Summary: you’re bossy and ilia is more than happy to do whatever you say
Warnings: none
[a/n] so actually this is just my irl relationship dynamic i fear, i am an expert when it comes to bossy girl 🤝 obsessed boy
Ilia can’t pinpoint the first time people started teasing him about it — maybe during the early days of training together, maybe the first time he brought her coffee before practice. All he knows now is that everyone seems to notice it: the way he listens when she talks, the way he doesn’t mind being told what to do.
She’s not bossy in a bad way. She’s just confident, the type of person who knows what she wants and assumes the world will catch up. And Ilia? He’s delighted to keep pace.
It starts small.
“Your glove’s ripped again,” she calls out from the boards during practice, holding out her hand like he’s a kid being summoned.
“It’s fine,” he insists, spinning lazily along the ice.
“It’s not fine. That’s how you get calluses, genius.”
He laughs, skating over anyway. “You know how you sound, right?”
“Like someone who’s right?”
“Like someone who thinks they’re right,” he teases, passing her the glove.
She fixes it efficiently, smug as ever.
From down the rink, a teammate yells, “You listen to her more than your coach, man!”
Ilia calls back without missing a beat. “That’s because she’s scarier.”
Laughter ripples through the group. She smirks, perfectly pleased with herself — and he wears that grin that says he wouldn’t change a thing.
At her parents’ house, the same dance unfolds, just with better food and an audience full of witnesses.
“Ilia, hand me the salad tongs. No, not those… the other ones. No—those.”
He obeys instantly, unbothered, while her father raises an amused eyebrow.
“You ever tell her no?” her dad asks, cutting into his roast.
“Not if I want to eat dinner,” Ilia replies lightly.
Her mother laughs. “He’s smart. That’s how good men survive in this family.”
Ilia shoots her a grin. “Exactly. Just adapting to the local customs.”
She kicks him under the table, but her cheeks are pink, and her smile gives her away.
When she finally meets his parents, everything clicks into place.
Tatiana greets her with a hug and immediately tells Roman to “stop chopping so unevenly — they’re onions, not modern art.”
“Roman, not that towel! The blue one!” she calls next.
From the living room, Ilia smirks. “See? Genetics.”
Roman laughs from the kitchen. “Your dating your mother, kid!”
Tatiana glares but waves you toward the couch. “Ignore them. Men pretend they hate being told what to do, but take it away and they’d starve.”
“Exactly,” Roman calls back. “Tragic, really.”
Ilia leans in close, whispering, “Now you know where I get it.”
She smiles. “So you never stood a chance, huh?”
“Not even a little,” he says, looking perfectly content about it.
At a family barbecue later that summer, it’s a running joke.
“You flipped those too soon,” she says, hands on her hips.
“I’m not even done with this side yet!” he protests.
“Exactly. Too soon.”
Her uncle watches with a grin. “She always like this, son?”
“Pretty much,” Ilia says, flipping the spatula in his hand.
“And you’re okay with that?”
He glances at her — sunlight catching in her hair, smiling like she owns the place — then back to the grill. “Yeah. I happen to like experts.”
Her uncle chuckles. “Whipped.”
Ilia shrugs, unbothered. “Happy.”
Their quiet moments at home are no different, just gentler.
You’re curled up on the couch one night, hair in a messy bun, scrolling through your phone.
“Ilia, can you bring me water?”
He groans dramatically. “You have legs.”
“But you love me,” you reply without even looking up.
That earns him on his feet. When he comes back, there’s a glass of water and a cookie balanced carefully on top.
You grin. “You’re learning.”
He drops beside you, stealing half the cookie immediately. “You know everyone says you boss me around too much, right?”
You glance over. “Do you think so?”
He grins that easy, assured, lovesick grin that makes your heart trip a little. “Nope. This is exactly where I want to be.”
You bump your shoulder against his. “Good answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
He’s still smiling when you steal back the other half of the cookie — because, as always, you get the last word.
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word count: 2.9K
summary: After a devastating loss, Ilia Malinin escapes Milan with you on a spontaneous Italian road trip that slowly turns heartbreak into healing.
a/n: Hi there everyone! Sorry for the absence, my motivation has been zero AND I injured my wrist and couldn’t write for two weeks. Anyhoo, I’ve been obsessed with the Winter Olympics and, of course, with Ilia, so here you go. Also yes, I did write this on a 5h car ride. ENJOY!
warnings: Hurt-comfort. Ilia is a sad boi after placing eighth in the Olympics. ILIA AND READER ARE DATING.
It was 5am when the sound of an alarm you hadn’t programmed stirred you awake. The room was completely dark and the sun hadn’t risen yet — of course it hadn’t, it was 5am, and the earliest you had seen it rise in Milan during your stay was at 7:20am. You looked around, disoriented and still half asleep, when you noticed that Ilia’s side of the bed was completely empty. You sit up, suddenly very aware of your surroundings, when you hear a soft chuckle come from the window.
”Rise and shine.”
Ilia.
You let out a soft sigh of relief, the tension that had built up in your body dissipating.
“You scared me. I thought you had left.” You huff, crossing your arms, to which he chuckles in return.
”To where? I’m already done competing, and the next games don’t start until 10am.” He turns to face you, leaning against the open window. The only light that came in was the one from a lamppost on the street below.
”Then why are we awake? And why did you set an alarm?”
”Well, since we’re here, I thought we could do some exploring.” He replies, as if waking up at 5am to explore was something completely normal.
”And where do you plan on going? I doubt anything’s open yet.” You can’t help scoff. You tended to get a bit snappy when tired, and that only made him chuckle even more.
”I thought of a road trip. Italy’s big, and we don’t necessarily need to stick to Milan.” Ilia walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.
”Won’t your coach get mad if you’re gone?”
“Eh. He’ll just think I’m still grieving.” He shrugs, and you can’t help the pang of concern you feel for him, the memory of the past days resurfacing, alongside the one of him falling and ending up in eighth place. Still, you keep a tough façade for his sake.
“Do you have any places in mind? Or are we just going to grab the car we rented and drive?”
“Okay, hear me out. We go from Milan to Pisa, we can have brunch there in a cute little place I found on instagram next to the Leaning Tower. Then we go to Florence and explore around, and lastly go to Rome, where we can spend the night and come back tomorrow.”
You stare at him dumbfounded. Damn, he had really thought this through. You can’t blame him for wanting to get out of Milan for a while though.
“That… actually sounds pretty good.” You hum, stretching a bit. He smiles softly.
“Great! Then you better dress up quickly, because Pisa is kinda far and we want to make it there early.”
He stands up and moves quietly around the room, careful not to bump into anything in the dark.
It’s almost strange. The Ilia you’re used to is usually loud in the mornings, dramatic about how early it is, stealing your blanket just to annoy you. Now he just folds it back neatly, like he needs something to do with his hands.
You watch him pull on his team jacket. His expression is calm, controlled. The same look he wore when the cameras were inches from his face. The same small smile he gave when people told him he’d “still done amazing.”
He catches you staring and lifts a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say softly.
He walks over and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. It’s soft and sweet, yet controlled. He looks at you, taking in your tired expression, and he softens.
“You don’t have to wake up this early for me,” he murmurs. “We can just stay.”
You know that tone. Casual. Light. As if this whole trip wasn’t his idea.
“I want to,” you tell him.
That makes him pause. Not long, but enough to make him smile a bit more. Warmer, like he used to before. He then nods, brushing his thumb over your cheek before turning away to grab the keys.
The hotel hallway is quiet as you step out together, your shoulders brushing. The ride down to the lobby is silent, and when you step out, you reach out to grab his hands which he squeezes back. The sky outside is barely turning grey, the city still asleep.
