Sunshine

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It starts as a joke at sixteen, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Ilia’s bedroom, textbooks open but completely ignored. He’s half-hanging off his bed, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling and catching it again, over and over.

“You know,” you say, tapping your pen against your lip, “if we’re both single at thirty, we should just get married.”

He snorts immediately. “That’s the most unromantic proposal I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re the one who’d be lucky,” you shoot back. “Think about it, built-in best friend, no awkward getting-to-know-you phase, I already know all your worst habits.”

“Yeah?” He grins, sharp and easy. “You think I’d marry someone who steals my hoodies and never gives them back?”

“You like that I steal your hoodies.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

He throws the stress ball at you. You catch it without looking. There’s a pause, something softer sneaks in around the edges. “Thirty,” he says, like he’s testing the number. “That’s a long time.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Plenty of time to find someone else.”

His eyes flick to you. “Yeah,” he says. “Plenty of time.”

You stick out your hand. “Deal?”

He hesitates barely before hooking his pinky with yours. “Deal.”

You don’t talk about it much after that but it becomes a thing. It comes up in passing at eighteen when someone asks if you two are dating.

“At this point?” Ilia laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Nah, we’ve got a backup plan.”

“At thirty,” you add easily. “If we’re both disasters.”

“At your rate, that’s guaranteed,” he teases.

You elbow him, but you’re smiling.

It comes up again at twenty-one, when you bring a date to one of his competitions. Ilia is polite, suspiciously polite.

“Nice guy,” he says afterward, tone flat.

You raise an eyebrow. “You barely spoke to him.”

“I did. I said hi.”

“Once.”

“That’s enough,” he states. “He didn’t seem like your type.”

“And you’re suddenly an expert?” You question.

“I’ve known you your whole life,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I know your type.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenge. “And what is it?”

His gaze lingers a fraction too long. Me. “Not him,” he says.

You break things off with that guy two weeks later, you tell yourself it’s unrelated. At twenty-four, Ilia starts dating someone seriously. You hate her immediately, not because she’s done anything wrong, she’s actually very nice, which somehow makes it worse but because she fits into his life too easily. She sits in your usual spot at his competitions, she knows which jokes to laugh at, wears his hoodie - your hoodie.

“You’re being weird,” he tells you one night.

“I’m not.” You say in defence.

“You are. You didn’t talk the entire time we were out.”

“I talked.”

“You asked her what she did for work and then stared at your drink for twenty minutes.”

You shrug. “Maybe I didn’t feel like talking.”

He studies you, something frustrated and confused flickering in his expression. “You don’t like her,” he says.

“I barely know her.”

“You don’t have to know someone to like them.”

You meet his eyes, something sharp slipping out before you can stop it. “Clearly.”

Silence sits there, heavy and wrong. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head, standing up too fast. “Nothing. Forget it.”

You leave before you can say something you can’t take back. They break up a month later. He doesn’t tell you why, you don’t ask.

At twenty-seven, you try again - different person in a different city, you tell yourself this one might actually work. Ilia flies out to visit. “He’s... fine,” Ilia says, which is already a bad sign.

“And?”

“And,” Ilia says, jaw tightening slightly, “he doesn’t get you.”

You laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “And you do?”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

The certainty in his voice knocks the air out of you. “Ilia-”

“He doesn’t,” he repeats, softer now. “He doesn’t know the way you get when you’re nervous, or how you pretend you’re fine when you’re not, or-” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “He’s not it.”

You stare at him. “Why do you care so much?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes meet yours, because it’s you - it’s always been you. Every time someone else touches you, it feels like something is being ripped out of his chest, but he doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he scoffs. “I don’t. I just have standards.”

You laugh, brittle. “For my relationships?”

“Someone has to.”

You break up with that one too. Again, you tell yourself it’s unrelated.

-

You turn thirty still single. So does he. It shouldn’t feel like something but it does.

“Are we actually doing this?” You’re sitting across from him at a restaurant, the same kind of casual place you’ve gone to a hundred times before.

There’s nothing romantic about it, there never has been and yet it feels different.

Ilia leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “We made a deal.”

“We were sixteen.”

“And?”

“And sixteen-year-olds are idiots!” You exclaim, though there isn't much fight to it.

“Speak for yourself,” he says. “I was very wise.”

You snort, then shake your head, smiling despite yourself. It fades, just a little. “You’re serious?” you ask.

His expression shifts, less teasing now, more steady. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

Your heart does something weird. “You’re not even curious?” you ask. “About finding someone else?”

His gaze holds yours. “I think,” he says slowly, “if I wanted someone else, I would’ve found them by now.”

There’s something loaded in that, you feel it. “Okay,” you say instead, quieter.

-

Wedding planning is surreal, there’s no dating phase or awkward transition. One day you’re best friends, the next you’re picking out venues and arguing over guest lists.

“Why is your cousin on here?” Ilia asks, frowning at the spreadsheet.

“Because she’s family.”

“You don’t even like her.”

“That’s not the point.” You tell him.

“It is the point. It’s our wedding.”

“Our wedding,” you echo, like you’re testing how it sounds.

