Kyrith

I feel so high school every time I look at you

You met sophomore year.

New girl. New rink. New coach. New state.

He sat in the back of your English 10 class, eyes locking on yours the moment you walked in and took your seat in the front row.

I wanna find you in a crowd just to hide from you

It wasn’t just at school. You saw him at the rink too. He was already the prodigy everyone whispered about in the lobby, the kid with too much talent and not enough patience for anyone who couldn’t keep up.

Despite him being everywhere in your life, you never spoke. You watched each other from a distance.

His parents coached both of you, which meant sharing ice was inevitable.

After weeks of orbiting around each other, you finally had practice together.

The first time you landed your triple–triple clean in front of him, he didn’t clap.

He skated past and said, “You rotate too fast.”

Which, from Ilia, was basically a love confession.

And in a blink of a crinkling eye

It feels stupid, you think later.

Realizing you’re smiling at your phone during off-ice conditioning because Ilia Malinin sent you a blurry rink selfie with the caption: “landed it. barely. you would’ve been proud.”

I'm sinking, our fingers entwined

You start dating in the most high school way possible.

At first it’s simple: walking to your next class after English, sharing AirPods on the bus to competitions, doing homework side by side in the rink lobby. Then it grows. He skates over to help you up after a fall. His hoodie ends up permanently in your locker from the one time you got cold and he told you to keep it “just in case.”

There’s a crackling tension between you that neither of you names.

Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights

Ilia needs a homecoming date. He doesn’t care about the dance, but his mom insists he should experience some normal high school traditions.

What actually convinces him is how much you clearly care about this “stupid dance.”

You slump onto the bench at the rink, head tipped back, a dramatic sigh escaping you.

He looks up from tying his skates. “Are you okay?”

You sit up, turning to face him. “Ilia, I need you to set me up with one of your friends.”

He almost chokes. “What? Why am I doing that?”

“I need a date for homecoming, and I don’t know anyone here yet.” You’re serious.

His chest tightens at the thought of you going with one of his friends. Absolutely not. So instead of setting you up with someone, he decides he’ll take you.

A couple days later, he convinces his mom to let him leave practice a few minutes early so he can tuck flowers with a note into your locker. He tells himself it’s for you.

You come in while he’s tying his street shoes, heading to put your stuff away. He watches from the corner of his eye as you spin in your locker combination.

“Ilia.”

“Hm?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

He stands, taking a few steps closer.

“Very serious.”

Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me

Ilia has never seen you in a real dress before, because a competition costume didn’t really count. When you open your front door in your homecoming dress, he forgets how to breathe, warmth creeping up his neck.

The words leave before he can stop them.

“You’re beautiful.”

You laugh softly. “Thank you.”

You try not to linger on the fact that he says you are beautiful, not that you look beautiful.

He wouldn’t have gone to that dance if it weren’t for you, but watching you smile on the dance floor with his hands on your waist makes the whole night worth it.

I'll drink what you think, and I'm high from smoking your jokes all damn night

About a week later, you’re sprawled across his bed, split-screen Minecraft glowing on the TV, both of you laughing as your avatars fall off the same cliff for the third time.

“Seriously, how are you always dying first?” you tease.

“I’m… strategic,” he protests, but he’s distracted. His fingers hover over the buttons, thumbs frozen.

You glance over. His usual grin is gone. He’s staring at the screen like he’s not actually seeing it.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “You okay?”

He swallows. Then, without warning, he drops his controller, scoots up, and sits cross-legged in front of you, blocking the TV. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the blanket.

“Uh…” he starts, eyes wide and serious. “I like you.”

You freeze, controller still in hand.

“What do you mean?” Your voice comes out thin.

Panic flashes across his face before he blurts, “Like… I like like you. I’ve liked you since you moved here.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or throw a pillow at him. The room feels too small, your ears too hot.

“I… I like you too,” you admit, a nervous grin tugging at your mouth, because on some level you already knew. You’ve been pretending not to notice how he watches you skate, how he offers help with your hardest jumps, how he laughs at every dumb joke.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, relief washing over his face. Then he leans back, grabs his controller again like nothing monumental just happened.

“Okay,” he says, aiming for casual. “But now you have to help me build a proper base. No cheating.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, but everything feels different. The game keeps going, chaotic as ever, but there’s a new electricity in the room.

You glance sideways but he’s already looking at you.

The brink of a wrinkle in time

The next few weeks feel different. Dramatic and new. Like the world has narrowed down to blades carving ice and his fingers lacing through yours under the bleachers.

One afternoon, after practice, you’re sitting on the cold metal bleachers behind the rink. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the freshly resurfaced ice glowing below. Everyone else is gone.

It’s just you and him.

Your hands hang between you, loosely linked, swinging off the edge.

“You skated good today,” he says, watching the ice instead of you.

“Good?” you scoff. “That’s it?”

He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “You know what I mean.”

Silence settles over you. He feels closer than usual. Or maybe you’re finally noticing.

Your knee brushes his.

Neither of you move away.

You glance over. He’s already looking at you.

His thumb traces over your knuckles. Your heart thunders.

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, more honest, “Just—”

He stops himself.

Before you can ask, he leans in.

It’s hesitant and a little clumsy, like he’s giving you every second to pull away. You don’t.

The kiss is soft and quick, more a press of lips than anything, but it feels like stepping off an edge and finding solid ground.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are pink.

“Okay,” he breathes, like he just landed a jump.

You blink. “Okay?”

He nods, nervous and proud. “Yeah. Okay.”

You laugh softly and this time you’re the one who leans in, brushing your lips against his again, more certain now.

It feels like the beginning of something that stretches past the rink, past the bleachers, past sophomore year.

Everything looks different, like someone turned the color up on your whole life.

Bittersweet sixteen suddenly

You’ve been to Ilia’s house dozens of times.

It’s not the house that makes your stomach twist now. It’s the way everything feels… shifted.

“Hey,” Ilia says quietly, bumping your shoulder as he shuts the door. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The overthinking thing.”

You exhale through your nose. “I’m not overthinking.”

“You look like my mom is about to judge your step sequence.”

You fight a smile. “She has done that before.”

“Yeah, but not tonight.” He leans in, voice softer. “Tonight you’re just… you.”

That should calm you down. It almost does.

His mom greets you warmly, but there’s a gentleness tonight that feels different — less coach, more mother. His dad asks about your birthday instead of your rotations. It’s subtle, but you feel it.

They’re not looking at you like their skater. They’re looking at you like their son’s girlfriend.

Somehow, that’s more nerve-wracking.

“Hi!”

You glance over and see Liza peeking around the corner, braver than last time.

“You came back,” she says, like she wasn’t sure you would.

“Of course I did,” you smile.

“She’s my girlfriend,” Ilia adds casually, like it’s nothing.

Like that word doesn’t make your heart stutter.

Liza’s eyes widen, like something important just clicked. Then she grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You end up on the floor surrounded by crayons, Ilia close enough that your knees keep knocking. Liza talks nonstop, explaining her drawings, assigning you roles in whatever game she’s invented.

You relax into it without realizing.

Until—

“You two are cute.”

You choke.

“Liza,” Ilia groans.

“What?” she shrugs. “You are.”

Your face burns. Suddenly you’re hyper-aware again — of his parents in the next room, of the word girlfriend echoing in your head, of how this isn’t just your coach’s house anymore.

Dinner is where it really sinks in.

You’ve sat at this table before, but now you’re woven into the conversation. His mom asks about your birthday plans. His dad tells a story about Ilia as a kid. Liza interrupts constantly.

And Ilia keeps looking at you.

Not in the quick, distracted way from the rink.

Fully. Softly. Proud.

Under the table, his hand finds yours.

You hesitate for half a second — they’re right there — then lace your fingers through his.

