hannah

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, oral (m receiving), bj on stream (and then just through the mic) (and then privately), ilia whimpers, very subtle like hesitant "face fucking" for lack of a better term, cumming on tongue, yeah idk i wish that was me man

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁☦︎⋆. ݁˖𐙚 ˚𝜗𝜚˚⟡ ݁₊ .

figure skaters are supposed to be elegant. limbs extended just right, movements not too sharp, but not too soft, hair blowing in the artificial breeze with their beautifully-designed costumes. they're meant to carry themselves with poise, even in their worst moments, when the camera is fixed on them, and they cannot escape the watchful eye of the world.

you're the perfect example of that — sweet, soft-spoken, perfectly articulate when you speak to the camera. you've never displayed an ounce of negativity to the public, carrying yourself with the same elegance that other skaters have envied for years, with your kind smiles and friendly handshakes and gentleness on the ice that many hope will one day be olympic.

but really, what's more elegant than wrapping your pretty little mouth around your boyfriend's cock from beneath his desk?

nothing you've already done, that's for sure.

ilia swallows above you, his fingers pressing down a little too hard on the mouse and setting off his in-game firearm. "shit," he mumbles under his breath as he fends off a bot that he'd inadvertently set off with the shot.

his hand raises to cover the mic, muffling the half-noise he makes.

"what's the matter?" you ask innocently, kissing the tip and running your tongue along the underside until he shivers.

he laughs unamusedly, keeping his eyes on the screen and lifting a hand to adjust the headset until it only covers one ear. "don't get cocky," he warns with a lopsided grin and shifts in his chair, scooting forward to give you better access.

"but, am i?" you ask. your fingers wrap tighter around him, a trail of saliva dripping down the side of his cock as you slide your hand up and down at a tantalizingly slow pace. "what happened to streaming? i thought you were stronger than that."

he'd been on twitch for barely twenty minutes before you walked in. on a normal day, you'd visit after a shift at work and plop yourself onto his bed, scrolling through your phone while he played whatever on his computer. sometimes, he'd hop on a stream for the few fans he'd accumulated, and tonight was one of those nights.

but when you initially looked up from the phone, all you could focus on was how sexy ilia looked with his glasses on, hair brushed lazily behind his ears as he rambled on about how much he hated flips to one of the viewers. you gnawed at your bottom lip in contemplation, knowing full well that it was rather classless to drop to your knees and go to town while he innocently played video games and talked to fans.

you normally had self-control, but today, it must have taken a day off.

what are you doing? he mouthed when your fingers pulled his chair out, enough for you to sink between his desk and the wheels. his brows furrowed, and he huffed out a breath when your fingers grazed his sweatpants, slowly curling into the waistband to tug them down.

one thing led to another, and now, he's still in his fortnite party — just without the fans listening in.

and with his dick in your mouth.

"i'm not letting a bunch of young girls listen to that," ilia finally retorts as he leans into the chair, thighs tensing up when your lips kiss the head again, so featherlight that it barely feels real.

"pfft," you scoff, "as if you'd give up enough pride to make noise."

your hand works him with lazy strokes, tightening its grip with practiced precision, just the way you know he likes it. just to watch his jaw tense as he tries not to react.

ilia swallows thickly; you watch his adam's apple bob through thick lashes while your tongue slips out to wet your lips, glossing them over with the same slick dripping down his length.

you take the tip between your lips first, gently, just to let him feel the warmth your mouth provides. it's already swollen, sensitive under your touch as his fingers flex around the computer mouse.

"shots from up there," he mumbles to whoever he's duoed with — you hadn't bothered to ask earlier — and marks the location.

you, meanwhile, apply the smallest bit of suction, letting the tip of your tongue graze the head as it collects his taste on the buds. you hum, and the noise buzzes around him; a quiet, unsteady noise rises from the back of his throat that he masks with a cough.

satisfied, you sink further, taking another inch. grinning with malice when you feel him twitch between your lips. your free hand rests on his thigh — essentially bare from the way his shorts have ridden up — steadily rubbing back and forth over the thick expanse.

"god," he hums lowly, only loudly enough for your ears to catch.

you giggle innocently, parting from him with a slick noise as a thin string of saliva connects him to the corner of your lip. your legs spread further on the cold hardwood, allowing you to maneuver yourself closer. ilia chooses not to acknowledge it, though he feels the press of your fingers into his thigh when your body scoots.

you confirm his suspicions by craning your neck and kissing him again, gingerly peppering a trail of pecks down to the base, where your nose bumps the tip of your finger, still wrapped snugly around his dick.

"mmm…" you moan sweetly, licking a lewd stripe along the side before aligning him with your lips again.

it isn't quiet anymore; wet noises slip into the air, no effort made to muffle them. an occasional slurp surfaces a little too loudly, ilia's muscles tense beneath you, he mumbles something under his breath in russian that neither you nor his duo understands.

his breath forces itself past parted lips, soon becoming frequent and heavy, loud enough that the person on the other end asks if something is wrong.

"no," he manages weakly, but his tone is anything but convincing. "i'm fine."

you sigh theatrically. lips tightened around his cock, cheeks hollowed out, hand tactfully stroking the small bit that is left exposed. drool coats your lips, glossing them over until it begins to slide down your chin and drip onto ilia's bare thigh, where your palm still resides firmly.

his muscles strain underneath the heat of your touch. you feel the tension everywhere — in the way his thigh constricts, his cock pulses between your lips as if it was never meant to be anywhere else but there.

and that's when you finally hear it.

ilia whimpers; full-on whines into the microphone for whoever is there to hear. he whispers a silent fuck before rotating the arm on his headset until it clicks and signals the mute.

"i thought you were too good for that?" as you lift with a quiet, wet popping noise. "seems not," you tut, sporting a pitiful frown that ilia finally acknowledges.

"jesus, okay," he grits, ripping the headset off his head and tossing it onto the desk, alongside the abandoned game he inevitably lost for the party — though it's the last thing on his mind, right now.

a satisfied grin tugs at your lips, and ilia shuffles closer, the weight of him heavy in your palm. you take him into your mouth again, leaving behind the taunting nature, as you've finally gotten what you wanted, and you honestly don't want to give that up. the way his eyes are suddenly so laser-focused on you, gaze dripping with intensity, watching his cock disappear into that perfect mouth of yours…yeah, you'd be a fool to keep pushing, to make him say forget it and return to the computer screen.

"mmph," your voice a weak, muffled whine when he brushes the back of your throat. at the noise, ilia's hand cards through your hair, brushing it away until he grips it at the back of your head.

he doesn't push; just adds enough pressure for you to know he's there. tugs a little because he's enjoying it.

a bead of precum slips into your throat, and you swallow it down. ilia smiles — faintly, but enough to notice. the hand on his thigh keeps you stable, delivering a harsh squeeze to the bare skin when his hips shift just slightly to meet your mouth. just enough to fit it all in, for your nose to nudge the area above. your throat to constrict around him as if to try to adjust.

"is this what you wanted?" ilia asks breathily, chest rising and falling as the features tighten on his face, nose scrunched with parted lips. the sight — albeit hindered as you look up through your lashes — is exactly what you've been wishing for. and god, if the fogged-up glasses and sweat-slick forehead and the moaning are anything to go by, you'd say you're doing a damn good job.

"mmmhm," you hum proudly in response, attempting a nod that gets quickly stifled by the cock stuffing your mouth. twitching when the edges of your teeth graze the sensitive skin.

which — as a matter of fact — means he's close; painfully close. fingers tangling your hair into a knot, hips fighting the urge to take matters into their own hands.

his head falls back when you let enough of him slip out to swirl your tongue around the expanse of the head, a coat of slick saliva glistening under the computer's dim light.

muffled noises spew from the discarded headphones on the desk, barely audible, yet you manage to make out a confused are you there? coming from the other end. ilia, who clearly isn't amused, reaches over and turns the tower off, watching the screen go black. the blue lights strung along the ceiling settle between you to illuminate your face instead, the new hue somehow making the sight before him even hotter.

"Блядь," a throaty rasp that makes heat bloom between your thighs, core pulsing at the sharp edge in his tone. "sit back."

you follow his order, sitting on your heels as his hand carefully tugs your head back, while the other rises to pull himself free. his palm wraps around his cock, a few slow and uncalculated strokes as he looks down at you, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head as if to mimic a doctor telling you to stick your tongue out.

slowly, yet impatiently, your tongue slips between your parted lips, holding still as you wait for him to move. the head falls flat on the tip of your tongue, sweet and swollen and throbbing with the need for the release he's been teetering on the edge of since he'd abruptly ended his livestream. and when you curl your tongue upward to brush just the right spot, you feel it.

careful spurts of warm, creamy-white liquid falling onto your taste buds. angled perfectly to land in the center, while his fingers flex at the back of your head. a low whimper falls from his lips that he makes no effort to suppress, weak and needy and perfect. his hair falls so perfectly in his face, all contorted with tension, and you moan under his touch, into the thick air between you.

relief bleeds into his features as he comes down from the high, cock softening in his palm, the salty-sweet warmth gathered onto your tongue like a reward. he watches your lips press together, your throat bob when you swallow him down without hesitation, leaving behind only a small, satisfied hum that resonates in his stomach.

your palm maintains its comfortable position on ilia's thigh, offering comfort as you run it back and forth sweetly along the smooth expanse, manicured fingers gently scratching his skin.

"taste perfect, illie," you whisper, smiling as ilia leans forward and slides his hand beneath your jaw. presses a kiss to your lips that lets him taste himself on your tongue, pulling away slowly enough to watch your bottom lip snap back into place.

"play nice next time," he teases, and you giggle, nudging the side of his knee with your elbow. "or i might just ignore you."

"mm, but a dork like you could never resist this," you retort with narrowed eyes, lifting your fingers to toy with the edge of his glasses.

"yeah…maybe."

but you both know that you're right.

because ilia is obsessed with the way you blow him; he just refuses to admit it.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @iliamalininsrightbicep, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy

love u all (and nerd!ilia) <3

Isabeau gets up from the floor and trots toward a suitcase overflowing with clothes, rummaging through it as she mutters something about Monopoly. “Besides, I don’t think Ilia is even capable of pulling something like that off.”

“Are you calling me dumb?” Ilia asks.

“Uh, not exactly.” Amber cringes, an apologetic smile lighting up her face. “You’re just not… sly?”