He glances at you and something flickers, neither of you comment on it.

The night it happens, you’re sitting at his kitchen table surrounded by notes and half-empty takeout containers.

“Flowers?” you ask, pen poised.

“I don’t care,” he shrugs.

“You’re useless.”

“I’m efficient,” he corrects. “You pick, I agree.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It should be.”

You roll your eyes, scribbling something down.

He looks at you briefly before asking, “do you ever think about it?”

You look up. “About what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you. “Us.”

You huff a laugh. “We’re literally planning a wedding. Of course I think about it.”

“No,” he says, more serious now. “Before. All those years.”

Your chest tightens. “Sometimes,” you admit.

He nods, like he expected that. “I do,” he says. “You ever wonder,” he continues, voice quieter, “if we wasted time?”

Your pen stills. “Ilia-”

“Because I think we did,” he cuts in. “I think we spent years pretending we didn’t-” He stops, jaw tightening. “That I didn’t-”

Your heart is pounding now. “Didn’t what?” you whisper.

He looks at you and something finally breaks. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he says.

The world tilts as you stare at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything because I thought you didn’t feel the same,” he rushes on, like if he doesn’t get it out now he never will. “And then we made that stupid deal, and it felt safer to just wait. To pretend it was a joke.”

Your hands are shaking. “Ilia...”

“And every time you dated someone else, I hated it,” he admits, voice rough. “I sabotaged it. I know I did. I just couldn’t stand the idea of you choosing someone else.”

You let out a shaky laugh, tears pricking at your eyes. “You idiot,” you say softly.

He freezes. “What?”

“I was in love with you too.”

Everything stops. “What?” he echoes.

“Since we were kids,” you repeat. “I just thought you didn’t feel the same. So I went along with it. The joke. The deal.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to process an entirely new reality. “All this time...” he murmurs.

“All this time,” you confirm.

Then he lets out a breath, half laugh, half disbelief, and drags a hand over his face. “We’re so stupid, we wasted years.”

“Yep.”

“We’re still getting married, right?” he asks.

You blink at him. “You’re serious?”

“We were going to anyway,” he says, like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “The only difference now is we’re not lying to ourselves about it.”

You stare at him for a long moment, then you laugh. “God,” you shake your head. “Only you would skip straight from confession to marriage.”

“Only us,” he corrects. And yeah. He’s right.

“Okay,” you say.

His lips twitch. “Okay?”

The wedding is simple, it's not rushed but not dragged out either. There’s no need, you’ve had a lifetime to get here. You stand across from him at the altar, your heart racing in a way it never has before - not even in all the years you’ve loved him quietly - because this time, it’s not quiet. This time, he knows. Everything feels right.

You exchange vows, real ones, not jokes anymore. When it’s done, there’s a pause.

“You know,” Ilia says softly, a hint of that familiar teasing in his voice, “for someone who didn’t get the hint for years, you look pretty sure right now.”

You huff out a small laugh, tears in your eyes. You don’t hesitate as you close the distance and kiss him for the first time. It’s everything you’ve been holding back for years, finally let loose all at once. When you pull back, he’s smiling in that way that’s always been yours.

“Worth the wait?” he murmurs.

You shake your head, smiling back. “We should’ve done that a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We should have.”

But his hand tightens around yours and neither of you let go.

Notes: This is version one where their love confession is during their first look on their wedding day, version two is where their love confession is during wedding planning at the dinner table which can be found here on my A03 or now here on tumblr

They were fourteen when it started, it wasn’t even a serious conversation, nothing about them ever was, not back then. They were sprawled on the cold floor of the rink lobby, sharing a half-melted slushie, legs tangled, shoulders bumping every few seconds like magnets that refused to stay apart.

“Okay but what if,” you said, squinting at him like you were about to invent something life-changing, “we both end up alone. Like pathetically alone.”

Ilia snorted. “You won’t. Someone will marry you just to shut you up.”

You kicked his shin, he laughed. “No, listen,” you insisted, leaning closer, lowering your voice like this mattered. “If we’re not married by thirty we marry each other.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Deal.”

A pinky promise, sealed like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t going to quietly ruin both of your lives.

At sixteen, it was still a joke. At eighteen, it was still a joke but people started noticing how neither of you ever really kept anyone. At twenty-one, it stopped being funny, because suddenly there were other people. Dates and relationships. Every single time, something went wrong.

“Wait, what do you mean he cancelled?”

“He just said something came up,” you frowned, watching Ilia lean against the kitchen counter like he had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“That’s weird,” Ilia said, too casually. “Didn’t he say he had that thing tonight?”

“No?”

“Huh. Must’ve been someone else.” It wasn’t.

You found out three months later that Ilia had 'accidentally' told the guy you hated surprises and public places so he scrapped the entire date plan.

“Why did she break up with you?” you asked, sitting cross-legged on his bed.

Ilia shrugged, staring at the ceiling. “Said I wasn’t emotionally available.”

You snorted. “That’s harsh.”

“Yeah, well.”

You didn’t know that she’d asked him point-blank why he always dropped everything for you. Why you came first. You didn’t know he hadn’t had an answer that didn’t sound like a confession.