────୨ৎ────
A few minutes later, you’re in the car. He adjusts the mirrors, checks his phone, sets the GPS — all small, precise movements. Focused like he always is. You can’t help admire his features under the dim light from the lampposts outside — his chiseled jaw, his soft blonde hair, and those gorgeous blue eyes you loved to get lost in.
Before he starts the engine, you reach for his hand again.
He doesn’t look at you right away. Just squeezes your fingers, tight, grounding. Then he exhales softly, almost to himself.
“Okay,” he says.
The car starts.
And this time, when he pulls away, he lets his hand stay in yours.
Ilia starts to drive in silence, and you can feel the fatigue slowly creep back. You lean against the window, looking out at the few remaining stars in the sky as your eyelids grow heavy. You don’t know how long you’re asleep for, but when you’re awoken by Ilia’s soft voice, the sun is already fully out.
”Good morning. Sleep well?” He tucks the strands of hair that had draped over your face in your sleep back behind your ear. You hum, still half-asleep as you rub your face.
”’Morning. What time is it?”
“9:30. We just arrived in Pisa. You slept all the way through.” He hums back, his hand staying on your cheek as he cups it softly.
“Oh. Sorry for that.” You pout, to which he replies to with a soft kiss against your lips.
”Don’t worry. You’re cute when you sleep, you know that?” He chuckles and his hand slips from your cheek to your chin.
”Oh shut up.”
He chuckles. “With pleasure.” With that he leans in again and kisses you properly.
────୨ৎ────
By the time you two leave the car, the sun was well up in the sky.
Ilia drags you around Pisa, pointing out anything he finds relatively interesting — he even pointed at a seagull because he said it was “the biggest seagull he had ever seen”. People try to approach you two, asking for autographs and pictures, but Ilia completely ignores them, too focused on you. He takes you to a cozy cafeteria near the Leaning Tower of Pisa, where you eat the best French toast you’ve eaten in a while, before he drags you into the Leaning Tower, skipping the line due to his reputation.
You take photos together, and for the first time in all the days you’ve been in Italy, he seems genuinely happy.
”How about we take a walk near the Arno river? I heard it’s gorgeous.” You suggest, your hands grabbing the railing on the balcony of the Leaning Tower.
”Let me search it up, because I heard they also do boat rides around it.” He takes his phone and searches something up. “There’s a boat now at 11pm, or we can rent a private one. Which do you prefer?”
“The public one’s fine. I think the private one’s best at night to see the views oh so romantically.” You step towards him, your hands fidgeting with the strings of his jacket.
”Sounds fair.” He texts something else before putting his phone back. “There. I just bought two tickets. Let’s go before we lose the boat.” He grabs your hand and pulls you with him, which earned you some glances from the passing tourists, but you couldn’t find yourself actually caring when you’re with him.
“Let me open the GPS to see how far away it is-“ He searches up the river and goes silent, looking at you. “Did we seriously just buy tickets for a boat tour that leaves in 30 minutes when we’re 50 minutes away by car?”
You stop dead in your tracks, looking at him with wide eyes.
”50 minutes away?”
”50 minutes away.”
”By car?”
“By car.”
”How did we miss that?” You chuckle incredulously, and he joins.
“No idea.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Let me see if I can get a refund, or at least change it.”
”Gosh, we’re hopeless, you know that?”
”Very much aware. One second.” He raised his hand as he brought his phone to his ear, calling the boat tour company. You stayed where you are, fiddling idly with the hem of your sweater and kicking a pebble on the sidewalk.
Looking around, you take everything in — from the beautiful sky and green grass to Ilia, who is arguing with whoever is on the phone from the boat company. You look at him fully, not missing a single detail. You observe how his shoulders are the slightest bit tense, and you couldn’t blame him. The Olympics had ended up horribly for him, and despite it looking otherwise, you knew he hadn’t been coping all too well.
He must’ve noticed you staring at him, because he turned to face you, still on the phone, and waved. You waved back at him and saw how that faint tension you had previously observed dissipated, and you couldn’t help feel happy. Happy that he was feeling better. Happy that you were with him.
Eventually, he got off the phone and walked back to you.
”So bad news, they’re not refunding us.” He shoves the phone back into his pocket. “The good news is we have nothing else to do. So I ask, would you rather stop by in Florence and have lunch there, or straight up go to Rome? We’d have to stop on the way to have dinner though, but if we went to Florence, we wouldn’t have time to explore though.”
You hum, thinking for a moment. “Depends. Did you have any specific place planned for Florence?”
He shakes his head, and you shrug in response.
”Then let’s just go to Rome, there’s more to do there.”
He nods and starts to lead you back to the car.
────୨ৎ────
This time, you didn’t fall asleep in the car. You stopped by the small supermarket near where the car was packed to buy a few packs of chips and cookies, as well as drinks for the 4 hour trip. Ilia was a bit hesitant first, not wanting to break his diet, but you managed to convince him. Currently, you two were eating a packet of Cheetos Footballs as he drove through a countryside road. You both had abandoned the idea of stopping for lunch, having already eaten a sandwich from the same supermarket.
“I can’t believe they call these ‘pelotazos’ here.” You comment, feeding Ilia one, who gladly eats it.
“They’re also not neon orange, which in my opinion, is a huge improvement.” He replies, mouth full and with some crumbs on the corner of his lips. You snort at the sight and wipe the crumbs off with your hands.
“I believe these are healthier. These only have 155 calories.” You shove a handful into your mouth, savoring the less artificial flavor that these chips had comparatively to the ones they sold in the states.
Silence enveloped both of you as you looked out at the endless fields of deep and light green. The sights were stunning, and you found yourself enthralled by the views. At one point, you felt his hand slip to your thigh as he gently squeezed it. Your hand reached out to the radio and turned it up. Your face lit up as you recognized the song playing.
“Oh- I know this song!” You start to hum along the melody and he chuckles.
”Of course you do, don’t you? Is there any song-“
“I don't care how long it takes- As long as I'm with you, I've got a smile on my face” You interrupt him as the chorus comes up, singing with verve. He goes silent, but listens to you with a smile as you give the song your all. When you finished, he clapped against the steering wheel and you playfully bowed.
”Thank you, thank you.” She chuckles, smiling proudly.
”You should be on Broadway with your amazing singing skills.”
”I know right! No one gets me except you.”
He chuckles again and shakes his head. “We’re arriving in about an hour. Could you find the hotel address?”
”Sure. What’s the name?”
”Palazzo delle Pietre.” He replies, trying to put on his best Italian accent. You snort at the lame result.
”Sounds fancy.” You search up the hotel and go wide-eyed. “Ilia. How much did the night cost you here?”
“A gentleman never tells.” He smirks, seeing your shocked expression. “Don’t worry. I haven’t gone bankrupt. Nor have I had to sell a kidney.”
You huff, searching up the address on your phone and opening the GPS, setting it besides his phone.
”I still don’t know how you manage to do these sorts of things.”
”PR handles a lot.” He shrugs nonchalantly, yet you can see the glimmer of joy in his eyes from having made you happy.
”I seem to keep forgetting who you are, Mr. QuadGod.” You tease and he grins.
”Don’t worry, you won’t keep forgetting after this.”
”Is that a promise or a threat?”
“You decide.”
────୨ৎ────
The hotel was stunning. It looked like an old coliseum from outside, yet the inside screamed old money and expensiveness. You swore that you had seen the chandeliers that hung casually around the whole building in a Swarovski magazine. While you looked in absolute astonishment at the man dressed in a perfectly pressed tux play the piano in one side of the main lobby, Ilia checked in at the main desk. A few minutes later, he tapped your shoulder, holding the room keys in his other hand.
”Got the room key. Want to go upstairs?” He tilted his head in the same adorable way that always made your knees feel weak.
”How did you manage this-? Like, actually Ilia.”
“I’ll be honest with you. I asked my dad for any hotel recommendations, since he’s been here already, and he apparently knows the owner.” He shrugs, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind and pulling you close against him. Your hand comes up to his hair, leaning back against him with a soft hum. You both swayed to the sound of the soft piano before he pressed a kiss against your shoulder.