No one says anything.

The silence makes your chest feel warm instead of tight.

You’d imagined sixteen before: driving, independence, bigger competitions.

You’d never pictured this — sitting in your boyfriend’s house with his family around you, his hand brushing yours like it belongs there.

It settles gently in your chest.

Later, you’re back on the floor, leaning against the couch. Liza half-asleep beside you. Ilia’s shoulder pressed against yours.

“You were nervous,” he says quietly.

You glance at him. “Was it obvious?”

“Only to me.”

You huff. “I just didn’t know how to act.”

“Why?”

You pick at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Because they know me as their skater. And now I’m just like—” you gesture between you, “—this.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then nudges your foot with his.

“You’re both,” he says. “And they already liked you before this.”

You look at him.

“And I really like you,” he adds, softer.

You stay longer than you planned.

Long enough for the house to quiet. Long enough that it starts to feel natural again — not like stepping into a new role, but like growing into one that was always waiting.

When Ilia walks you to the door, his hand brushing yours, you realize nothing actually changed.

I'm watching American Pie with you on a Saturday night, Your friends are around, so be quiet, I'm trying to stifle my sighs

Someone puts on American Pie.

You’re not even sure which one — just that it’s loud, stupid, and way too inappropriate for how seriously everyone is pretending to watch it.

You’re squeezed onto the couch between Ilia and a mutual friend, a blanket half-draped over your legs. The room smells like popcorn and energy drinks, laughter erupting every few seconds.

Ilia’s arm stretches along the back of the couch behind you.

Casual.

Too casual.

His fingers keep brushing your shoulder like it’s an accident. It’s not.

You shift, pretending to adjust the blanket, and lean back so your head rests against his chest. His arm drops instantly, settling around your waist like it belongs there.

On screen, someone yells something absurd. The room erupts.

His breath is warm against your ear.

“You’re not even watching,” he murmurs.

“I am,” you whisper.

“You haven’t looked at the TV in like five minutes.”

You fight a smile. “Maybe it’s not that interesting.”

His thumb traces a slow line along your side. Your stomach flips.

Across the room, a friend glances over. You sit up a little.

“Your friends are around,” you murmur. “Behave.”

He huffs a quiet laugh into your hair. “I’m not doing anything.”

His hand squeezes your waist just a little.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting.

The movie keeps playing. People keep laughing.

But you’re hyper-aware of his knee against yours, his fingers drumming lightly at your hip, the steady warmth of him behind you.

You’re supposed to be focused on the screen.

Instead, you’re focused on not sighing when he rests his chin on top of your head.

“Stop,” you whisper.

“Stop what?”

“Existing like that.”

You can hear his smile. “You like it.”

You do.

Way too much.

Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me?

You’re both still in practice clothes, sitting on the boards after a long session. The rink is mostly empty, the ice quiet.

Ilia bumps his shoulder into yours.

“Okay,” he says, way too serious. “Important question.”

You squint. “That tone is concerning.”

“If we were in one of those stupid games,” he continues, “and the options were marry, kiss, or kill… what would you pick for me?”

You stare.

“You are such a loser.”

He grins. “Answer the question.”

You tap your chin. “Hmm. Kill.”

He gasps. “Wow. After everything I’ve done for you?”

“You ate my protein bar yesterday.”

“That was survival.”

You laugh, and he watches you like that’s the point.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Kiss. Obviously.”

“Just kiss?” he presses, eyebrows raised.

You roll your eyes. “Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me, Malinin?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips, gentler than most of his teasing ones.

“There,” he says quietly. “That one.”

Your stomach flips.

“And?” you push.

He shrugs, pretending it’s nothing, ears pink. “I don’t need the other two options.”

You blink. “That wasn’t one of the choices.”

“Exactly.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Ilia.”

He bumps his knee against yours, suddenly shy in that way he only gets when he’s accidentally sincere.

“I’m not killing you,” he mutters. “And I’m not just kissing you.”

The implication hangs between you, too big for two teenagers sitting on the edge of a rink.

You smile softly. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Yeah,” he says, nudging your shoulder again. “But you love it.”

You do.

And the way he looks at you then — like he already knows his answer — makes your chest feel dangerously close to something that sounds like forever.

Get my car door, isn't that sweet?

Your phone buzzes.

Ilia: hey

come outside

You frown.

You: why

Three dots.

Ilia: just do it

You roll your eyes and grab the nearest hoodie — his — without thinking.

When you step outside, you stop.

He’s parked at the curb, leaning against the passenger side. The porch light hits him just right.

He nods once. “Hey.”

You walk closer, fighting a smile.

“That’s your car?”

He straightens, pulling his wallet from his pocket and flashing his license.

“Passed,” he says. “First try.”

Your face lights up. “No way.”

“Way.”

You throw your arms around him. He stumbles back a step, laughing into your hair.

When you pull away, he notices.

“The hoodie,” he says, quieter.

You glance down. “What about it?”

“That’s mine.”

“You left it.”

“I did not leave it. You stole it.”

“Semantics.”

He shakes his head, that soft smile tugging at his mouth.

“You look better in it anyway,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “C’mon.” He pulls open the passenger door.

You arch an eyebrow.

“Oh,” you say sweetly. “Isn’t that sweet?”

He groans. “Do not.”

“You’re being such a gentleman.”

“I am a gentleman,” he insists, cheeks pink. “Get in.”

You slide into the seat, sleeves bunching around your hands. He closes the door gently.

When he gets in on his side, he pauses for a second and just looks at you — you, in his hoodie, in his passenger seat, in his car.

“You’re my first drive,” he says, trying to sound casual. “So. No pressure.”

“I feel honored,” you reply.

Music fills the car, windows down, warm night air rushing in.

At the first red light, you reach over and take his hand off the center console.

“You’re gripping everything like it’s a quad attempt.”

“Driving is serious,” he says. “It’s a machine.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

He squeezes your hand.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you like me.”

You look at him — really look at him — leaning against the steering wheel like this isn’t a huge deal.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

Then pull me to the backseat

You end up in an empty playground lot, radio low, a comfortable silence between you.

You tuck your knees under you, turning toward him. He’s already looking at you.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he replies.

“You’ve mentioned.”

He exhales a small laugh, shaking his head like he’s talking himself out of something. Then he reaches over, fingers brushing your wrist.

“C’mere.”

You lean over the center console, meeting his mouth halfway. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb moving in slow strokes. You pull back slightly, smiling against his lips.

He glances toward the backseat.

Then back at you.

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. Then, quieter, “Just… wanted to be closer.”

The backseat is cramped and ridiculous. You’re both half-laughing as you climb over the seats, shifting until you find some version of comfortable.

You end up lying on top of him, your head tucked under his chin, music humming low. His hands find the hem of the hoodie, hesitant, asking without words.

You nod before he can.

His hand slips underneath, running up and down your spine over your shirt. Outside, the world is quiet.

You shift, hovering a little over him, his hand steady on your waist. You lean down again, lips brushing his, slow and unhurried. He pulls you closer, fingers firm at your waist.

He smiles against your mouth, like he still can’t believe this is real.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re such a dork.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But I’m your dork.”

He rests his forehead against yours, breath warm, windows fogged enough to blur the streetlights. It feels like the start of another memory you’ll replay forever.

No one's ever had me, not like you

You’re tangled in Ilia’s navy sheets after practice. Everything feels warm and heavy. Your back is pressed to his chest, your hand resting over his where it’s slipped beneath the shirt you stole, his palm spread across your stomach.

You’re drifting toward sleep when you feel him press a light kiss to the crook of your neck, lips lingering.

You sigh, body melting against his, breath slow and steady.

Ilia can’t help it. He blames the softness of it all, the way it feels domestic and inevitable.