By twenty-five, it was a pattern. You dated people who somehow always felt not quite right. Ilia dated people who never lasted long enough to matter. Neither of you said the obvious thing, not when your hands lingered too long, not when he looked at you like you were something fragile and untouchable. Not when someone jokingly asked if you two were ever going to just get it over with. You’d laugh it off every time.

“Thirty,” Ilia would say, easy, joking.

“Thirty,” you’d echo like it wasn’t creeping closer.

Twenty-eight came with a quiet kind of panic because suddenly it wasn’t hypothetical anymore.

“Are we actually doing this?” you asked one night, sitting on your kitchen counter while he paced your apartment.

Ilia ran a hand through his hair. “I mean we said we would.”

“Yeah, when we were fourteen.”

“And?” He prompts.

“And we were idiots.”

He stopped pacing and looked at you. “Are you backing out?”

The question landed heavier than it should have. “No,” you said quickly. “No, I just-” You swallowed. “I just thought maybe things would be different by now.”

His jaw tightened, just slightly. “Different how?”

You hesitated. “Like maybe one of us would’ve met someone.”

Something flickered in his expression, gone before you could name it. “Right,” he said, nodding once. “Yeah. Guess not.”

And that was that, no one said what they were really thinking - I did meet someone. I met you. At twenty-nine, you got engaged. Not in some grand romantic way, no proposal or ring at first. Your families were confused at first, then delighted.

“Finally,” your mum said. “About time.”

Your friends? Less subtle. “This is insane,” one of yours whispered.

“This is kind of romantic,” one of his said.

Neither of you corrected them.

Wedding planning was weirdly easy. You already knew everything about each other. Favourite foods and music. It should’ve felt natural but instead it felt like standing on the edge of something you didn’t fully understand. Because nothing had actually changed. You were still best friends. Still bickering over seating charts, still stealing each other’s food, still falling asleep on opposite ends of the same couch. Still pretending your heart didn’t stutter every time you remembered 'we’re getting married'.

The morning of your wedding came too fast. You barely slept, not from nerves - at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was just a lot.

“First look,” someone said, ushering you into place.

You smoothed your hands down your wedding dress, heart pounding harder than it should. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this, it was Ilia, just Ilia. He stood with his back to you, hands clenched at his sides. For once, he looked nervous. You stepped closer.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He turned and everything just stopped. You’d seen him a thousand times. Messy. Tired. Laughing. Bleeding from practice. Half-asleep. Annoying. But this version of him? Dressed up and looking at you like you were something unreal, it hit you all at once. This wasn’t a joke or a backup plan.

“You look-” he started, then stopped. Tried again. “You look... yeah.”

You laughed, breath shaky. “Wow. Smooth.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Silence stretched, too loud. “Ilia,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

He froze, you never used that tone. “Yeah?”

Your chest tightened. Say it. “I-” Your voice faltered.

His gaze dropped for a second, then snapped back to yours. “Don’t,” he said quickly.

That hurt more than it should have. “Don’t?”

He shook his head, stepping closer. “Don’t say something just because today is today.”

Your heart dropped. “That’s not-”

“I can’t,” he cut in, voice rough. “I can’t stand there and pretend this is just convenient. Or easy. Or a joke we’re finally following through on.”

“It was never a joke,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Something in his expression cracked. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know. I’ve been in love with you since I was, like, sixteen,” he said suddenly, like it physically hurt to keep it in any longer.

You blinked. “What?”

He let out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. Great timing, right? Day of our wedding.”

Your brain couldn’t keep up. “You- what?”

“I sabotaged your dates,” he admitted, almost defensively. “Most of them.”

“Most of them?!”

“Okay, all of them.” He confessed.

Your mouth opened and closed. “You were... that was you?”

“Yeah,” he said, softer now. “Because I couldn’t stand the idea of you choosing someone else.”

The world tilted. “You idiot,” you whispered.

He flinched slightly. “Yeah,” he said again. “I know.”

You stepped closer until there was barely space between you. “I’ve been in love with you too,” you said.

That did it. That was the thing that broke him. “What?” he breathed.

“Since around the same time,” you admitted, almost laughing at how ridiculous it sounded now. “I just thought you didn’t feel the same. And I didn’t want to lose you.”

His eyes searched yours like he didn’t trust what he was hearing. “All this time?”

“All this time.” After a moment, “You’re not the only one who sabotaged things.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, come on.”

You winced. “Not as aggressively. But still.”

He let out a breath that turned into a laugh, half disbelief, half relief. “We’re actually insane.”

“Yeah,” you said. “A little.”

It felt like something had finally settled into place. “We’re still getting married, right?” he asked, quieter now.

You huffed out a small laugh. “We planned an entire wedding. I’d hope so.”

“Not because of the deal,” he added quickly. “Not because we’re thirty.”

You shook your head, stepping even closer. “No. Not because of that.” Your hand found his. “Because we’re done wasting time.”

Something soft and certain settled in his expression. “Good,” he murmured.

When you finally kissed him, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate, it was right. Like something that had been waiting years finally getting its moment.

