post-mix lemonade

Usually, sleep finds you easily.

It comes almost the moment you slip into the soft sheets and your head hits the pillow—dreams sometimes pleasant, sometimes scary, sometimes nonexistent, but nevertheless, it comes. It is entirely unlike you to be tossing and turning in your sheets at 3 AM, unable to find a comfortable position, especially when you have a match to referee tomorrow.

It wasn't even supposed to happen. You were called up as an assistant referee for the Chelsea vs. Manchester United game. But the evening before the match, right after you had checked into the hotel and gone down to the restaurant to enjoy a late dinner with your colleagues, the main referee left the table early. A few hours later, he was admitted to the hospital, the exact reason remaining slightly unclear to you.

Maybe they thought you deserved a shot. Maybe they wanted to make headlines with the unusual choice of giving a young female referee a high-stakes Premier League game. Or maybe they just didn't have another option. Whatever the reasons, they chose you to referee the match, leaving a heavy mixture of both excitement and terror settled deep in your chest.

You've refereed hundreds of matches before, having received your certificate when you were still a teenager, but this occasion is completely different. It's almost the end of the season, and both teams are ruthlessly fighting for the final points needed to secure a top-four spot for the Champions League. The tension is almost visible in the damp London air. Your mind races with every possible scenario the match could take, weighing every decision and opportunity.

Somewhere in the middle of those thoughts, you finally fall asleep. But your mind never truly lets you rest, forcing you to blow your whistle in a dream while a crowd of angry players swarms around you, suffocating you in the dark.

"Are you nervous?"

"No," you lie, giving Oscar a tight smile. He nudges your shoulder in encouragement, his smile warm and bright, completely unlike yours.

Both teams line up behind you in parallel rows. Some of the players are whispering, but most are dead silent, bouncing on their toes, nervously shifting, and breathing annoyingly loudly in the confined space. Your grip tightens on the match ball, your palms uncharacteristically sweaty.

Then, it's time. You lead the march out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, flanked by your assistant referees, with both teams trailing behind you as the stadium erupts into a deafening roar. Everyone lines up facing the main grandstand while the Premier League anthem plays over the loudspeakers, the television cameras gliding past to capture their focused faces one by one. You fight to keep your cool, keeping your chin up and maintaining a professional posture as the away team begins to walk down the line for the fair play handshakes.

You offer polite, tight nods to the passing players, but the moment his hand touches yours, a sudden jolt runs through you. The atmospheric pressure in the stadium seems to shift. He takes a second longer than the others, his grip lingering just enough to be intentional, his calloused palm warm against your skin. He looks at you with an intense, unreadable expression, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours as the corner of his mouth lifts into a subtle, knowing smirk. It's a look that says he knows exactly who you are—and that he knows you weren't supposed to be holding the whistle today.

Ilia Malinin is the type of player who commands equal parts adoration and hatred. Fans love him for his aggressive style and exceptional, game-changing skills; rivals hate him for the exact same reasons. To match officials, he is an absolute nightmare. He is a player who always demands to get his way, entirely unaccustomed to being told "no." Whether he's attempting to charm his way out of a yellow card with a flashy smile or running a big mouth to fiercely defend a dive, he is constantly pushing boundaries, testing patience, and trying to provoke a reaction out of everyone around him. You had spent the entire night mentally preparing yourself for his inevitable whining, theatrics, and pretenses, repeatedly reminding yourself not to let him get under your skin.

His arrogant persona seems to grow more formidable every year, and it certainly doesn't help that he has the looks to match. He is undeniably attractive, a fact the media loves to exploit. His blonde hair and blue eyes give him an almost ethereal appearance when he jogs across the pitch, damp strands sticking to his forehead, his expression perpetually cocky and his lips parted as he breathes heavily. He carries himself like he owns the stadium, and you can already feel the exhausting weight of having to keep him in line for the next ninety minutes.

You forcefully push the thoughts away, stepping into the center circle and calling over the two captains, Bruno Fernandes and Reece James. You briefly introduce yourself and flip the coin, the two men staring each other down with intense focus. Bruno wins the toss, choosing which side of the pitch United wants to defend first.

With the formalities concluded, your assistants sprint to their respective touchlines, and the Fourth Official heads toward the benches. Standing alone in the dead center of the pitch, you check your watch one last time, glance up to ensure the broadcasters are ready, and raise the whistle to your lips.

You blow a sharp, loud blast. The game has started.

For the first twenty minutes, the match is a tactical chess game. You run diagonal sprints across the pitch, positioning yourself close enough to see the ball but far enough to stay out of their lanes. Every few seconds, you glance at your assistant on the touchline, ensuring your positioning stays synchronized.

Then, the first real test comes.

The match is barely fifteen minutes in when a Chelsea midfielder and one of Ilia's teammates collide heavily while chasing a ball. To the stadium, it looks like a simple crash, but from your angle, you see the United player pull down the Chelsea midfielder by his jersey.

You blow a sharp blast on your whistle, pointing the other way to award Chelsea a free kick.

The home crowd cheers, but the decision doesn't please everyone. From the corner of your eye, you see someone jogging over to you, catching the flash of his blonde hair when he gets close. His breath is even, a frustratingly calm smile playing on his face.

He stops right in your space, the faint scent of his perfume lingering around you. A few damp strands of blonde hair stick to his forehead, his blue eyes gleaming with pure amusement as he looks at you.

"Ref, come on," he says, his voice smooth, almost innocent. "They just ran into each other. There's no way that's a foul on us."

"Martínez grabbed the jersey, Malinin. It's a foul. Move back," you respond, keeping your voice flat and professional as you try to walk past him to position yourself for the free kick.

He lets out a soft, almost mocking chuckle, effortlessly jogging backward right alongside you so you can't ignore him. You have a feeling he won't leave you alone. "A jersey tug? Really?"

"Are you questioning my decision, Malinin?" you ask, stopping dead in your tracks.

"Me?" he chuckles, flashing you his white teeth. A sharp spike of irritation hits your chest. His overly familiar, casual attitude is maddening. "Never—"

"Drop the commentary and get back into position before I give you a yellow card," you cut him off, giving him a warning look, your tone matching the expression. "Now."

He raises his hands in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth twitching into an arrogant smirk. He holds your gaze for an extra second, clearly thrilled that he managed to get a reaction out of you, before finally turning around to chase the play.

The match is intense, but you can already feel the underlying pressure that always carries a quiet dread—the fear that the moment a tough call goes against them, the players will stop seeing you as a professional official and start seeing you as a woman they can intimidate.

A few minutes later, a heavy tackle in the midfield breaks the play. A Chelsea defender, known for his aggressive attitude, storms up to you when you don't pull out a yellow card for United.

"Are you even watching the same game?" he spits, waving his hand aggressively right in front of your face. "Come on, open your eyes. This isn't a charity match, love."