He pulls you closer, nose nudging your shoulder, and mumbles into your skin,

“I love you.”

Truth, dare, spin bottles

The warm summer air clings to your skin. A small group of friends sprawls across a backyard under string lights, celebrating the last stretch of summer before school. Music hums from a speaker. Someone insists on playing spin the bottle truth-or-dare like it’s sacred.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “I can’t believe you guys still do this.”

“Oh, come on,” someone protests. “It’s tradition.”

“You say that every time,” you tease, sipping your drink.

Ilia sits next to you on a blanket, leaning back on his hands, watching you more than the circle. The way your hair catches the light, the way you throw your head back when you laugh — that’s what he sees.

You catch him staring.

He freezes for a second, then pretends to adjust his sleeve.

“What?” you ask, laughing, nudging his arm.

He swallows and smiles, soft and a little shy. “Nothing, love,” he says quietly.

You laugh louder, shaking your head. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

The bottle spins. Dares, truths, and ridiculous questions fly around.

But you still feel his gaze on you.

You bump his shoulder again. “Stop staring.”

“Not staring,” he says, voice low. “Admiring.”

“Admiring?” you echo, laughing.

“Yes. Admiring,” he insists, shrugging like it’s normal to be in love with someone doing absolutely nothing.

You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers.

You know how to ball, I know Aristotle

The rink is mostly empty, just the distant scrape of blades. You’re perched on the bleachers, notebook open on your lap, pencil tapping. Ilia sprawls next to you, textbook open, hair falling into his eyes.

“I don’t get it,” he groans. “Why does Abigail even exist?”

“Motivation drives the plot,” you say, pointing to a highlighted passage. “She’s selfish and manipulative, and—”

He sits up, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours. “You make this sound so easy,” he murmurs.

You glance at him. “Focus, Malinin. You’re supposed to be writing an essay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away. “Maybe if I’m closer, I’ll understand better.”

You roll your eyes, heart skipping. “Uh-huh. Learning by proximity.”

“Exactly.” His mouth curves into a smirk, cheeks faintly pink. “Somehow you make all this make sense.”

You laugh softly, nudging him. “You’re ridiculous. Stop trying to get out of your essay.”

He lifts a shoulder, leaning that tiny bit closer. “I’m motivated,” he says quietly. “By your genius.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and tap a line in his essay. “Just expand this part. You can do it. I’m helping, not doing it for you.”

He bites back a grin, dropping his head closer to yours. “You’re really smart,” he murmurs. “And it’s… attractive.”

You blush, keeping your eyes on the page. “Focus.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I am focusing. On you.”

Even with textbooks and notes spread around you, it feels like the rink has shrunk down to just the two of you.

You knew what you wanted and boy, you got her

You’ve just landed the final jump of your free program, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. The arena erupts in applause as you skate off, smiling and exhausted.

Ilia has been leaning against the boards, watching every second, when he hears it — a couple of senior guys nearby whispering.

“Damn… she’s so hot.”

“How happy do you think she is with Malinin?”

His jaw clenches; his chest tightens.

When you step off the ice, eyes still bright from the performance, he doesn’t say anything. He just pulls you into a tight hug, your arm draped around his shoulders as he tucks you into his chest.

He presses a long kiss to the top of your head.

“What’s going on?” you ask, half-laughing, half-confused as you pull back a little.

He shrugs, trying to be casual. “Nothing. Just… wanted to hold you.”

You give him the look that makes him squirm.

“Okay,” he admits, voice dropping. “I overheard a couple of guys talking about you. And yeah, I got a little jealous.”

You blink, caught between rolling your eyes and smiling. “Wow. You’re really intense about this, huh?”

He presses another kiss to your temple, softer, deliberate. “Completely. You’re mine, and I’m not letting anyone think otherwise.”

As he drapes his arm around your waist and walks you toward the locker room, you bump his shoulder.

“You really don’t hold back, do you?”

“Nope,” he says, smirking, thumb brushing your side. “I’m not subtle about you. On or off the ice. Not ever.”

You laugh softly, warmth flooding your chest.

You already know, babe

You’re perched on the edge of Ilia’s bed, knees pulled up, his hoodie hanging loose around you as late afternoon light filters through the blinds.

“Do you ever… think about next year?” you ask quietly. “About everything changing?”

Ilia leans back on his elbows, eyes on you. “All the time,” he admits.

Your stomach twists. “I mean… college, training, new teams, new people. I just don’t want us to… drift.”

He sits up, sliding closer until your shoulders touch. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Hey,” he says softly. “Nothing’s changing. Not really. You know how much I love you.”

You swallow. “I know. But what if things get… harder?”

He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face like he did when you were fifteen and panicking over test skates. “Then we handle it. Together. You and me. Like always.”

Your chest loosens and you lean into him. “You really think it’ll be okay?”

His smile is soft and sure. “You already know that answer, babe.” He presses a kiss to your temple, hand tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

In that quiet room, with sunlight painting the floor and the future still miles away, you believe him.

I feel like laughing in the middle of practice, Do that impression you did of your dad again

The rink is quiet except for the swish of blades and the echo of your breathing. Worlds is days away, and every landing feels like it could tip the scales. Your jumps and spins are crisp but heavy.

You’re halfway through your program when Ilia’s voice cuts through the music, mimicking his dad perfectly:

“Why are you leaning early? You bend your knee, more power!”

It’s so accurate you break. You burst into laughter, trip out of your spin, and slide to a stop.

“Ilia, stop! You sound exactly like him!”

He grins, skating lazy circles around you. “Then maybe you should listen next time.”

“Yeah, okay, Coach Ilia,” you shoot back, still laughing.

The tension in your shoulders eases. The ice feels like home again.

“You know what we need?” he announces. “A pairs element.”

You stare. “We’ve literally never done pairs.”

“Details.”

Before you can argue, he’s holding out his hands with reckless confidence. You sigh, take them — and two seconds later you’re both crashing down in a heap of limbs and laughter, sliding halfway across the ice.

Up in the viewing gallery, Tatiana and Roman watch, amused.

“We were laughing like that when we trained for Nationals,” Tatiana says.

Roman chuckles. “Some things never change.”

On the ice, Ilia props himself up on an elbow, cheeks flushed from laughing. “Not bad for a first lift,” he says.

“You mean first crash,” you say, brushing snow from your leggings.

He smirks. “Hey, you still let me catch you.” His voice softens. “You trust me.”

The warmth of that hangs between you until he leans in and presses a quick, playful kiss to your cheek. You blink, startled, but his grin is all charm and no apology.

“Technical deduction for laughing mid-program,” he whispers.

From the gallery, Tatiana’s laugh carries. “Ilia! We can see you, you know!”

Roman shakes his head. “In my day, we waited until after practice.”

Ilia drops his face into his hands. “Oh my god.”

You’re laughing again as you skate toward the boards, cheeks burning.

“Nice technique on that lift!” Tatiana calls.

“Yeah,” Roman adds, mock-stern, “maybe keep it PG until after Worlds.”

You glance at Ilia, and both of you dissolve into laughter. The ice feels softer, the moment lighter. For the first time all week, you stop thinking about Worlds and start feeling it again.

I'm hearing voices like a madman

You step off the ice after a perfect program, hands shaking with adrenaline and joy. Nothing matters except that he’s there.

Ilia is the first person you see. Before a mic can be shoved in your face, he’s there, pulling you into a tight hug and kissing you.

The roar of the arena fades. Cameras flash, voices blur.

Later, in the quiet of your hotel room, the noise finds you again. You scroll through social media — comments questioning if you’re “good enough” for him, calling you a distraction, ignoring that you both just earned your spots on the Olympic team.