Later, when you stood at the altar, nothing felt uncertain anymore. No 'what ifs' or backup plan. Just him and you. And a promise that, apparently, you’d both meant all along.

The apartment is underwhelming, it's small, a little too quiet, and painfully neutral. White walls, beige sofa, the kind of place that doesn’t feel like it belongs to anyone yet. You’re standing in the middle of the living room with a half-open box in your hands when the front door swings open.

“Okay,” Ilia announces, already out of breath, “I got snacks, I got actual food, and I got-” he lifts a bag triumphantly “-a plant. Because apparently we’re adults now.”

You blink at him. “A plant.”

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s low maintenance.”

“You kill cacti.” You state.

“That was one time.”

“Ilia, it was three.”

He grins, dropping everything onto the counter like none of that matters, like nothing really matters as long as you’re both here. “This one feels different.”

You snort, setting your box down. “Yeah? You’ve emotionally bonded with it already?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, stepping closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “It’s got good vibes. Like us.”

It starts with late nights at the rink bleed into shared dinners, half-burnt pasta, takeaway cartons, protein shakes you both pretend taste better than they do. Mornings turn into a routine, you fighting for the bathroom first, Ilia knocking on the door like he’s dying.

“Five minutes!”

“You said that ten minutes ago!”

“Beauty takes time!” You shout back.

“You’re not even doing anything!”

“Exactly, it’s natural talent!”

There’s laughter everywhere, it fills the space, settles into the walls, makes the apartment feel less like a temporary stop and more like something alive. You don’t notice when it shifts, not at first. It’s the quiet things like how he always leaves the light on for you when you’re out later than him, or how you start making coffee for two without thinking, even on mornings he has early practice. The way he knows when you’ve had a bad day without you saying a word.

“You’re quiet,” he says one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter as you poke at your food.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

You sigh, shoulders dropping. “Just bad run-through.”

He doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t push. He just walks over, takes your fork out of your hand, and swaps your plate for his. “Eat mine,” he says.

You frown. “Why?”

“Because mine has emotional support.”

You laugh despite yourself, and something warm spreads through your chest. He watches you for a second too long.

It’s the couch, that’s when it really starts to feel dangerous. You used to sit on opposite ends, legs stretched out, talking about everything and nothing. But somewhere along the way, the space between you disappears. Now your legs are tangled without thought, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm draped along the back of the couch, almost around you, never quite. Like he’s holding himself back and you are too. A movie plays in the background, neither of you paying attention.

“You’re staring,” you mumble.

“I’m not.” He replies.

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?” You question.

There’s a pause. “...nothing.”

You tilt your head to look at him, suspicious, but he’s already looking away, jaw tight like he’s caught himself on something. Something you don’t understand.

It builds in glances that last a second too long, touches that linger, the way your heart starts to trip over itself when he’s close - not in a best-friend way, not anymore. It scares you because this is Ilia, your person, the one thing in your life that’s never been uncertain. So you ignore it and push it down. Pretend it’s nothing, until it isn’t. It’s late, you’ve both just gotten back from the rink, exhausted, the kind of tired that makes everything feel softer, looser. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, watching you as you fill a glass of water.

“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.

“About what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely around the apartment. “Us. Living together.”

You shrug. “Yeah. It makes sense.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You glance at him, something in your chest tightening. “Then what do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer straight away and that’s when you know. “Oh.” It slips out before you can stop it. “Oh.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah.”

Your heart is racing now, too fast, too loud. “You mean like...” you trail off, unable to say it.

“Like I don’t think this is just convenient anymore,” he says, voice lower now. “Like I don’t think it’s just us being best friends.”

Silence crashes into the room. You grip the edge of the counter. “Ilia-”

“I tried to ignore it,” he cuts in, running a hand through his hair. “I really did. Because I didn’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Then why are you saying something?”

Because that’s the fear, isn’t it? That saying it out loud changes everything. That there’s no going back. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and whatever’s in his expression makes your breath catch.

“Because it’s already changed,” he says quietly. “At least for me.”

Your chest aches. “Not just you,” you whisper.

He freezes. “What?”

You swallow, heart in your throat. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I haven’t felt it too?”

“Felt what?”

“Everything,” you breathe. “The way you look at me. The way I-” you shake your head, frustrated. “God, Ilia, I can’t even sit next to you anymore without overthinking it.”

Something flickers across his face - hope, disbelief, something fragile. “Say it,” he says softly.

You hesitate. This is it, the point of no return but you’ve already crossed it, haven’t you? “I think I’m in love with you.”

The words hang there, terrifying and freeing all at once. For a second, he just stares at you. “Yeah,” he exhales, almost a laugh, almost relief. “Yeah, I’m definitely in love with you.”

You let out a shaky breath, something in you unravelling. “Okay,” you say, a little breathless.

“Okay,” he echoes. Neither of you move. “Can I-” he starts.

“Yes,” you say immediately, even though he hasn’t finished.

That makes him smile, soft and a little disbelieving, like he can’t quite believe this is real. Then he steps closer carefully, like you might disappear. His hand comes up to your face, hesitates for half a second before he commits, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Still okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you whisper. More than okay.

