind. He loves Ilia; there's no doubt that in any world, he would consider his best friend worthy of you, but you also know him well enough to know he won't be happy about this. Both you and Ilia know that if Jace finds out, things are going to get ugly.
"I took the easy way out because I was terrified," Ilia confesses, his blue eyes sincere, pleading with you to understand. "I was terrified of how messy things would get if they found out how I actually felt about you."
"Jace won't approve."
"I know."
You exhale, your shoulders dropping, heavy with a secret that already feels like a burden. He lets go of your hands only to cup the side of your face, his fingers sliding into your hair. "Look at me."
You look up, meeting the intense blue of his eyes.
"I've felt this way about you for a while, and I always tried to tell myself it was wrong," he says softly, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Yeah, maybe I'm not supposed to have feelings for my best friend's sister because of some unwritten moral code, but it's not wrong. It doesn't feel wrong anymore. The whole time I was on tour, I missed home terribly, and then I realized it was you I was homesick for."
The honesty in his voice completely undoes you, stripping away the last string of your hesitation. Suddenly, you find yourself leaning in, sneaking your arms around his back and burying your face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. His response is immediate. He pulls you tighter against him, rubbing your back affectionately and pressing a light kiss into your hair.
You don't know how much time passes before he gently lifts your head up, caressing your jaw with his palm. His blue eyes sweep over your face, his thumb eventually coming to rest on your bottom lip.
"Can I kiss you?"
"It's not like you asked the first time, either."
He grins, leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. Closing your eyes, you sigh into the touch. His mouth is warm against yours, his hands roaming over your back as they clutch your t-shirt. Your hand flies into his hair, the short strands soft between your fingertips as you gently tug at them. You only pull back when you're left breathless, your chest heaving up and down just like his. A smile breaks across his face.
"By the way," his voice turns teasing, his fingertip tracing a slow line up your arm. "You're wearing my t-shirt."
"What?" Your brows furrow, genuine confusion making your lips pout.
"Yeah. Jace ended up borrowing it a while ago, but he never gave it back."
"Well, I'm not giving it back either."
"Good," he smiles, his eyes almost shining. "I don't want you to."
You grin at him, intertwining your fingers with his—at first shyly, then gripping him tightly, leading him up to your room to show him the new Lego set you've built before Jace comes back.
Neither of you talk about it, neither of you openly discuss it, but you quickly slip into a routine.
His texts come in every morning and night, the day never ending without late-night conversations with him, your friends teasing you that you have temporarily replaced them. He gives you rides to the university—half the time you secretly slide into the passenger seat, and the other half of the time you casually mention to Jace that you two happen to have the same schedule. Your brother doesn't think anything of it, you're sure, casually waving you off before his stare fixes back on the computer screen.
On the rare occasions that you're free from studying and working and the house is empty for you to use as you please, he comes over. You watch movies, play games, cook pasta for him, and teach him how to play Sudoku. He brings you your favorite snacks and you cuddle on the couch, always glancing at the clock to make sure you don't get caught. Sometimes it's hard, pretending nothing exists between you two except a platonic relationship, and perhaps there's no reason to wait anymore, because Jace will rage at both of you anyways—but still, neither of you speak about it. Perhaps you like the thrill of sneaking around behind everyone's back. Perhaps, despite how much you don't want to admit it out loud, the idea of things getting real scares you both.
"Come on, just one more lap."
"I can't!"
"Stop whining."
Jace exhales, nudging you to continue running while your chest heaves up and down, your whole body sweaty as you try to fight off your legs from giving up. You watch him run ahead of you, wiping the sweat from your forehead before you straighten your spine, jogging after him in a way less energetic way.
Jace thinks of himself as a caring brother, which is why he has decided to take care of your physical health, forcing you to run with him almost every day and feeding you the protein smoothies he enthusiastically makes every morning. You're doing laps around the neighborhood, having just passed your house, when you see Jace stopping. You squint your eyes to confirm that the blonde talking to him is Ilia.
"Hey."
"Hi," you wave at him, still breathless. His face is completely relaxed, unlike yours, a smile plastered across it. You're wearing nothing special—just shorts and a sports bra—but his gaze still shifts, subtly eyeing you before he fixes his stare back on Jace. He's wearing Snoopy pants and a plain white t-shirt, making it evident that he just rolled out of bed, holding some letters in his hand. Tatyana must have sent him out to collect the mail.
"You should run with us," Jace tells him, nudging him on the shoulder. Then he gestures toward you, pointing a finger. "I have to keep this one in shape, and I need help because she's awful company."
"Oh, shut up."
"You've been whining for the whole run!" he insists, throwing you an annoyed look while Ilia witnesses the sibling interaction with an amused expression. "No, ever since this morning, before we even started running."
"Because instead of helping me gradually build stamina, you just force me to run for over an hour and I'm exhausted!" you argue, looking over at Ilia so he can prove your point. "You're an athlete. Tell him that he's an awful instructor."
"I fear she's right, Jace."
"What's up with you always agreeing with her lately?" Jace rolls his eyes, throwing him a dirty look. The smile washes off your face, but he doesn't notice it. He doesn't notice either when Ilia nervously shifts, his smile turning awkward. "You're supposed to be my best friend."
"It's not like you own him."
"I own him more than you do."
Jace winks at you, convinced that he's made a point, while you bite down on your tongue before you regret the next words escaping your throat. Ilia must notice that Jace's words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, because he swiftly changes the topic, talking about their next hangout as you look at your watch, contemplating that you should just go home.
"I'm streaming this afternoon."
"What are you going to play?"
"Probably Fortnite again."