By the time you reach the bed, your chest is tight and your medal feels heavier than it did on the podium.

Ilia doesn’t leave your side. He sits you down, pulls you against him, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You sink into him, his chest steady under your cheek.

“They’re idiots,” he murmurs. “Ignore them. You’re brilliant. Nothing they say changes that.”

You bury your face in his shoulder. “It’s so much. I thought I could handle it, but…”

“You can,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “You’ve handled everything. And I’m here. Always.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt as he brushes hair from your face. “Just voices,” he mutters. “None of them matter.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You make everything sound so dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic,” he agrees, a small grin flickering as his thumb brushes your cheek. “But I love you, and I’m not letting them get to you.”

You breathe him in, your heartbeat slowly syncing with his. Outside, the world keeps shouting. In here, it’s quiet.

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your hairline, whispering, “Моя девочка.”

You still.

“…You switched languages,” you murmur.

He hesitates; he’s never spoken to you like that before. “Yeah… guess I did,” he says quietly, shoulders tense.

“I like it,” you whisper.

He exhales, relaxing. “It’s just… something you call someone you care about,” he says, voice low and warm, forehead pressing to yours.

“Okay,” you murmur, fingers curling in his shirt.

Outside, the world hums with opinions.

In that quiet hotel room, tangled in sheets and each other, the world can say whatever it wants. You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And in a blink of a crinkling eye

It all happens fast. Gold medals around both your necks, the last free skates done, the arena slowly emptying as the echo of the crowd lingers. Cameras are mostly off, but a few reporters remain, catching him alone for one last interview.

“One more question, Ilia,” a reporter says. “You and [Y/N] have been together since high school. Do you think being in a relationship so young impacts your skating?”

Ilia’s gaze is steady. “Honestly? No. She’s my partner in every sense, on and off the ice. I trust her completely. Being with her only makes me better.”

The reporter tilts their head. “Some might say you’re missing out while you’re still so young. What would you say to them?”

His lips curve into a faint, wry smile. “I don’t,” he says. “Why would I? I’ve already got the best one.”

Silence. Then:

“High school sweethearts straight into Olympic gold — some might call that unusual. Any thoughts?”

Ilia shrugs lightly, calm and sure. “High school sweethearts, yeah,” he says. “And I’d do it all over again without hesitation. Some things are worth keeping.”

I'm sinking, our fingers entwined

Later, in your hotel room, you’re sprawled across the bed, still catching your breath from the whirlwind of medals and interviews. Your phone buzzes as you scroll through coverage.

You pause on an article with his quotes. The questions — young, missing out, high school sweethearts — and his answers, defending you in every line. A small smile pulls at your lips.

You roll onto your side to face him and brush your fingers against his shoulder before pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

He blinks. “What was that for?” he asks, teasing.

You shrug, smiling. “Just letting you know I didn’t miss out on anything either.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “Well,” he murmurs against your hair, “good to know we’re both winning, then.”

You laugh softly into his chest and let yourself sink into him.

Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights

The music swells through the arena, and the Team USA gala is in full swing. You’re out on the ice with the other skaters, lights glittering overhead and scattering across the ice like tiny stars.

Ilia glides up beside you, matching your pace. His fingers brush yours, a small smile curving his lips.

“Ready?” he murmurs, just for you.

You nod, cheeks warm, and slip your hand into his.

He spins you gently, laughter spilling out of both of you. The ice feels weightless under your blades. For a moment, it’s just you and him.

He pulls you a little closer in a small dip, voice low near your ear. “You make everything better out here.”

You grin against his shoulder, feeling his words sink in.

Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me

You step out of the bathroom after getting ready for some formal team USA event, silky formal dress flowing around your legs, and the air in the room shifts.

Ilia, lounging on the bed with his phone, freezes mid-scroll. His eyes lift slowly; his mouth parts.

“Wow,” he breathes.

You grin nervously, smoothing the fabric. “Don’t look so shocked,” you say lightly.

He shakes his head, eyes still on you, smile turning a little wicked. “You know… I think I should just keep you here all night.”

Your cheeks warm and you laugh, leaning against the doorframe.

“Really?”

“I mean,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping, “it’s like homecoming all over again. First thing I said when you opened the door then? ‘You’re beautiful.’ Still true.”

You bite your lip, heart racing, and shake your head. “Ilia…”

He smirks, closing the distance, fingers brushing down your arm. “Just saying. You look… irresistible.”

You adjust the straps of your dress one last time, smoothing the front, when he steps in behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.

“Ready?” you ask, breath a little unsteady.

He doesn’t answer right away. His lips find your temple, then your cheek, then linger as he tilts your face to steal a soft kiss.

“Mm,” he murmurs, low and teasing, “don’t worry… I’ll pick this back up later.”

Your face heats, and you bite your lip to hide your smile.

He pulls back with that familiar crooked grin. “Now come on, gorgeous,” he says, giving your hand a playful tug. “Time to show the team what we’ve got.”

Your fingers linger in his as you step out, and the night already feels electric.

'Cause I feel so high school, Every time I look at you, But look at you

The apartment is quiet in a way that still feels new.

Boxes half-unpacked. A lamp casting warm light instead of harsh overhead glare. The city humming outside the windows.

And you’re here. Together.

You’re lying on your sides facing each other, legs tangled loosely under sheets that already smell like the two of you instead of cardboard.

Ilia’s hand traces lazy patterns along your waist, like he’s grounding himself.

“You realize,” he murmurs, “we have an apartment.”

You smile. “I’m aware.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes roaming your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. The low light makes them look softer, warmer.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just keep looking at you and it feels…”

He trails off.

“Like what?” you whisper.

He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Like we’re still those kids. Sitting in my room senior year. Or under the bleachers after practice.” He swallows, lips twitching.

Your chest tightens.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze soft and almost disbelieving.

“But look at you,” he adds, barely above a breath. “Look at us.”

There’s something awed in his voice, like he can’t believe you made it here.

You reach up and touch his cheek. “We’re not kids anymore.”

“No,” he agrees, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But I still get that same feeling. Like the first time I realized I liked you and had no idea what to do about it.”

You laugh softly. “You were so obvious.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

He rolls his eyes but pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest. His chin rests on your head, fingers splaying across your back.

“I just…” he murmurs into your hair. “I don’t ever want this to feel normal.”

“It won’t,” you say quietly.

In the stillness of your first night in your own place, it does feel like high school again — that dizzy, giddy, heart-too-big feeling.

Only this time, it’s steadier.

When you tilt your head up to look at him, he smiles like he did all those years ago.

Like he still can’t believe you’re his.

Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto

One night, after a long day of choreography run-throughs, you’re having a quiet evening in your shared apartment.

His friends are online. Headsets on. Competitive trash talk echoing through the room.

Ilia sits in his gaming chair, controller in hand, jaw set.

You wander in wearing one of his old Team USA hoodies.

He doesn’t look away from the screen when he reaches for you.

“C’mere.”

You climb into his lap sideways, back against his chest, legs draped over the arm of the chair.

On the TV, pixelated chaos explodes across a city.

In your ear, his friends yell over their mics.

You laugh softly. It’s ridiculous and perfect.

“Hey, Ilia.”

“Hm?”

“Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto,” you whisper, nudging his chin with your shoulder.

He chokes mid-game.

“Guys, hold on,” he mutters into the mic, cheeks flushing. “I’m being distracted.”

You feel his heartbeat through his t-shirt. Fast. Always fast around you.

One of his friends groans through the headset. “Malinin, focus!”

But his hands leave the controller anyway, sliding around your waist and giving you a gentle squeeze.

You tilt your head back. He kisses your temple like it’s instinct.

He freezes, cheeks pink.

“Are you quoting Taylor Swift at me right now?”