“Come on. I wanna see if the room is as good as the lobby.” He chuckles, dragging you with him towards the elevators.
The elevators were made of gorgeous white quartz and golden accents. They screamed expensive in a way you have never seen an elevator do before. Your room was on the second floor, so the ride was quite short. When the doors finally opened, he let go of your waist to instead grab your hand, leading you down the hall.
The room, alongside the whole hotel, was huge. The walls were pure white with some wood veneers, there was a huge double bed in the middle of the room, a couch, a TV and a huge window with embroidered curtains. You walked over to the bed and plopped down on the right side, Ilia following suit on the left side, his hands lacing over his chest as his legs dangled off the edge.
You roll over to your side, facing him as your eyes trailed over his profile. Feeling observed, he moved his head to look at you too.
”What?” He asked, his voice soft so as not to disrupt the peaceful ambient between you both.
”How are you doing?” You finally reply, asking the question he had been dancing around for the past days.
He shifted uncomfortably, shrugging. “I’m okay-“
“No you’re not. Don’t lie to me Ilia. How are you doing? Really.” You frown as he avoided the question yet again. He moved his head again, looking away from you and at the ceiling. He shrugged again.
”I’m… surviving, I guess.” He shrugged yet again. Seeing your lack or response, he continued. “I just wanted to get out of there. Away from the press.”
You sigh and reach out, placing a hand over his laced ones. He unlaces them and grabs your hand.
After a few seconds of silence, he spoke up. “Thank you.”
”For what?” You hum. He shifts fully to face you, his free hand coming up to your cheek.
”For this. For coming with me. For not leaving. For-”
”Ilia…” You mutter.
”For being the one I can rely on.” He interrupts you. He sighed softly, and you put your free hand over his one on your cheek.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
”No, I do. I don’t know what it is, but, as long as I’m with you-“ he lets out a small sad chuckle. “As long as I’m with you, it’s like all my problems go away. You make me forget about everything, and live in the present instead of dwelling in the past or panicking about the future.”
You look at him. Really look at him. And with a soft smile, you reply.
“I love you, you know that? And I’m never going to leave.”
He pauses for a second, and you can see his eyes turn glassy with all the tears he didn’t shed in these past days.
”Can you say it again?” He mumbled, his voice quivering.
Your smile softens further. “I love you, Ilia Malinin.”
”God, I love you too. So damned much.” He lets out a choked breath and pulls you into a kiss.
⛸️Alysa Liu Shines for Gold on 닌자티비 as Milan Delivers Olympic Skating Drama🥇
At the unforgettable 2026 Winter Olympics in Milan, American star Alysa Liu produced a breathtaking performance to capture women’s singles gold, while one of the men’s event favourites, Ilia Malinin, endured a heartbreaking night on the ice. Fans following the emotional competition on 👉닌자티비 were treated to a showcase of both triumph and cruel sporting reality.
👇Watch Live Sports On NINJATV.👇
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Liu’s Golden Comeback Moment ✨🥇
After stepping away from elite competition following the 2022 Winter Olympics, Liu returned to the Olympic stage with renewed confidence and composure. Sitting outside the top two after the short program, she delivered a stunning free skate packed with precision and calm under pressure. Her victory made her the first American woman to win Olympic figure skating gold since Sarah Hughes in 2002.
Behind her, Japan’s Kaori Sakamoto claimed silver, while teenage sensation Ami Nakai delighted the crowd with a bronze-medal finish.
Malinin’s Tough Night on Olympic Ice 💔🧊
In the men’s competition, Malinin arrived in Milan with huge expectations after a dominant season. But a costly fall on his signature quad Axel and further mistakes in his program quickly pushed him out of medal contention. It was a painful reminder of how unforgiving the Olympic stage can be.
A Night That Captured the Spirit of the Games 🌍❄️
From Liu’s resilience to Malinin’s struggle, Milan delivered a figure skating evening that perfectly reflected the emotional highs and lows of the Olympic dream.
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Oh my god I love your writing could you do something based on so high school by Taylor swift and it’s about ilia and the reader being together since high school since they are both professional skaters? They are so in love and ilia is such a lover boy obsessed
So high school
Summary: glimpses of life growing up with Ilia
Warnings: suggestive moments, very YA novel cliches, author slowly going insane, prob a bit inconsistent bc I wrote everything over like a week and don’t feel like fixing that stuff
[a/n] so um. This is almost 8k words. It was supposed to be a drabble but I fear I’m insane.
I feel so high school every time I look at you
You met sophomore year.
New girl. New rink. New coach. New state.
He sat in the back of your English 10 class, eyes locking on yours the moment you walked in and took your seat in the front row.
I wanna find you in a crowd just to hide from you
It wasn’t just at school. You saw him at the rink too. He was already the prodigy everyone whispered about in the lobby, the kid with too much talent and not enough patience for anyone who couldn’t keep up.
Despite him being everywhere in your life, you never spoke. You watched each other from a distance.
His parents coached both of you, which meant sharing ice was inevitable.
After weeks of orbiting around each other, you finally had practice together.
The first time you landed your triple–triple clean in front of him, he didn’t clap.
He skated past and said, “You rotate too fast.”
Which, from Ilia, was basically a love confession.
And in a blink of a crinkling eye
It feels stupid, you think later.
Realizing you’re smiling at your phone during off-ice conditioning because Ilia Malinin sent you a blurry rink selfie with the caption: “landed it. barely. you would’ve been proud.”
I'm sinking, our fingers entwined
You start dating in the most high school way possible.
At first it’s simple: walking to your next class after English, sharing AirPods on the bus to competitions, doing homework side by side in the rink lobby. Then it grows. He skates over to help you up after a fall. His hoodie ends up permanently in your locker from the one time you got cold and he told you to keep it “just in case.”
There’s a crackling tension between you that neither of you names.
Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights
Ilia needs a homecoming date. He doesn’t care about the dance, but his mom insists he should experience some normal high school traditions.
What actually convinces him is how much you clearly care about this “stupid dance.”
You slump onto the bench at the rink, head tipped back, a dramatic sigh escaping you.
He looks up from tying his skates. “Are you okay?”
You sit up, turning to face him. “Ilia, I need you to set me up with one of your friends.”
He almost chokes. “What? Why am I doing that?”
“I need a date for homecoming, and I don’t know anyone here yet.” You’re serious.
His chest tightens at the thought of you going with one of his friends. Absolutely not. So instead of setting you up with someone, he decides he’ll take you.
A couple days later, he convinces his mom to let him leave practice a few minutes early so he can tuck flowers with a note into your locker. He tells himself it’s for you.
You come in while he’s tying his street shoes, heading to put your stuff away. He watches from the corner of his eye as you spin in your locker combination.
“Ilia.”
“Hm?”
“Are you being serious right now?”
He stands, taking a few steps closer.
“Very serious.”
Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me
Ilia has never seen you in a real dress before, because a competition costume didn’t really count. When you open your front door in your homecoming dress, he forgets how to breathe, warmth creeping up his neck.
The words leave before he can stop them.
“You’re beautiful.”
You laugh softly. “Thank you.”
You try not to linger on the fact that he says you are beautiful, not that you look beautiful.
He wouldn’t have gone to that dance if it weren’t for you, but watching you smile on the dance floor with his hands on your waist makes the whole night worth it.
I'll drink what you think, and I'm high from smoking your jokes all damn night
About a week later, you’re sprawled across his bed, split-screen Minecraft glowing on the TV, both of you laughing as your avatars fall off the same cliff for the third time.
“Seriously, how are you always dying first?” you tease.
“I’m… strategic,” he protests, but he’s distracted. His fingers hover over the buttons, thumbs frozen.