"Bro, people are tired of watching you play that shit," Jace groans, his dislike of Fortnite shining through. It's a topic he and Ilia still haven't agreed upon after all these years. "Even Geometry Dash is more entertaining."
"I was going to play FIFA with Jacob, but he ditched me for practice," Ilia sighs, and even though your eyes are fixed on your phone screen, you can feel him subtly glancing at you. "I asked your sister to accompany me, but she turned me down… playing Valorant would be fun."
Feeling both of them burning their stares through your skull, you lift your head up, shrugging as you purse your lips. "I don't really want to engage with your crazy fangirls."
"People usually behave, and I have mods."
"Yeah sis, show him some generosity," Jace backs him up, to your surprise, your eyes squinting at his behavior, which seems suspicious. "Teach him how to play Valorant properly."
"I can absolutely play Valorant!"
"I said properly," Jace grins, slapping his back in what is supposed to be an affectionate way. Then he backs up a few steps, looking at you with determination as he motions for you to follow him. "Now come on, one last lap."
You throw Ilia a helpless look, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips as he mouths words you absolutely cannot decipher. Then you leave him there, jogging after Jace as you glance behind your shoulder every few seconds, only to find him staring right back at you.
You: NO
Ilia: Come ooon
Ilia: It's gonna be Fun
Ilia: I want to stream with you
Ilia: Please :(
You stare at the screen, then back to the clock, contemplating whether you're ready to give in and accept his invitation or not. Occasionally streaming with Ziggy and Cam is fun because the chat is chill, and mostly the conversation is just about Valorant or other games you play together. But even from just watching bits of Ilia's stream a handful of times, you know his is drastically different. You know you'll probably get dragged online for no reason, because some fans can just be that crazy.
Maybe you just don't have the heart to turn him down, or maybe a secret, deep part of you wants to remind others of your existence and your place in his life. It sounds stupid, but when another text comes through—this time a picture of him making a pouty face—you find yourself smiling. You agree without giving it any further thought.
Jace helps you set up the camera, removing a few plushies from your bed because he insists they leave a "loser impression" of you. He takes Dusty too, with the excuse that she might be frightened by the loud noises you and Ilia will probably make, but really he just wants to cuddle her.
"You're all set up!" he exclaims with unusual enthusiasm, patting you on the back as he leans in to wipe the lens once again. "Destroy his ass."
"Why are you so excited about this?"
"Because you're a good gamer and I want people to appreciate you."
"Are you soft-launching that you want me to become a full-time Twitch streamer?" You squint your eyes at him, an almost disgusted expression plastered on your face.
"Nah, you donut, you're way too intelligent to be a Twitch streamer," he ruffles your hair, earning a sharp slap on the arm in exchange. He backs off toward the door, clutching Dusty in his hands while she looks at you with a helpless expression. He's about to walk out when he stops, whipping his head around as he squints at the t-shirt you're wearing. "You stealer, that's mine."
"Start learning how to do your laundry, maybe then you won't lose your clothes," you grin at him, completely omitting the fact that it isn't his shirt at all, but Ilia's. "Okay, go now, Ilia is calling."
"Alright."
He disappears, the door softly clicking shut behind him. It takes you and Ilia approximately five minutes to figure everything out, him ceaselessly reminding you that it's nothing to worry about even though you aren't showing an ounce of uneasiness. You're not so bad at pretending.
"Okay, I'll start the stream in a minute."
"Alright."
"You should start streaming, and then I'll send you an invite you can accept."
"I know how this stuff works," you laugh out loud, rolling your eyes at him while he stares back at you with a wide smile. "You should clean the mess behind you before they start making fun of you for having a messy room again."
"Literally, what am I supposed to do with these?" he gestures helplessly behind himself. "It's a mountain of plushies!"
"And a half-ass made bed, along with empty chocolate wrappers on the nightstand."
"Okay, stop judging me!" he huffs, giving you a pouty look. "Do you want to do a shared chat?"
"Sure, it's not like people will be watching my stream anyway."
"No, I'm sure they will." He says it with a determination that amuses you, but you don't argue.
You try to recall the last time you did this—not streaming on Twitch in general, but doing it with him. It was back in 2023, when he was supposed to play with Jace. Since your brother caught a cold, you were summoned to sub in for him. It lasted maybe an hour before Ilia got bored. Jace joked that he ended the stream early because you beat him at every single game.
The moment you go live, you have three viewers: your best friends Ziggy and Cam, and another online friend you sometimes play with. They immediately flood the chat, the inside jokes never ceasing until you tell them to keep their mouths shut. Ilia sends you the invite soon after, and then his face pops up on your screen. His chat starts flooding in, and your throat goes dry for a second before you manage to smile, your voice coming out softer than usual.
"Hi."
The all-caps messages quickly catch your eye. Most of them are asking who you are, some of them already know, and a few are showing you love that takes you aback. Ilia quickly introduces you, a bitter taste lingering in your mouth when he refers to you as his friend—but it's fine. You both know it's not true. You shouldn't care about what outsiders believe.
"Why are you reloading? You had twenty-two bullets!"
"I forgot about it, okay?!" Ilia's voice comes through your headset, sounding slightly panicked.
You sigh, keeping your eyes locked on the screen. "Don't you dare peek."
But it's already too late. The second Ilia swings the corner, a shot rings out. You watch him drop right in front of you. You hear him groan, irritation seeping into your own voice. "I told you not to peek!"
"I thought I could get him," Ilia says, immediately trying to defend himself. "I had the angle."
"No, you had confidence. That's different," you note, a layer of smugness coating your voice. You peek at his webcam for a second to find him smiling. "You're so bad at this."
"Everyone starts somewhere!"