Then he kisses you, it’s not rushed, not messy just soft, certain in a way that makes your chest ache. Like this has been waiting for a long time, it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be. When he pulls back, your forehead rests against his, both of you smiling a little stupidly.

“So,” he says quietly, “this is new.”

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah.”

“Still roommates though,” he adds.

“Obviously.” You laugh, and this time, it feels different, everything does.

Like home finally knows who it belongs to.

The first time he feels you again it's two years later, he almost drops his phone. It’s nothing like that day, no crushing pain or hollow, endless silence swallowing him whole. A flicker, barely there, like a heartbeat restarting after being gone too long. He freezes, breath caught halfway in his chest. For a second there’s something that isn’t his - confusion - like trying to see through fog, and then it’s gone. Ilia lets out a shaky breath, hand coming up to press hard against his chest like he can trap it there, force it to stay.

“No,” he mutters under his breath.

It can’t be that, he’s spent two years learning how to live with the silence. Two years forcing himself to accept what happened on that ice, what he felt so clearly it carved something permanent into him. You died. He felt it. So this? This is, “Just in your head,” he says quietly.

It has to be, grief does things like that. People say that, right? That you imagine things, feel things that aren’t real because you want them to be. And God he wants this to be real, but wanting doesn’t make it true.

It happens again days later. This time it lingers a second longer, a rush of something sharper, overwhelming in its intensity compared to the silence he’s grown used to. Fear. Not the kind he felt that day. Ilia sucks in a breath, fingers curling into his shirt. It’s so clear and so real. but then it's just gone, like before. He shuts his eyes, jaw tightening.

“Stop,” he whispers, more to himself than anything else.

Because this is so much worse than the silence, at least the silence was final and didn’t give him hope just to rip it away again.

By the third time, he stops telling himself it’s nothing because nothing doesn’t feel like this. Nothing doesn’t come with emotion so vivid it bleeds into him, settles under his skin like it belongs there. It’s always brief, fleeting, but it’s there and Ilia doesn’t know what to do with that.

-

The rink is familiar even though it's a different city, different country. Competitions blur together like that after a while. Open practice is supposed to be simple, warm up and run elements. That’s all he’s supposed to do. He steps onto the ice, pushing off into an easy glide, letting muscle memory take over. Everything is normal, until it isn't. It hits him so hard he nearly stumbles. It's not a flicker this time, it's a surge, like someone hooked a live wire straight into his chest. Emotion crashes into him all at once, overwhelming, alive in a way that makes his head spin. Something dangerously close to awe.

Ilia gasps, blade scraping unevenly against the ice as he catches himself. His heart is racing. Not just his. Not just his. He knows this, this is the bond. Not the dull, distant echo it used to be. Not the broken, flickering thing he’s been feeling the past few weeks. This is what it’s supposed to feel like. His chest tightens.

No. No, that’s not possible. Because the only time the bond ever feels like this, this intense and undeniable, is when soulmates are near each other. His head snaps up and that’s when he sees you. It’s not dramatic, there’s no slow motion, no immediate recognition carved into the moment like something out of a movie. Just a girl standing near the boards, half-hidden behind people, but you’re looking at him like you know.

The second his eyes meet yours it hits again, a flood of emotion so intense it almost knocks the breath out of him. Relief. So much relief it hurts. Underneath it, something fragile and terrified and hopeful in a way that makes his chest ache. Ilia’s vision tunnels, his pulse is loud in his ears because he knows that feeling. He’s been starved of it for two years.

He can see that you feel him too in the way your hand comes up to your chest, mirroring him without even realising it. The way your expression shifts into shock, something dangerously close to breaking.

“You-” The word leaves him before he can stop it.

He doesn’t even know what he’s about to say, it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. You’re-

“Malinin!” his coach calls from the boards, sharp, confused. “Focus-”

Ilia doesn’t move, he can’t. You’re still looking at him like that, like you’ve been looking for him. He turns abruptly, skating hard toward the boards.

“Get her please,” he says, breath uneven, eyes locked on you like if he looks away you’ll disappear. “Please, just- bring her to the back.”

The staff member hesitates, confused. Ilia doesn’t explain, he doesn’t have time. “Please.”

Something in his voice must be enough because a second later they’re moving toward you, speaking quietly, guiding you away. You go, but not before looking back at him one more time and God - that feeling again, so strong it almost hurts.

He finishes practice on autopilot, doesn’t even remember half of it. His body moves, lands jumps, runs through choreography like it’s programmed to, but his mind is somewhere else. Back in your eyes, in the impossible.

You’re there when he gets off the ice. Waiting. Standing just inside the corridor that leads away from the rink, hands clasped tightly together like you don’t know what to do with them. Like you don’t know what to do with any of this. Ilia slows as he approaches, stops a few feet away. Up close, it’s stronger - the bond hums between you, alive in a way that makes his chest feel too tight, too full. He can feel you. It's not faint.

“You-” he starts again, voice rough. “I felt-” He can’t even finish it.

How is he supposed to say that? I felt you die.