“Bold of you to assume he knows the meaning of that word,” you huff, the sarcasm in your voice impossible to miss. You turn to him, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. “He might have to look that one up in the dictionary. Struggles of being a bilingual boy, right?”

“At least I can speak more languages than you,” he shoots back, sounding entirely convinced he just made a point. It only makes you chuckle, while Amber bites her lip to keep from laughing.

“Knowing certain words and phrases doesn’t mean you speak the language, Ilia.”

“Oh, I see where this is coming from.” The tone in his voice and the curl of his lips are enough to make you glare, anticipating exactly where this is headed. “Someone’s just salty because they lost.”

The smirk on his face feels like a physical slap. Any other time, you’d reply with a sarcastic comment—which is exactly what he expects—but instead, you lunge forward and tackle him to the ground.

One second he’s smiling, and the next he’s trying to fight you off as your hands find his sides, tickling him right where you know he's most sensitive. Amber yells at the two of you, her voice strained but not actually angry enough to separate you, secretly enjoying the scene. Isabeau looks completely unfazed, clearly used to your constant bickering. By the time you finally succeed and laughter spills from Ilia's mouth as he struggles to make you stop, she already has her phone out, shoving the camera right in your faces as she commentates.

“So, guys, this is usually how it ends when we play card games,” she speaks to her invisible audience. “The cheating allegations never go unpunished.”

“Okay, stop!” he barely manages to gasp out through his laughter. The smile on his face is impossibly wide, making it impossible for you not to mimic it.

You remove your hands but stay hovering over him, pinning him to the ground with your legs on either side of his waist. You give him a second to catch his breath. When you look down at him expectantly, an eyebrow arched, he sighs, a soft smile stretching across his face.

“Alright, fine. I cheated.”

“Told you.” You glance back at Amber with a celebratory smirk, finally climbing off him to stand up and smooth down your messy hair.

Ilia stays on the ground for a moment, breathing heavily, his chest heaving up and down as highlighted strands of hair fall across his forehead. His cheeks are flushed, and his pale blue eyes practically sparkle under the dim lights of the hotel room. A familiar feeling washes over you—that specific softness you've reserved exclusively for him for more than a year.

Extending your hand, you help him sit up. The moment he's on his feet, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and quickly kisses your cheek—the sweet, apologetic gesture he always resorts to after he's annoyed you.

“I’m sorry. I promise to never cheat again.”

“Don’t make promises you can't keep, Ilyusha.”

Isabeau flips the camera toward her own face. “Guys, can you believe Ilia is actually slick enough to cheat at a card game?”

“I’m constantly underestimated,” he protests, sighing with theatrical disappointment. He drops back onto the floor next to you, his hand immediately diving into an open bag of chips resting in the center of your little circle. He crams a handful into his mouth, muffling his words through a crunch. “Should we play another round?”

“No!” the three of you yell in unison.

A few minutes later, Amber calls it a night, mentioning something about needing her beauty sleep before her free skate. When Isabeau inadvertently starts yawning, Ilia takes it as his cue that it’s finally time to leave.

It’s almost 2:00 AM when you finally decide you've had enough screen time, your eyes heavy with the sheer exhaustion of the day. You’re about to set your phone on the nightstand when it buzzes. Across the room, Isabeau snores softly, shifting onto her side with a faint, protesting grunt.

You unlock the screen to find an Instagram DM from Ilia.

Ilia: You should get some sleep

You: you should mind your own business

Ilia: I’m not the one competing tomorrow!! 🙄

You: boo hoo i’m a champion of usa i’m better than everyone i’m a quadgod!!

Ilia: What are you even yapping about at this point 🤣🤣

You: you’re right, rn i’m not at my best form

You: im tired 😔

Ilia: Then sleep 😜

You: then stop bothering me???

Ilia: Fair enough 😁

Ilia: Sweet dreams

Ilia: I’m sure you will crush it tomorrow

Ilia: 😍😍😘😘

You: thanks ilyusha

You: ❤️

Ilia: Byee

Ilia: Love you

Those last two words never cease to make something flutter in your stomach. A smile stretches across your face as you lock your phone and slip it away. Closing your eyes, you can’t help but think about whether he actually means it like you want him to, a tightness in your chest resembling hope.

2024 World Championships

You watch with teary eyes as he finishes his free skate. His hands fly to his face, covering his disbelief as he collapses onto the ice, a massive smile stretching across his face as the weight of realization finally sinks in. Dasha is right next to you as you keep chanting his name along with the rest of the crowd. A subtle smirk dances on her face as she offers you a napkin. Of course, she doesn’t actually have one when you reach for it—she's just trying to tease you as you watch your friend shatter the world record, who’s sitting alongside his father in the Kiss and Cry.

It’s only after the medal ceremony that you finally find him, the gold medal hanging heavy around his neck. You sprint up to him, his arms opening wide the moment he sees you approaching. He lifts you completely off the ground as you hug him tightly.

“Oh my god, Ilyusha!” Cupping his face, you press a quick kiss to both of his cheeks, eliciting a loud laugh from him. “Congrats! You were amazing! Like, literally breathtaking!”

The sheer excitement radiating from you is impossible to miss. Your eyes sparkle as your fingers trail down from his face to the heavy gold medal resting against his chest. Your thumb brushes over the smooth surface of the metal, the weight of it in your hand making the whole moment feel suddenly, undeniably real.

You look up from the medal to meet his eyes, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him slightly as your voice rises. “Oh my god, you’re a world champion!”

“Thank you.” His smile softens, his voice becoming shyer the way it always does when you praise him. Yet he completely basks in your compliments, his cheeks flushed a deep red. “I saw you in the stands.”

“Really?” you ask, your lips curling into a smirk. “I didn’t notice.”

“‘Go Ilyusha!’?” His eyebrows wiggle, his voice teasing as he nudges you affectionately. “I thought you needed gold glitter for your makeup.”

“You thought I was going to put actual craft glitter on my face?”

“Glitter is glitter! I didn’t know it was different for makeup,” he defends himself, throwing a casual arm around your shoulder as he leads you toward the locker room. “Don’t throw away that banner, by the way. I’m taking it home with me.”

“Isabeau wouldn’t let me anyway. We put so much effort into it.” You look down at your clothes, then at your hands, specs of glitter still stuck to you despite all your efforts to scrub it off. At least you have it easier than Isabeau, who spent hours washing her hair trying to get rid of it after she accidentally knocked the glitter jar off the shelf. The hotel room carpet still sparkles under the lights, and for a second, you feel a twinge of guilt about creating a further mess for the cleaning staff. “So much effort that it honestly deserves to be hanging on your wall.”

“That is exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Ilia, I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not.” He stops just outside the locker room door, an amused smile playing on his lips. His hair is a messy disaster after the skate, and without thinking, you reach up to push the stray strands back into place. Ilia goes quiet, looking down at you softly as you fix his hair. “Should we go out into the city?”

“It’s pretty late.”

“It’s not even 11:00 PM.”

“By the time we go back to the hotel and you get ready, it’s going to be midnight.”

“I love a midnight walk.” Rolling your eyes at his suggestion, you watch as he tugs at your arm to convince you, his lips forming a pout. “And I’m hungry! I’m craving nuggets. McDonald’s has them, no?”

“I’m not going out at midnight in an unknown city,” you scold him, gently shoving him away. “We can just order your tasteless nuggets at the hotel.”

“Alright,” he sighs in defeat, his shoulders dropping before the realization hits him. “Hey! They’re not tasteless!”

“Yeah, whatever, Ilyusha.” You nudge him forward, forcing him toward the locker room door. “Go and change. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

You ride back to the hotel with Isabeau and Dasha. Dasha spends the entire ride trying to figure out the settings on her new iPhone, while Isabeau patiently explains every single question she has, even the ones that sound incredibly silly to you.

You’ve just gotten out of the shower when you see a message from Ilia. He’s already waiting for you in his room, having ordered his nuggets along with a pizza for you.

“I’m going to Ilia’s room for a bit.” Your hair is still damp as you slip on your shoes, glancing over at Isabeau, who is rereading her favorite book, Six of Crows, for what seems like the hundredth time. “Don’t you want to come?”

“Did he invite me?”

Her question takes you entirely aback. Her sudden, scrutinizing stare makes you feel a little uncomfortable. “Well, no, but you don’t need an invite. We’re all friends.”

“Yeah, we are friends. Me and Ilia.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You don’t miss the pointed emphasis she puts on me and Ilia, clearly suggesting there's a distinction to be made.

Raising an eyebrow, Isabeau looks back at you as if you’re being dense. She rolls her eyes, letting the book drop onto her stomach. “It means exactly what you think it means.”

“You might want to elaborate on that one, Isa.”

“Everyone can see that you two like each other.” She sounds frustrated—not because you two might have feelings for each other, but because neither of you will actually acknowledge it. “Like, who acts like that around just friends?!”

“Like what?” You huff, rolling your eyes, hoping she doesn’t notice how much you secretly enjoy her implications.

“For starters, he’s incredibly touchy-feely with you.”

“He’s just an affectionate person!”

“He doesn’t kiss me or Amber on the cheek after he rage-baits us, though.” She raises an eyebrow, clearly satisfied that she just made a point. “And you two talk, what, every single day? You don’t even talk to me every day, and I’m your best friend!”

“Sounds like you’re just jealous.”

“Oh, don’t you even try to change the subject.” Squinting at you, she reaches behind her, grabs one of the many pillows on her bed, and chucks it at you—unimpressively missing her target even from a short distance. “I just don’t understand why you can’t even admit it to me!”

“Admit what?”

“That you like him!” She sits up abruptly, her expression turning serious as she looks at you with a mixture of confusion and exhaustion. “You're, like, hopelessly in love with him! It’s kind of disgusting sometimes.”

You go silent for a few seconds, pressing your lips together. The weight of her stare feels heavy, so you avoid her eyes, focusing instead on the bag of snacks in your hand. You don’t even like these snacks; you only bought them because you know they're his favorite.

“I do think I love him,” you murmur. Your voice comes out much softer than intended.

The face Isabeau makes—her lips quivering in a theatrical, overly emotional pout—makes you roll your eyes instantly. “Okay, stop.”

“See? That was disgustingly sweet.” She pretends to shed a tear, wiping away invisible traces from her eyes.

“I don’t want you mentioning it ever again.”

“Yeah, I don’t really understand you two,” she sighs, collapsing back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. “But I’m pretty sure he’s head over heels for you. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. Actually, I’m not just pretty sure—I’m completely convinced.”

“Okay, Isa, thanks for the insight. Bye!”