"Guys, even Liza plays better than him," you snort, leaning back against your seat as you watch your own agent die, surrendering the round to the opposite team so you can start another one with Ilia. So far, you've only won three times.
"Let's take a break for a while and answer some questions," Ilia announces, leaning close to his screen so he can read the comments. He squints until his face falls, a disappointed expression shooting in your direction. "Never mind. I shouldn't have."
You laugh, reading the comments that keep roasting him in contrast to praising you. He spends the next two minutes scanning the questions, trying to involve you, but mostly you keep to yourself. It's his stream, after all. And it's not like most of these people care about you.
"Someone's asking about our favorite superheroes," Ilia laughs like it's obvious, his gaze wandering behind you, looking at the Spiderman poster displayed on your wall. "I think yours is Batman, right?"
"Yes, either him or Quicksilver," you grin, going along with him, purposely sliding around in your chair so you can give them a better view of the poster. "I like lots of superheroes, with a few exceptions. Spider-Man is, like, so overrated."
"Yeah, totally."
"I feel like it's one of those superheroes targeted specifically for a children's audience."
"Yes," he says, a subtle smile tugging at his lips before he bursts out laughing. "I think we can play FNAF next, yeah."
"Oh my god, I love FNAF," your voice immediately gets excited. Leaning toward the screen, your eyes practically sparkle under the dim lights as you scan the comments. "Resident Evil too… Dead Space is definitely underrated, I agree… The last horror game I played, mhm, I think it was Soma."
"I have not played any of them."
"Sure you haven't," you snort at Ilia's comment, your eyes crinkling. "You get jump-scared all the time."
"I am gonna let that slide."
"Jace is working on a deadline, guys," you answer one of the comments, and the chat immediately floods with his name like they just remembered his existence. Then you squint at another message. "Oh my god, we do not look alike!"
"Who is she?" Ilia reads out loud. He spins around in his chair, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips when his eyes snap back to yours through the screen. "Jace's annoying little sister."
You laugh, not even slightly offended by it, because you know this time he doesn't mean it. You find yourself enjoying the secrecy you two share right in front of a chat of a few thousand people. Ilia proceeds to answer some questions regarding his training and skating, and then you two are just about to boot up Five Nights at Freddy's when a blur of motion cuts across your vision. Dusty comes sprinting across your keyboard, pausing for a second to look at the bright screen.
"Oh, hi Dusty," Ilia coos from the screen, his voice turning high-pitched just like when he talks to his cats. "That's her chinchilla, guys."
You scoop her up before she flees, gently pressing a kiss to her fur before you let her go. She immediately sprints down from your shoulder, jumps onto the bed, and settles somewhere behind the pillows.
"Ilia is scared of Dusty, guys."
"Stop spreading misinformation!" his voice rises in disbelief, shaking his head like he's deeply disappointed in you. "I'm not, guys. I love animals."
"Yo, what's up, bro?"
Suddenly, a loud noise breaks the flow as Jace comes into the frame, slapping his hands down on your shoulders. He makes you jolt, and you throw him an annoyed look through the lens.
"Hi, Jace."
"Hey, everyone," he waves at the camera, hovering over your chair as he looks at the chat, his smile wide and impossible. "Did my sister beat your ass?"
"I fear she did."
"Well, it's my turn then," he grins, motioning for you to get up. You look over your shoulder, giving him an offended look, but he completely ignores you. "I finished the deadline. Let me play with him, sis."
"We were about to play FNAF."
"Ilia sucks at that game."
"Bro, can't I just enjoy games?!" Ilia complains, shaking his head. "I don't have to be good at it."
"That's an excuse bad gamers use."
"My god, you're so annoying." You stand up from the chair, removing the headset and handing it to him because you know he won't leave you alone anyway.
A twinge of irritation sets in as he settles into your chair, seamlessly resuming the stream with Ilia as if you were just a temporary placeholder for him until he arrived. You know Jace doesn't have ill intentions, and he definitely doesn't realize the weight of what he's doing, but a sharp prickle of anger burns through you nonetheless. You close the door behind you and head down the stairs with an excuse of getting something to eat. He yells after you to make your signature pasta and leave some for him.
You ignore him. But when you get into the kitchen and start prepping the sauce while the water boils in the pot, you find yourself rationing enough for more than just yourself.
Your phone buzzes on the counter.
Ilia: Are you mad?
You almost roll your eyes at the question, but a smile still tugs at your lips because he noticed, and he cares.
You: just a bit annoyed
Ilia: I'm sorry
You: it's fine, it's not your fault
Ilia: He just invited me over For a Movie night
You: should I make pasta for 3?
Ilia: Yes please
You grin at the messages, locking your phone away and setting it on the table. He hasn't slept over since that night, and the thought of him staying in the room right next to yours while Jace sleeps dead to the world leaves you both excited and nervous.
Ilia arrives shortly after they end the stream. The pasta is ready, and the three of you eat at the table, no longer waiting for your dad because he decided to get drinks with his friends and called to say he might crash at a friend's place tonight in Washington—which means he definitely isn't coming home.
"What's up with him always staying somewhere else lately?" Jace asks, giving you a weirded-out expression as he shrugs his shoulders. "He has conferences, like, every two weeks."
You stop eating, briefly sharing a glance with Ilia to see that he confirms your thoughts. You straighten your spine, wiping your mouth with a napkin as you pause, unsure of how to strike up a conversation about it.
"Jace…"
"What?"
"You really think he's traveling for medical conferences?" You raise an eyebrow, trying so hard not to make him feel stupid, but failing anyway.