The word love hits you like a slap. Your blood runs cold, a familiar spike of rage tightening your chest. He would never say that to a male referee. He's trying to diminish your authority, trying to make you feel small. Before you can even open your mouth to flash a yellow card for the blatant disrespect, a shadow falls over both of you.

It's Ilia, somehow always managing to be in your space every time the game stops for a reason.

Ilia steps right into the space between you and the Chelsea defender, his frame completely blocking him from you. He doesn't look angry; instead, that familiar, irritatingly calm smirk is plastered across his face.

"What did you just call her?" Ilia asks, his voice dangerously smooth as he pokes a firm finger directly into the defender's chest.

"Get lost, blondie, this has nothing to do with—"

"I think it does," Ilia cuts him off, poking him again, harder this time, deliberately trying to provoke him. "You're crying about a tackle because you're too slow to keep up with it. Are you getting outpaced? Is that why you're throwing a tantrum like a child?"

The defender’s face flushes with fury as he steps up to Ilia, shoving him back. Before the confrontation can spiral into a full physical fight, teammates from both sides instantly swarm the area. A couple of Chelsea players quickly grab their defender by the jersey, pulling him back as he keeps shouting, while Fernandes and Mount haul Ilia away by his shoulders, forcing him out of the huddle.

You stride over to the Chelsea player who is still being held back by his teammates and flash a yellow card directly into his face. Once he's dealt with, you turn your sharp gaze onto Ilia, who is leaning back against a restraining arm, entirely unfazed.

"Go back to your position, Malinin."

"Yes, ma'am."

He catches your eye for a brief second as if to say you're welcome, before finally shaking off his teammate to jog back into position. Your chest heaves as you watch him go, a knot forming in your stomach that you desperately ignore.

The second half is barely five minutes old when the stadium erupts.

A teammate passes the ball perfectly across the grass, cutting right through the Chelsea defense. Ilia sprints out of nowhere, catching the ball on the run. His leg whips through the air, and the ball slams directly into the back of the net.

It's a goal.

The stadium goes wild. Ilia turns around, sliding on his knees across the grass, his arms wide open as his teammates crash into him to celebrate. The arrogant expression dances on his face, his smile wide and impossible.

You don't react yet. Through your earpiece, your assistant’s voice is sharp and immediate: "He started running too early. He was offside. Call it off."

You don't hesitate. You blow a loud blast on your whistle and wave your arms across your body. The goal is canceled.

The roar of celebration instantly shifts into a wave of furious boos from the Manchester United fans. Within seconds, a sea of red jerseys swarms you. Five, six, seven players surround you in a tight circle, waving their hands and yelling over one another, a mixture of desperation and disbelief on their faces as they try to get you to change your mind.

You stand strong on your ground, refusing to let them crowd you, using sharp hand gestures to push them away from your space. You're yelling at them to back off, and then Ilia finally breaks through the crowd. He is breathing heavily from the sprint, damp blonde strands of hair sticking to his forehead, but he doesn't join the screaming. Instead, he blocks out the rest of the circle, extending his hand to touch your shoulder in a way that's supposed to convince you of his reasoning—but you back off, not letting him touch you. The smooth, playful charm he had earlier is starting to crack under pure frustration.

"Ref, come on," he says, his voice breathless, irritation seeping into it. He stops less than a foot away, his chest heaving. "I timed that perfectly. I was right in line with the defender!"

"You were past the defense before the pass was made," you respond, keeping your voice flat and professional, refusing to waver under his intense stare. "It was offside."

"You've got to be kidding me!"

His voice turns deeply frustrated, but you don't answer him, waiting for the VAR booth to review the footage. He stays right at your elbow, running his mouth, completely unable to let it go. He is convinced of his own reasoning and desperate for the video to prove him right.

"You'll see it on the replay, ref, seriously," Ilia says, his voice low but urgent as he tracks your steps. "The left-back played me on. It was a perfect play. Tell them to look at the frame where the ball is kicked."

"Malinin, stand back and let them do the check," you warn, keeping your eyes away from him, focusing entirely on the audio in your ear.

Finally, the voice in your earpiece speaks: "Confirming the on-field decision. The attacker's shoulder was offside. No goal."

You drop your hand from your ear and blow a sharp whistle, waving your arms across your body to officially disallow the goal.

"The decision stands. Offside," you declare.

The news hits him like a physical blow. His frustration boils over, his eyebrows drawing together, his blue eyes turning almost dark as he refuses to accept it. "No way! That's impossible!" he snaps, shaking his head in disbelief and stepping right back into your space. "Is this a joke?! You guys are literally throwing our momentum away on a bad guess!"

"The check is complete, Ilia," you say, his name slipping past your lips before you can stop it. You can't help but match the rising volume of his voice. "There are professional officials in the booth reviewing every single angle with millimeter accuracy. It's not a guess, it's a fact. Now move."

"That's bullshit!"

"Watch your mouth!" you fire back instantly, your voice sharp and cutting.

Before the confrontation can boil over any further, Fernandes quickly steps between the two of you. He puts a heavy, firm hand on Ilia’s chest, pushing him a couple of steps back. He turns to you with his hands raised, his voice almost apologetic. "Sorry, ref. He’s just frustrated."

"Keep your players under control."

"Yes."

You turn on your heel, walking away toward the center circle to let Chelsea take their free kick, but Ilia isn't done. Even with his captain right in front of him, he just can't leave it alone. Behind your back, his voice carries clearly over the stadium noise, laced with bitterness.

"Unbelievable," Ilia mutters loudly to his teammate, spitting out the next words. "Ruining the whole match because they don't know how to do their fucking job. It’s an absolute joke."

You stop dead in your tracks, the anger boiling within you. You don't even turn around first; your hand goes straight to your breast pocket, your fingers locking onto the smooth plastic. You whip out the yellow card, striding right past the captain and flashing it directly in Ilia's face.

The captain lets out a heavy sigh, throwing his hands up, but Ilia stops dead. His eyes snap to the yellow card. For a split second, the anger in his face freezes, and then a sarcastic chuckle escapes his lips. He shakes his head, looking down at the grass and then back up at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he expected it.

"Play restarts with a free kick for Chelsea," you say, your voice completely unyielding. "Get back to your position."

He shakes his head once again, the bitter amusement gleaming in his blue eyes, before he finally turns around to jog away.

You ignore the boos coming from the United stands, feeling the anger radiating from you at his foolish confidence. What gives him the right to think he knows better than professionals with years of expertise in such things?

The game resumes, more intense than ever as both teams struggle to score. Throughout the remaining match you catch him throwing you looks, his stare almost burning your skin.

Then it happens for the third time.

They are pulling and shoving for position as they chase a long ball. Ilia wins the positioning, but the Chelsea defender lunges, and both of them crash violently into the turf.

It happens right in front of you. You blow your whistle, but instead of pointing toward the Chelsea goal for a United free kick, you point the other way. You've called the foul against Ilia for pulling the defender down first.