You knew what you wanted and boy, you got her

Laundry is folded at the end of the bed.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the mattress in an oversized t-shirt, rambling about something mundane, when you realize he’s not answering.

He’s just… staring.

Soft. Quiet. A little dazed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you laugh.

He blinks, like you’ve snapped him out of it.

“Nothing,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not a nothing look.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair, suddenly more nervous than you’ve seen him in years.

“Okay,” he says. “So. I was going to do this differently.”

You freeze.

“…Do what differently?”

He stands abruptly, crosses the room, and pulls open the top dresser drawer — the one he told you not to dig through because it was “just random stuff.”

Your heart starts pounding.

He turns back with a small box in his hand.

“I had a whole plan,” he admits, pacing once. “I was going to take you back to the rink. Or somewhere dramatic. Candles, a speech, the whole thing.”

“Ilia,” you breathe.

“But I can’t,” he cuts in, frustration flickering. “I can’t wait for perfect lighting or some big cinematic moment, because I’m sitting here listening to you talk about groceries and I’m so insanely in love with you that it feels stupid to wait.”

Your throat tightens.

He comes back and sits in front of you on the bed.

“I knew what I wanted,” he says softly. “Since we were kids. Since high school. Since before I even knew how to say it.”

He opens the box.

The ring catches the lamplight.

“And I got her,” he finishes, voice unsteady. “I got you. And I don’t want to wait for some perfectly planned night to ask you to stay.”

“I love you when you’re dressed up. I love you when you’re stressed about Worlds. I love you when you quote Taylor Swift at me in the middle of the night.” His mouth twitches into a small, helpless smile. “I love you when you’re sitting on our bed talking about laundry.”

A tear slips down your cheek.

“So yeah,” he says, letting out a shaky laugh, “I had a plan. It was romantic. It was impressive. But this is real. And I don’t want to wait another second to ask you.”

He looks up, completely vulnerable.

“Will you marry me?”

You don’t even try to play it cool.

“Yes,” you whisper immediately. “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe, sliding the ring onto your finger with slightly trembling hands before standing and pulling you into his arms.

Forehead pressed to yours, both of you half-laughing, half-crying.

“I was going to do candles,” he mutters into your hair.

You laugh through your tears. “This is better.”

He squeezes you tighter.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I wasn’t waiting.”

Brand new, full-throttle

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch when Ilia asks, “Are you ready to call them?”

You nod, hands still a little shaky.

He FaceTimes his parents.

Tatiana answers.

She takes one look at your flushed, teary faces and narrows her eyes.

“…What did you do?”

Ilia lifts your hand toward the camera.

There’s a beat.

Tatiana gasps.

Roman appears almost instantly. “What happened?”

Tatiana turns the phone. “He finally did it.”

Roman goes still. Then his expression shifts to a proud look.

He nods once. “Good.”

Your chest tightens.

Tatiana is already emotional. “Come closer, let me see the ring properly. Oh, it’s beautiful. Ilia, you did well.”

“I had a whole other plan,” he mutters. “This wasn’t even—”

“You could never wait,” Roman cuts in dryly.

Ilia looks personally attacked.

From somewhere in the house, Liza screams, “Wait — WHAT happened?”

She appears in frame seconds later, sees your hand, and absolutely loses it.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU GUYS ARE ACTUALLY GETTING MARRIED? I KNEW IT. I LITERALLY KNEW IT.”

“Lower your voice,” Ilia groans.

“No.”

She squints at him. “You cried, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“That’s a yes,” she declares.

You’re laughing now, overwhelmed and glowing.

Roman clears his throat. “We are very happy,” he says simply. “You have always chosen each other. That matters.”

Tatiana nods. “This is not brand new,” she says softly. “This is years in the making.”

That’s when it really hits you.

You didn’t shock them. They’ve been watching this love story unfold since you were kids.

After that, you call your own family. More tears. More chaos. More “finally.”

Only once everyone important knows does Ilia look at you and say, “Okay. Now we can break the internet.”

You post the photo.

Simple: your hands intertwined, the ring catching the light.

Within minutes?

Phones buzzing nonstop. Sports pages reposting. Olympic highlight accounts digging up old interviews. Clips of him saying he’d never want anyone else. Clips of you saying you didn’t miss out either.

Headlines everywhere.

“OLYMPIC GOLD MEDALISTS ENGAGED.”

“High School Sweethearts Seal the Deal.”

“From Rink Bleachers to Rings.”

You’re barely keeping up when Ilia’s phone buzzes again.

It’s Liza.

He opens the message. And immediately groans.

“What?” you ask.

He turns the screen toward you.

It’s an ancient photo. You two at maybe fifteen, braces, blurry rink lighting. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon, and you’re mid-laugh.

Caption: “Told y’all. He’s been down bad since 2019.”

She posted it. Publicly.

You collapse back onto the bed laughing.

“She’s dead,” Ilia mutters.

“She’s iconic,” you correct.

His phone buzzes again. The post is already going viral.

Brand new headline. Full history attached.

Ilia drops his phone onto the mattress and pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair.

“This is insane,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says.

But he doesn’t sound overwhelmed.

He sounds sure.

His hand slides over yours, thumb brushing over the ring like he’s still anchoring himself to the reality of it.

“They can talk,” he murmurs. “They always have.”

You tilt your head up.

“But they don’t get this part,” he adds quietly. “They don’t get the real us.”

You already know, babe

The first week after the wedding is dangerous.

Not because anything is wrong.

Because Ilia has discovered two words he refuses to stop using.

My wife.

It starts small.

You’re in the kitchen, still surrounded by leftover flowers and unopened gifts, when he walks in with his phone.

“Hey,” he says casually, leaning against the counter. “My wife, have you seen my hoodie?”

You slowly turn.

“…What did you just say?”

He blinks innocently. “What?”

“You said it weird.”

“I said hoodie.”

“No. Before that.”

He fights a grin. Loses. “My wife?”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat. “You’re insufferable.”

“You already know that, babe,” he says smugly, kissing your temple. “I waited years to say that.”

And he does not waste it.

At the rink?

“Oh yeah, my wife finished her run-through already.”

On the phone with Roman?

“Yeah, we’ll be there in ten. My wife is grabbing her skates.”

To the barista?

“My wife will have an iced coffee.”

You kick him under the table for that one.

It gets worse once competition season resumes.

First event back after the wedding. You both skate well. Medal ceremony done. Media zone buzzing.

A reporter smiles. “Ilia, how does it feel returning to competition as a married man?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“It feels great,” he says. “My wife’s out here landing triples like it’s nothing, so I’ve got to keep up.”

You shoot him a look across the mixed zone.

The reporter laughs. “Has marriage changed your dynamic at all?”

Ilia shrugs, eyes flicking to you like he’s trying not to grin. “Not really. We’ve always been a team. I just get to call her my wife now.”

There it is again.

Later, backstage, you nudge him. “You are milking this.”

He pulls you closer by the waist, not even pretending to deny it. “Of course I am.”

“You’ve said it like twenty times today.”

“And?”

“And you’re dramatic.”

He leans down, brushing his lips against your hairline. He murmurs, quieter now. “I’m obsessed.”

Your heart does the same annoying flutter it’s been doing since high school.

At home that night, he scrolls through interview clips, grinning at the comments.

“He really said my wife like he won it in a raffle.”

“He’s been waiting YEARS for this.”

“This man is down catastrophically.”

You peek over his shoulder. “They’re not wrong.”

He locks his phone and turns to you, expression softening.

“Let me have this,” he says quietly. “I’ve wanted to marry you since we were kids. I’m going to say it as much as I want.”

This time, when he says it, it’s not performative or teasing.

He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over your ring.

“My wife.”

It sounds steadier now. Warmer. Like it fits.