Before she even has a chance to reply, you shut the door behind you. Clutching the snacks tightly in your hand, you sprint down the hallway toward the stairs, suddenly way too impatient to wait for the elevator.

Ilia is waiting for you in his room, on a call with one of his international friends. You hear his faint, rapid Russian before you even enter, quietly slipping inside without knocking so you don't interrupt him.

He notices you immediately, motioning for you to sit on the bed before his eyes fix back on his phone screen. He’s wearing a red T-shirt with a Spider-Man print on it, his hair still damp from the shower just like yours.

“Ну всё, давай.”

(Alright, see ya.)

“Сливаешься ради своей девушки?” Judging by the tone of the voice on the other end, you get the distinct impression the friend is teasing him, even though none of the actual words register to you.

(Ditching us for your girlfriend?)

“Заткнись, Саша,” Ilia snaps, his voice dropping as his expression shifts into something serious. “Она может услышать. Она учит русский.”

(Shut up, Sasha, she might hear you. She’s learning Russian.)

“Вот видишь, она ради тебя русский учит, а ты думаешь, что вы просто друзья.”

(See? She’s learning Russian for you, and you think you’re just friends.)

“Отстань, Саша, давай.”

(Leave me alone, Sasha. Bye.)

Ilia quickly locks his phone, tossing it onto the nightstand. He flops down on the bed next to you, immediately tearing open one of the bags of snacks you brought for him.

“Cool shirt,” you say, gesturing toward the graphic print, accepting a gummy bear when he stretches out his open palm toward you. “Looks good on you.”

“Aw, thanks.” He smiles, stuffing a handful of gummy bears into his mouth.

“Bet it would look better on me, though.”

“And here I thought you were being sweet,” he sighs, shaking his head in fake disappointment, the way he always does when he realizes your compliments have an ulterior motive. “For someone who constantly claims my taste in fashion is bad, you always want my stuff.”

“I do not!” you huff, rolling your eyes. “I liked your cap once and you gave it to me. I didn’t even ask for it!”

“You didn’t ask for it, but you begged for it with your eyes.”

“Oh, shut up.” Nudging him hard with your shoulder, you purse your lips. “And your taste in fashion is indeed really bad.”

“Can’t you stop bullying me even on a big night like this?”

“Aww, are you like, sad about it?” you mock him playfully, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as you snuggle into his side.

The warmth of his body feels perfect against yours, the scent of his fresh soap bringing a rush of familiar comfort. You close your eyes, your voice softening into something more serious. “Alright, Ilyusha. I swear I won’t make fun of you for the rest of the night.”

“Right. Because I’m your champion.”

“You are.”

You softly agree, and when he rests his head against yours, a familiar warmth floods through you. You stay like that for a couple of minutes, neither of you saying a word because, at this point, the silence between you is entirely natural. You recall Isabeau’s words from earlier, her outside confirmation bringing a small smile to your face.

When the food finally arrives, instead of putting on a movie, you just eat comfortably in the quiet, occasionally talking about whatever random topic he happens to hop onto.

It’s way past midnight when you finally decide to leave, having already agreed to grab breakfast with Dasha in the morning. Before heading out, you congratulate him on his historic win one last time. He subtly pulls you into a lingering hug, whispering a sincere thank you for always supporting him.

Just as you're about to open the door, your hand resting on the handle, his voice stops you in your tracks.

“Wait.”

“What is it?”

Instead of answering, Ilia grips the hem of his shirt and yanks it off in one swift motion. Heat instantly rushes to your face, and you try your absolute best not to stare at his bare torso. With his hair all messy and unruly, he looks almost ethereal under the dim hotel lighting.

He extends the red Spider-Man shirt toward you. You just stand there, completely lost for words, making no move to take it.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He rolls his eyes subtly, though a soft smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “It’s clean. I put it on right after I showered.”

“Okay,” your voice comes out much quieter than you intended. You finally reach out and take the fabric, clutching it tightly between your fingertips. “Thanks for the generosity, Ilyusha.”

“It’ll look better on you anyway,” he teases, his signature smug expression returning. “Now go and get some sleep. Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight, Ilyusha.”

You leave the room with the biggest smile stretched across your face as you begin to think of a possible future with him with a newfound confidence.

Back in your room, Isabeau is already fast asleep, her book still balanced precariously on her lap and her cheek squished deeply into her pillow. You gently lift the book, placing it on the nightstand, and pull the blanket up to fix it for her.

Right before you slip into your own sheets, you pull off your shirt and slide into the oversized one he just gave you. You snuggle deep under the covers, a content smile dancing on your lips as you breathe in the faint scent of his soap.

April 2024

“I don’t understand!” you sigh, covering your face with your hands before looking up with a thoroughly exhausted expression.

Ilia’s reflection stares back at you from the iPad screen. In the background of his room, the ‘Go Ilyusha!’ sign you made for him back at Worlds peeks into the frame.

“How do I even pronounce it?!”

“You don’t pronounce it!”

“Then what purpose does this little 'b' even serve?” You throw your hands up in disbelief.

“It’s called the soft sign, and its only job is to make the letter before it sound soft,” he explains patiently, gesturing wildly with his hands. He demonstrates it a few times, pronouncing a couple of Russian words that you, of course, don't know the meaning of.

“Okay, I think that’s enough Russian lessons for today.”

“But we just started.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Sighing, you close the notebook you’ve been using to practice writing the Cyrillic alphabet, which is filled with little notes and pronunciation tips from Ilyusha. “I’m tired.”

“You are so impatient,” he huffs, shaking his head. “How on earth did Dasha ever teach you how to skate?”

“Which should make you think that I’m not the problem here.”

“Oh, so I’m the problem?” He raises his eyebrows in a teasing pout, subtly spinning around in his gaming chair. “I’m a great teacher. Maybe you just don’t possess the skills it takes to be bilingual.”

“Oh, so I’m stupid?” It shouldn’t get to you, but it does. Your voice sounds dead serious, and for a split second, you catch a flash of genuine panic settling in his pale blue eyes. “Alright then. Bye.”

Before he can even attempt to protest, you slam the button on the screen, ending the call.

Of course, he immediately tries to call you back, but you ignore it. You know perfectly well that you’re being childish, but lately, you are almost always irritated. Whether you're at the rink, at home, or on a call with Isabeau or Ilia, your fuse is incredibly short. Your mom says it’s because of the stress. Dasha says it’s just hormones.

But none of that is true.

The truth is, you are still profoundly disappointed and angry with yourself after Worlds. Your short program had been brilliant, but your free skate couldn’t have gone more horribly. You popped the very first Axel, and the moment the panic settled into your chest, everything went downhill. You had been one of the definitive favorites for the gold medal, yet you finished ninth—the worst free skate you’ve ever put on the ice, even including your junior years. In the Kiss and Cry, you hadn't shed a single tear. But back at the hotel, you completely broke down in the shower, waiting until you knew Isabeau couldn't see you. You hadn't wanted to ruin her celebratory night.

Your phone buzzes against the desk, cutting through your thoughts.

Ilia: Can’t you at least reply back????

Ilia: Why do you do this lately?

His messages twist something painful deep in your stomach. Guilt creeps in, and your fingers reluctantly find the keyboard.

You: i was just joking, no need to be dramatic ilyusha

Ilia: You hung up on me after I made a joke and im the dramatic one?

You: well it’s pretty clear i wasn’t offended by it and you’re just trying to make it out as something serious when it’s not

You: you should know by now when i’m actually mad or not

He doesn’t reply after that. You don't think much of it at first, until the entire day goes by without hearing another word from him. You send him a few random reels just to get the conversation going again—a subtle sign to indicate that everything is fine—because you genuinely don’t realize what was so horrible about how you acted. Yeah, maybe it’s annoying when you hang up on him when the irritation gets to you, but it doesn’t mean anything. At least, not to you.

It’s almost midnight, and you are still tossing and turning in your sheets, trying to find a sleep that refuses to come. Eventually, you let out a heavy sigh and unlock the phone resting on your nightstand, quickly typing out a text message and ignoring a few typos along the way.

You: are you like really mad at me? because I didn’t think much of it when I hung up on you. yeah it’s a little childish but it means nothing. sorry if i overreacted or something

You wait a bit for his reply, but it doesn’t come. Not until after you finally drift off to sleep and wake up to a string of texts the next morning.

Ilia: I don’t really know what to think when you do that

Ilia: I hate it

You: okay ilyusha, i won’t do it again

You: pinky promise?

You: 🤙

Ilia: 🙄

Ilia: Fine

You: ayyeee

You: yk you’re my best friend it takes more than your mediocre joke for me to get offended

Ilia: Yeah Yeah

Ilia: Best Friend

You type out a response telling him all about your plans for the day. He replies by filling you in on his new ideas for his upcoming short program.

Across the room, the closed Russian notebook stares back at you from your desk. When he suggests video chatting later that evening to resume your poor progress with the language, you type back a quick acceptance, a small, relieved smile hitting your lips.

May 2024

It isn’t until May that you’re finally able to see him again. He’s doing a show in New York, and since your aunt happens to live there, she happily offered to let you stay at her place while you planned to meet up with your friend.

You can’t make it to the actual show, but you arrange to meet him in the park. You spot him first, sneaking up behind him as he looks around, clearly wondering if he’s waiting at the right spot.

“Hi, Ilyusha.”

His eyes widen in surprise, and then he immediately pulls you into a tight hug, lifting you slightly and eliciting a loud laugh from you as his arms wrap securely around your back.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” you say playfully, shoving him away so you can actually take in the sight of him.

Not much time has passed since Worlds, but he looks a bit different. You’re not even sure how that's possible in the span of barely two months. Maybe it’s the length of his hair, or maybe a fresh round of dye. He just stands there, smiling at you, holding both of your hands in his.

“You are blonder than ever,” you note. “And your hair really has grown.”

“And you cut yours.” He gently slips his fingers through your hair, smoothing out the stray pieces.

You tug at his arm, forcing him to follow you to one of your favorite little cafes that you discovered a couple of years ago. As you walk, he looks around the street.

“Do they have nuggets?”

“Oh my god.” You cover your face with one hand, peeking out in pure embarrassment. “Please do not mention nuggets while we are in there.”

“I’m hungry!”

“Are you even aware that other food exists?” Raising your eyebrows, you look at him like it's a challenge. “We are going to eat cinnamon rolls, and you are going to drink hot cocoa because your ass cannot handle coffee.”