Ilia scrambles up from the grass, his face completely flushed, sweat pouring down his skin, his breathing ragged. He storms directly into your space, his expression dark as he loses his composure entirely.

"Are you fucking blind?!"

"Mind your language!"

He almost screams right in your face, his raw rage drawing out the roar of the stadium. "He pulled me down! He was holding my shirt the entire run!"

"You grabbed his shoulder first! Back up right now!" you yell back, matching his volume, your own adrenaline spiking as you refuse to let him intimidate you.

"That's a lie and you know it!" He steps even closer, his hot breath fanning against your face. "You’ve been looking for an excuse to ruin this game for us all night! You're incompetent!"

"I'm incompetent?!" You finally lose your cool, the professionalism you learned to carry yourself with vanishing completely under his intense stare. "You keep whining about the whole match instead of actually doing your job on the pitch!"

"Oh, like you do yours?!" he lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head like he can't believe it. "You sure you're here refereeing like you're supposed to?! You're just favoring them over us for the whole match!"

"Back off right now! I'm warning you for the last time!"

"I won't back off! It's a pathetic call and a pathetic—"

You don't let him finish. In one sharp, explosive motion, you rip the straight red card from your back pocket and thrust it high into the air, right between his eyes.

"Get off the pitch! You're done!" you shout, your voice ringing with unyielding authority.

Ilia stops instantly, his sentence cut short. He stares at the red card, his chest heaving up and down. For a second, his fists clench at his sides, his jaw tightens so hard the veins in his neck bulge, and he looks like he might actually explode right there on the grass.

But then, the rage suddenly drains out of him.

Something shifts in his eyes. It’s as if something inside him completely breaks. This match meant everything to him, the season was on the line, and his own temper just threw it all away. He looks down at you, his lips slightly parted, his blue eyes suddenly looking completely defeated.

He doesn't say another word. He just turns around slowly, his shoulders slumping as he begins the long, lonely walk off the pitch toward the tunnel.

Standing in the center circle with the red card still tight in your grip, you watch him. The heavy adrenaline in your chest suddenly sours. For a fleeting second, you feel a twinge of guilt creeping into you—but you quickly push it away, focusing entirely on the game ahead of you.

The match ended exactly the way you feared it would.

Facing ten men, Chelsea finally broke through Manchester United’s defense in the 87th minute, slotting home a goal. The moment you blew the final whistle, relief washed over you, the exhaustion of the past two hours consuming you as you exited off the pitch.

You couldn't stop thinking about him on the way back to the hotel, not even when you'd showered and changed, not even when you replayed the moments on your laptop, once again making sure it wasn't you who did anything wrong.

It was his fault; he kept running his mouth despite warning him a thousand times. Another referee would have booted him off the pitch way earlier than you did—that's what you kept telling yourself. You had been patient. You had done your job.

It is late evening when you hear a knock on the door. You slide down from the bed to open it and let the visitor in, presuming it’s Oscar, who often plays card games with you whenever you two are assigned together.

You open the door, a smile stretched on your face, but the moment your eyes meet his, your expression falls. Your eyebrows draw together as you look at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing here?!"

Ilia pushes right past you, brushing your shoulder as if he hadn't even heard you speak. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a loud thud. You look at him with a shocked expression, almost amazed at his audacity, the words lost in your mouth.

He is wearing a black hoodie, the gray sweatpants hanging from his hips. His blonde hair is damp, his expression still as stubborn as it was a few hours earlier on the pitch.

"You can't just barge into my room! This is unacceptable!"

"Why? Because it's unprofessional?" he mocks, letting out a bitter snort at your reaction. "Just like the way you refereed our high-stakes game, right?"

"You have the audacity to come here and scream in my face after what you did?!"

"You booted me off the pitch!" he spits out, his voice raising. "You gave me a straight red card when you know exactly how much the team needs me. The season is literally ending, and you threw me out!"

"You received exactly what you deserved! I gave you a red card because you were acting like the asshole you are!" You point a trembling, furious finger toward the door, signaling him to leave. He doesn’t even blink. Infuriated by his stillness, you bring your hands up, slapping them against his broad chest to physically shove him away.

He doesn’t move an inch. He stands there like a wall, absorbing the impact as his jaw tightens.

"Blame it on your own pathetic temper!" you yell, your breathing turning ragged. "Leave right now, or I swear—"

"You swear what, huh?" he challenges you, taking a step toward you, his eyes almost sparkling as he tries to break your composure. "The little authority you had was left right back on the pitch, ref."

He drags out the last word, dripping it in mockery, reducing your entire career and the whistle around your neck to a joke.

Rage surges through your veins, making your throat go dry. Your hands curl into tight fists at your sides, your chest heaving as you glare at him. You are closer now than you had been on the pitch—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to smell the scent of his cologne

"Get out," you whisper, your voice shaking with an anger that is rapidly blurring into something suffocating. "I mean it, Ilia."

"Make me," he mutters, his voice dropping breathless. He doesn’t back down; instead, he leans into your space, his jaw tight as his eyes drift down to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. "You love being in charge, don't you? You loved pulling those cards out. You loved ruining my night."

"You ruined it yourself because you wouldn't shut your mouth!" you yell back, your hands flying up to grab the fabric of his hoodie, intending to push him toward the door.

But he catches your wrists in a tight grip. He doesn’t pull away—he steps even closer, pressing his chest right against yours, his hot breath fanning against your face as his voice lowers.

"I was onside. It wasn't a foul."

"You're delusional."

"And you're a liar."

"You're insane!" you fire back, your voice cracking with irritation. "A bitter loser who keeps crying just because he lost!"

"Shut up!"

"Make me," you said, mimicking his own words from earlier. A breathless chuckle escapes your throat, but the laughter dies instantly because he leans in, crashing his mouth into yours and knocking the breath right out of your lungs.

You push at his chest at first, your mind screaming at you to pull away, but then the moment gets to you. That familiar, heavy feeling flares in your stomach—the exact one you had desperately tried to ignore every single time he stood in your proximity on the pitch, and just seconds ago when he was screaming into your face.

He abruptly stops, pulling back just an inch as if to search your face for a reaction. But you don’t move. Your expression is completely dazed, almost drunk on the sheer rush of him. Satisfied, he leans right back in, kissing you even more forcefully as he nudges you backward toward the bed. Your legs blindly follow his lead until the back of your knees hit the frame, the mattress dipping beneath you as you sink down onto the sheets, his heavy weight immediately following you down.

He takes off your t-shirt in one fluid motion, then rips his hoodie over his head to reveal the toned chest you’d seen hundreds of times online. But now he is actually here, looming over you in the dim light of your room. His large hands roam hungrily over your body, sliding down to pull your panties down your legs.

He pauses for a fraction of a second, a dark, breathless smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth as he looks down at you.

"Don't got anything more to say, ref?"