Your lips part slightly, like you’re trying to find the right words. You look just as overwhelmed as he feels. “I know,” you say softly.

And that breaks something in him, because you say it like you understand as if you were there.

“I-” Your voice wavers. You swallow, steadying yourself. “I was in an accident.” Ilia’s stomach drops. “ I died,” you admit, the words quiet but steady. “For a few minutes. They told me later.”

The world tilts. That matches, it fits what he felt, “I felt it,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes flicker, something pained crossing your face. “I know,” you repeat. “I didn’t wake up,” you continue. “Not properly. I was in a coma. For a long time.”

Two years. Ilia doesn’t need you to say it. He lived those two years.

“And the bond,” you add, almost like you’re thinking it through out loud. “It’s emotions, right? That’s what people say.” He nods slowly. “Feeling each other.” Your hands tighten together. “I didn’t have any,” you say, voice small in a way that makes his chest ache. “Not really. Not consciously. So there was nothing to feel.”

Silence stretches as understanding settles in. The emptiness, the nothing, it wasn’t because you were gone, it was because there was nothing there to feel.

“I woke up a few weeks ago,” you say.

His breath catches. “That’s when it started. The... flickers.” Ilia lets out a shaky laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “I thought I was losing it,” he admits. “I thought you were dead.”

The words land softly but they hit just as hard.

“I was,” you say after a second.

The bond hums between you again, strong, not imagined and not gone.

“I never got to meet you,” Ilia says quietly.

It’s something he’s thought a thousand times, something that’s lived in his chest for two years like a weight he couldn’t put down. Your expression shifts.

“You’re meeting me now,” you reply.

There are two years of grief sitting between you, two years of believing something was gone forever. That doesn’t just disappear, but your here - alive - real in a way he can't deny anymore. For the first time in two years, the silence is gone.

The first time Ilia notices it, he almost ignores it, it’s just a flicker like a skipped heartbeat that doesn’t quite hurt, doesn’t quite matter. A dull echo somewhere deep in his chest, like a radio station just out of range. He’s heard people talk about it before, the soulmate bond. Faint. A quiet presence that reminds you that somewhere out there, someone exists who is yours. Ilia never put much stock in it, he had skating and goals. He had a future that was loud and bright and entirely his own. The bond? It was background noise.

It happens on an ordinary day, that’s the cruel part, no sense that something is about to break. The rink smells the same cold air and faint rubber. His coach is talking, someone’s music is playing over the speakers. Ilia is mid-run through, pushing through a quad like his life depends on it. Because, in a way, it does. He lands it clean, there’s a split second of weightlessness, that familiar rush of yes, of control, of 'I’ve got this'.

Then it hits, not a flicker this time. Not faint. It’s everything. Pain - raw, searing, like his chest is being split open from the inside. Not physical, not something he can point to, but something deeper, something wrong. It floods him all at once, thick and suffocating, like drowning in something he can’t see. His knees buckle, the rink tilts, there’s fear - god, there’s so much fear - not his. It’s not his, it’s not his, it’s not his. Darkness presses in around the edges of his mind. A kind of despair so absolute it doesn’t even feel loud. It’s quiet. Final. Like the moment right before a light goes out.

Ilia gasps, clutching at his chest like he can hold himself together, like he can stop whatever this is from tearing through him. Someone’s calling his name. He hears it distantly, like he’s underwater. “Ilia, hey, what’s wrong?”

He can’t answer. Because he knows, everyone knows, though no one talks about it, but everyone knows what this feeling is. The one thing the bond lets you feel clearly. Death. And then nothing. The pain vanishes so abruptly it almost throws him off balance again. One second it’s there, all-consuming, and the next - silence. The bond is gone. Not quiet or faint. Gone. Like it was never there at all.

The rink is too bright. Ilia is on the ice, hands braced against it, breathing hard like he’s just run a marathon. His dad is kneeling beside him, worried, asking questions he can’t quite process. “Did you hit your head? Are you dizzy? Talk to me-”

Ilia stares straight ahead. His chest feels hollow, empty in a way that shouldn’t be possible because there was something there before. Something small, something he barely noticed, but it existed. And now it doesn’t.

“I-” His voice cracks. He swallows, tries again. “I’m fine.”

It’s automatic, a reflex. He’s not fine, he knows exactly what just happened. Something people don’t talk about it, don’t say it out loud, don’t acknowledge it in conversations, but it’s understood in the same quiet, collective way everyone understands grief. If your soulmate dies you feel it and then you feel nothing ever again.

Ilia goes home early that day, no one argues with him, he says it’s just a panic attack, that he’s tired and needs rest. He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say I felt her die. Because saying it would make it real in a way he’s not ready for. That night, he lies in bed staring at the ceiling. Waiting. For something, anything, a flicker. That faint, barely-there presence he used to ignore. But there’s nothing, only silence stretching endlessly inside him. He presses a hand to his chest, like he can force it back, like he can will it into existence. Nothing.