You smile and lean into him.

“Okay,” you murmur. “You can keep saying it.”

He grins.

Obvious to everyone but you two, that is. Whenever anyone suggested that he liked you back, you’d dismiss it as him being friendly, or having a naturally flirtatious personality. You were just best friends, you’d claim, he didn’t think of you that way.

But everyone in the friend group knew for certain that he was yours and you were his. That’s just how it is.

And it’s not like you’re denying your little crush; the girls know about it. You openly talk to the Schuyler sisters about your infatuation whenever you get the chance. When you’d say you weren’t sure if his feelings were more than friends, they’d roll their eyes and insult your sight. But he was a naturally touchy person, he was like that with everyone! It was so confusing and so thrilling at the same time.

Whenever you hung out with him (which was almost every day), he had his hands lingering somewhere on your body; whether that be holding your hand, his arm wrapped around your shoulder or waist, and sometimes even resting on your knee. He invariably kept contact with you, every single time.

And every time his fingers brushed yours, it sent a jolt of electricity through you, butterflies and hope filling your stomach as if you were a teenager in love. Your cheeks would immediately warm, and oh god if he sent that dazzling smile your way. Instant butterflies.

Your mind raced while you put on a simple black dress and heels. The dress was a little revealing, but you felt pretty so it didn’t matter. As long as you could hold yourself with confidence, and as long as you genuinely loved how you looked, that’s all that’s important. While you did your hair and makeup, you thought of Lafayette and what he’d like. Of course you knew better than to dress up for a man, and you weren’t dressing up for anybody, but you did want to look nice to impress him. Is that really so wrong?

Lafayette promised to pick you up, which made you a little panicky and rushed. A text chimed on your phone, and you picked it up to see that he was five minutes from you.

You inhaled sharply, putting in earrings and wiping off the mascara on your upper eyelid. Finally, a thin layer of gloss tinted your lips, and you were done.

He texted you saying he was here, and with a quick ‘On My Way!’ you raced out your apartment complex. He was waiting outside to walk you safely to the bar. It was a relatively short walk, only about half a mile, and he left his car in the parking garage since he knew better than to drive drunk.

His face lit up at the sight of you, a wide grin spreading across his features as he scanned you up and down.

“Qui est cette belle femme? (Who is this beautiful woman?) You look gorgeous, amour,” he said, holding out his hand for you to take. He twirled you around, giggles escaping both of you in the process.

“Thanks, you don’t look half-bad yourself.” You elbowed his side, reconnoitering his shirt that had the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of his chest.

“That’s the best you can give me?” He scoffed. You shrugged as you interlocked fingers and started walking to the bar.

“What do you want me to say? I can’t have your ego getting too inflated.”

“Well, a ‘you look handsome too, Lafayette,’ would’ve been nice,” he grumbled.

“Fine,” you sighed dramatically, “you look handsome too, Lafayette. Happy?”

He dropped the somber look on his face and grinned, nodding eagerly. You chuckled and shook your head, swinging his arm in a back-and-forth rhythm.

With Laf by your side, the fifteen minute walk felt like five. Time just seemed to fly by with him, conversation flowed naturally, and it probably helped that you had a big fat crush on him. Even the slightest squeeze of his hand made your stomach flutter and warmth shooting up to your cheeks.

When you arrived, he regrettably let go of your hand to open the door for you. You missed the comfort in his touch.

“Thank you for your chivalry,” you giggled. He rolled his eyes playfully and rested his hand on your lower back while in search of the rest of the crew.

The whole gang was there, minus Angelica and Peggy who seemed to have been running a bit late. John and Hercules had already started drinking, maybe a little too much. Alexander held back because he didn’t want to be a huge bother for Eliza, who didn’t drink alcohol.

“The lovebirds made it! Sit, sit,” John shouted, raising the glass in his hands.

You huffed, taking a seat from across them while Lafayette took one next to you. “Oh, shut it. How are you already slurring your words?”

“‘M not slurring my words,” he argued, slamming the glass unintentionally. You rolled your eyes.

“Sure you’re not, ami,” Lafayette said, his hand never leaving your back.

You ignored them as they started bickering back and forth, and turned to Eliza and Alex instead. “Hi Eliza, Alex,” you said. They smiled warmly, greeting you back immediately.

“It’s been a while. How’s being a journalist treating you?” Alex asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Oh, y’know,” you waved your hands around, “pretty mediocre. I haven’t gotten any of the good assignments since I’m the new girl, but I’ll manage.”

“Awh, that sucks. I’m sure they’ll see your talent soon enough.” Eliza reassured sweetly.

“Thanks, Liza. You look beautiful, by the way. Blue has always been your color,” you sighed, glancing down at the simple blue dress she wore. She blushed and thanked you, commenting that you look beautiful as well.

Lafayette’s hand lifted from your back, and you glanced to see why. He had run off with John and Hercules, probably to get a couple more drinks. You frowned lightly, but shifted your gaze from the handsome man to the pretty woman in front of you.

“So, when are you and Laf gonna make it official?” Alex smirked, wiggling his eyebrows. Eliza bit back a grin as well, and smacked Alex’s hand.

“I—he doesn’t—we’re not,” you huffed, cheeks flushing with heat and embarrassment. “He doesn’t see me that way.”

Both of them rolled their eyes at that. “You’re kind of stupid, you know that, right?” Alex commented. Eliza hummed in agreement.

“Wha—Eliza! Don’t agree with him!” You gasped, feigning offense. A sly smile worked its way on her lips as she shrugged innocently.

“If the shoe fits.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “You little traitor.”

“How am I betraying you? It’s simple observation. He’s been drooling over you for forever, and if you’re too stupid to realize that, it’s not my fault.” She crossed her arms, and her fiancé laughed, patting her back in support.

You muttered swears under your breath. “He would’ve said something by now if that’s how he feels.”

“Be serious,” she snorted, “he literally calls you amour.”

“Yeah, and you should hear the way he talks about you on the phone. He is..wow,” Alex chimes in. You blink, deciding not to ask for any elaboration.

“…So what? He calls everyone names in French.” You defend. “Doesn’t mean shit.”

“Yeah, but only ami. Amour is specifically reserved for you.” Eliza gave you a pointed look.

You opened your mouth to counter her, but no words came out. She was right; you were the only person Lafayette called amour or chèrie. But that didn’t mean anything, right? Even if he did like you in that way, who’s to say he wants a relationship with you? You’ve liked people before but haven’t wanted to date them. Maybe that’s how it is with you.

And that thought alone scared you, because you knew you wanted something with him, and if he didn’t reciprocate those feelings, you wouldn’t know what to do.

“Well…still,” you spoke hesitantly, “if he feels that way, then I’ll wait for him to say something.”

The pair sighed and shared a look. “That’s exactly what he said to me a week ago…” Alex muttered, just barely loud enough for you to hear.

Before you could respond, a pair of arms threw themselves around your shoulders. “Y/n! I haven’t seen you in forever!”

The sound of Peggy’s voice hit your ears, and you instantly smiled, swiveling to face her. Angelica waved to you before greeting her sister in a hug.

“I missed you too, Peggy,” you giggled, hugging her back.

She gave you a toothy grin, backing up from you and taking in your appearance. “You look absolutely hot, by the way. I might have to steal you from Lafayette.” She teased.

“Peggy!” You slapped her arm playfully. The rest of the boys were making their way over, Lafayette’s eyes specifically trained on you.

“The other sisters arrived! Finally, what took y’all so long?” Laurens slurred, his Carolinian accent seeping through his words.

Lafayette moved to your side, bumping arms with you. He gave you a charming grin that you shot back, habitually leaning into his presence. You locked eyes with Eliza who gave you a knowing look, as if to say ‘told you.’