"Shut the fuck up, Malinin."

"Gladly." he mumbles against your lips.

You wrap your legs around his waist, feeling his bare chest onto yours, the hardness pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants. His mouth is warm against yours, sucking your bottom lip, his tongue swirling around yours. His hands slip upward, cupping your breasts, and a soft moan escapes your throat when he pulls his mouth away. He trails wet, deliberate kisses down your neck and chest, his fingertips brushing over the hardened buds in an almost agonizingly slow way. He's teasing you, his eyes almost dark as they sweep over your face, his lips wet and red, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're awfully quiet, ref."

"I thought we agreed on that you'd shut up."

"I don't have a condom."

"Is your timing just the same as it is on the pitch?" you tease him, a mocking chuckle escaping your throat as his jaw tightens for a second. You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking up at him through your lashes. "Not so great, I mean."

"Are you willing to let me show you?"

"Are you willing to finish what we've started, or are you gonna keep running your mouth again?"

That seems to push him. He gets off the bed, pulling down his sweatpants and underwear as you stare at him unashamedly, a familiar feeling burning deep inside your core, your mouth watering at the sight. He looks ethereal, the sight so beautiful that your chest physically tightens. He seems to notice the reaction he elicits from you, a knowing smile stretching on his face as he hooks his fingers around your ankle, yanking you down to his level.

Without a single word he sinks into you and a gasp leaves your mouth, his ragged breath fanning over your ear, a shiver running down your spine. He keeps thrusting into you even before you can catch a breath, setting a pace that makes you close your eyes, unashamed moans tearing through you as his hips snap into yours. You dig your fingers into his back, keeping your eyes shut as he presses his head into your shoulder, sucking on your collarbone. You know the marks will form, ugly bruises you won't be able to cover entirely, but you can't bring yourself to open your mouth and stop him, not when it feels so good, not when your body is completely undoing beneath his, craving his touch desperately.

Hooking your legs around his waist, you clench around him. His head snaps backward as he curses out, ragged breaths escaping his throat. You feel tears pricking your eyes, the intensity of it slowly washing over you as you mumble out the words incoherently.

"Turn me over."

"What?" He seems to not hear you the first time, his brows slightly furrowed as he stops for a fraction of a second, his gaze carrying a worry you weren't expecting from him. You swallow, repeating the same words as you bite back a moan. "Why?"

"So I don't have to look at you," you choke out, a soft chuckle escaping his throat at your stubbornness.

He does what you ask him to, flipping you over with a single movement as you clutch your hands into the sheets, arching your back instinctively as his sweat-slicked chest presses flush against your spine. He digs his fingers into your hips, his mouth hot against your shoulder as he curses out, the words barely registering to you as the tears quietly stream down your face, the intensity making you breathless, almost unable to take it anymore.

Then, you feel his damp fingertips on your jaw. He tilts your chin, forcing you to look up. Suddenly you catch a reflection of yourself in the mirror through your blurry vision—your hair in disarray, your mouth agape.

"Look at yourself, ref." His voice is low, sending shivers down your spine. His blonde hair is a mess, his face flushed with heat, his lips red and wet. "Look how pretty you look beneath me."

You reach behind, pulling his hair back as a moan escapes his throat, slowly losing that rhythm as the climax approaches. The knot in your stomach tightens and then you feel a familiar feeling washing over you, burying your head down in the sheets as you softly curse out.

He keeps his promise. You watch him over your shoulder as he pulls out, his chest heaving up and down as he hunches back on his knees, wiping the sweat that coats his forehead. Your limbs are spent, useless, but you manage to roll onto your back, tilting on your elbows so you can properly look at him, memorizing the sight so you can imagine it over and over vividly.

Then he does what you don't expect him to. He slowly reaches out, his fingers gently brushing the tears away from your face. His expression is soft, a lazy smile stretched across his face, his gaze dropping to your lips once again before he looks at you.

"I didn't know you could be so vocal, ref."

"Shut up."

You roll your eyes, leaning in to kiss him once again because you can't get enough of him. He slowly pushes you down on the bed, his movements unhurried unlike the minutes before. He presses his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss, before trailing them down to your jaw, placing gentle kisses over the sensitive skin of your neck. He lingers over the fresh marks he left on your collarbone, his tongue soothing the bruises in a way that makes your chest tighten for an entirely different reason.

He rests his head on your chest, his breathing rising and falling heavily against yours as you instinctively slip your fingers into his hair.

"Where do you live?" he murmurs, his fingers tracing a line down your arm.

"London," you reply quietly, your voice a little breathless.

He shifts slightly, lifting his head to look down at you. His usual arrogant smirk is completely gone, replaced by a soft expression as he holds your gaze.

"I'm free this weekend," he says, his voice casual but his eyes searching yours intently, the meaning behind his words obvious.

"Is that so, Malinin?" you whisper, a lazy smile stretching across your face, mimicking his. "So am I."

You’re the first one to wake up in the morning. Jace is snoring on the couch, Max and Jack squeezed together on the other side of it. You wonder where he is, glancing at the hallway to check whether his shoes are there or not, but it’s impossible to tell. All of the four pairs of trainers are the exact same type that guys with no fashion taste usually wear, scattered messily across the floor with a few of them flipped upside down like they just kicked them off the second they stumbled through the door. Someone must’ve left early—either Josh or Ilia. You don’t bother fixing them; you don’t lift a single finger to tidy up anything around the house today. Instead, you go through your usual morning routine and lock the front door behind you, slamming it a bit harsher than necessary in hopes of waking at least one of them up. The raw hurt and disrespect from last night are lingering, settling into your chest even heavier than yesterday.

Due to a deeply warped rear wheel rim—the metal frame having bent into a useless "S" shape after you hit a brutal pothole a few days ago—and the incredibly slow service of the local repair shop, you’re forced to walk to the cafe instead of cycling. Your prized vintage sage green Electra cruiser bike, with its thick cream-colored tires, had to be left at the mechanic for five whole days while they wait for matching parts to arrive.

The confectioner has already arrived an hour before you, the fresh, comforting smell of warm cinnamon buns hitting your nose the exact second you step inside the cafe.

The day moves painfully slow. You spend the hours taking orders, decorating buns, trying out new latte art techniques, and thinking about last night for the thousandth time. Despite the years of hearing him shyly gushing over his school crushes, despite the fact that he had a girlfriend for almost two years, and despite the years of him never showing a single shred of romantic interest in you, you always had this small, stubborn spark of hope. You always believed that some day, one day, he’d finally look at you differently.

But his comment last night—the careless, easy way he brushed you off to his friends like you were never even an option—finally broke something inside you.

Maybe it was the exact wake-up call you actually needed. It was time to get over this pathetic teenage infatuation that you had labeled as something greater just because you liked the idea of being in love. You needed to move on, completely and permanently, instead of dwelling on some guy who didn’t even acknowledge you as a girl.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey,” you hear his voice through the speaker, the tiredness heavy in his tone. “I’m at the airport. Just waiting for Jace.”