"What do you mean?" He furrows his eyebrows, looking at you first before his eyes lock back onto Ilia, who stays silent, letting the two of you settle it. "Where else would he be going?"
"Jace, he's seeing someone."
"What?" He snorts, rolling his eyes like you've said something impossible. Maybe it isn't supposed to, but it makes a spark of anger ignite within you. "Come on."
"Why is that so funny to you?"
"Because it's dad we're talking about."
"So?!"
"Why would he be sneaking around behind our backs?" he asks, looking at you in confusion. While you don't have a definitive answer to that question, you still can't believe he hasn't realized it until now. "He's an adult."
"I don't know, but do you seriously think he attends all these medical conferences and goes out to grab a drink with Dale every week with an excuse not to come home at night?" You roll your eyes, huffing at how stupid it sounds. "It's clear that he's seeing someone. I don't know why he feels the need to hide it from us, and I'm not going to bring it up until he does, but I thought you knew about it and we just didn't discuss it."
"Yeah, I haven't really thought about my dad sneaking behind my back like a teenager," his voice turns frustrated, something bitter laced in his tone.
He resumes eating, your eyes snapping back to your plate as you feel Ilia squeezing your hand under the table. Abruptly, Jace drops his fork, the clinking noise loud against his empty bowl. "I don't understand why he would hide it! It's not like we're children and we'd get mad or something!"
"I don't know, Jace."
"So, Dad is having a secret relationship behind our backs," he snorts, repeating the words like he's trying to let the information sink in. He leans across the chair, squinting his eyes as he looks at you for a second. Panic almost settles into your body because you can't quite decipher his expression. "Are you, by any chance, too?"
You roll your eyes, shrugging off his question as a joke. Thankfully, he doesn't dwell on it, and most likely, he doesn't notice the quick glances you and Ilia share with each other either.
Since you usually don't tag along with them when Ilia comes over and the movie Jace chose is boring to you, you go upstairs to your room, finishing the book you started a few days ago before you play with Cam and Ziggy for a while. You barely get a chance to talk to Ilia, and it only happens when you go downstairs for a snack while Jace is in the restroom.
"Streaming was fun," he murmurs, leaning against the counter while you cut up some fruit. You give him a piece of peach, which he takes without hesitation. "We should do it again."
"Maybe."
"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it."
"I did, before Jace crashed it."
He sighs, giving you a pouty look as he leans in, quickly pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste the sweetness on his lips. You smile through the kiss, fixing his hair that's been growing out steadily over the past few weeks. A part of you wants to beg Tatyana to cut it again.
"Are you going to sleep?"
"It's not even 11 p.m. yet."
"Would you, um… would you like a cuddle buddy afterward?" he asks almost shyly, your heart on the verge of bursting at how adorable he is. His blue eyes sweep over your face, his cheeks flushed with heat.
"Are you asking for permission to sneak into my room?"
"Respectfully."
"Then you have it."
You reciprocate his grin, leaning in one more time to kiss him again before you hear Jace's heavy footsteps on the stairs.
They stay up way past midnight, both of them entirely engaged in their game, not even noticing you when you go down to get a glass of water and slip right past them.
It's way past 3 a.m. when you lock your phone and put it aside, Ziggy finally recalling that he has to wake up early tomorrow for his fencing practice. It keeps raining, the drops hitting against the window making a pleasant sound to fall asleep to, but you keep tossing in your sheets, unable to find a comfortable position.
Your eyes are shut tight when you slowly feel drowsiness wash over you, and just as you're about to drift off, you're snapped back to wakefulness. The floor creaks, the footsteps light as he quietly closes the door behind him. You keep your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep when you feel the mattress dip down. He carefully climbs under the blanket, the weight of his legs subtly pressing against yours. You feel him shift closer, slowly circling an arm around your waist as he leans down and presses a light kiss to your cheekbone. You can't contain the smile that breaks across your face when he tucks his chin over your shoulder, his breath fanning over your neck.
"I know you're awake," he murmurs, his voice sending shivers down your spine.
Switching sides to face him under the moonlight that spills into the room, you make out his nose and blue eyes, his grip tightening around your waist. Throwing your leg over his waist to chase his warmth, you snuggle deep into his chest, a content hum escaping your throat as his familiar scent floods your nostrils.
"I couldn't sleep," he whispers, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I thought you were long asleep but I'm pretty sure I heard you giggling, like, fifteen minutes ago."
"Yeah, Ziggy said something stupid," you smile, a chuckle escaping your throat at the memory. Sliding your hand under his t-shirt because his warmth is comfortable against your skin, you trace lines on his back, wishing you could somehow close the distance that doesn't exist between you two anymore—wishing you could completely let him swallow you in. "You can't fall asleep here."
"Just let me stay for a little bit," he mumbles. "I'll sneak out early."
"Mhm."
The silence, the soft sound of the rain, and the warmth of his body against you feels just right, leaving you ready to let sleep consume you. But then, you notice his body suddenly stiffen. His breathing hitches. He stops moving completely, freezing like a statue against you. Before you can even ask what’s wrong, you feel the hardness pressing against your thin shorts, your eyes slowly opening as the realization sinks in.
"Oh, fuck," he murmurs, gently pushing you away, untangling his legs from yours and rolling onto his back. He groans, covering his face with his arm, refusing to look you in the eye. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I mean, fuck, I'm sorry."
"Hey, it's fine."
"No, it's not," he insists, clearly unable to let the initial embarrassment go. "We were having this sweet moment and I got a boner like a schoolboy."
"I mean, I'm honored."