“We just got caught up in traffic,” Peggy responded.

“Liar! Admit that you took two hours to get ready,” Angelica shouted.

The group quickly dissipated into laughter and chatter. While Hercules went on about a horror story from one of his most recent clients, you couldn’t help it that you were only half-listening. Lafayette’s hand on your knee prevented you from thinking clearly—or was it the alcohol?

Whatever reason specifically was irrelevant. All you knew is that he was doing that thing with his thumb where he rubs it back and forth, and he has the audacity to act focused on the conversation. Hell, he wouldn’t even look your way! It’s like what he was doing was completely subconscious. Almost an innate response to being near you.

He must’ve noticed your absence in conversation, because he turned to you with concern etched in his eyebrows.

“You okay, mon amour?” He asked.

Fuck, there’s that stupid nickname again.

“Yeah,” you lied, “just feeling a little nauseous is all.”

He frowned, leaning down so he could whisper in your ear. “If you want to leave, it’s your call.”

“We don’t have to leave,” you swallowed thickly. Was he seriously fine with stopping his evening just to take you home? “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom and refresh myself.”

“Okay,” his frown deepens. You excuse yourself from the setting and rush to the bathroom. His eyes lingered on you a moment more before Hercules snapped him out of it.

The bathroom light was broken. It flickered on and off, on and off in a rhythm that drove you insane. You stared into your reflection, a crisis happening in your brain. You knew why he made you feel this way, that was obvious. But you didn’t know why he kept playing with your feelings the way he does. You didn’t know if you drove him as mad as he drives you, if he stays up at night wishing you were next to him.

There was a random girl applying bright red lipstick. She must’ve noticed the distressed state you were in, because she broke the silence in the air.

“Worrying about a man?”

You blinked, mostly in shock that she was talking to you, but also because she was right. She waited patiently for your response, not looking you in the eyes, but instead focused on perfecting her lip combo.

“Uhh…yeah, how’d you know?” You shifted your weight, looking at her now.

“Woman’s intuition,” she replied. “You’ve got stress written all over you. I know a situationship when I see a girl alone in a bar bathroom.”

“What about you then? You’re alone in a bathroom, too,” you countered. Who was she to make these bold assumptions?

“Right, but observe the difference in our postures. Relax, babe. Breathe. Whatever is troubling you probably isn’t worth all the worry.”

“I—you don’t know anything about my situation,” you bit the inside of your cheek.

“Tell me or don’t tell me,” she shrugged. Finally, she turned to face you. You couldn’t deny her beauty; she wore a bold red dress and the exact same shade of lipstick to complement it. Dark curls fell past her shoulders, and she held herself with such confidence that reflected onto you.

“Fine. My best friend is with me, along with the rest of our friend group, and I can’t tell if he genuinely is into me or if he’s just playing some sick game.” You confessed.

She smiled in satisfaction. “Why do you think that?”

“Because he’s always touching me but he’s never actually admitted that he likes me or anything. He also calls me ‘amour’ and I’m the only person he calls that. And just before I left to come here, he asked if I was okay, and when I said I felt sick he offered to take me home.”

“It sounds like he does care about you. I think you’re overthinking the situation, sweetheart,” she crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the wall. The light flickers more. “You should go for it. And whatever happens is meant to happen. It’s your life, you’re able to change it at any moment. Take the first step even if it seems scary.”

“You’re right,” you sigh. “I should probably head back now. Thank you…” you trailed off, realizing that you don’t know her name.

“Maria,” she responds.

“Thank you, Maria.” You smile, “Y/n.”

“You’re welcome, Y/n.” She smiles back, watching you walk out of the dim bathroom.

After confiding in a random lady in a bathroom bar, you felt confident and ready to change your relationship status. You were tired of pretending to not want something with Laf knowing you wanted a real connection. You wanted something deeper, something intimate with the man you called your best friend.

“Y/n?” A familiar voice stopped you in your tracks. You turn, coming face to face with Aaron Burr.

“Aaron? God, how long has it been?” You smile, pulling up beside him. He was alone in the corner of the bar, far enough away to where you wouldn’t have been able to recognize him from where the group was sitting.

“Since sophomore year, I reckon,” he said.

Aaron Burr was one of the first new people you met in college. At one point, you thought that the man was into you, but a while of hanging out helped you realize he actually was just friendly. And he was loyal, too. His heart was set on Theodosia, and he would deny any woman who looked at him with the slightest bit of lust.

He was a reserved, composed man. Extremely stoic, extremely put together, and very polite. Burr seemed to enjoy a quiet life, hence why he chose the farthest spot away from your rowdy group. He also knew everyone somewhat-personally, although he was left on bad terms with Alexander. A little feud involving Thomas Jefferson led to the break of their friendship.

“How are things? D’you ever tell Theodosia how you feel?” You asked, resting your chin in your hands.

He holds up his left hand, the shine of a golden band making you gasp. You grab his wrist to inspect it, admiring the glimmer of love sealed in a single ring.

“Congratulations! Holy shit, Aaron, that’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I finally got the courage to ask her out, and this is where it’s led me,” he beams a true smile. “The wedding is set for a few months from now.”

You awh and rest a hand over your chest, playing with the dainty necklace. “That’s so sweet. I’m so happy for you, Aaron. I know you and Alex aren’t on the best of terms, but do you want to join us? Share a few drinks?” You offer.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Ever since you sat down, Lafayette has been glaring at me this whole time. It looks like he’s about to murder me,” he chuckles. You whip your head around to see Lafayette.

Laf looks away the moment you turn to spy him, pretending like he didn’t just get caught staring at you.

“Ignore him. He’s just protective, he probably doesn’t realize it’s you.” You wave your hand dismissively.

Burr gave you a half-hearted shrug. “I’ll take my chances. I was actually about to head out soon anyway.”

“What? C’mon, don’t let my friend scare you off. Drink with us!” You plead, leaning forward in your stool.

“No, no, seriously. I told myself I wouldn’t stay long, and it’s getting late.” Despite your efforts to convince him to stay, he denies every offer you put forth.

“Alright,” you frown. “It was nice seeing you, Aaron. Tell Theo I said hi! And again, congrats!”

You hop off your barstool, waving goodbye to him. He walks out the back way, probably to avoid confrontation with the guard dog eyeing the entire interaction you had with the man.

When you got back to the table, everyone was immersed in their own chats, not really paying much mind to you or even noticing your arrival. You plopped next to Lafayette again, but he ignored you, taking a long swig of his drink.

“I’m back,” you chirped.

No response.

“Laf? You okay?” You put a hand on his broad shoulder, wincing when you finally notice the scowl on his face. Your hand falls off his shoulder almost instantly.

“Perfectly fine,” he grunts.

“Whoa, what happened?”

“Go ask Burr, maybe he’ll ’ave an answer,” he snaps.

Okay, problem found. He was upset because you were talking to Aaron. Your stomach dropped and you had to stop yourself from saying something nasty.

“Why are you mad? C’mon, Laf, don’t be like this,” you scoff lightly, crossing your arms.

“Don’t be like what?” He mutters, being extra careful to keep his voice low so the rest of the group wouldn’t get suspicious. When his eyes flickered to yours, they didn’t hold the same playful tint like they usually did. Instead, they were darker, filled with jealousy and bitterness. You tensed.

“Like a dick. Seriously, you’re killing the mood,” you lowered your voice as well.

His jaw clenched and the grip on his drink tightened, and he stayed silent. Scarily silent.

“Lafayette! Which is better, the edge piece of brownies or the center? Because Hercules here thinks the center is the best when it’s not,” Laurens called him over, and he shot up, moving over to them.

You stared at him in shock. Is he really mad because you were talking with Aaron Burr?