His throat tightens. And that’s when it hits him, not all at once, not like before, but slow and creeping and devastating in a completely different way. He never got to meet you, he doesn’t know your name. Doesn’t know your voice, your laugh, the way you would’ve looked at him like he was something more than just a skater chasing medals. He doesn’t know if you liked the same music, if you hated the cold, if you would’ve sat in the stands watching him with nervous hands clasped together. He doesn’t know anything. Except the fact that you were there and now you’re not.

The next morning, he goes back to the rink. What else is he supposed to do? The ice doesn’t change, neither does his routine or goals. But something inside him has. There’s no distraction anymore, no quiet presence in the background. A hollow space where something should be. He throws himself into skating like it can fill it if he moves fast enough, jumps high enough, spins hard enough, then he won’t feel the absence. And it works sometimes. In the middle of a program, mid-air in a quad, there’s no room to think about anything else. No room for grief, or questions, or the unbearable weight of what he lost without ever having.

But the moment he stops it’s there. That emptiness. Months pass, then a year. People stop asking if he’s okay. He gets better, he wins. Of course he does, Ilia Malinin doesn’t stop. Sometimes, late at night, when everything is quiet and there’s nothing left to distract him, he presses a hand to his chest and thinks about you. About the life you never got. The life he never got with you. The thought comes, every single time, soft and devastating and impossibly heavy - 'I never got to meet her'.

And somewhere in a world that never got to exist, you would’ve met him at the rink. You would’ve laughed at how intense he gets, how he overthinks things he pretends he doesn’t care about. You would’ve been there for every win. Every loss. Every moment in between. You would’ve known him, loved him.

But in this world, you’re just a feeling he can’t forget. A silence he can’t escape. And a goodbye before he even got to say a hello.

The rink is quiet in that late-afternoon way, no music just the soft scrape of blades and the hum of the cooling system. You’re at the boards, tightening your laces for the third time, because they feel off, even though they definitely aren’t.

“You know,” Ilia says, gliding up beside you like he didn’t just land something ridiculous five seconds ago, “if you keep retying those, they might just fall off out of spite.”

You glance up. “That’s not how physics works.”

He leans on the barrier, close enough that you can feel the chill coming off his jacket. “Pretty sure it's true. I’ve seen it happen.”

You snort. “Right. Evil skates. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He grins wide, easy, a little too pleased with himself and watches as you finally stand up. You push off onto the ice, testing your edges, and he falls into step beside you without even asking.

“Run your program?” he asks.

“Just bits of it,” you shrug. “Nothing serious.”

“Mm,” he hums, like that’s the most interesting answer he’s heard all day. “I’ll watch.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Why not?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. “Okay.”

So you skate. Nothing big or dramatic just steps, transitions, a couple of jumps you’ve done a thousand times. You can feel his eyes on you the whole time, which is mildly distracting, but you ignore it. When you finish, you glide back toward him, slightly out of breath.

“Well?” you ask.

He pushes off the boards, skating backward in front of you. “That spin at the end?”

“Yeah?”

“Looked good. But you know what would make it better?”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“Me catching you when you come out of it.”

You frown. “Why would I need that?”

He almost trips. “I- what? No, I mean- like, not because you need it,” he stumbles, laughing under his breath. “Just hypothetically. For dramatic effect.”

“Oh.” You nod, completely serious. “I don’t think my program really needs that. It’s not pairs.”

He stares at you for a second, then drags a hand down his face, smiling like he’s trying not to laugh. “Right. Not pairs. Of course.”

You push off again, circling him. “If you have actual notes, you can just say them, you know.”

“I am giving notes,” he says, following you now. “Very important ones.”

“Catching me isn’t a note.”

“It is if I’m the one catching you.”

You slow, turning to look at him properly. “Why would you be the one catching me?”

There’s a pause, then he laughs, full, helpless and shakes his head. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, still smiling. “You’re just really focused on skating, huh?”

“Well, yeah. We’re at a rink.”

He huffs out another laugh, gliding closer again. This time he doesn’t stop at a comfortable distance, he ends up right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. “Okay,” he says. “New approach.”

“Approach to what?”

He ignores that. “Do you wanna skate together?”

“We are skating together.”

“No, like together together.” He prompts, hoping you'll get the hint.

You glance down at your feet, then back at him. “I don’t think I’m in your level for that.”

He bites back a smile. “Not that either.”

“Then what-” Before you can finish, he gently takes your hand.

It’s not dramatic, his fingers closing around yours, steady and warm against the cold air.

Your brain stalls. “Oh,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies, softer now, watching your face carefully. “That kind of together.”

You blink at your joined hands, then back up at him. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face. “Oh.”

He laughs, relief and amusement mixing together. “There it is.”

“Wait,” you say, pointing at him with your free hand. “Have you been flirting with me this whole time?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I thought I was being pretty obvious.”

“You told me my skates were evil.”

“That was charming.”

“That was weird.” You said.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You look down at your hands again, still linked, and squeeze his fingers just a little. “Maybe,” you admit.

His smile softens into something quieter, softer than all the teasing before. “Good,” he says.

You shift closer without really thinking about it, blades brushing lightly against his. “So,” you add, trying and failing to sound casual, “if we’re doing this does that mean you’re actually going to catch me out of that spin?”