“How was the flight?”

“Average. I didn’t like their sandwich. You make better ones.”

You chuckle, a soft smile stretching across your face as you pull your clothes out of the locker, ready to change out after a long, boring afternoon. “I just finished my shift. I’ll make them for you when you get home.”

“No, don’t bother. I’m not hungry, just rest.”

“Have you talked to Jace today?”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, he was pretty hammered last night,” you shrug, not exactly proud to tell on your brother, but unable to completely harbor the lingering resentment over last night—over him for bringing those guys home in the first place. “Just wanted to make sure he was actually awake this time to come and get you.”

“Did he throw a party again?”

“Haha, no,” you laugh, mentally recalling when you had successfully talked him out of it by bringing up the strict threats your dad had made throughout the years whenever Jace acted irresponsible. “Okay, I gotta go change. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later. Love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

You hang up, locking the locker door behind you. Wriggling out of the staff t-shirt—which is a size too small for you—takes a bit of effort, leaving your breath slightly uneven. By the time you’re changed into your regular clothes, you wave goodbye to the rest of the staff, their almost envious stares following you out because you finally get to go home.

Busy scrolling through your playlist to choose a song for the walk, you don’t see him at first. Not until you look up from the screen to push through the glass exit door, almost colliding straight into his chest.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Your voice is almost confused. You furrow your brows, quickly taking in the sudden, unexpected sight of him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was nearby. Thought I could swing by.”

“Yeah, I think they still have some buns left.” Your voice is flat and dismissive, practically blowing him off as you slide right past him through the door.

He calls out your name before following you onto the sunlit pavement, placing his palm gently on your shoulder to stop you in your tracks.

“I’m not here for the buns, obviously,” he laughs, his teeth on display. No matter how furious you are, no matter how desperately you stare at his face trying to find some flaw—some pathetic attempt to start forcing yourself to forget about him—all you can think of is how pretty his eyes look in the daylight.

“Did you finish your shift?” he asks.

“Obviously...?”

“Where’s your bike?”

“At the repair shop.”

“Oh, what happened to it?” His brows draw together, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun that’s hitting him directly in the face, making his skin almost glow. “Wait, you’re walking home?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m going home too. Let’s go.”

He subtly wraps an arm around your shoulder, leading you toward his parked car like it’s not even up for discussion. You want to protest, desperately trying to come up with a valid excuse he will actually buy, but your mind goes completely blank. Before you can even open your mouth to argue, you’re already sitting in the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt.

He must be waiting for you to start the conversation like you usually do. You can feel him repeatedly glancing in your direction as he pulls out into traffic, but you stubbornly keep your eyes pinned to your phone screen, mindlessly scrolling through social media in total silence.

“So…” you hear him start. His voice is a bit more strained than it was minutes ago, almost like he recognizes the heavy tension in the air, acutely aware there’s a reason behind your unusual attitude. “How did you spend last evening?”

“As usual.”

“So, Valorant night?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

You almost snort at him, his voice painfully awkward. Subtly glancing at him, you realize he’s nervous; his posture is almost stiff as his fingertips drum on the wheel, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Did you, um… did you enjoy the gaming session?”

“Did you enjoy playing Fuck, Marry, Kill in my living room?”

The words snap out of you before you can stop them. You turn toward him with your full body, the demand in your voice impossible to brush off. You watch his face get hotter, his throat bobbing hard before he looks at you with an apologetic expression, sighing like you’ve just confirmed one of his worst fears.

“You heard?”

“The part where you all discussed girls like a piece of meat?” The resentment slips into your voice, your palms growing sweaty at your sides. “Or the part where you involved me in your disgusting jokes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything!”

“Jack was drunk, okay?” He sighs again, and before you have a chance to open your mouth to rage at him, he pulls up to the side of the road. Shifting in his seat so he can look at you directly, his expression softens into the exact same look he always gets when he realizes his mindlessness has caused you real harm.

“It doesn’t excuse it,” Ilia rushes out, his voice lowering. “I’m not defending him. Jack was being an idiot. He always says stupid shit when he’s had too much to drink, and you know how he gets. He was disrespectful and disgusting. But the second your name came up, I told him to shut his mouth. I completely shut it down.”

“Oh, so you want me to praise you for doing the bare minimum?”

“That’s not what I said at all!”

“Is that what happens every time Jace passes out?” Your voice changes, shifting from defensive anger to raw hurt, and his expression instantly falls at your vulnerability. “You guys reduce me to a joke everyone laughs over?”

“What?!” He shakes his head fast, looking at you as if you’re losing your mind. “You think I’d let them do that?! You seriously think I’d sit there and laugh at you??”

“Well, yeah. To be fair, you don’t even have the right to laugh at me—you’re a bigger loser than I could ever be!”

“Okay, this is insane.” He lets out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head as if it helps him erase what you just said. “I understand that you’re upset about it, but I swear to you, no one thinks of you like that. Literally everyone adores you! It was just a stupid, thoughtless game because they were drunk!”

“You weren’t drunk though, were you?!”

“I wasn’t!” he finally raises his voice, matching your energy. Unlike your deep hurt, it's pure, desperate frustration seeping from him. “And that’s why I shut it down! I did what any decent person would do! What else did you want me to do over a stupid drunken joke?!”

You stare at him, your chest heaving up and down. Your throat tightens at his utter obliviousness, your inner self screaming at him to just open his eyes—to see it, to realize that you wanted him to defend you because you wanted him to see you as something more than just Jace’s little sister. You wanted him to see you as a option. As a woman.

But you don’t tell him. Even though the confession is threatening to burst right out of you, something in your stomach twists almost painfully, forcing the words back down.

He sighs heavily when you don’t answer him, running a hand through his hair and leaning back into his seat like he’s done everything in his power to fix this. You turn away to stare through the windshield, your heart thumping violently against your ribs as hot tears prick your eyes. You desperately try to blink them away, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Just drive,” you mutter, unlocking your phone again to continue what you were doing, trying your best to ignore his presence, which suddenly feels suffocating in the car.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks quietly.

When you don’t answer, he stretches his hand across the console, his palm gently touching your shoulder to get your attention. Even though his face is completely full of regret, you can’t find it in yourself to just forgive him. You know this isn’t actually about the crude joke Jack made. It’s about something much bigger—something he doesn’t see, or maybe something he just doesn’t want to see, completely refusing to acknowledge it.

“I’m just upset at the situation,” you lie, your voice dropping into a quiet, empty tone. “I know you meant no harm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you wave it off, forcing your tone to slip effortlessly back into your usual, casual baseline. “Let’s just go home. I have to cook for Dad.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the ride is short, spent in a heavy silence. He doesn’t ask you anything further, even when you briefly thank him and say goodbye. It’s obvious that he isn’t convinced by your fake assurance, but he lets it drop anyway. Maybe he thinks you just need a little time to cool down. Or maybe, you think bitterly, he just doesn't care all that much.