He huffs, a breathless chuckle escaping your own throat at his stubbornness. You glance toward the closed door, your pulse picking up just enough for you to feel the heat radiating from your body. Licking your lips, you glance back at him, sprawled on his back, still refusing to look at you. You stretch out your hand, gently touching his arm. "Do you, um… do you want me to help?"
Ilia drops his arm from his face, his blue eyes widening. He looks at you like he can't quite process what you just said. "What?"
"I mean…" You shift a little closer, your voice dropping to an absolute whisper, shy as you feel your face burn with heat. "Jace is right down the hall. We can't do it. But I can… you know."
He sits up, biting down on his lip as he stares at you. "You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have to, really—"
"Ilia," you stop him, pressing your palm against his mouth until his body relaxes. "I want to."
You remove your hand, leaving his mouth slightly agape as he stares up at you. Before you can overthink it, you nudge him back into a comfortable position, throwing your leg over his thigh to straddle him. Your fingers are almost trembling when you reach the waistband of his shorts, slipping your hand underneath to wrap your palm around him. The moment your hand makes contact with his burning skin, a low breath hitches in his throat. His mouth falls open, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.
"Ilia…" You lean in, your face so close to his that you can feel his hot breath on your skin. Your own body is slowly setting on fire, something twisting deep in your stomach as you feel your shorts getting damper. Brushing your lips against his ear, you whisper, "You have to be quiet."
"I am trying," his voice is weak, so soft that it makes your chest tighten. "It’s just… you’re really warm."
You take his hand, placing it on top of yours where it's wrapped around him, silently asking him to guide you. With pure instinct and the direction of his trembling hand against yours, you begin to move, the rhythm clumsy at first before you adjust to the unfamiliar feeling. The moment you find a steady pace, his eyes flutter shut.
"Like that?" you whisper, your face burning as you watch him completely unravel under your touch.
"Yeah," he chokes out, his other hand digging into your hip. "Exactly like that. Just… don't stop."
His head rolls back against the bedframe, his chest heaving up and down in shallow, ragged breaths. His hand falls away to his side, letting you fully take control. The sight of him is enough to make your mouth water, your own breath uneven as you pick up the rhythm.
He lets out a soft whimper, the stillness of the room pierced by the sudden rise in his voice. You lean in to kiss him, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth to keep him quiet. You continue moving your hand up and down, feeling his hips subtly shift against your palm. As you swirl your tongue over his, he abruptly pulls back, his mouth glistening in the dark.
"Wait," he mutters suddenly, his eyes snapping open. His gaze looks almost drunken in the moonlight. He grips your wrist, slowing you down for a fraction of a second. "Hold on, I don't want to—"
"It's okay," you whisper fiercely against his cheek, leaning your weight into him to keep him right there, refusing to let him pull away.
He lets out a defeated, ragged sigh, his fingers locking tightly between yours as you guide him through the final moments. His entire body goes rigid, a tremor running straight through his muscles as he buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, smothering a heavy groan right against your skin.
For a minute, he stays just like that, the ragged sound of his breathing slowly quietening down. Gradually, the tension in his body drains away, leaving him completely relaxed against you. He pulls his hand back, his face still half-buried in your shoulder as he lets out a long, exhausted breath.
"Wow," he murmurs, finally looking up at you. His hair is a total mess and his cheeks are flushed a deep red. A quiet, shy smile touches his lips. "That was… woah."
You let out a quiet, breathless laugh, reaching over to grab a tissue from your nightstand to clean your hand. As you're about to climb off him and slide back into the warmth of the bed, he stops you, keeping his grip on your waist tight so you don't move.
"You think I'm just gonna let you sleep after that?"
He leans in, his voice soft and his mouth warm against your skin as he places a gentle kiss on your neck. One of his hands slides up underneath your top, your eyes fluttering shut when he slowly trails his fingers to your breasts. A shiver runs down your spine, your breath hitching in your throat when he cups them with his palms. His fingertips brush across your hardened buds as you throw your head back, biting down on your lip so a moan doesn't escape your throat—because if it does, you know it'll be impossible to contain yourself.
You offer no resistance as he pulls the shirt over your head, his stare almost hungry. He gently nudges you down onto the mattress, hovering over you while he continues trailing kisses down your chest. The moment his mouth closes around your nipple, your back arches instantly. You bury your fingers into the bedsheets, gripping the fabric until your knuckles turn white to stifle the muffled gasp tearing from your throat. His hands slide down to your hips, removing your shorts in one smooth motion that leaves you entirely exposed to the cool air of the room.
When he dips his head between your legs, you open them for him in a welcoming way. The first touch of his tongue makes you slap a palm firmly over your mouth, your mind turning dizzy with the unfamiliar feeling that runs down your whole body, completely consuming it.
I loved your papa Ilias fic which had me wondering could you write another version of it but this time reader is more hesitant about letting ilia in because she’s scared of his fame around her daughter and stuff but he shows that she can trust him despite the hate she starts getting and how people are saying ilia won’t be able to handle this relationship with a child
I’ve been listening to willing and able by Noah kahan and I also see that trend on TikTok where it’s like “you can’t do ___” and on the next slide it’s like I’m willing and able. That inspired this since reader would think Ilias gonna leave and social media thinks that their relationship isn’t gonna last but ilia is willing and able
Papa Ilia Again
The first time Ilia met Amelia, she handed him a half eaten cracker and said, “You look funny.”
Her mother looked absolutely horrified.
“Amelia!”
“What?” the little girl asked innocently. “His hair goes like this.”
She stuck her fingers straight up.
Ilia laughed so hard he nearly choked.
And somehow, that was the beginning.
Dating a man like Ilia wasn’t something you’d ever planned.
You certainly hadn’t planned on your 3 and a half year old daughter liking him immediately.