“You drink lattes with, like, two spoons of sugar and some type of flavored syrup!” he counters, looking thoroughly amused. “Does that even taste like coffee? You’re a fake coffee fan.”

“And you can’t even name five Black Sabbath songs,” you shoot back, gesturing toward the graphic T-shirt he’s wearing. “Talk about being a fake fan.”

“I’ve kind of missed our IRL banter,” he murmurs.

“You mean you missed me bullying you?”

He rolls his eyes, playfully pushing your face away with a wide smile. At the cafe, he’s happy to discover they actually serve sandwiches. Even when you insist, he refuses to get a cinnamon roll, claiming he doesn't crave sweets. Yet, right in the middle of your conversation, you notice his eyes drifting repeatedly toward your plate.

“Here, you beggar. Try it.” Taking a generous piece with your fork, you extend it toward his mouth. He leans in and takes the bite, a bit of the melted ice cream running down the corner of his mouth. “How is it?”

“Really good,” he says, emphasizing the words.

When he eyes the plate for another bite, instead of reminding him that he could just order his own, you let him share yours. The two of you spend the next minutes passing the single fork back and forth.

It’s not the kind of thing you do with regular friends. It’s certainly not something you’d do with a guy you were just friends with. Throughout the entire conversation, you find yourself staring at his pale blue eyes, your cheek resting against your palm. The pure softness of his expression, the sheer gentleness of his presence, twists something intense deep in your stomach.

That’s when it fully hits you. For the first time, you aren't afraid to admit it to yourself: you are utterly, hopelessly in love with your best friend. And the way he keeps casually brushing his fingers against yours, the way his eyes constantly linger on you as you walk down the streets of New York, makes you think the feelings might not be one-sided after all.

“Stay with me tonight.”

“What?” You squint back at him, abandoning the ice cream cone in your hand that you were just about to take a bite from. “Why? Are you still afraid of being in a hotel room alone?”

“Oh, shut up.” He rolls his eyes, immediately regretting that specific childhood memory he chose to share with you late one night. “Are you seriously still milking that?”

“Of course I am.”

“Back to what I was saying,” he mutters, his voice a little muffled between bites of his sandwich. “Stay with me. Let’s have a movie marathon.”

“I promised my aunt I’d help her bake cookies tonight. My cousin is having a bake sale tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on! I’m leaving tomorrow!”

“Yeah, and if you keep behaving yourself, I might come see you before you leave, too.”

“So funny,” he shoots you an unimpressed look. “Seriously, though. We might not see each other for months after this.”

“Very good. You’ve annoyed me enough for one day.”

“I’m blocking you the second I get back to the hotel room.”

“Why don’t you do it right now?” You playfully wiggle your eyebrows at him. “Aren’t you afraid I might beat you to it?”

It takes him a few seconds to try and come up with a clever comeback, but he can’t. After he spends a moment hesitating, opening his mouth and closing it again, you laugh and hit him playfully with your shoulder.

It’s only after a few minutes that you realize he actually seems a bit down about his rejected invitation. When you impulsively decide to spend the night anyway and casually mention it—acting as if the mere possibility doesn’t make your heart race—his face instantly lights up. Before you can even change your mind, he’s already rambling about which snacks you guys need to buy and which movies you have to rewatch.

Things, however, do not go according to plan.

Within the first twenty minutes of Harry Potter playing in the background, you both realize you’re really not in the mood to watch it for the thousandth time. The next hour is spent trying to choose something new, and by the time you give up, you’re already out of snacks, and Ilia doesn’t see the point in watching anything anymore.

“Let’s just talk,” he shrugs, plopping down onto the mattress with a loud thud. He rolls onto his side to face you, his cheek squished against his palm. “What are your plans for the summer?”

“Rot on my bed, watch Desperate Housewives, and eat ice cream.”

“You do that anyway. You don’t need summer for that.”

“Yes, but this time I’ll do it without feeling guilty,” you note pointedly. “And what about you, Lutz boy?”

Using his old nickname to tease him, you lie down next to him. Your faces are suddenly too close for comfort, the proximity making the moment feel intensely intimate. The way his pale blue eyes lock onto yours sends a wave of warmth throughout your body, a quiet, heavy feeling settling deep in your chest.

“First off, I’m gonna get my license.”

“Right. It’s about time. I’d like to have a personal driver.”

“I’d happily be one for you.”

The soft, sincere tone he uses doesn't indicate that he’s joking at all. For a few seconds, you both fall completely still, basking in the comfortable weight of each other's presence. One minute his eyes are locked onto yours, and the next, they drop subtly to your lips.

Something frantic rushes through your veins, a sudden panic settling in as you feel your palms go sweaty. Before your face can give your feelings away, you abruptly roll onto your back, staring straight up at the ceiling while your heart thumps violently in your chest.

“It’s hot in here,” you mumble, quickly sitting up to go turn the AC on.

He doesn’t answer. When you swiftly change the subject and go back to discussing summer plans, he engages in the conversation, but he's noticeably less enthusiastic this time.

It’s almost 2:00 AM by the time you come out of the bathroom, wearing his oversized T-shirt and pajama pants. You find him fast asleep on the bed, curled up right in the center while hugging a pillow. The way his body is folded makes you realize he’s probably cold, so after turning off the AC, you slip beneath the sheets right next to him, gently fixing his blanket.

You try your best to keep your distance, acting as if you’re terrified to even feel the touch of his body. But Ilia keeps turning and twisting in the sheets, eventually resting his legs right against yours. Your throat goes dry for a second, your heartbeat getting louder and louder when you feel the crown of his head press against your back.

You’re supposed to be used to his touch, but it feels entirely different this time. It feels heavier, more intimate—like it's crossing a line that can no longer be brushed aside.

“Ilia,” you speak up gently, repeating his name a little louder when he doesn’t hear you the first time. “I’m gonna fall off the bed.”

“Mhm…”

Instead of rolling over to his side of the mattress, he stretches an arm out and wraps it securely around your waist, flushing your back firmly against his chest. You could swear that your breath stops completely, the sharp exhale you finally let out piercing the quiet silence of the room.

Suddenly, everything is just too much. His arm heavy on your waist, his head buried behind your shoulder, his limbs tangled completely with yours, the air in the room turning suffocatingly tight—your heart is thumping so hard you can practically feel it in your eyes. You try to handle it, but one moment you’re laying perfectly still, and the next, you’re pushing him aside with your elbow, entirely too overstimulated to think it through.

“Get on your side, loser,” your voice snaps, sounding way more frustrated than you intended as you desperately try to maintain the playful tone you always use with him. “Hug your pillow. It’s hot in here.”

He doesn’t answer you, but you feel him shift, rolling heavily over onto his side. When you glance back a few minutes later, you find him sleeping right on the very edge of the bed, his back turned completely to yours.

A sharp pang of guilt hits you, but you don't do anything to fix it. You just lie there in the dark, eventually falling asleep while replaying the pressure of his arm around your waist over and over in your head.

June 2024

“Meh, I don’t like him.”

“What?” Isabeau looks at you as if you’ve just confessed to a major crime, her eyebrows drawing tightly together. She yanks her phone back, shoving the screen right into your face. “How can you not like him?! Look at him! He’s, like, perfect!”

“I don’t know, Isa. His eyes seem a little weird and his forehead is way too small.”

“Right. Because you like big-foreheaded guys.”

The smug tone in her voice is absolutely impossible to miss. You shoot her a dirty look, praying your mother, who is currently washing dishes just a few meters away, didn’t catch that. You really don’t feel like discussing your romantic life with your mom, especially when it involves Ilia.

Isabeau is visiting you for a few days before the two of you are scheduled to leave together for a summer skating camp. For whatever reason, Ilia isn’t able to make it this year, which automatically makes the whole trip feel a lot less exciting—even if you desperately try to pretend otherwise.

It’s late at night when she brings him up again. The two of you are lying side-by-side in the dark, whispering and giggling about anything and everything, trying to keep your voices down to be considerate of everyone else sleeping down the hall.

“So, still no confession from him?”

“Obviously I would have told you if there was.”

“I don’t know, you kind of like keeping secrets.” Even though the room is pitch black, you can feel her rolling her eyes when you nudge her with your elbow. “What?! You barely even confessed your feelings to me!”

“I just don't like talking about my feelings out loud.”

“Why?”

Her question comes out entirely innocent, making you pause. You aren't completely sure how to explain it because it barely makes sense to you, mostly because you try so hard not to dwell on it.

“I guess I’m scared,” you murmur into the dark.

“Of what?” her tone softens. “He loves you.”

“Of fucking up? Of the distance? Of things ending badly?” You let out a heavy exhale, burying the lower half of your face into your pillow. “Maybe it’s just better if we stay friends. I can’t afford a heartbreak right now, Isa.”

“But aren’t you suffering anyway by burying your feelings?”

She has a point. You don’t reply, simply letting her words sink heavily into the quiet room.

“You’re scared of a heartbreak, but you don’t even know if you’ll actually have to deal with one,” Isabeau continues gently. “It’s like worrying about a problem that doesn't even exist yet. I really think you should give it a shot.”

“Oh, wow,” you say, sounding a little impressed as the corner of your mouth lifts into a genuine smile. “You’re really mature for a seventeen-year-old.”

“Girl, you’re barely nineteen, shut up!”

Ignoring her whining, you chuckle softly, wrapping an arm around her waist as you snuggle into her side. She smells faintly of flowers, her familiar scent bringing a wave of comfort. “No, really. Thank you for the insight.”

“Should I knock some sense into him, too?”

“Yeah, please don’t.”

“I just don’t understand what he’s waiting for, ugh,” she groans, tossing her head back against the pillow. “He’s the guy! He has to make the first move!”

“That’s a bit of a sexist approach.”

“Is that so?” You can practically see the smug smirk on her face. “Go ahead and confess to him first, then.”

You go completely silent, because both of you know that there is absolutely no way you are doing that. Sensing that you don’t want to talk about it anymore, Isabeau swiftly changes the subject, launching into a detailed description of her new skincare routine instead.

It’s around 7:00 AM when the phone on your nightstand starts buzzing. You roll over, changing sides and trying to ignore it, treating the sound like a fleeting piece of a dream that will eventually disappear. But the vibration doesn’t cease. Finally, you stretch your hand out with a quiet groan, thoroughly annoyed that someone has interrupted your sleep.

You blink sleepily at the screen, your eyebrows furrowing as you read his name on the display. Glancing over at Isabeau, who is still softly snoring next to you, you quietly slip out of bed. You trot into the bathroom and close the door behind you before sliding the answer bar.