You glance over. His usual grin is gone. He’s staring at the screen like he’s not actually seeing it.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “You okay?”
He swallows. Then, without warning, he drops his controller, scoots up, and sits cross-legged in front of you, blocking the TV. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the blanket.
“Uh…” he starts, eyes wide and serious. “I like you.”
You freeze, controller still in hand.
“What do you mean?” Your voice comes out thin.
Panic flashes across his face before he blurts, “Like… I like like you. I’ve liked you since you moved here.”
Your chest tightens. You don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or throw a pillow at him. The room feels too small, your ears too hot.
“I… I like you too,” you admit, a nervous grin tugging at your mouth, because on some level you already knew. You’ve been pretending not to notice how he watches you skate, how he offers help with your hardest jumps, how he laughs at every dumb joke.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, relief washing over his face. Then he leans back, grabs his controller again like nothing monumental just happened.
“Okay,” he says, aiming for casual. “But now you have to help me build a proper base. No cheating.”
You roll your eyes, laughing, but everything feels different. The game keeps going, chaotic as ever, but there’s a new electricity in the room.
You glance sideways but he’s already looking at you.
The brink of a wrinkle in time
The next few weeks feel different. Dramatic and new. Like the world has narrowed down to blades carving ice and his fingers lacing through yours under the bleachers.
One afternoon, after practice, you’re sitting on the cold metal bleachers behind the rink. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the freshly resurfaced ice glowing below. Everyone else is gone.
It’s just you and him.
Your hands hang between you, loosely linked, swinging off the edge.
“You skated good today,” he says, watching the ice instead of you.
“Good?” you scoff. “That’s it?”
He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “You know what I mean.”
Silence settles over you. He feels closer than usual. Or maybe you’re finally noticing.
Your knee brushes his.
Neither of you move away.
You glance over. He’s already looking at you.
His thumb traces over your knuckles. Your heart thunders.
“Are you okay?” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, more honest, “Just—”
He stops himself.
Before you can ask, he leans in.
It’s hesitant and a little clumsy, like he’s giving you every second to pull away. You don’t.
The kiss is soft and quick, more a press of lips than anything, but it feels like stepping off an edge and finding solid ground.
When he pulls back, his cheeks are pink.
“Okay,” he breathes, like he just landed a jump.
You blink. “Okay?”
He nods, nervous and proud. “Yeah. Okay.”
You laugh softly and this time you’re the one who leans in, brushing your lips against his again, more certain now.
It feels like the beginning of something that stretches past the rink, past the bleachers, past sophomore year.
Everything looks different, like someone turned the color up on your whole life.
Bittersweet sixteen suddenly
You’ve been to Ilia’s house dozens of times.
It’s not the house that makes your stomach twist now. It’s the way everything feels… shifted.
“Hey,” Ilia says quietly, bumping your shoulder as he shuts the door. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The overthinking thing.”
You exhale through your nose. “I’m not overthinking.”
“You look like my mom is about to judge your step sequence.”
You fight a smile. “She has done that before.”
“Yeah, but not tonight.” He leans in, voice softer. “Tonight you’re just… you.”
That should calm you down. It almost does.
His mom greets you warmly, but there’s a gentleness tonight that feels different — less coach, more mother. His dad asks about your birthday instead of your rotations. It’s subtle, but you feel it.
They’re not looking at you like their skater. They’re looking at you like their son’s girlfriend.
Somehow, that’s more nerve-wracking.
“Hi!”
You glance over and see Liza peeking around the corner, braver than last time.
“You came back,” she says, like she wasn’t sure you would.
“Of course I did,” you smile.
“She’s my girlfriend,” Ilia adds casually, like it’s nothing.
Like that word doesn’t make your heart stutter.
Liza’s eyes widen, like something important just clicked. Then she grabs your hand. “Come on.”
You end up on the floor surrounded by crayons, Ilia close enough that your knees keep knocking. Liza talks nonstop, explaining her drawings, assigning you roles in whatever game she’s invented.
You relax into it without realizing.
Until—
“You two are cute.”
You choke.
“Liza,” Ilia groans.
“What?” she shrugs. “You are.”
Your face burns. Suddenly you’re hyper-aware again — of his parents in the next room, of the word girlfriend echoing in your head, of how this isn’t just your coach’s house anymore.
Dinner is where it really sinks in.
You’ve sat at this table before, but now you’re woven into the conversation. His mom asks about your birthday plans. His dad tells a story about Ilia as a kid. Liza interrupts constantly.
And Ilia keeps looking at you.
Not in the quick, distracted way from the rink.
Fully. Softly. Proud.
Under the table, his hand finds yours.
You hesitate for half a second — they’re right there — then lace your fingers through his.
No one says anything.
The silence makes your chest feel warm instead of tight.
You’d never pictured this — sitting in your boyfriend’s house with his family around you, his hand brushing yours like it belongs there.
It settles gently in your chest.
Later, you’re back on the floor, leaning against the couch. Liza half-asleep beside you. Ilia’s shoulder pressed against yours.
“You were nervous,” he says quietly.
You glance at him. “Was it obvious?”
“Only to me.”
You huff. “I just didn’t know how to act.”
“Why?”
You pick at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Because they know me as their skater. And now I’m just like—” you gesture between you, “—this.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then nudges your foot with his.
“You’re both,” he says. “And they already liked you before this.”
You look at him.
“And I really like you,” he adds, softer.
You stay longer than you planned.
Long enough for the house to quiet. Long enough that it starts to feel natural again — not like stepping into a new role, but like growing into one that was always waiting.
When Ilia walks you to the door, his hand brushing yours, you realize nothing actually changed.
I'm watching American Pie with you on a Saturday night, Your friends are around, so be quiet, I'm trying to stifle my sighs
Someone puts on American Pie.
You’re not even sure which one — just that it’s loud, stupid, and way too inappropriate for how seriously everyone is pretending to watch it.
You’re squeezed onto the couch between Ilia and a mutual friend, a blanket half-draped over your legs. The room smells like popcorn and energy drinks, laughter erupting every few seconds.
Ilia’s arm stretches along the back of the couch behind you.
Casual.
Too casual.
His fingers keep brushing your shoulder like it’s an accident. It’s not.
You shift, pretending to adjust the blanket, and lean back so your head rests against his chest. His arm drops instantly, settling around your waist like it belongs there.
On screen, someone yells something absurd. The room erupts.
His breath is warm against your ear.
“You’re not even watching,” he murmurs.
“I am,” you whisper.
“You haven’t looked at the TV in like five minutes.”
You fight a smile. “Maybe it’s not that interesting.”
His thumb traces a slow line along your side. Your stomach flips.
Across the room, a friend glances over. You sit up a little.
“Your friends are around,” you murmur. “Behave.”
He huffs a quiet laugh into your hair. “I’m not doing anything.”
His hand squeezes your waist just a little.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting.
The movie keeps playing. People keep laughing.
But you’re hyper-aware of his knee against yours, his fingers drumming lightly at your hip, the steady warmth of him behind you.
You’re supposed to be focused on the screen.
Instead, you’re focused on not sighing when he rests his chin on top of your head.
“Stop,” you whisper.
“Stop what?”
“Existing like that.”
You can hear his smile. “You like it.”
You do.
Way too much.
Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me?
You’re both still in practice clothes, sitting on the boards after a long session. The rink is mostly empty, the ice quiet.
Ilia bumps his shoulder into yours.
“Okay,” he says, way too serious. “Important question.”
You squint. “That tone is concerning.”
“If we were in one of those stupid games,” he continues, “and the options were marry, kiss, or kill… what would you pick for me?”
You stare.
“You are such a loser.”
He grins. “Answer the question.”
You tap your chin. “Hmm. Kill.”
He gasps. “Wow. After everything I’ve done for you?”
“You ate my protein bar yesterday.”
“That was survival.”
You laugh, and he watches you like that’s the point.