Amelia adored him.
Within a week she’d decided he was her best friend.
Within two weeks she’d stolen his hoodie to wear as a dress in the rink.
Within a month she’d started demanding bedtime stories from him over FaceTime whenever he traveled.
The problem wasn’t Amelia.
The problem was everything else.
The cameras.
The comments.
The articles.
The strangers online.
At first, you’d ignored them.
Then came the videos.
“Single mom traps skating superstar.”
“This relationship won’t survive six months.”
“He’s too young for this responsibility.”
“No way he’ll stick around for someone else’s kid.”
You stopped reading after that.
But it was impossible to completely avoid.
One night Ilia found you sitting on the couch scrolling silently while Amelia slept upstairs.
He immediately knew something was wrong.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
You sighed.
He sat beside you.
You handed him your phone.
His jaw tightened instantly.
You watched his eyes move across the comments.
For once, he didn’t even roll his eyes.
He just looked angry.
Very angry.
“These people are idiots.”
“They don’t know us.”
“Exactly.”
You stared at your hands.
“But what if they’re right?”
His head snapped toward you.
“What?”
You swallowed.
“What if this is too much?”
He looked confused.
“For who?”
“For you.”
The words finally spilled out.
“The traveling. The attention. Amelia. Everything.”
His expression softened.
You hated how emotional your voice sounded.
“I just…”
You blinked hard.
“I’ve spent three years making sure she doesn’t get attached to people who leave.”
Silence.
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
“And now she loves you.”
Your voice cracked.
“And I’m terrified.”
Ilia didn’t answer immediately.
Instead he reached over and took your hand.
Then he squeezed it.
Hard.
“Look at me.”
You did.
“I know I’m young.”
You opened your mouth.
He shook his head.
“Let me finish.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“I know people think I don’t understand what this means.”
His voice was calm.
“But I do.”
You felt tears gathering.
“I know that when I date you, Amelia comes with you.”
He smiled softly.
“That’s not a problem.”
“You say that now.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
He leaned closer.
“I don’t love you despite Amelia.”
Your breath caught.
“I love you and Amelia.”
The tears finally slipped free.
“You’re a package deal.”
He smiled.
“My favorite package deal.”
You laughed through your tears.
He wiped your cheeks.
“And for the record?”
“What?”
“If I wanted easy, I wouldn’t be training quadruple Axels.”
A snort escaped you.
“Theres those skating analogies.”
A few weeks later, the comments got worse.
Someone took photos of the three of you at the park.
Amelia was sitting on Ilia’s shoulders.
The internet exploded.
Again.
The usual predictions.
The usual assumptions.
The usual declarations that the relationship was doomed.
You tried not to read them.
You really did.
But one afternoon Ilia walked into your kitchen to find you staring at your phone with a miserable expression.
Without a word he took it.
Locked it.
Set it upside down.
Then pointed toward the living room.
“Come here.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
Suspiciously, you followed him.
Amelia was sitting on the floor with crayons.
The second she saw Ilia she squealed.
“PAPA ILIA!”
He immediately dropped onto the carpet.
“Hi, Beany.”
That nickname had stuck months ago.
You watched Amelia throw herself into his lap.
Watched him catch her automatically.
Watched him listen seriously as she explained why purple dinosaurs would make excellent firefighters.
As if it were the most important conversation in the world.
After several minutes he looked over at you.
“See that?”
“What?”
He nodded toward Amelia.
“That’s real.”
Amelia was currently drawing what appeared to be a dinosaur wearing roller skates.
“The internet isn’t.”
You smiled despite yourself.
The moment everything changed happened months later.
Not because of social media.
Not because of interviews.
Not because of headlines.
Because of Amelia.
One night after dinner she climbed into Ilia’s lap while he was watching television.
He wrapped an arm around her automatically.
She yawned.
Then looked up at him.
“Are you leaving?”
The room went quiet.
You froze.
Ilia froze too.
Amelia played with the drawstring on his hoodie.
“Mommy says people leave sometimes.”
Your heart shattered.
She wasn’t supposed to remember enough to worry about that.
Apparently she did.
Ilia looked at her for a long moment.
Then he gently brushed her hair back.
“I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
“You promise?”
He glanced at you.
Then back at her.
“I promise I’ll keep choosing you guys every day.”
Amelia considered that.
The way only a 3 year old could.
Then she nodded.
“Okay.”
And apparently that settled it.
Because she immediately cuddled against him and fell asleep.
Just like that.
Later that night, after she’d been tucked into bed, you stood on the back porch with Ilia.
The summer air was warm.
Crickets chirped in the distance.
His arm rested around your waist.
“You didn’t have to promise her.”
“Yes, I did.”
You leaned against him.
“Most people would’ve run from all this.”
He laughed softly.
“Good thing I’m not most people.”
You looked up at him.
The moonlight caught his smile.
The same smile Amelia adored.
The same smile that always made you feel safe.
“I love you.”
His eyes softened instantly.
“I love you too.”
Then he kissed your forehead.
No hesitation.
No fear.
No doubt.
Inside the house, Amelia’s tiny voice suddenly yelled from upstairs.
“MOMMY!”
You both laughed.
Then
“ILIAAAAA! PAPA!”
His grin widened.
“Sounds like my boss needs me.”
Before you could stop him, he jogged toward the stairs.
You watched him disappear into the house.
Watched him answer her sleepy questions.
Watched him settle beside her bed.
And for the first time in a very long time, the fear disappeared.
Because the internet didn’t know him.
The headlines didn’t know you.
The strangers didn’t know “us”.
But you did.
And as you watched Amelia curl up happily while Ilia read her a bedtime story for the third time that week, you realized something.