“What on earth could you possibly want at seven in the morning?” your voice comes out raspy and thick with sleep.

Unlike you, he has clearly already started his day. Judging by the look of him, he’s been up for at least a few hours. He is breathing heavily, his cheeks flushed a deep crimson as he beams at the camera, his teeth on full display.

When he doesn't immediately answer, you prompt him again. “Hello??”

“I just landed a backflip.”

“What?”

“I just landed a backflip on the ice.”

The words slowly sink into your sleepy brain, and then your eyes snap wide open. Completely forgetting about Isabeau sleeping just behind the bathroom wall, your jaw drops in utter surprise.

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah,” he says, his chest heaving. “I did it.”

“Holy shit.” A breathless chuckle escapes your throat, your smile suddenly matching his impossibly wide grin. “That’s fucking insane, Ilia. You’re unreal.”

He grins even wider, a proud smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep the compliments coming, please.”

“Please show me.”

“I don’t have a video of it yet.”

“Then do it right now.”

Your voice rises with pure excitement. He nods, immediately skating over to hand his phone to his father, throwing out quick instructions as he skates back toward the center of the rink. You are completely awake by now, the sudden rush of newfound energy draining out any exhaustion you felt just seconds ago.

Roman chuckles through the speaker when you let out a loud exclamation of awe after Ilia launches into the air and lands the backflip perfectly. The three of you spend the next few minutes laughing, you and Roman already joking about a possible front flip coming somewhere in the near future.

July 2024

“Oh, fuck off!”

“Come on, that was so easy!”

“How was I supposed to know it was in Ukraine?!” You throw up your hands in frustration. The distance between your pin and Ilia’s on the map stretches across the entirety of Europe. Playing Geotastic with him is all fun and games until he starts completely destroying you in every single round.

“There was literally a sign with the town name on it!”

You pause, squinting at him through the computer screen. He has a thoroughly smug expression on his face, raising his eyebrows in a mocking way when you don’t answer right away. You purse your lips, desperately trying to come up with a decent excuse.

“Well… I don’t know Ukrainian.”

“Neither do I. They use the Cyrillic alphabet, which you know, by the way.”

“Well, I don’t know every single town name in Ukraine, okay?!”

“Whatever you say, princess,” he mocks, the smirk never leaving his lips. “You’d think the amount of times we’ve played this would actually make you better at it.”

“It’s my own fault for skipping geography lessons in school. I take full responsibility for it,” you admit with a dramatic shrug of your shoulders. “Should we go for another round? I’m feeling generous today. I’ll let you gloat.”

“Woah, very tempting.” The corners of his mouth pull down in mock surprise. “Thanks for the offer, but I actually gotta go now.”

“Oh, wow. You’re blowing me off once again.”

“We’ve been playing for an hour!”

“Oh, so you’re already bored of me?”

“I really have to go, let’s argue about it later.”

“Bold of you to assume there will be a later.” With a sigh, you reach out toward the screen, taking in the sight of him one last time before ending the call.

He’s wearing a light green T-shirt and he looks really good—so good, in fact, that for most of the game, you were staring at him instead of the map. You love the way his face gets focused, his tongue poking out just a bit the way it always does when he’s deeply concentrated on something.

“Alright, see you later, Ilyusha. Should we finish that movie tomorrow?”

“Sure, I’ll be free around 5:00 PM.”

“I have practice at that time,” you say, shaking your head. “Maybe later tonight?”

“Nah, I can’t,” he shrugs. “I have plans.”

“What plans?”

“Woah, you’re so nosy.”

“I mean, you’ve been a pretty busy man lately,” you note with a casual shrug, trying your best not to beg for details—even though you are dying to know what kind of plans he’s been making recently. He’s probably just trying to land a quintuple jump and keeping it to himself as some kind of massive surprise, you conclude. “Okay. I’ll text you later, I guess. Bye, Ilyusha.”

“Bye, take care.”

Waving you off with a warm smile, he waits for you to cut the feed. You go on with your day, meeting up with some friends and hitting the rink for a late evening practice session. You don’t hear from him again until the next day, and when you do, he doesn’t mention the movie at all.

You don’t remind him either, simply letting it slide and trying not to give it too much thought.

August 2024

“Are you gonna come down to eat, or are you gonna rot on that bed for the whole day?!”

“I’m coming, Mom!”

“Hurry up or I’ll take your iPad away!”

“You can’t do that,” you yell back, sliding off the mattress and reaching for your phone instead of the iPad. “I’m nineteen!”

Slipping into your house slippers, you trudge lazily down the hallway, your thumb habitually scrolling through X for any new updates. You’re halfway down the stairs, completely absorbed in the screen. One second you’re looking at a teaser for the new season of Outer Banks, and the next, your thumb freezes.

The screen displays a photo. A girl with bright blonde hair has her arm wrapped securely around his neck. Their cheeks are pressed together, wide smiles putting all of their teeth on display. He’s sitting in front of a bonfire, and she is tucked comfortably on his lap.

You stop dead in your tracks on the steps.

A sudden, vicious weight gnaws at your chest, making it hard to draw a full breath. Your eyes desperately search for the context you pray isn't there, completely tuning out the background noise of your mother reminding you that your food is getting cold.

@skatingupdates: Ilia with his girlfriend via a friend’s IG story. 😍

The panic sets in, a suffocating weight pressing down on your lungs as your heart thumps violently against your ribs. You can physically feel yourself getting sick to your stomach, the world tilting precariously around you. Trembling, you lock the phone, the screen going dark as you grip the wooden railing tightly, anchoring yourself as if you might collapse onto the steps at any given moment.

A sudden, white-hot anger burns through your veins, closely followed by something much larger, much heavier—a devastating ache you have never experienced before, but one you recognize instantly. It’s the exact heartbreak you had been so terrified of.

“I swear to God, I’m not letting you in the kitchen!”

From the floor below, the sound of a chair scraping against the tile cuts through your panic. Your mom rushes out of the dining room, but she pauses the second she spots you frozen halfway down the stairs. The annoyed expression on her face immediately softens, as if she completely forgot what she was lecturing you about in the first place.

“What happened?” she asks, looking up at you.

“Nothing.” Your voice comes out raw, sounding entirely helpless.

Suddenly, holding back the tears feels harder than anything you’ve ever achieved in your entire life. Your throat burns with the effort of choking them down.

“What do you mean by nothing?” This time she uses that strict, perceptive tone mothers always resort to when they know something is wrong. “You’re on the verge of crying.”

You freeze, opening your mouth to brush her off, but a tear rolls down your cheek. You silently swallow a sob, a wave of intense embarrassment and shame seeping into your pores as your mind frantically scrambles to construct an excuse. You can’t tell her the truth. You can’t admit that you are crying over a boy who was never even yours.

“I think… my favorite character is dying,” you lie, your voice cracking as you barely manage to mumble the words out. A quiet, pathetic sob escapes your throat. “The blonde guy from Outer Banks. JJ.”

Your mom stares at you for a beat, looking at you as if you have completely lost your mind. She lets out a heavy sigh and shakes her head, her face settling into a look of mild disappointment.

“And here I thought something terrible had actually happened,” she says, rolling her eyes but letting out a soft chuckle. “Get down here and eat, you silly girl.”

The ten minutes you force yourself to sit at the table feel like an eternity. It’s exhausting to keep up an appearance and smile as if the hole in your chest isn’t deepening with every passing second. Your appetite is completely gone, yet you force yourself to eat, chewing each bite as if you’re about to throw up at any moment. Ultimately, you excuse yourself, running up the stairs before your mom can force you to sit back down and finish the food on your plate.

The moment you close the room door behind you, you collapse against it, sliding down to the floor as the tears stream down with full force. The air in the room feels tight, the energy draining from your body as you eventually crawl onto the bed. Closing your eyes, you wish you could go back in time. You wish that you hadn’t fallen for him. You wish that you hadn’t convinced yourself he had feelings for you. You wish you hadn't let yourself get carried away by the fleeting hope, rewriting his every text, every look, and every soft tone into proof that he loved you back.

Between your quiet sobs, a notification noise pierces through the room. Tilting your head up, you hesitate, but eventually reach out to take the phone from the nightstand and unlock it. It’s an Instagram DM from him.

Ilia: Hii

Ilia: What are u Up to?

Anger flares within you. The sheer audacity of the message leaves you breathless. How could he act as if nothing has happened? Surely he always lurks online, and surely he must have known that whatever his friend chose to post would be seen by others. Did he really hide this from you? All those extra hours you thought he was spending at the rink to land quintuple jumps—was he actually going out on dates with her? Why wouldn't he mention it? Why would he make you believe there was something going on between you two, only to reduce you to a disposable friend who didn’t even deserve the right to know he had a girlfriend?

The rest of the day is spent between crying and cursing his name, and then cursing yourself for crying over him like this when he doesn’t deserve it. Ultimately, you decide to reply. You want to show him that it doesn’t bother you, that he means nothing more to you than any of your other friends do.

You: I binge watched Severance

His reply comes sooner than you expect. It only takes him two minutes to text back.

Ilia: Is it any good?

You: yeah but I don’t think it’s your cup of tea

Ilia: You said the same thing about succession

You: dude you only watched half a season

Ilia: Because I was busy and then I forgot

you: right right you’re so busy lately

The implications behind your words seem completely lost on him. Unable to wait any longer, you go onto X and screenshot the post you saw a few hours ago—the one that made your entire world crumble. You send it to him, quickly typing out a message before he even has a chance to react.

You: now when where you going to tell me your loser ass finally pulled a girl?

He leaves you on 'seen' for a few minutes. He must be scrambling for an excuse.

Ilia: Ah shit I didn’t know he posted it

Ilia: I was going to tell you when things would get official

You: it seems pretty official to me

Ilia: HaHa yeah I guess it is

You: ayeee congrats loser

You: 🥳🥳🤪🤪

You: but honestly

You: fuck you

You: genuinely confused why would you hide it from me??

You: you literally update me on every single trivial detail and you chose to exclude me when it actually mattered???

Ilia: Yeaah fair enough

Ilia: I guess I just wanted to make sure things were really serious before I started yapping about her..

You: horrible excuse

Ilia: Aww are you mad?

You: that you finally pulled someone before me?

You: a little

Ilia: Will you forgive me if I apologize?