Once inside, you feed Dusty, cuddling with her on the couch for a while before your dad gets home. You don’t intend to, but the sheer exhaustion of the day and the suffocating weight of your conversation with Ilia finally catch up to you. You fall fast asleep, only jerking awake when Jace rolls the heavy suitcases into the house. Presuming you’re upstairs, he yells out that they’re finally home.

“I’m right here, you donut,” you mutter, blinking away the sleep.

“Oh, didn’t see you there,” he grins, walking over to the couch to lean against the back of it and stare down at you. His gaze shifts to Dusty, who is unusually calm, almost politely sitting on your stomach. He extends an affectionate hand, rubbing her head. “Hey, Dusty—”

Before he can even scoop her up, Dusty bolts off your stomach, sprinting out of the living room. You yell at Jace to close the front door, and he starts cursing loudly, chasing your chinchilla around the house. He ultimately slips on the floor, groaning in pain just as you see her stop right at the top of the stairs, looking down at him with what feels like a subtle smile.

“Hey.” You feel a soft, comforting kiss on your temple. You briefly pull your dad into a warm hug before walking up to scoop Dusty up, completely ignoring Jace, who is still sprawled on the floor, glaring at you like you’ve personally betrayed him. “How was work?”

“Moderately mundane.”

“Is that so?” Your dad raises his eyebrows, unzipping his suitcase. You roll your eyes, already anticipating exactly where this conversation is heading. “Maybe you should quit.”

“You know, other parents beg their children to get a job.”

“You don’t need a job yet,” he counters smoothly. “You’re responsible and dutiful, and you have to focus on your studies.”

“Now, where was that attitude towards me?” Jace complains from the floor, already sighing because he knows the inevitable answer.

“Unfortunately, you’re none of those things listed above, Jace.”

“Thanks, Dad. Super supportive of you.”

“Here,” your dad says, extending his hand toward you. The book feels solid and slightly heavy as you take it, a grin breaking across your face. It’s a Sudoku book, one of your absolute favorite leisure activities. “Bought it at the airport.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“The house seems clean. Did Susie drop by?” He looks between you and Jace with an expectant expression.

You glance pointedly at your brother, waiting for him to give you the credit you deserve. Susie helps out around the house a few days a week to clean and prepare meals, and you always end up gossiping with her about her daughters while you share updates about your university studies and creative stories. Jace merely points a finger at you, no words needed for the implication, and your father chuckles, shaking his head in that way that indicates he’s long since gotten used to his son being lazy.

“Tatyana invited us over for dinner on Saturday,” your dad announces.

“Is she the one cooking?” Jace asks.

“Obviously,” he replies, both of them visibly excited about the prospect of a good meal.

You don’t stay to listen to the rest, heading up to your bedroom to finally put Dusty back in her cage. You flip to a random page in the Sudoku book and start solving it, trying to drown out your thoughts. Even though you’ve really missed Tatyana’s cooking, you’re already mentally scrambling for excuses to bail out. You just don’t have the emotional bandwidth to sit at a dinner table with him, pretending everything is completely fine while the anger still burns hot within you.

The evening passes quickly enough between filling out the grid numbers, playing a few rounds of Valorant with Cam and Ziggy, and eventually watching a sitcom with Jace and your father. Then the house goes dark, and it’s night. You find yourself texting Allie, who is aggressively pushing plans on you that you never actually agreed to, insisting on taking you to a concert for some artist you’ve never even heard of.

Before finally closing your eyes, you go through your follow requests to delete people—a chore that has become part of your nightly routine ever since the Olympics. Ever since Ilia completely blew up, you’ve been forced to keep your social media strictly private. Strangers keep trying to comment on your profile and share your photos online; half of them speculating about a non-existent relationship between the two of you, half of them laughing at the mere possibility of it. Some people call you ugly, while others praise you for doing absolutely nothing. Yet, the requests keep piling up, people desperate to get even a tiny glimpse into his life through you.

Jace, of course, happily benefits from the secondhand clout of being Ilia's best friend. He regularly entertains his thousands of followers with mindless thirst traps, even pulling in a few dedicated fan pages. Edits of him being shirtless flood your TikTok feed periodically, making you internally cringe every single time you swipe past them.

Locking your phone, you slip it onto the nightstand and stare into the dark. Deprived of distractions, your mind inadvertently wanders right back to the afternoon in the car. A heavy, suffocating feeling tightens around your chest. A single, hot tear rolls down your cheek into the pillow, no voice escaping your throat as the quiet house swallows your heartbreak.

Tatyana is disappointed when she first hears you aren’t attending dinner. Lying with an excuse about an unexpected shift at work is the most solid way to bail out, and you go all the way with the cover story, swapping your regular shift with Betty just in case anyone decides to double-check your whereabouts. Allie is the only one thrilled about the sudden change of plans, always vastly preferring your company over Betty, who spends the better part of her shifts whining relentlessly about either her boyfriend or the customers.

“Should I get a bob?” Allie asks.

“No,” you reply without looking up from your screen, your fingers mindlessly scrolling through X for any new Spider-Man promotional content.

“Why not?”

“Because longer hair suits you better.”

“You’ve never even seen me with short hair,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pops her gum with a loud, echoing smack.

It is almost 10:00 PM, and the cafe is entirely empty, scheduled to close in approximately fifteen minutes. Allie has already changed out of her uniform; her tight, black leather jacket makes a distinct, stiff noise every time she raises her hands—which, given how animated she is, happens a lot.

“I have an excellent imagination.”

Deciding it is finally time to change out yourself, you hop down from the high barstool. You pull your clothes out of the staff locker, slipping out of your uniform and into a washed-up, oversized graphic t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Jace sometimes jokingly complains that those specific shorts are too short, clearly enjoying playing the role of the overprotective older brother—a role he rarely actually occupies unless it really, truly matters.

When you walk back out, you are surprised to find Jace himself leaning comfortably across the counter, talking to Allie and flashing her his signature, effortless smile. Unlike you, Jace has an inherently flirty nature, possessing a natural ability to engage absolutely anyone in easy conversation. Maybe he should give his best friend some pointers, you think bitterly, a flash of resentment crossing your mind as you recall every single unsuccessful moment Ilia has ever tried speaking to a girl in front of you. Back in middle school, you used to tease him mercilessly about his awkwardness around girls—right up until you found yourself slowly crushing on him.

You snap back to the present, realizing neither of them has noticed you walk up. Allie doesn't seem particularly impressed by Jace’s charm, laughing over something he says in that polite, practiced way she always laughs at mediocre jokes to please tipping customers.

Jace finally notices you, his face instantly lighting up. He must be tipsy, you assume, tracking his loose posture.

“Hey, sis.”