He wasn’t staying because he felt obligated.
He wasn’t staying because it was easy.
He wasn’t staying because people expected him to.
He was staying because he loved you both.
And sometimes, despite all the noise in the world, that was enough….
Could you maybe do one of ilia were the have 4 kids and their being chaotic running around he’s like to his wife “we’re done at 4 right” and she like well and drops the bomb she pregnant again. But he’s happy ofc 
What’s one more??
By 2 o’clock on Saturday afternoon, the house sounded less like a home and more like a small amusement park.
“PAPAAAA!”
“Daddy, watch me!”
“Papa, she’s touching me!”
“Da da da da!”
Ilia closed his eyes for exactly two seconds.
“…I’m only one person.”
His wife snorted from the laundry room but didn’t even look up from the mountain of tiny shirts she was folding.
“You’ve got this.”
“I don’t got this.”
Their 11 month old son balanced happily on Ilia’s hip, drooling on the shoulder of his T shirt while enthusiastically slapping his dad’s cheek.
Across the living room, their 3 year old daughter wrapped herself around his left leg.
“Carry me.”
“Honey…” Ilia laughed helplessly. “I’m already carrying your brother.”
“So?”
Before he could answer, their 5 year old came sprinting in wearing a princess dress and rain boots.
“Daddy! Tea party! Right now!”
“I…”
“And I’m the queen.”
“Of course you are.”
Then came the oldest.
Their 8 year old burst down the hallway with all the confidence of someone auditioning for Broadway.
She wasn’t talking.
She was belting.
At the absolute top of her lungs.
“LET IT GOOOOOOO…”
Ilia physically flinched.
His son squealed in excitement.
The 3 year old started singing too, somehow louder.
The 5 year old demanded applause for spinning in circles.
Ilia stood frozen.
One child hanging from each leg.
One baby bouncing on his hip.
One concert happening ten feet away.
Slowly…
Very slowly…
He turned his head toward his wife.
She glanced over the laundry basket.
Their eyes met.
He gave her the most desperate look imaginable.
Help…
She smiled sweetly.
“…Sorry.”
She picked up another tiny pair of pajamas.
“I’m busy.”
His jaw dropped.
“Betrayed.”
She laughed so hard she nearly dropped a towel.
The chaos continued.
Someone wanted snacks.
Someone spilled juice.
The baby found the dog’s water bowl fascinating.
The 5 year old needed help finding a tiara.
The 3 year old insisted dinosaurs belonged in the dollhouse.
The 8 year old performed an entire second concert.
By bedtime…
Everyone was finally asleep.
Silence.
Beautiful, glorious silence.
Ilia shuffled into their bedroom looking like he’d just survived a 10 hour skating practice.
He didn’t even bother changing.
He simply flopped backward onto the bed.
“Oh my gosh…” he groaned dramatically into the ceiling. “Today was not a normal Saturday.”
His wife laughed as she finished brushing her hair.
“The kids love their dad.”
“And I love them.”
He smiled despite himself.
“I really do.”
He let out another exhausted breath.
“But…”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“…we’re done at four, right?”
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“…About that.”
“Hm?”
She climbed onto the bed and carefully settled beside him before gently crawling over to lay across his chest.
He wrapped an arm around her automatically.
“What?”
She reached for his hands.
Without saying anything, she placed both of them gently against her stomach.
He frowned.
“…Why are we…”
She looked at him with a nervous smile.
“Actually…”
A tiny laugh escaped her.
“We can expect another one by spring.”
For one long second…
Nothing.
Ilia just stared.
His eyes blinked once.
Then they became enormous.
“…What?”
She burst into laughter.
“I know.”
“What?”
“I found out yesterday.”
He sat straight up so quickly she squealed.
“What?”
She was laughing so hard now tears filled her eyes.
“I’ve literally said it three times.”
“We’re having another baby?”
She nodded.
“We’re having another baby.”
His hands immediately found her face.
He kissed her forehead.
Then both cheeks.
Then her forehead again because apparently one wasn’t enough.
“I’m shocked…”
She smiled against another kiss.
“I am too.”
He rested his forehead against hers.
Then his expression softened into the biggest smile she’d seen in weeks.
“…Five.”
She nodded.
“Five.”
He laughed quietly, almost to himself.
“I always said four was enough.”
“You did.”
“I definitely said four.”
“You absolutely did.”
He looked toward the hallway where four little bedrooms sat peacefully quiet.
“I guess…”
He smiled.
“…our family had other plans.”
She reached up and brushed his hair back.
“You okay?”
He looked at her.
Then at her stomach.
Then back at her.
His eyes shimmered with happy disbelief.
“I get another baby?”
“You do.”
He grinned so wide his cheeks hurt.
“I get another little one to rock to sleep?”
“Yep.”
“Another tiny hand holding my finger?”
“Mhm.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe this.”
She smiled.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He leaned down, placing the gentlest kiss over her stomach.
“Hi, little one.”
His wife melted.
“You already talking to them?”
“They should know…” he whispered.
“…that Papa’s already completely in love with them.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“And they’ll know.”
Outside their bedroom, the house was finally quiet.
Four sleeping children.
One tiny secret growing.
And two parents who knew life was about to become even louder.
Ilia smiled into the darkness.
“I should probably enjoy these next few months.”
She laughed softly.
“Why?”
“Because once number five gets here…”
He kissed her one more time.
“…I’m definitely going to hear ‘Papa!’ about a million times a day.”
Could you do a fic abt reader get her wisdom teeth removed?
I’ve had my wisdom teeth removed. Not good haha but here you go!