“Fine,” you sigh. “Kiss. Obviously.”
“Just kiss?” he presses, eyebrows raised.
You roll your eyes. “Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me, Malinin?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips, gentler than most of his teasing ones.
“There,” he says quietly. “That one.”
Your stomach flips.
“And?” you push.
He shrugs, pretending it’s nothing, ears pink. “I don’t need the other two options.”
You blink. “That wasn’t one of the choices.”
“Exactly.”
Your heart stumbles.
“Ilia.”
He bumps his knee against yours, suddenly shy in that way he only gets when he’s accidentally sincere.
“I’m not killing you,” he mutters. “And I’m not just kissing you.”
The implication hangs between you, too big for two teenagers sitting on the edge of a rink.
You smile softly. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Yeah,” he says, nudging your shoulder again. “But you love it.”
You do.
And the way he looks at you then — like he already knows his answer — makes your chest feel dangerously close to something that sounds like forever.
Get my car door, isn't that sweet?
Your phone buzzes.
Ilia: hey
come outside
You frown.
You: why
Three dots.
Ilia: just do it
You roll your eyes and grab the nearest hoodie — his — without thinking.
When you step outside, you stop.
He’s parked at the curb, leaning against the passenger side. The porch light hits him just right.
He nods once. “Hey.”
You walk closer, fighting a smile.
“That’s your car?”
He straightens, pulling his wallet from his pocket and flashing his license.
“Passed,” he says. “First try.”
Your face lights up. “No way.”
“Way.”
You throw your arms around him. He stumbles back a step, laughing into your hair.
When you pull away, he notices.
“The hoodie,” he says, quieter.
You glance down. “What about it?”
“That’s mine.”
“You left it.”
“I did not leave it. You stole it.”
“Semantics.”
He shakes his head, that soft smile tugging at his mouth.
“You look better in it anyway,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “C’mon.” He pulls open the passenger door.
You arch an eyebrow.
“Oh,” you say sweetly. “Isn’t that sweet?”
He groans. “Do not.”
“You’re being such a gentleman.”
“I am a gentleman,” he insists, cheeks pink. “Get in.”
You slide into the seat, sleeves bunching around your hands. He closes the door gently.
When he gets in on his side, he pauses for a second and just looks at you — you, in his hoodie, in his passenger seat, in his car.
“You’re my first drive,” he says, trying to sound casual. “So. No pressure.”
“I feel honored,” you reply.
Music fills the car, windows down, warm night air rushing in.
At the first red light, you reach over and take his hand off the center console.
“You’re gripping everything like it’s a quad attempt.”
“Driving is serious,” he says. “It’s a machine.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
He squeezes your hand.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you like me.”
You look at him — really look at him — leaning against the steering wheel like this isn’t a huge deal.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”
Then pull me to the backseat
You end up in an empty playground lot, radio low, a comfortable silence between you.
You tuck your knees under you, turning toward him. He’s already looking at you.
“You’re staring,” you murmur.
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he replies.
“You’ve mentioned.”
He exhales a small laugh, shaking his head like he’s talking himself out of something. Then he reaches over, fingers brushing your wrist.
“C’mere.”
You lean over the center console, meeting his mouth halfway. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb moving in slow strokes. You pull back slightly, smiling against his lips.
He glances toward the backseat.
Then back at you.
You raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly. Then, quieter, “Just… wanted to be closer.”
The backseat is cramped and ridiculous. You’re both half-laughing as you climb over the seats, shifting until you find some version of comfortable.
You end up lying on top of him, your head tucked under his chin, music humming low. His hands find the hem of the hoodie, hesitant, asking without words.
You nod before he can.
His hand slips underneath, running up and down your spine over your shirt. Outside, the world is quiet.
You shift, hovering a little over him, his hand steady on your waist. You lean down again, lips brushing his, slow and unhurried. He pulls you closer, fingers firm at your waist.
He smiles against your mouth, like he still can’t believe this is real.
You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “But I’m your dork.”
He rests his forehead against yours, breath warm, windows fogged enough to blur the streetlights. It feels like the start of another memory you’ll replay forever.
No one's ever had me, not like you
You’re tangled in Ilia’s navy sheets after practice. Everything feels warm and heavy. Your back is pressed to his chest, your hand resting over his where it’s slipped beneath the shirt you stole, his palm spread across your stomach.
You’re drifting toward sleep when you feel him press a light kiss to the crook of your neck, lips lingering.
You sigh, body melting against his, breath slow and steady.
Ilia can’t help it. He blames the softness of it all, the way it feels domestic and inevitable.
He pulls you closer, nose nudging your shoulder, and mumbles into your skin,
“I love you.”
Truth, dare, spin bottles
The warm summer air clings to your skin. A small group of friends sprawls across a backyard under string lights, celebrating the last stretch of summer before school. Music hums from a speaker. Someone insists on playing spin the bottle truth-or-dare like it’s sacred.
You laugh, rolling your eyes. “I can’t believe you guys still do this.”
“Oh, come on,” someone protests. “It’s tradition.”
“You say that every time,” you tease, sipping your drink.
Ilia sits next to you on a blanket, leaning back on his hands, watching you more than the circle. The way your hair catches the light, the way you throw your head back when you laugh — that’s what he sees.
You catch him staring.
He freezes for a second, then pretends to adjust his sleeve.
“What?” you ask, laughing, nudging his arm.
He swallows and smiles, soft and a little shy. “Nothing, love,” he says quietly.
You laugh louder, shaking your head. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
The bottle spins. Dares, truths, and ridiculous questions fly around.
But you still feel his gaze on you.
You bump his shoulder again. “Stop staring.”
“Not staring,” he says, voice low. “Admiring.”
“Admiring?” you echo, laughing.
“Yes. Admiring,” he insists, shrugging like it’s normal to be in love with someone doing absolutely nothing.
You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers.
You know how to ball, I know Aristotle
The rink is mostly empty, just the distant scrape of blades. You’re perched on the bleachers, notebook open on your lap, pencil tapping. Ilia sprawls next to you, textbook open, hair falling into his eyes.
“I don’t get it,” he groans. “Why does Abigail even exist?”
“Motivation drives the plot,” you say, pointing to a highlighted passage. “She’s selfish and manipulative, and—”
He sits up, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours. “You make this sound so easy,” he murmurs.
You glance at him. “Focus, Malinin. You’re supposed to be writing an essay.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away. “Maybe if I’m closer, I’ll understand better.”
You roll your eyes, heart skipping. “Uh-huh. Learning by proximity.”
“Exactly.” His mouth curves into a smirk, cheeks faintly pink. “Somehow you make all this make sense.”
You laugh softly, nudging him. “You’re ridiculous. Stop trying to get out of your essay.”
He lifts a shoulder, leaning that tiny bit closer. “I’m motivated,” he says quietly. “By your genius.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and tap a line in his essay. “Just expand this part. You can do it. I’m helping, not doing it for you.”
He bites back a grin, dropping his head closer to yours. “You’re really smart,” he murmurs. “And it’s… attractive.”
You blush, keeping your eyes on the page. “Focus.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I am focusing. On you.”
Even with textbooks and notes spread around you, it feels like the rink has shrunk down to just the two of you.
You knew what you wanted and boy, you got her
You’ve just landed the final jump of your free program, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. The arena erupts in applause as you skate off, smiling and exhausted.
Ilia has been leaning against the boards, watching every second, when he hears it — a couple of senior guys nearby whispering.
“Damn… she’s so hot.”
“How happy do you think she is with Malinin?”
His jaw clenches; his chest tightens.
When you step off the ice, eyes still bright from the performance, he doesn’t say anything. He just pulls you into a tight hug, your arm draped around his shoulders as he tucks you into his chest.
He presses a long kiss to the top of your head.
“What’s going on?” you ask, half-laughing, half-confused as you pull back a little.