“What happened? He looks pissed,” Eliza sounded from behind you. You flinched and swiveled around, mouth slightly hung open.

“I don’t know. I think he’s upset because I was talking to an old friend,” you reply.

“Uh-huh. And does this old friend happen to be a man?” She asks, taking a seat next to you.

You bite your lower lip. “Maybe. But it’s not like that! He literally showed me his wedding ring!”

“Does he know that?” She nods to Laf. You let your gaze linger on him a little too long, gripping the edge of your dress.

“…No. He shouldn’t be mad, anyways.”

“He’s not mad, he’s jealous. If he sees another man being touchy with his girl, he’s gonna get jealous,” she said.

Her usage of the words ‘his girl’ made your stomach flutter.

“So what do I do then?” You turn back to her.

“Give him a little bit of time to cool down, then talk to him. He’ll listen to anything you say, and he’ll believe it, too. That man would walk into fire for you. If you say there was nothing between you and the old friend, then there was nothing between you and the old friend.” She replies. “Who was it, anyway?”

“Burr,” you whisper. She nods, pursing her lips.

“I see. Wait, he’s married?”

“Engaged,” you correct.

She forms her mouth in the shape of an ‘O’ and lets out a tiny noise. You inhale sharply and glance back at Lafayette. He had his focus on the conversation before him, nothing else. Eliza gave you a reassuring smile and told you everything will be okay.

Then you thought back to Maria in the bathroom. ‘Take the first step even if it seems scary.’

Her words echoed in your mind. You needed to go for it like she said. But first, liquid courage.

You downed a shot and stood, strutting over to Lafayette and grabbing him by the arm. He gave you a confused look, but didn’t resist when you pulled him away from his friends.

“Could we go back to mine and talk? There’s things I need to tell you,” you bite your lower lip.

“I don’t want to leave yet,” he frowned.

“Okay,” you nodded slowly, “I’m gonna head out then. Goodbye, Lafayette.”

“Wait,” he stopped you from walking off. “I’m not gonna let you walk home by yourself. ‘Ts not safe.”

The urge to smirk tugged on your lips, and you fought it back. You both said your goodbyes to the rest of the group. Laurens shouts out ‘use protection!’ to which you both ignore before walking out.

There’s a tense, thick silence between you. It was almost palpable. The chill of the night air made you shiver, and he just barely pulled you closer to him.

“Lafayette,” you start once you see your apartment complex come into view. “Tell me the real reason why you’re mad.”

“‘M not mad,” he mumbled.

“So then, what is it? You’ve been acting weird since I got back from the bathroom.”

He didn’t reply. You neared closer and closer to the apartment.

“Lafayette?” You called out, impatiently waiting for a response. Anything, something. Even a squeeze of the hand would’ve been nice, but he was unresponsive.

“I just—“ he cut himself short, inhaling sharply. “I just don’t like when you flirt with other guys.”

“Okay, first of all, I wasn’t flirting with him—“

“But you touched him. I saw it,” he countered.

“Because he was showing me his engagement ring. Lafayette, the man is about to get married, I was just excited for him.” You snort. He falls silent once again, processing your words. “And why are you so jealous if I talk to another man? It’s like anytime somebody comes five feet within my vicinity, you become some overprotective b—friend.” You refrained from accidentally referring to him as your boyfriend, as much as you wish you could.

“I wonder, amour, I really do.” He sassed, rolling his eyes. The way he called you the pet name held weight to it, too.

“Stop it,” you growled. Both of you stood outside the building, nothing but the pale moonlight and broken street lamps illuminating you.

“Stop what?”

“Deflecting the fucking conversation! I’m trying to communicate with you here, and you’re not listening!” You finally snap.

He stares at you, wide eyes and shock written on him. It wasn’t often that you truly got pushed to breaking point, and you seldom swore at him. He didn’t know how to react, really. But god, you being mad at him did something to him words couldn’t explain.

“Y/n,” he spoke, voice low and gravely, “I ‘ave tried to make this as obvious as possible.”

“What?” You scrunched your nose in confusion. He wasn’t referring to everything everyone has ever told you, right? That couldn’t possibly be! Was he alluding to the very real feelings that plague his mind every time he’s near you?

“I think you know what I’m talking about,” he swallows hard, taking a step closer to you. The cold air nipped at his nose, making it flushed red.

“No, Lafayette, I don’t. So fucking tell me,” you seethe.

He sighs, murmuring something in French before cupping your face and smashing his lips against yours.

Ah. So that’s what it was.

Without hesitation, you kissed back. Your arms found their way to his neck, and one of his hands stayed on your jaw while the other moved to your lower back, pulling you in closer. Time seemed to have stopped at that moment. All passion and years of yearning were poured into one moment.

He may not have been your first kiss, but he was the first kiss that mattered.

When he pulled off, breathless and now kiss-drunk on top of alcohol-drunk, he looked ethereal. “I’m in love with you, amour, and I have been for so long,” he confessed.

Once again, frozen in time. He stared into your eyes, waiting for a reaction. When you didn’t, you could feel panic seep from him. He loosened his embrace on you and a regretful worry stirred on his features.

“Mon Dieu, I’ve messed everything up now, ‘aven’t I?” He swore, dropping his hands completely from you.

That’s all it took to snap you out of your daze.

“No! No, you haven’t messed anything up. Lafayette, I—“ you grabbed his hands again, pushing closer to him. “I feel the same way. I’ve loved you since the moment we first met, and this whole time I’ve been wondering if you felt the same.”

“Seriously?” He asked.

“Mhm,” you nodded, smile growing wider with every passing second.

“You’re saying we could’ve done this earlier?”

You laughed, shaking your head gently. “Maybe it was meant to happen at this moment.” You leaned in and kissed him sweetly, shorter this time. He smiled into it, and when you pulled off it only seemed to brighten.

“So can we make this official? You’ll be mine?” He asked with a hopeful squeeze of your hands.

“I’ve always been yours, Laf.”

—

“We should mess with them,” you said while riding the elevator up to Laurens’ apartment. It had been a week after you and Lafayette officially got together, and you both agreed to keep it on the DL for a while.

“‘Ow so?” He asked, intrigued.

“Well, they always pressured me into confessing to you. Maybe we can pretend like we’re still friends and just be extra touchy with each other,” you shrugged.

He grinned, eyebrows shooting up. “Let’s do it.” He held his hand out and you took it, interlocking fingers as you approached the door.

A few swift knocks for the door swung open, and Hercules greeted you with a loud welcome. “The lovebirds have arrived! Come in, come in,” he opened the door wider and you stepped inside. Everyone else already seemed to be there, laughing, drinking, eating, and having a good time.

Lafayette kept his arms around your waist the whole time, earning you looks from the Schuyler sisters and Alex. None of them knew they were being fucked with, and their reactions to it made it so much better.

While you all sat on the couch, scrolling to find a good horror movie to watch, you sat in between Laf’s legs, him holding you close in a comforting manner. Once again, Eliza shot you a knowing look, and you just shrugged.

Laurens and Hercules finally came to an agreement on watching Get Out, and somewhere in the first ten minutes, you got up to get a refill.

Naturally, Lafayette trailed after you to the kitchen. The moment you were both out of earshot and sight, you burst into fits of giggles. The rest of the group, however, had a more serious reaction.

“So we all agree we need to get them together soon, right?” Laurens spoke quietly. Everyone hummed in agreement.

“It’s agonizing watching them pine for each other,” Alex said.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.” Eliza got up.

“And I’ll talk to him,” Alex said, following her into the next room over where you and Lafayette were.

When they walked in, however, you were wrapped in each others arms in a kiss. They gasped, and you both scrambled off one another, a guilty smile forming on your face.

“What’s going on here?” Alex spoke, breaking the stunned silence.