Ilia: 🥺

You: only if you tell me everything about it

You type out the words through blurry vision, and then you proceed to ask him about her. You spend the next twenty minutes listening to him swoon over his new girlfriend, because you are just friends, and that’s what friends are supposed to do. That’s what you would happily do if you hadn’t fucked everything up by catching feelings for him.

He has been going out with her for almost two months, you learn. Their friends introduced them to each other, and they go to the same university. You try so hard not to, but ultimately you stalk her social media with teary eyes, scrolling through her pictures as insecurities eat you from the inside out. She’s an artist, drawing beautiful portraits when you can barely even pick up a pencil. She plays piano and sings, she bakes and cooks, she speaks four languages, and she has cats—just like him. She’s nothing like you.

It’s late at night when Isabeau calls you. It’s obvious that, at first, she’s just testing the waters to see whether you have seen the post yet. But when you beat her to it and tell her that you know, she just listens. She lets you cry and ramble over the phone for hours, never once trying to turn it into a joke, even if just to soothe your pain.

September 2024

With summer finally over and your first competition starting in just a week, you are busy enough to successfully block him out of your mind for a while. His own competitive season had already kicked off with the Lombardia Trophy—the Challenger Series event you were originally supposed to compete in. Ultimately, you had decided to switch to the Nebelhorn Trophy instead, sharing the ice with Isabeau. Maybe it was an attempt to avoid running into him, or maybe it really was just a necessary schedule change on Dasha’s advice.

“I think you should take a day off,” Dasha tells you one afternoon after a grueling practice session. She eyes you up critically as you sit slumped on the ice barriers, heavily wiping the sweat from your forehead with a damp towel. “Don’t come to the rink tomorrow.”

Your brows knit together in immediate protest. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been pushing yourself way past your limits lately, and I don’t want you burning out before the season even starts.”

“I’m fine, Dasha. Seriously.”

“This isn’t up for debate.” Her voice cuts through your arguments, turning strict. Her sharp eyes narrow slightly as she raises her eyebrows. “I’m your coach. You do what I tell you.”

“But—”

“Hush,” she snaps gently, snatching the towel right out of your hand as she motions toward the exit gate.

You don’t argue further, stepping off the ice and letting the sheer weight of your physical exhaustion crash over you the moment you begin unlacing your skating boots.

The nap you take immediately after a hot shower hits you hard. When you finally blink yourself awake, you find a string of unread messages from Ilia waiting on your screen. The two of you haven’t spoken since Wednesday afternoon, when you had half-heartedly agreed to play Geotastic with him after he spent days begging you to. It is Friday evening now.

Even though you try so hard to maintain a safe, guarded distance, it feels like he refuse to let you go. Does he honestly expect things to just stay the same? It feels deeply unfair. Unfair to you. Unfair to her.

The two of you were originally supposed to meet up back in August. Back when you foolishly thought he might actually confess his feelings this time. Back when you were naive enough to let yourself hope. But ever since he got a girlfriend, he hasn't once acknowledged the summer plans you had made together, and you certainly haven't dared to remind him. It wasn't like you actually wanted to see him anymore, anyway. God knows you would give up just about anything if it meant never having to face him and his new reality.

Ilia: Hiiiiii

Ilia: Are you busy??

Ilia: Thought we could do something together

Ilia: We haven’t talked in a while

The texts had been sent almost three hours ago. By the time you finally type out a reply, casually asking what kind of plans he has in mind, he is already offline. And by the time your phone finally buzzed with his late response, you are already tucked into bed, far too exhausted to engage in a draining conversation with him.

Without even opening the DM, you lock your phone and set it face-down on the nightstand, quietly telling yourself that you’ll reply tomorrow.

2024 Skate America

You see him for the first time after months in October. You’re dragging your suitcase up the hotel stairs when you hear a rapid flow of words, and before you can even whip your head around to see if you recognized the voice correctly, someone attacks you with a hug. You almost stumble, balancing yourself against the railing.

“Oh my god,” he says, instantly switching to English. When you pull away, he’s smiling at you with a wide grin, his eyes almost sparkling as he takes in the sight of you. His hair is longer now. He’s wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants, and the faint scent of his perfume brushes against your nose just enough to make something flutter in your stomach. “I’ve missed you!”

Despite the anger, despite every emotion he put you through over the summer, it’s impossible not to mimic his smile. He pulls you into a quick hug again and you can’t help but giggle, wrapping your arm around his back as your fingers grip the fabric of his hoodie.

“So did I, Ilia.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you arrived?”

“Uh… surprise?” You smile sheepishly. He immediately takes your suitcase, insisting on carrying it. The walk to your room is short, and he keeps talking, telling you all about his plans for the day before he has to compete tomorrow.

“Cool sweatshirt.”

You look down at the Ferrari print and raise an eyebrow, already anticipating where this is going when he looks at you with innocent eyes. Unlike him, you don’t find it difficult to read his actions—not when he’s always so painfully blunt about them.

“Yeah, don’t expect me to show that kind of generosity.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Giving me those puppy eyes isn’t gonna work.” Sighing, you start unzipping your suitcase. Instead of giving you time to unpack and rest, he flops down on the chair in front of the bed, bouncing his knee. He keeps staring at you as if he’s waiting for you to start a conversation. “Do you want something? I mean, besides my sweatshirt, which I’m not giving up.”

“Not everyone has ulterior motives like you,” he sighs, shaking his head in fake disappointment. “Maybe I just missed spending time with my best friend.”

“Let me unpack and maybe I’ll hang out with you later.”

“I can help.”

“Yeah, no.” You swat his hand away when he starts digging into your suitcase, glaring at him. He purses his lips, retreating back with an annoyed expression. “Ever heard of privacy?”

“Knowing you, you’ll take hours to unpack and then you’ll be too tired to do anything!”

“You’re already annoying me.”

“You’re always annoyed with me. You barely reply to me anymore.”

His tone suggests that he’s not joking. Your eyes meet, and the look he gives you twists something in your chest. Despite everything, despite the voice screaming in your head, a softness washes over you. Pressing your lips together, you pause for a few seconds, unsure how to respond. It’s as if he’s waiting for your reply. Finally, your voice comes out softer.

“That’s not true.” You shake your head firmly. “I’ve just been really busy with the season coming up.”

“But you always made time for me.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I can’t,” you almost snap, your voice rising slightly. But then you exhale, debating whether you want him to know or not, whether he deserves to know. “I was working on my quads.”

“And?” The excitement rushes into his voice, and when a subtle smirk tugs at your lips, a smile breaks across his face, his eyes widening in realization. “Oh my god!”

“It’s just a Salchow.”

“For now.” He gets up from the chair to nudge you, subtly pulling you into a hug. You’ve always craved his touch, but this time it makes you uncomfortable because you know it doesn’t belong to you—it’s reserved for someone else. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Ilyusha.”

“So you were landing quads the whole time, huh?” The relief is evident in his voice, his smile soft. “And I thought you hated me.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, though? I would have given you tips.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend?” you can’t help but retort, trying hard not to let the resentment slip into your voice. On the rare occasions he has mentioned her, he never suggested introducing her to you, and you never asked either. The way he pauses and glances at you makes the air in the room feel suddenly tight. You quickly crack a joke, not wanting to touch a topic there is no getting back from. If you don’t hold back now, you might not be able to hold back at all. “I would have provided your loser ass with some quality advice.”

A chuckle escapes his throat and he rolls his eyes, not even slightly mad at you. After making you promise to meet him in the hotel restaurant in an hour, he finally leaves, warning you that he’s going to come back and get you if you try to ditch him. You wave him off, locking the door with a smile on your face. You’re supposed to hate him, but he’s making it impossible, and that fact drives you insane.

After you finish unpacking, you take a quick shower and walk down to the hotel restaurant, keeping your promise.

2024–25 Grand Prix Final

You see him again two months later. It is early December in Grenoble, France, and he has just turned twenty. The birthday present you bought for him is neatly tucked somewhere deep in your suitcase, wrapped in plain paper.

Back in the summer, he had talked endlessly about coming to France a few days early to celebrate his twentieth with you and a few of his friends. But ever since he got a girlfriend, he hadn't brought it up again. Instead, he celebrated at home in Virginia with his family, sending you a picture of a cake his girlfriend had baked for him. You had jokingly texted back about him saving a piece for you, but he didn't even mention the possibility of you visiting.

Between the demanding season and your university classes, both of your schedules have become impossibly tight. The phone calls and video chats are rare now—maybe once every two weeks, usually whenever he feels like boosting his ego by beating you at Geotastic or trying to show you a new movie or anime you have absolutely no interest in. Back home, the notebook you once used for learning Russian lies untouched on your shelf, a thin layer of dust collecting over the cover because you haven't had the heart to open it in months. He still jokes about your slow progress with the language, yet he never actually offers to help you practice anymore.

“Aw, thanks,” he smiles warmly after ripping open the paper, squeezing your shoulder in gratitude. “I really like it.”

“Yeah, it’s a little ugly,” you shrug, masking your feelings with casual indifference. “I knew it was your style.”

He ignores the jab, actively searching the bottom of the empty gift box as his eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Where’s the birthday card?”

“There isn’t one.”

“But there’s always a card.” His brow ridges upward, his tone suddenly heavy with genuine disappointment. “I was looking forward to reading it.”

“You’ll be fine, Ilyusha.” You shrug again, offering him a flat, sheepish smile.

He asks you to go check out a nearby pastry shop with him, but you politely decline, lying that you’ve already made plans to head out with Isabeau and Amber. The following days pass in a blur of morning practices and high-stakes competition, and he doesn't spend any further effort trying to carve out time for you. He handles the pressure flawlessly, winning the men's title, while you end up sharing the ladies' podium with Isabeau and Amber—the latter deservedly taking the gold from you after a stunning free skate.

The day after the event, the three of you wind up walking through a shopping mall.

“This dress is so cute,” Amber says, holding up a shimmering, metallic gold dress on a hanger. Her eyebrows wiggle suggestively as she holds it against your frame. “You should totally try it on.”

“I don’t know,” Isabeau murmurs, squinting at the fabric and touching it gently. “I feel like it’s one of those pieces that looks way better on the hanger than on an actual human body.”

“It’s way too short for me,” you reply, turning your back on the rack as you continue down the aisle. “And it’s… a little slutty.”

“You’re young! Get your ass out while you still can,” Amber laughs, shoving your shoulder playfully.