He shrugs, trying to be casual. “Nothing. Just… wanted to hold you.”
You give him the look that makes him squirm.
“Okay,” he admits, voice dropping. “I overheard a couple of guys talking about you. And yeah, I got a little jealous.”
You blink, caught between rolling your eyes and smiling. “Wow. You’re really intense about this, huh?”
He presses another kiss to your temple, softer, deliberate. “Completely. You’re mine, and I’m not letting anyone think otherwise.”
As he drapes his arm around your waist and walks you toward the locker room, you bump his shoulder.
“You really don’t hold back, do you?”
“Nope,” he says, smirking, thumb brushing your side. “I’m not subtle about you. On or off the ice. Not ever.”
You laugh softly, warmth flooding your chest.
You already know, babe
You’re perched on the edge of Ilia’s bed, knees pulled up, his hoodie hanging loose around you as late afternoon light filters through the blinds.
“Do you ever… think about next year?” you ask quietly. “About everything changing?”
Ilia leans back on his elbows, eyes on you. “All the time,” he admits.
Your stomach twists. “I mean… college, training, new teams, new people. I just don’t want us to… drift.”
He sits up, sliding closer until your shoulders touch. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Hey,” he says softly. “Nothing’s changing. Not really. You know how much I love you.”
You swallow. “I know. But what if things get… harder?”
He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face like he did when you were fifteen and panicking over test skates. “Then we handle it. Together. You and me. Like always.”
Your chest loosens and you lean into him. “You really think it’ll be okay?”
His smile is soft and sure. “You already know that answer, babe.” He presses a kiss to your temple, hand tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
In that quiet room, with sunlight painting the floor and the future still miles away, you believe him.
I feel like laughing in the middle of practice, Do that impression you did of your dad again
The rink is quiet except for the swish of blades and the echo of your breathing. Worlds is days away, and every landing feels like it could tip the scales. Your jumps and spins are crisp but heavy.
You’re halfway through your program when Ilia’s voice cuts through the music, mimicking his dad perfectly:
“Why are you leaning early? You bend your knee, more power!”
It’s so accurate you break. You burst into laughter, trip out of your spin, and slide to a stop.
“Ilia, stop! You sound exactly like him!”
He grins, skating lazy circles around you. “Then maybe you should listen next time.”
“Yeah, okay, Coach Ilia,” you shoot back, still laughing.
The tension in your shoulders eases. The ice feels like home again.
“You know what we need?” he announces. “A pairs element.”
You stare. “We’ve literally never done pairs.”
“Details.”
Before you can argue, he’s holding out his hands with reckless confidence. You sigh, take them — and two seconds later you’re both crashing down in a heap of limbs and laughter, sliding halfway across the ice.
Up in the viewing gallery, Tatiana and Roman watch, amused.
“We were laughing like that when we trained for Nationals,” Tatiana says.
Roman chuckles. “Some things never change.”
On the ice, Ilia props himself up on an elbow, cheeks flushed from laughing. “Not bad for a first lift,” he says.
“You mean first crash,” you say, brushing snow from your leggings.
He smirks. “Hey, you still let me catch you.” His voice softens. “You trust me.”
The warmth of that hangs between you until he leans in and presses a quick, playful kiss to your cheek. You blink, startled, but his grin is all charm and no apology.
“Technical deduction for laughing mid-program,” he whispers.
From the gallery, Tatiana’s laugh carries. “Ilia! We can see you, you know!”
Roman shakes his head. “In my day, we waited until after practice.”
Ilia drops his face into his hands. “Oh my god.”
You’re laughing again as you skate toward the boards, cheeks burning.
“Nice technique on that lift!” Tatiana calls.
“Yeah,” Roman adds, mock-stern, “maybe keep it PG until after Worlds.”
You glance at Ilia, and both of you dissolve into laughter. The ice feels softer, the moment lighter. For the first time all week, you stop thinking about Worlds and start feeling it again.
I'm hearing voices like a madman
You step off the ice after a perfect program, hands shaking with adrenaline and joy. Nothing matters except that he’s there.
Ilia is the first person you see. Before a mic can be shoved in your face, he’s there, pulling you into a tight hug and kissing you.
The roar of the arena fades. Cameras flash, voices blur.
Later, in the quiet of your hotel room, the noise finds you again. You scroll through social media — comments questioning if you’re “good enough” for him, calling you a distraction, ignoring that you both just earned your spots on the Olympic team.
By the time you reach the bed, your chest is tight and your medal feels heavier than it did on the podium.
Ilia doesn’t leave your side. He sits you down, pulls you against him, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You sink into him, his chest steady under your cheek.
“They’re idiots,” he murmurs. “Ignore them. You’re brilliant. Nothing they say changes that.”
You bury your face in his shoulder. “It’s so much. I thought I could handle it, but…”
“You can,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “You’ve handled everything. And I’m here. Always.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as he brushes hair from your face. “Just voices,” he mutters. “None of them matter.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You make everything sound so dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic,” he agrees, a small grin flickering as his thumb brushes your cheek. “But I love you, and I’m not letting them get to you.”
You breathe him in, your heartbeat slowly syncing with his. Outside, the world keeps shouting. In here, it’s quiet.
He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your hairline, whispering, “Моя девочка.”
You still.
“…You switched languages,” you murmur.
He hesitates; he’s never spoken to you like that before. “Yeah… guess I did,” he says quietly, shoulders tense.
“I like it,” you whisper.
He exhales, relaxing. “It’s just… something you call someone you care about,” he says, voice low and warm, forehead pressing to yours.
“Okay,” you murmur, fingers curling in his shirt.
Outside, the world hums with opinions.
In that quiet hotel room, tangled in sheets and each other, the world can say whatever it wants. You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
And in a blink of a crinkling eye
It all happens fast. Gold medals around both your necks, the last free skates done, the arena slowly emptying as the echo of the crowd lingers. Cameras are mostly off, but a few reporters remain, catching him alone for one last interview.
“One more question, Ilia,” a reporter says. “You and [Y/N] have been together since high school. Do you think being in a relationship so young impacts your skating?”
Ilia’s gaze is steady. “Honestly? No. She’s my partner in every sense, on and off the ice. I trust her completely. Being with her only makes me better.”
The reporter tilts their head. “Some might say you’re missing out while you’re still so young. What would you say to them?”
His lips curve into a faint, wry smile. “I don’t,” he says. “Why would I? I’ve already got the best one.”
Silence. Then:
“High school sweethearts straight into Olympic gold — some might call that unusual. Any thoughts?”
Ilia shrugs lightly, calm and sure. “High school sweethearts, yeah,” he says. “And I’d do it all over again without hesitation. Some things are worth keeping.”
I'm sinking, our fingers entwined
Later, in your hotel room, you’re sprawled across the bed, still catching your breath from the whirlwind of medals and interviews. Your phone buzzes as you scroll through coverage.
You pause on an article with his quotes. The questions — young, missing out, high school sweethearts — and his answers, defending you in every line. A small smile pulls at your lips.
You roll onto your side to face him and brush your fingers against his shoulder before pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
He blinks. “What was that for?” he asks, teasing.
You shrug, smiling. “Just letting you know I didn’t miss out on anything either.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “Well,” he murmurs against your hair, “good to know we’re both winning, then.”
You laugh softly into his chest and let yourself sink into him.
Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights
The music swells through the arena, and the Team USA gala is in full swing. You’re out on the ice with the other skaters, lights glittering overhead and scattering across the ice like tiny stars.
Ilia glides up beside you, matching your pace. His fingers brush yours, a small smile curving his lips.
“Ready?” he murmurs, just for you.
You nod, cheeks warm, and slip your hand into his.
He spins you gently, laughter spilling out of both of you. The ice feels weightless under your blades. For a moment, it’s just you and him.
He pulls you a little closer in a small dip, voice low near your ear. “You make everything better out here.”