Wisdom Teeth
Ilia Malinin x fem!reader
Summary: Reader has wisdom teeth removal surgery
Ilia sat in the sterile waiting room of the oral surgeon’s office, one leg bouncing restlessly against the linoleum floor. His phone rested in his lap, screen dark—he’d tried scrolling through skating videos earlier but couldn’t focus. Every few minutes he glanced at the clock, then at the closed door leading to the recovery area. You had been back there for over an hour now. He knew wisdom teeth removal wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, especially for someone with a low pain tolerance, like his girlfriend, but the nurse had assured him it went smoothly.
He’d cleared his entire afternoon for this. No training, no streams, no sponsor calls. Just you. You’d been nervous that morning, squeezing his hand extra tight before you left the house, and he’d kissed your temple and promised he’d be right there when you woke up. That was Ilia’s thing—he showed up. For everything. Today was no different.
Finally, a nurse in pale blue scrubs poked her head out. “Mr. Malinin? She’s ready.”
He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over a magazine rack. “How is she?”
“Groggy, but doing great. Still a little numb. We gave her the pain meds and instructions. She’ll need soft foods for a few days and lots of rest.”
Ilia nodded, following her down the hallway. The recovery bay smelled like antiseptic and faint cherry flavor from whatever they’d used to rinse mouths. You were sitting up on the edge of a recliner, a white gauze pad pressed gently to one cheek, your hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that had seen better days. Your eyes were half-lidded, a little glassy from the anesthesia, but when they landed on him, your whole face softened.
“Ilia,” you mumbled around the gauze, the words thick and slow.
“Hey, you,” he said softly. He crouched in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees. “You did so good. Ready to go home?”
You nodded, then winced a little at the movement. One hand reached out clumsily and patted his cheek. “You waited.”
“Of course I waited. Wouldn’t miss it.” He helped you stand, steadying you when you swayed. The nurse handed him a bag with prescriptions, extra gauze, and an ice pack. Ilia thanked her, then slipped an arm around your waist, guiding you toward the exit like you were made of glass.
The drive home was quiet at first. Ilia kept one hand on the wheel and the other reaching across the console to hold yours. The late spring sun filtered through the trees lining the suburbs, casting dappled light across your face. You leaned your head against the window, eyes drifting shut, then fluttering open again.
“Everything feels… fuzzy,” you said after a while, your voice still muffled but clearer now that the gauze was adjusted. “Like my face is someone else’s.”
He chuckled gently. “That’s the medicine. It’ll wear off soon. You’re doing amazing. Proud of you.”
You turned toward him, a small, loopy smile tugging at the unswollen side of your mouth. “You’re warm. Always warm. Like a quad Axel… but cuddly.”
Ilia laughed outright at that, the sound bright in the car. “A cuddly quad Axel? That’s a new one. I’ll take it.”
When he pulled into the driveway, he parked close to the door and came around to help you out. You moved slowly, still a bit unsteady on your feet, so he scooped you up bridal-style without warning. You let out a surprised little huff that turned into a giggle.
“Ilia! I can walk.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to.” He carried you inside easily—years of training had made him strong, but this felt different. Sweeter. He kicked the door shut behind him and headed straight for the couch, where he’d already set up a nest: pillows, blankets, your favorite plushie, and a tray with water, applesauce, and yogurt on the coffee table. The ice packs were ready in the freezer.
He lowered you onto the cushions and tucked the blanket around your legs. “Comfy?”
“Mhm.” You reached for his hand again, not letting go even as he tried to grab the ice pack. “Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He sat beside you, gently pressing the wrapped ice pack to your cheek. You sighed in relief, leaning into his touch. Your eyes were clearer now, though still soft with fatigue.
You stayed like that for a while—Ilia alternating ice packs, feeding you tiny spoonfuls of applesauce when you asked, and talking in low, soothing tones about nothing important. He told you about the new program he was workshopping, how the quad Axel had felt extra solid that morning because he’d been thinking about you cheering him on from the boards. You listened, occasionally murmuring responses that were half-slurred but full of affection.
“You’re good at this,” you said after swallowing a sip of water. “Taking care of me. Makes me feel… safe.”
His heart did that familiar flip it always did when you looked at him like that. Ilia brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead and leaned down to press a feather-light kiss just above your eyebrow, careful not to jostle you. “That’s because I love you.”
You smiled, a little lopsided from the swelling. “Love you too. Even when my face is puffy like a… like a snowman.”
“Cutest snowman I’ve ever seen.” He grinned, then stood up briefly to grab the prescriptions and a fresh gauze. When he returned, you had shifted to make room for him on the couch, patting the spot beside you insistently.
“Movie?” You asked.
“Whatever you want. Something gentle—no loud noises.” He queued up one of your comfort films, a light animated one you had watched a dozen times during travel days between Ilia’s competitions. As the opening credits rolled, he stretched out and pulled you carefully against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other resting lightly on your waist under the blanket.
“Thank you for today. For everything.”
He kissed the top of your head, breathing in the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the clinical smell still clinging to your skin. “Always. Get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up. Maybe I’ll even make that mashed potato soup you like—extra smooth, no chewing required.”
Your breathing evened out, your body relaxing fully against him. Ilia kept the volume low on the TV, one hand gently stroking your back in slow, rhythmic patterns. Outside, the afternoon light shifted to golden hour, painting the living room in warm tones.
As the evening settled in, the house quiet except for the soft hum of the movie and your breathing, Ilia stayed exactly where he was—holding you close, ready for whatever came next. Puffy cheeks, fuzzy words, and all. This was love: showing up, staying close, and turning the ordinary (even the slightly painful) into something warm and unbreakable.