“Are you drunk?”

“You think Dad would let me drive his car to pick you up if I were drunk?” Jace gives you a look of exaggerated disappointment, glancing over at Allie in a desperate hope that she will take his side.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the dinner?”

“Yes, and I’m here now so we can both go back together.”

“Yeah, no. I’m tired.”

“That’s nonsense,” he shakes his head, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulder and nudging you toward the glass entrance before you can even protest.

You wriggle free from his grip, double-checking with Allie to make sure the registers and doors are fully secure before you officially close up the cafe. Jace waits patiently by the door, acting the part of the chivalrous gentleman he claims to be by offering Allie a ride home—which she immediately accepts. Throughout the entire drive, the two of them chat away. Their words barely register to you as you keep your eyes glued to your phone, stubbornly scrolling.

You realize then that there is absolutely no way to bail out of this dinner anymore. Not without Ilia suspecting that you are still harboring massive anger toward him—assuming he even remembers the car ride at all.

Once Allie is dropped off, thanking both of you as she hops out, Jace immediately continues talking your ear off, physically unable to sit in a quiet car.

“The mechanic called me, by the way. Your bike is fixed.”

“Really?” you exclaim, your eyes practically sparkling as the heavy cloud over your mood lifts for a split second. “Thank God, finally! I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning.”

Jace chuckles. “I already picked it up.”

“Wow. When exactly did you become so considerate?”

“I’ve always been considerate, you ungrateful brat.”

You laugh, leaning forward from the backseat to playfully ruffle his perfectly styled hair. He immediately slaps your hand away before you can even touch his curls.

The ride ends disappointingly quickly, and before you know it, you are stepping through the front door of the Malinin household. You greet Tatyana and Roman, quickly deflecting the attention away from yourself by focusing entirely on Liza, who immediately starts animatedly telling you all about how she has started playing Valorant. You completely ignore Ilia, who is sitting at the dining table right next to Jace. He is stubbornly staring in your direction, clearly waiting for you to say literally anything to him besides the dry, fleeting "hello" you muttered when you walked through the door.

You try your absolute best not to look at him, which is incredibly difficult considering the vibrant red t-shirt he is wearing and the blond curls falling softly over his shoulders make him look maddeningly cozy.

“Eat, dear,” Tatyana says warmly, emerging from the kitchen with a plate piled high with food. The rest of the table is already moving on to dessert, Ilia mindlessly picking at a slice of cherry pie. “You must be starving after that shift.”

“Well, not really—I ate a little something at work—but I’m never going to say no to your cooking,” you joke. The comment elicits a bright chuckle from her as she rubs your shoulder in an affectionate, maternal way, sliding into the empty seat right next to you.

“Eat fast so we can play Valorant before my bedtime,” Liza chimes in, leaning over her own plate.

“Liza, let her be, she’s tired from work.”

“She’s never too tired for Valorant.”

You chew slowly, looking around the floor. “Where are the cats?” you mumble between bites, suddenly realizing the family pets haven’t run to greet you at the door like they usually do.

“Probably in my room,” Ilia answers. The sudden sound of his voice cuts through the air; he has completely stopped engaging in the sports conversation with the rest of the men at the table, his full attention snapping to you. “How was the shift?”

“Good.”

“I thought you didn’t work on Saturdays.”

“My schedule changes pretty often,” you lie smoothly, wiping your mouth with a napkin as you give him a perfectly casual, detached look.

Something in his expression shifts instantly. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint what the subtle change means—maybe it is the slight, tense pull of his lips, or the way his eyebrows knit together just a fraction of a millimeter—but it is clear that he is highly skeptical of your words.

“I see,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours, silently calling your bluff.

You don’t reply, fixing your eyes back on your plate and listening to Liza. Eventually, you follow her up to her room, despite Tatyana’s protests for you to stay and eat the cherry pie.

Liza fires up the game, eagerly asking for your tips and following them with thorough consideration. She eventually lets you take over the keyboard; you lean over the back of her chair to guide her, your expression intensely focused as you show her the skills you’ve obtained throughout the years. You completely lose track of time. You don’t even notice anyone entering the room—certainly not Ilia, who observes the scene quietly from the doorway until Liza calls him out, snapping you right out of your concentration.

“Leave us,” she almost groans, waving him off. “Go play your stupid Fortnite that you’re not even good at.”

“I’m literally just watching.”

“Well, I don’t want you to watch me,” she huffs, her eyebrows drawing tightly together. “Go!”

“She’s just mad because I was busy and couldn’t play Roblox with her earlier,” he quickly explains to you, raising his eyebrows to highlight the sheer dramatics of his little sister.

“You weren’t busy, you were shopping online for ugly clothes.”

“Liza!” He shakes his head, sighing in disappointment. Then, he points triumphantly to the clock on the wall. “It’s way past your bedtime, by the way.”

“Worry about your own sleep schedule.”

Right on cue, Tatyana walks into the room, gently reminding her daughter of her bedtime routine. Liza shuts off the computer with an annoyed expression, barely paying any attention to Ilia, who looks thoroughly amused by her temper tantrum. You say a warm goodnight to Liza, prepared to call off your own night and finally head home since Jace and your dad are way too busy engaging in a deep conversation with Roman over glasses of red wine. You prepare to say your goodbyes and leave, but the moment you leave Liza’s room, Ilia stops you. His fingers lock gently around your wrist, and an involuntary shiver runs through your entire body at the sudden contact.

“Don’t you want to see the cats?”

Despite the lack of any deeper meaning behind the question, the moment takes you completely aback. You find yourself shyly nodding at him, quietly following him downstairs to his room as the loud laughter and clinking glasses from the living room slowly muffle out. Mysti is asleep, lifting her head to look at you for a fleeting second before she closes her eyes again, cuddling further into her cat tree. Miu Miu, however, trots straight toward you, going completely limp the exact moment you scoop her up and cradle her against your chest.

It is undeniably weird. You are standing there petting his cats while he just observes the scene, both of you completely silent. Only the soft purrs and occasional quiet meows of Miu Miu pierce the stillness of the bedroom.

“Did you finish university?” he asks suddenly.

“No, I still have final exams left.”

“When?”

“In a week.”

“I’m streaming on Twitch next week,” he goes on, pivoting seamlessly as if he entirely switched the subject just because he didn’t know what else to say. He smiles at you, oblivious to the internal war you are currently fighting with yourself. You silently curse your own heart because, despite everything that happened, butterflies still flutter wildly in your stomach. It feels incredibly pathetic. “Maybe you can join me for a bit if you’re free. We haven’t played together in a while.”

The invitation takes you completely by surprise. As much as you desperately want to agree, and as hard as it is to turn him down when he is looking at you with such a genuine expression, you firmly shake your head. His lips press together into a thin line.

“You know I don’t like streaming on Twitch.”

“But you do it when Ziggy asks you to.”