You roll your eyes at her remark, continuing to scan the racks for something appropriate for an upcoming post-event banquet you've been invited to. As much as you want to skip the gala entirely and fly straight home, your primary sponsorship obliges you to attend. Even Dasha is coming along to keep an eye on things.

“Just borrow one of Dasha’s dresses then, since there isn't a single thing in this mall you actually like!” Amber huffs.

“Because none of these are appropriate for a formal event!”

“You say that about literally every single dress I show you!”

“Hey, guys.”

All three of your heads snap toward the familiar voice. Ilia is standing at the end of the aisle, smiling at the group as if the four of you hadn't just had breakfast together a few hours prior. He’s wearing a pair of mismatched jeans and a slouchy sweater, holding a few shopping bags of his own.

“What are you guys shopping for?”

“Dresses,” Isabeau replies. Her tone is noticeably harsher than the polite voice she usually uses around people. Sometimes it feels like she is angry at him on your behalf, even more than you let yourself be. “We’re currently debating whether this gold dress is too slutty for a formal banquet or not.”

Ilia blinks, his eyes drifting down to the gold fabric before shifting to look at you for a long second, as if he's mentally imagining you in it. “I don’t think it is. It’s pretty.”

“With all due respect, I am absolutely not taking fashion advice from you,” you retort, eyeing his oversized sweater with a look of pure judgment.

You completely ignore the small, disappointed drop of his face as you deliberately turn your back on him to face the racks again. “What are you even doing here, anyway?”

“Actually, I’m trying to choose a present.”

“For who?” Amber asks, idly browsing through a row of skirts.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his posture shifting as if he's suddenly too shy to admit it out loud. “My girlfriend.”

Something violent and sickening churns deep in your stomach. Without a word, you snatch the gold dress right out of Amber’s hand, grabbing it alongside two other random ones Isabeau has been carrying for you.

“I'm going to change,” you mutter, marching toward the fitting rooms.

You duck into the furthest stall, lock the door, and lean heavily against the mirror. You try your absolute best to beat the tears back, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat, but you ultimately fail. As the tears begin to stream quietly down your face, ruining your makeup, you look up and see nothing but your own crushing insecurities staring back at you from the reflection. You can’t help but compare your face, your body, and your life to hers—that familiar, ugly feeling of inadequacy gnawing at you from the inside out.

You spend fifteen minutes in the stall breathing through the panic, wiping your face with a rough paper towel until your skin is pink. When you finally step out of the dressing room, you are incredibly lucky to find that he is already gone.

You settle on a simple, structured black dress—the safest, most invisible option available. If Amber notices your tightly clumped, damp eyelashes when you hand her the rejected gold hanger, she doesn't say a single word. Isabeau simply steps up beside you, tightening her arm firmly around your waist in silent, protective support, squeezing you close as the three of you leave the store to continue walking through the mall.

January 2025

The new year starts with complications.

A few days before you are scheduled to fly out for the U.S. National Championships in Wichita, Kansas, you start coughing. It’s a deep, rattling sound that leaves a burning ache in your chest, but you stubbornly ignore it. You tell yourself it’s just the cold rink air, that it will go away on its own if you just don’t pay attention to it. When Dasha insists you see a doctor, you refuse.

You keep pushing until your body makes the choice for you. Mid-program during a morning run-through, the rink abruptly tilts. The air refuses to enter your lungs, your vision goes entirely black, and you collapse onto the ice.

When you wake up, the blinding white lights of a hospital room are staring back at you, and your terrified parents are hovering over your bedside. The doctor’s diagnosis is sharp and unyielding: severe acute pneumonia. The following morning, US Figure Skating officially announces your withdrawal from the championships.

Because your oxygen levels are sluggish, the doctor decides to keep you admitted for a few days of continuous monitoring and IV antibiotics. The boredom settles in like a heavy fog. Even when your mom generously brings your iPad from home per your request, you can barely bring yourself to care about the screen.

It’s late evening when your phone begins to buzz on the bedside table. It’s Ilia.

You decline the call immediately. You barely have the physical energy to breathe, let alone the mental stamina to defend yourself against the lecture you already anticipate. But he doesn't stop. The phone rings again. And again. On the fourth consecutive try, your nerves give out, and you swipe to answer.

“Hi.”

“Why aren’t you answering me?” The demand in his voice is sharp with frustration. “I just saw the news on Instagram. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“Which question do you want me to answer first?” you murmur, your voice reedy and thin.

“No, seriously.” It’s abundantly clear he is in no mood for whatever jokes you might try to pull. “You have pneumonia, you’re withdrawing from Nationals, and I have to find out from an Instagram press release instead of you? And now apparently you’re hospitalized?!”

“Will you stop yelling?”

“I’m not yelling!” he exclaims, though his voice is distinctly louder than his usual easygoing tone. “I’m just confused why you wouldn’t tell me about something this huge!”

“I was tired and I forgot, okay?” you snap.

The harshness of your tone instantly backfires, triggering a violent coughing fit that tears through your chest, physically proving your point for you. You pull the phone away, gasping for shallow pockets of air until the spasm finally passes. “Just wish me a get well soon and be done with it, okay?!”

The line goes dead silent. For a second, you contemplate just hanging up on him, but before your finger can reach the screen, he speaks again. His voice has completely dropped, coming out much softer.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” you lie, adjusting your position on your side, pressing the phone tightly against your ear.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not so great.” You stare at the IV line taped to the back of your hand. “But it’s fine. It’s just pneumonia. I’ve had it like three times in my life already.”

“But you’re literally in a hospital bed.”

“Yeah, well, that's just my mom being overbearing.”

“How long are they keeping you there?”

“Probably two more nights.” You let out a heavy sigh, already craving the familiar dent of your own mattress instead of this rigid hospital bed that feels harsh underneath your body. “It sucks that I can’t compete. But it is what it is.”

“Yeah. I was really looking forward to seeing you there,” Ilia says quietly. “But your health is the top priority.”

You don't tell him that you feel a crushing grief for the exact same reason. You don’t tell him that you had been counting down the days to Nationals just to see him, because it would be a lie. Instead, you let the silence hang.

The conversation barely lasts five minutes. The heavy weight of his real life quickly pulls him away, and he mentions needing to go pick up Liza from a friend’s house.

“Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

The silence stretches out over the line, thick and suffocating, as if both of you want to say something else but have completely forgotten how to speak to each other. Ultimately, you press the red button and end the call.

You place the phone back on the nightstand and pick up your iPad, desperately searching for a distraction before sleep can claim you.

These days, your conversations with him rarely cross the twenty-minute mark. Days turn into an entire week without a single word, until he randomly decides to send you a stupid Instagram reel, or you feel the obligation that it’s your turn to text and ask how he’s doing.

What hurts the most is that whenever you do text him, it feels like nothing has changed at all. It’s still the exact same Ilia. He still laughs at your jokes, still gets defensively whiny against your mocking comments, and still fills your lock screen with trivial, mundane details about his day that you never even asked for.

It is agonizing to watch him slip away further with each passing week, but it’s not like you are putting any real effort into stopping it either. You don’t want to. More than that, you can't.

You can no longer bear the torture of pretending to just be his friend when your heart violently picks up at the mere mention of his name. You can't handle the pathetic way your eyes prick with tears every single time he takes hours to reply to a message, your mind immediately painting vivid, agonizing pictures of him laughing with her.

You have become completely pathetic, and the realization makes you angrier than the illness ever could.

2025 World Championships

“Did something happen between you and Ilia?”

“What?”

You snap your head away from the mirror, the mascara wand in your hand almost falling as you draw your brows together. Amber shrugs in response, continuing to fix her hair, while Isabeau stays silent, observing the situation.

“Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know, you used to be closer.” There isn’t an accusation in her tone, just sincere interest—maybe even worry. “It’s like there’s a distance between you two.”

You don’t reply straight away, fixing your eyes back on your reflection in the mirror. You open your eyes wide as you apply the mascara, pretending her observation doesn’t concern you.

“Yeah, I guess we kinda fell off,” you shrug, a nonchalant voice escaping easily from your throat. “We’re busy and growing up, so yeah... it just happens.”

She doesn’t press any further, and being the good friend Isabeau is, she swiftly changes the subject, slightly panicking over her curls, claiming she just can’t get them right. Currently, you’re all in Amber's room, with clothes and makeup products scattered all over the floor and table as you get ready for the ISU banquet.

Two days ago, you ticked off one of the goals on your mental list, claiming the World Champion title with a personal best, skating to Belle from Notre-Dame de Paris. You had left the ice with eyes sparkling. Dasha hugged you with a smirk on her face as you spotted your friends in the stands, cheering for you and holding out signs with your name.

Winning was special because you achieved one of your lifelong dreams in the city you grew up in, surrounded by your family and friends. Everyone was there to witness it. Isabeau and Amber kissed your cheeks, your mom hugged you with teary eyes—everyone was there except for him. For whatever reason, he had decided to stay in the hotel the evening before his free skate. The thought of him not being there for you hurt, but you quickly brushed it off, focusing on the moment ahead of you.

You only saw him later in the hotel lobby. It almost felt like he was waiting for you, pulling you into a tight hug before he pinched your cheeks.

“Aye, Miss World Champion,” he muttered, the corner of his lips lifting. He extended his hand to ruffle your hair, but you slapped it away.

Instead, he reached for the medal hanging from your neck, caressing the lanyard. The way his fingertips brushed against your exposed skin made shivers run down your spine. “Congrats. I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, Ilyusha.”

“Now I can’t brag about my superiority, can I?”

“You absolutely can’t.”

Both of you laughed, hesitating afterward as if you didn’t know whether to stop the conversation or keep it going. Exhaustion crept into your body, and you took a few steps toward the elevator, suddenly feeling like even your gear bag was too heavy in your grasp.

“I’ll go rest now,” you muttered, offering him an awkward smile. “I’m really tired.”

“Sure.”

He smiled, backing off a little. Then he stopped, as if he realized he had forgotten something, and touched your shoulder the moment you turned your back on him.

“I wanted to be there.” His voice was low, almost apologetic, as the expression on his face went soft. “But... you know, things didn’t work out.”

“Oh, it’s fine, Ilia,” you lied through your teeth. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I watched you, though. Your quad lutz is almost as perfect as mine.”

“You shouldn’t be bragging the night before you compete.” With a teasing smile, you backed away, ready to call it a night. “Goodnight, Ilia.”

“Goodnight. Sleep tight.”