You grin against his shoulder, feeling his words sink in.
Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me
You step out of the bathroom after getting ready for some formal team USA event, silky formal dress flowing around your legs, and the air in the room shifts.
Ilia, lounging on the bed with his phone, freezes mid-scroll. His eyes lift slowly; his mouth parts.
“Wow,” he breathes.
You grin nervously, smoothing the fabric. “Don’t look so shocked,” you say lightly.
He shakes his head, eyes still on you, smile turning a little wicked. “You know… I think I should just keep you here all night.”
Your cheeks warm and you laugh, leaning against the doorframe.
“Really?”
“I mean,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping, “it’s like homecoming all over again. First thing I said when you opened the door then? ‘You’re beautiful.’ Still true.”
You bite your lip, heart racing, and shake your head. “Ilia…”
He smirks, closing the distance, fingers brushing down your arm. “Just saying. You look… irresistible.”
You adjust the straps of your dress one last time, smoothing the front, when he steps in behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.
“Ready?” you ask, breath a little unsteady.
He doesn’t answer right away. His lips find your temple, then your cheek, then linger as he tilts your face to steal a soft kiss.
“Mm,” he murmurs, low and teasing, “don’t worry… I’ll pick this back up later.”
Your face heats, and you bite your lip to hide your smile.
He pulls back with that familiar crooked grin. “Now come on, gorgeous,” he says, giving your hand a playful tug. “Time to show the team what we’ve got.”
Your fingers linger in his as you step out, and the night already feels electric.
'Cause I feel so high school, Every time I look at you, But look at you
The apartment is quiet in a way that still feels new.
Boxes half-unpacked. A lamp casting warm light instead of harsh overhead glare. The city humming outside the windows.
And you’re here. Together.
You’re lying on your sides facing each other, legs tangled loosely under sheets that already smell like the two of you instead of cardboard.
Ilia’s hand traces lazy patterns along your waist, like he’s grounding himself.
“You realize,” he murmurs, “we have an apartment.”
You smile. “I’m aware.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes roaming your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. The low light makes them look softer, warmer.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I just keep looking at you and it feels…”
He trails off.
“Like what?” you whisper.
He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Like we’re still those kids. Sitting in my room senior year. Or under the bleachers after practice.” He swallows, lips twitching.
Your chest tightens.
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze soft and almost disbelieving.
“But look at you,” he adds, barely above a breath. “Look at us.”
There’s something awed in his voice, like he can’t believe you made it here.
You reach up and touch his cheek. “We’re not kids anymore.”
“No,” he agrees, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But I still get that same feeling. Like the first time I realized I liked you and had no idea what to do about it.”
You laugh softly. “You were so obvious.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He rolls his eyes but pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest. His chin rests on your head, fingers splaying across your back.
“I just…” he murmurs into your hair. “I don’t ever want this to feel normal.”
“It won’t,” you say quietly.
In the stillness of your first night in your own place, it does feel like high school again — that dizzy, giddy, heart-too-big feeling.
Only this time, it’s steadier.
When you tilt your head up to look at him, he smiles like he did all those years ago.
Like he still can’t believe you’re his.
Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto
One night, after a long day of choreography run-throughs, you’re having a quiet evening in your shared apartment.
His friends are online. Headsets on. Competitive trash talk echoing through the room.
Ilia sits in his gaming chair, controller in hand, jaw set.
You wander in wearing one of his old Team USA hoodies.
He doesn’t look away from the screen when he reaches for you.
“C’mere.”
You climb into his lap sideways, back against his chest, legs draped over the arm of the chair.
On the TV, pixelated chaos explodes across a city.
In your ear, his friends yell over their mics.
You laugh softly. It’s ridiculous and perfect.
“Hey, Ilia.”
“Hm?”
“Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto,” you whisper, nudging his chin with your shoulder.
He chokes mid-game.
“Guys, hold on,” he mutters into the mic, cheeks flushing. “I’m being distracted.”
You feel his heartbeat through his t-shirt. Fast. Always fast around you.
One of his friends groans through the headset. “Malinin, focus!”
But his hands leave the controller anyway, sliding around your waist and giving you a gentle squeeze.
You tilt your head back. He kisses your temple like it’s instinct.
He freezes, cheeks pink.
“Are you quoting Taylor Swift at me right now?”
You knew what you wanted and boy, you got her
Laundry is folded at the end of the bed.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the mattress in an oversized t-shirt, rambling about something mundane, when you realize he’s not answering.
He’s just… staring.
Soft. Quiet. A little dazed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you laugh.
He blinks, like you’ve snapped him out of it.
“Nothing,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “That’s not a nothing look.”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair, suddenly more nervous than you’ve seen him in years.
“Okay,” he says. “So. I was going to do this differently.”
You freeze.
“…Do what differently?”
He stands abruptly, crosses the room, and pulls open the top dresser drawer — the one he told you not to dig through because it was “just random stuff.”
Your heart starts pounding.
He turns back with a small box in his hand.
“I had a whole plan,” he admits, pacing once. “I was going to take you back to the rink. Or somewhere dramatic. Candles, a speech, the whole thing.”
“Ilia,” you breathe.
“But I can’t,” he cuts in, frustration flickering. “I can’t wait for perfect lighting or some big cinematic moment, because I’m sitting here listening to you talk about groceries and I’m so insanely in love with you that it feels stupid to wait.”
Your throat tightens.
He comes back and sits in front of you on the bed.
“I knew what I wanted,” he says softly. “Since we were kids. Since high school. Since before I even knew how to say it.”
He opens the box.
The ring catches the lamplight.
“And I got her,” he finishes, voice unsteady. “I got you. And I don’t want to wait for some perfectly planned night to ask you to stay.”
“I love you when you’re dressed up. I love you when you’re stressed about Worlds. I love you when you quote Taylor Swift at me in the middle of the night.” His mouth twitches into a small, helpless smile. “I love you when you’re sitting on our bed talking about laundry.”
A tear slips down your cheek.
“So yeah,” he says, letting out a shaky laugh, “I had a plan. It was romantic. It was impressive. But this is real. And I don’t want to wait another second to ask you.”
He looks up, completely vulnerable.
“Will you marry me?”
You don’t even try to play it cool.
“Yes,” you whisper immediately. “Yes.”
He exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe, sliding the ring onto your finger with slightly trembling hands before standing and pulling you into his arms.
Forehead pressed to yours, both of you half-laughing, half-crying.
“I was going to do candles,” he mutters into your hair.
You laugh through your tears. “This is better.”
He squeezes you tighter.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I wasn’t waiting.”
Brand new, full-throttle
You’re sitting on the edge of the couch when Ilia asks, “Are you ready to call them?”
You nod, hands still a little shaky.
He FaceTimes his parents.
Tatiana answers.
She takes one look at your flushed, teary faces and narrows her eyes.
“…What did you do?”
Ilia lifts your hand toward the camera.
There’s a beat.
Tatiana gasps.
Roman appears almost instantly. “What happened?”
Tatiana turns the phone. “He finally did it.”
Roman goes still. Then his expression shifts to a proud look.
He nods once. “Good.”
Your chest tightens.
Tatiana is already emotional. “Come closer, let me see the ring properly. Oh, it’s beautiful. Ilia, you did well.”
“I had a whole other plan,” he mutters. “This wasn’t even—”
“You could never wait,” Roman cuts in dryly.
Ilia looks personally attacked.
From somewhere in the house, Liza screams, “Wait — WHAT happened?”
She appears in frame seconds later, sees your hand, and absolutely loses it.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU GUYS ARE ACTUALLY GETTING MARRIED? I KNEW IT. I LITERALLY KNEW IT.”
“Lower your voice,” Ilia groans.
“No.”
She squints at him. “You cried, didn’t you?”
Silence.
“That’s a yes,” she declares.
You’re laughing now, overwhelmed and glowing.