“Yeah, because he’s my friend.”

“And I’m not?”

The tone his voice carries is accusatory, the way his eyebrows furrow together almost making it look like you’re the guilty one. A spike of panic floods your brain for a second, but it quickly mutates into anger. Your voice comes out completely flat as you keep stroking Miu Miu’s fur.

“Well, not exactly,” you shrug, your voice stripped of any emotion.

“What?” His face falls completely, his eyebrows raising like he can’t even comprehend what you’re saying. “What do you mean? We literally grew up together!”

“Yeah, because we’re neighbors and Jace is your best friend.”

“What does Jace have to do with us?”

“What us, Ilia?” you snap, your tone cutting and annoyed as you mentally remind yourself to keep things under control. “There’s no us. We talk sometimes and we hang out sometimes because you’re my brother’s best friend. That’s it. What is so surprising to hear about that?”

“Because I consider you my friend, and apparently, I’m just a 'brother’s best friend' to you.” He looks visibly frustrated, a sudden twinge of guilt creeping into your chest when you see just how deeply the comment has rubbed him the wrong way.

“You consider everyone your friend, Ilia. That’s not how it works.”

“You’re not everyone, are you?”

“I don’t see the point of this conversation,” you huff, rolling your eyes as you set Miu Miu down on the bed, ready to call it a night. “I’m going home. Goodnight.”

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can even protest, he crosses the room in two sharp strides and closes the door behind him, standing firmly in front of it to block your exit. He looks angry—maybe even angrier than you are—but before you can rage at him, he beats you to it.

“Why are you being so cold? Are you still mad because of Jack, or what?”

“Stop insisting that I’m some kind of loser who keeps dwelling on mediocre, tasteless jokes!”

“Then what is it with you?!” He throws his hands in the air, exhaling a sharp, frustrated breath when you don’t immediately answer him. “You’re always so sweet, and now you’re basically blowing me off because apparently we’re not friends? You’re reducing me to just one of Jace’s friends when we literally grew up together?! You’ve been acting weird ever since that stupid thing!”

“It’s not stupid!” you yell out, immediately regretting the volume in fear of someone downstairs hearing you. You can only hope the loud way Jace laughs in the living room is enough to overshadow any voice coming out of this bedroom. “It’s not stupid when you brushed me off as a joke! Like I don’t even exist outside the role of Jace’s sister!”

The words come out incredibly bitter, but a strange wave of relief washes over you the exact second you admit it out loud for the very first time. Days of built-up frustration and hidden resentment finally rip right through your defenses.

His face softens instantly at your reaction. The frustration drains from his features, leaving him looking almost apologetic. He licks his dry lips, his voice coming out much quieter. “That’s not…”

“You don’t even see me as a girl, right?” you cut him off. Your voice is almost quivering now, hot tears pricking your eyes before you desperately swallow them down. “I’m just Jace’s little sister. That’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

You try so hard to mask it, but it’s completely impossible to control the raw hurt in your voice—the sheer heartbreak. He looks at you with an intensely guilty expression, his lips pressed tightly together as he avoids your gaze. He fixes his eyes on his shoes for a long second while you stand there, waiting for him to do something. To say something. Anything.

You stare at him for seconds, maybe even minutes, completely losing track of time in the heavy silence. Finally, you sigh in utter defeat. Turning your body, you try to move past him to go through the door and just forget this ever happened—forget the burning humiliation and embarrassment tearing through you.

You push at his shoulder to clear a path, ready to tug at the doorknob and leave him behind, but his hand tightens around your wrist once again. This time, his grip is firm and powerful—almost forceful, completely desperate—as you try to wiggle your arm free.

“I didn’t mean that, okay?!”

“Just let me go—”

“No, you don’t understand!”

“What do I not understand?!” You push hard against his chest, barely making him budge before he catches your other hand, pinning them together to stop you from fighting him. “Spare me the humiliation and just let me go, alright—”

You don’t get a chance to finish. He doesn’t give you one.

Ilia slips his hand into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head up when you stubbornly refuse to look at him. He crashes his mouth into yours like it’s the only thing he knows how to do—the only thing he can desperately hold onto when his words have completely betrayed him.

You freeze instantly at his touch. The situation barely registers as your skin burns hot, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs as your body goes totally limp against him. Then, it hits you vividly. The solid, warm pressure of his mouth against yours, his familiar scent surrounding you, the subtle taste of cherry pie lingering on his tongue. You clutch at the fabric of his red t-shirt—first hesitantly, and then almost desperately—leaning your entire weight into his body. His hands lock tightly around your waist, flushing you completely against him as his lips move against yours. The feeling is entirely unfamiliar, beautifully strange, the exact kind you could easily get used to.

He finally pulls away when you are both entirely breathless, both of your chests heaving up and down as you stare at him, not quite knowing what to make of what just happened. He reaches up, his knuckles incredibly gentle against your skin as he brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. His pale blue eyes sweep over your features, intense and completely focused on you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his lips red and wet just like yours. “I was a coward. I didn’t mean it.”

You don’t know what to say. You’ve dreamed of this exact moment for years, imagining it over and over again in your head, but you never actually prepared yourself for what comes afterward—when the reality is so wildly different from what you hoped for.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The question comes out hesitant, almost childishly quiet, entirely unlike you. Both of you already know the answer, but you need the reaffirmation. You need to hear the words come out of his mouth.

“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice drops, coming out almost shy as a faint trace of color hits his cheeks. “I lied that night because I didn’t want them to know. Because you’re Jace’s sister, and even though I’m not supposed to… I like you.”

Your heart drops at his confession, your face burning hot as you stand there, completely lost for words. Isn't this exactly what you wanted? Then why do you stand there frozen, unable to do anything, unable to say a single word?

Sudden panic floods your brain, and before the reality of it can trap you, you react on pure instinct. You tug down on the door handle, breaking his grip, and bolt out of the room. You sprint up the stairs despite him yelling out your name behind you.

Tatyana is in the kitchen tidying up, while the rest of the men are still deeply engaged in a loud, heated discussion over some sports team you have no knowledge of or interest in. Moving on sheer adrenaline, you quickly say goodbye to Tatyana, thanking her for the evening, and offer the others a breathless, barely coherent explanation about missing some type of tournament you forgot was scheduled. Jace calls out to you, confused, but you don't stop.

The moment you push through the front door and step outside, you let out a ragged exhale, closing your eyes. You cross the dark lawn separating your houses without looking back a single time, terrified that if you do, the gravity of what just happened will pull you right back under.

Only when you lock yourself away in your room does the realization fully hit you. Ilia just confessed to you. He kissed you. After all this time, after years of pining and scripting a moment like this in your head, it actually happened—and instead of reacting like any sane person would when they're madly in love with someone, you did the exact opposite and ran away.

A wave of intense embarrassment consumes you. You cover your face with your hands, letting out a muffled groan of frustration into your palms.