With a soft smile and a little wave, he backed off, waiting by the elevator until you got in before he started climbing up the stairs. The moment the doors closed, you exhaled, recalling his attempt at an apology. Heat rushed to your skin as you remembered how his fingers had brushed just right against your chest, unable to ignore the sudden fluttering in your stomach.

May 2025

You last see him on the Stars on Ice tour. Mostly, you hang out with Isabeau and Amber, and he sticks with the guys, rarely engaging in a private conversation with you. It has become natural over the months. With his calls nonexistent and only a few conversations a month, he has been reduced to being just your teammate. The thought doesn’t hit as hard as it did a few months ago. Maybe you matured; maybe you really outgrew him.

You have stuff going on yourself. Having turned 20, you decided to move into your own place—a one-bedroom apartment closer to the rink and university. It's in a calm neighborhood with lots of flower shops and pastry cafes nearby, perfect for a morning stroll or an evening walk.

The first night at your new home, you scroll on your iPad, coming across a snippet of his interview. With freshly dyed hair and his usual impossible smile, he looks good, a familiar softness washing over you. Suddenly, you have an urge to call him, to fill him in about the new chapter in your life that you're so excited to start. Your fingers hover over the call button, but ultimately you decide against it, typing out a quick message instead.

You: hey

You: how are you?

You stare at the screen, the last message from him having been sent almost two weeks ago. He takes his usual time to answer, the notification piercing through the room almost three hours later.

Ilia: Good

Ilia: I’m on a vacation 😁

Ilia: What are you up to?

Even though you feel like replying instantly gives away your desperateness, you still do, your mind racing with possibilities about his vacation that you don’t dare to ask about.

You: nothing really, just chilling at home

You: that’s great! where are u?

Ilia: Currently in Cuba

You: oof I love Cuba

You: tell me you tried Cuban sandwich

Ilia: I did

Ilia: it’s Overrated

Ilia: 👎

You: dude-

You: no comment

Ilia: 🙄

Ilia: I didn’t enjoy it

Ilia: But I really enjoy it here

Ilia: It’s beautiful

You: yeah, cuba’s great

You: have fun 😝

Ilia: You too

Ilia: Knowing you another series is waiting for you on the ipad 😂

You: haha yes

He doesn’t open the last message, clearly too busy to engage in a conversation with you, or just not having the desire to. The excitement dies within you, and with frustration, you throw the phone further onto the bed. Slipping your shoes on, you convince yourself that a late evening walk will take things off your mind a little.

When you check Instagram at night, he has left you on read. And even though he keeps posting about his vacation, never once does he text you to tell you about his time spent there. The days swiftly go by, and suddenly it turns to June, and you realize you haven’t heard from him in a month.

August 2025

@ilia_quadg0d_malinin: Woah 🔥🫨

You stare at his comment under your latest post with a mildly annoyed expression. It’s from a photoshoot you did with Teen Vogue, featuring clothes and hairstyles drastically different from your usual style. You hit the heart button to like the comment, not bothering to actually reply. You can’t even recall the last time you had a real conversation with him. Maybe it was back in June, or July. You’ve completely lost track. Nowadays, you're only reminded of his existence when he sends you random reels on Instagram—the kind you always just scroll past, but that he somehow seems to enjoy.

“Should I put it here?”

You look up from your phone to find Garrett gesturing toward the corner of the room. Not a single muscle on his face is strained; he looks completely unbothered while holding up one end of the couch, waiting for your instructions. When you asked him to help you move some furniture around the flat, he had happily agreed, taking his shirt off as if it were just an obstacle he needed to get out of the way.

You met him two months ago in a cafe down your street. He struck up a conversation with you, not because he recognized you as a world champion figure skater, but simply because you two lived in the same building. You soon found out he was a hockey player—the captain of his university team—and when he jokingly suggested going skating together, you actually agreed, later showing him the jumps and spins he asked to see with widened eyes.

Gradually, you became closer, and when he finally invited you up to his apartment one late evening, you went, fully aware of the unspoken invitation. Spending time with Garrett is effortless. Things are uncomplicated, light, and entirely casual—exactly what you need. He helps just enough to take things off your mind, but he doesn’t complicate your life the way a normal relationship would. The summer has been great.

“Your phone is blowing up,” Garrett notes.

“It’s probably Isabeau.”

“When am I finally gonna meet this best friend of yours?”

“Soon,” you tease.

He sighs in fake annoyance, and you nudge his shoulder, playfully tugging at his dark curls. He is nothing like Ilia; the two of them are drastically different in both looks and personality, but you genuinely enjoy his company. Eventually, you pull your eyes away from the TV show you two are watching and pick up your phone to reply to your best friend.

Isabeau has sent a voice note alongside a cropped screenshot from X. You don’t even need to press play to understand the context. The post is from one of Ilia's fan pages, updating everyone that he and his girlfriend have unfollowed each other, speculating a breakup.

You wait for the familiar ache in your chest, the sudden spike of adrenaline or hope—but nothing comes. You feel entirely detached, just surprised by the fact that it doesn't mean anything to you anymore, unlike how you would have reacted months ago. Without a second thought, you lock the screen and toss the phone onto the coffee table. Instead of dwelling on it, you snuggle closer into Garrett, who happily wraps his arm around you, tucking your head securely beneath his chin.

2025–26 Grand Prix Final

Being assigned to different Grand Prix events, your paths don't cross with his for months, finally seeing him after more than half a year in Nagoya.

He greets you warmly, his face lighting up when he catches sight of you at the practice rink, but he doesn’t greet you any differently than he greets anyone else. The soft spot that seemed to be reserved exclusively for you for years has completely vanished. His hair has a warm tone of honey blond now, almost glowing like gold under the lights. You try hard to fight it, but the feeling that resurfaces in your chest—a tight, suffocating knot that threatens to burst—is impossible to ignore.

“How’s your hockey boy?” Amber chuckles, wiggling her eyebrows as you both start warming up for practice. “Should I be anticipating meeting him at Nationals?”

“I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“Why?”

She stops in her tracks, looking at you with genuine confusion. You shrug, tightening your ponytail as you skate around her.

“He wasn’t content with being casual,” you say, your voice completely stripped of emotion.

“Oh. I thought you liked him.”

“I did, but I’m not looking for a relationship right now,” you reply, shaking your head. Your eyes subtly dart over to Ilia, who is quietly watching the practice from the boards, giving tips to Mone that she didn’t really ask for. “I have to focus on the Olympics.”

“Right.” Amber nods in agreement and starts gliding backward, preparing to launch herself into the air for a Lutz.

When Garrett had started hinting about taking your casual relationship to the next step, you had subtly brushed him off until you couldn't ignore it anymore. Eventually, you sat him down and explained that you weren’t looking for a commitment, that your mind was fully focused on the Olympics ahead of you. He understood, but he didn’t want to continue whatever it was you two were doing if it wasn't going anywhere, so you called it quits.

You never mentioned the existence of another person. You never mentioned him. You could barely even admit to yourself on those late nights when you couldn't sleep that you still had feelings for Ilia. Despite the lack of real contact for months—aside from stupid Instagram reels and the obligatory "good luck" and "congratulations" texts before and after competitions—you couldn't help but still crave more of him. It was a vicious cycle. You would wake up feeling entirely indifferent to his name, only to go to sleep with your eyes shut tight, imagining that the fingers slipping underneath your shorts belonged to him.

Months of exhaustion eventually led to a simple truth: there was no clean exit.

Later that weekend, you watch his historic free skate with Isabeau at your side from your hotel room, your throat going dry as you watch him land a seventh quadruple jump flawlessly.

“Holy shit,” Isabeau mutters beside you, her hands flying to her mouth. “He’s insane.”

“Yep. He is.”

You have mastered the art of masking your feelings. Not even your best friend is aware that you are still in love with him, fully convinced that whatever teenage infatuation you used to have has dwindled over the years. You don’t wait up for him to return to the hotel to congratulate him in person. Instead, you simply reshare the official post the ISU made onto your Instagram story, settle comfortably into your bed, and close your eyes—promising yourself that you will see him tomorrow.

January 2026

Shortly after you win Nationals, securing your place as a two-time national champion alongside him—as he effortlessly snatches his fourth consecutive title—the official Olympic team list is finally released to the public. You had known it was coming, of course. Dasha had spent the last three weeks relentlessly mocking you for even harboring a shred of doubt, but when the official announcement is put out, everything suddenly becomes real. The tears prick your eyes.

“I’m so emotional,” Isabeau gasps, her voice cracking through the phone speaker. Her tear-streaked face blurs slightly on the FaceTime screen as you blink rapidly, desperately trying to fight back the flood forming in your own eyes. “We’re Olympians. We actually did it.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is barely a whisper, thick with swallowed tears.

“We’re gonna have the absolute best time in the village.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you just gonna agree to everything I say, or are you actually gonna contribute to this conversation?” One of her perfectly shaped brows shoots up, a dramatic spike of annoyance in her tone that finally breaks your trance. You let out a chuckle. “You’re being so nonchalant, it’s criminal!”

“I love you too, Isababy.”

Blowing her a kiss, she presses her lips to the screen in response, waving you off frantically before hanging up to call the rest of her friends. You set the phone facedown on your mattress, collapsing backward to stare up at the ceiling. A slow, radiant smile spreads across your face, warming you from the inside out. All the early mornings, the bruised hips, the suffocating pressure—it was all worth it. You made the team.

Then, a notification chimes through the room. Your heart takes a familiar little leap before you even look at the lock screen. You grab the phone, your expression blank as you read his name.

Ilia: Congrats 🥳

Ilia: We both made it

Ilia: Can’t wait to experience the olympics with you 😍

You wanted to hate him for it. God, you wanted to hate him so badly for how easily he seemed to navigate the space between you, for how effortlessly he had drifted away. But staring at the screen, you knew you couldn't. Despite the space that had stretched out between you, no matter how brief or casual the messages were, you couldn’t help but look forward to hearing from him. No matter how much you tried to harden your heart, a part of you still wanted him back.

You take a second, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you think of a quick reply, matching his lighthearted energy.

You: congrats to you too Ilia

You: ❤️

You: yeah, can’t wait either 😝

His response comes almost instantly, the typing bubbles barely appearing before the text pops up.

Ilia: We’re gonna have So Much fun together

Ilia: 😎😎

You: yep, absolutely!!

You lock the screen and press the phone against your chest, letting out a quiet breath. In barely a month, you are going to spend almost three weeks with him. The thought sends a wave of mixed feelings through you, your stomach churning with a volatile mix of intense excitement and an unpleasant, anxious dread.