Roman clears his throat. “We are very happy,” he says simply. “You have always chosen each other. That matters.”
Tatiana nods. “This is not brand new,” she says softly. “This is years in the making.”
That’s when it really hits you.
You didn’t shock them. They’ve been watching this love story unfold since you were kids.
After that, you call your own family. More tears. More chaos. More “finally.”
Only once everyone important knows does Ilia look at you and say, “Okay. Now we can break the internet.”
You post the photo.
Simple: your hands intertwined, the ring catching the light.
Within minutes?
Phones buzzing nonstop. Sports pages reposting. Olympic highlight accounts digging up old interviews. Clips of him saying he’d never want anyone else. Clips of you saying you didn’t miss out either.
Headlines everywhere.
“OLYMPIC GOLD MEDALISTS ENGAGED.”
“High School Sweethearts Seal the Deal.”
“From Rink Bleachers to Rings.”
You’re barely keeping up when Ilia’s phone buzzes again.
It’s Liza.
He opens the message. And immediately groans.
“What?” you ask.
He turns the screen toward you.
It’s an ancient photo. You two at maybe fifteen, braces, blurry rink lighting. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon, and you’re mid-laugh.
Caption: “Told y’all. He’s been down bad since 2019.”
She posted it. Publicly.
You collapse back onto the bed laughing.
“She’s dead,” Ilia mutters.
“She’s iconic,” you correct.
His phone buzzes again. The post is already going viral.
Brand new headline. Full history attached.
Ilia drops his phone onto the mattress and pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says.
But he doesn’t sound overwhelmed.
He sounds sure.
His hand slides over yours, thumb brushing over the ring like he’s still anchoring himself to the reality of it.
“They can talk,” he murmurs. “They always have.”
You tilt your head up.
“But they don’t get this part,” he adds quietly. “They don’t get the real us.”
You already know, babe
The first week after the wedding is dangerous.
Not because anything is wrong.
Because Ilia has discovered two words he refuses to stop using.
My wife.
It starts small.
You’re in the kitchen, still surrounded by leftover flowers and unopened gifts, when he walks in with his phone.
“Hey,” he says casually, leaning against the counter. “My wife, have you seen my hoodie?”
You slowly turn.
“…What did you just say?”
He blinks innocently. “What?”
“You said it weird.”
“I said hoodie.”
“No. Before that.”
He fights a grin. Loses. “My wife?”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat. “You’re insufferable.”
“You already know that, babe,” he says smugly, kissing your temple. “I waited years to say that.”
And he does not waste it.
At the rink?
“Oh yeah, my wife finished her run-through already.”
On the phone with Roman?
“Yeah, we’ll be there in ten. My wife is grabbing her skates.”
To the barista?
“My wife will have an iced coffee.”
You kick him under the table for that one.
It gets worse once competition season resumes.
First event back after the wedding. You both skate well. Medal ceremony done. Media zone buzzing.
A reporter smiles. “Ilia, how does it feel returning to competition as a married man?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“It feels great,” he says. “My wife’s out here landing triples like it’s nothing, so I’ve got to keep up.”
You shoot him a look across the mixed zone.
The reporter laughs. “Has marriage changed your dynamic at all?”
Ilia shrugs, eyes flicking to you like he’s trying not to grin. “Not really. We’ve always been a team. I just get to call her my wife now.”
There it is again.
Later, backstage, you nudge him. “You are milking this.”
He pulls you closer by the waist, not even pretending to deny it. “Of course I am.”
“You’ve said it like twenty times today.”
“And?”
“And you’re dramatic.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against your hairline. He murmurs, quieter now. “I’m obsessed.”
Your heart does the same annoying flutter it’s been doing since high school.
At home that night, he scrolls through interview clips, grinning at the comments.
“He really said my wife like he won it in a raffle.”
“He’s been waiting YEARS for this.”
“This man is down catastrophically.”
You peek over his shoulder. “They’re not wrong.”
He locks his phone and turns to you, expression softening.
“Let me have this,” he says quietly. “I’ve wanted to marry you since we were kids. I’m going to say it as much as I want.”
This time, when he says it, it’s not performative or teasing.
He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over your ring.
Summary: trying the “I can’t pay rent this month” trend on your boyfriend
Warnings: none
[a/n] this is entirely self indulgent and idc
The camera was propped slyly against the coffee maker, angled just right to capture both of you. You tried to look casual, leaning on the counter, pretending to scroll through your phone. Ilia was at the sink rinsing out his protein shaker, humming quietly to himself — the perfect unsuspecting target.
You took a slow, dramatic breath, then said in your best trembling voice, “Ilia… I can’t pay the rent this month.”
He didn’t even look up. Just rinsed the lid, shook off the water, and set it on the drying rack.
“Mm‑hmm,” he said. “That’s crazy.”
You blinked, slightly thrown off by how collected he sounded. “I’m serious,” you said, amping up the drama. “I don’t have it this month.”
Now he turned — leaned back against the counter, towel in hand, eyebrows raised like he was already exhausted by whatever game you were playing.
“Baby,” he said, slowly, patiently, “you’ve literally never paid the rent.”
You almost broke character right there. “What?”
He pointed the towel at you like he was giving a presentation. “That’s my job. I do that. Have since we moved in. You don’t even know when it’s due, do you?”
You stared, feigning offense. “Of course I—”
He didn’t let you finish. “Do you even know how much it is?”
You hesitated. “…A regular amount?”
He laughed — a low, disbelieving chuckle that said I knew it. “Uh‑huh. And where’s the lease, then?”
“The… filing cabinet?” you tried.
He crossed his arms, smirking. “We don’t have a filing cabinet.”
That was it — you cracked, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as he shook his head and reached past you for the dish soap like your antics were just another part of his day.
The red light on your phone caught his attention then. His eyes flicked toward it, and you could almost see him connect the dots. He sighed the long‑suffering sigh of a man who loved a woman and her chaos in equal measure.
“You’re recording this, aren’t you?”
You were laughing too hard to answer.
He just muttered, “Next time, I’m charging rent for TikTok appearances,” before kissing your temple and walking off — towel over one shoulder — while you wheezed behind the camera, barely able to keep it steady.
Later that night, you were curled up on the couch, phone glowing inches from your face as the apartment hummed quietly around you. The video had been live for all of forty minutes — and the comments were exploding.
“He’s so calm it’s terrifying”
“How to get a man like this no borax no glue”
“He said ‘that’s my job’ with the confidence of a man with a 750 credit score”
You giggled, scrolling through them, when your phone buzzed with a notification — Ilia Malinin commented on your video.
You froze mid‑scroll.
There it was, pinned to the top of your comment section, sitting smugly above thousands of strangers’ jokes:
@ilia_quadg0d_malinin: “filmed and posted using the WiFi I pay for btw”
You snorted so loud it startled the cat.
A minute later, his footsteps padded into the room. He leaned on the arm of the couch, still in sweatpants, hair mussed from his post‑practice shower, scrolling his own phone lazily.
“So…” he said, drawing out the word, “I see I’m TikTok famous now.”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “People love you.”
“Uh‑huh,” he said flatly. “They also think I’m one rent payment away from a nervous breakdown.”
You bit your lip, smiling. “You looked cute, though!”
He gave a mock‑serious nod. “Cute? I looked like I was calculating property taxes.”
You burst out laughing, and he softened, leaning down to kiss the top of your head before muttering, “Next time you prank me, I’m submitting an invoice.”
“For what?” you teased.
He started counting off on his fingers. “Emotional distress, meme royalties… and, obviously, rent.”
You grinned up at him. “I’ll pay you in views.”
He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smirk. “That’s not going to cover utilities, babe.”
You laughed, tucking your phone away as he sank beside you and threw an arm around your shoulders.
“I love you.” You grinned up at him.
He chuckled softly shaking his head “I love you more.”