His grin comes back instantly. “Oh, absolutely.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Okay,” you say, pushing off and tugging him with you. “Try not to drop me.”

“No promises,” he shoots back, but his grip on your hand tightens just a little, steady and sure as you both glide across the ice.

Notes: I’m back to my angsty roots - no happy ending (reader chooses herself)

He doesn’t say it at first. That’s the thing that lingers later, the almosts. The way you can trace the ending of something back through tiny moments that didn’t feel important at the time. It starts with him checking his phone more during dinner, then staying later at the rink. Then cancelling plans with a soft 'I’m sorry, just this week, I promise.' You believe him, of course you do, because it’s Ilia. Because when he is there, he’s still the same, laughing into your shoulder, pulling you into cold, rushed kisses outside the rink, hands always a little too warm against your cheeks.

But love doesn’t disappear all at once, it thins. The conversation happens on a random Tuesday - you remember that part clearly, because you didn’t expect your life to split in two on a Tuesday. He won’t sit down, that’s your first clue.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, pacing instead, running a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s nervous before a competition.

Your stomach drops, that tone never brings anything good. “About?” you ask, even though you already know.

He exhales, sharp and shaky. “About everything. About us.”

There it is. You don’t cry, not yet.

“I can’t do both,” he says, finally stopping. Looking at you like he’s asking for permission to break your heart. “Not the way I need to. Not if I want to win everything.”

There’s a long pause, you swallow. “So what are you saying?”

His voice softens, and that somehow makes it worse. “I’m saying I choose skating.”

Not you. You're just not you enough, not to him right now. You expect anger, to scream, or throw something, or beg. But what comes out instead is quiet. “So that’s it?” you ask. “You’re just done?”

His face twists, like he hates himself for it. “It’s not like that.”

“It is,” you say, sharper now. “You’re choosing your dreams over me.”

“I have to,” he snaps, then immediately softens. “You don’t understand-”

“No,” you cut in, standing now too. “You don’t understand.” Your voice trembles despite your best efforts, your chest rises and falls too fast. “Don’t stand there and tell me I’m supposed to just accept this like it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he insists. “You matter-”

“Not enough.” That lands, you see it hit him.

For just a second you think he might take it back, that he’ll cross the room, pull you into him, choose you instead. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

That’s when it ends.

-

He wins everything, set records. You don’t watch at first, you try not to but it’s impossible to avoid - his name everywhere, interviews, highlights, commentators calling him unstoppable, historic, once-in-a-generation. Your friends send you clips like they’ve forgotten or maybe they just don’t know what to say. So one night, you watch. He’s flawless, effortless, flying across the ice like gravity doesn’t apply to him. And for a moment, pride swells in your chest so strong it almost drowns everything else. That’s him. That’s the boy you loved. Then the camera cuts to his face after he wins and he’s smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Years pass. You build something of your own, a career, a version of happiness that isn’t loud but is steady. You date, laugh and you heal slowly, in ways that don’t feel like healing until one day you realise you haven’t thought about him in hours, then days, then weeks.

When he comes back, there's no warning. A knock on your door, you almost don’t answer it but something makes you open it anyway. And there he is. Ilia. Older, still familiar in a way that makes your chest ache before you can stop it. For a second, neither of you speaks.

“You look-” he starts, then stops, like he doesn’t know what word he’s allowed to use anymore.

“Hi,” you say instead. It’s painfully normal.

“I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” he admits.

You shrug lightly. “I didn’t know if you’d come back.”

A small, sad smile. “I said I would.”

“No,” you correct gently. “You didn’t.”

He steps closer, hesitant now in a way you’ve never seen before. “I did it,” he says. “Everything I wanted. I won.”

“I know.”

“I thought...” He exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I thought when I came back, we could-”

“Pick up where we left off?” you finish for him.

He nods. God, if this were a different story maybe that would be enough, maybe love would wait and stay frozen in time, untouched and unchanged. But real life doesn’t work like that.

“I waited,” you say softly.

His expression shifts, hope flickering.

“For a while,” you add.

The moment it sinks in. “You’re not-” His voice falters. “You’re not waiting anymore.”

You shake your head, it’s not cruel. “I needed someone who would choose me,” you say. “And you didn’t.”

“I’m choosing you now.” The words come out too fast, desperate. And maybe, once upon a time, they would’ve meant everything. Now? They’re just late.

“I know,” you say, and your voice is kinder than he deserves. “But I’m not the same person you left.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing that for the first time, like he expected you to be paused, preserved. Still his. “I love you,” he says.

It slips out, raw and unguarded. You believe him, that’s the worst part.

“I loved you too,” you reply.

The past tense hits harder than anything else.

He leaves the same way he came, quiet. At the door he hesitates, like he wants to say something else, something that might change your mind. He doesn’t because deep down, he knows you already chose yourself the way he once chose his dreams.

Later, you hear about him again. Not the wins this time but the way commentators say there’s something different about him now, something missing. They can’t quite name it but you can. And for a moment you wonder what life would’ve looked like if he’d stayed. Then you close that door too. Because some love stories don’t fail. They just end where they’re supposed to.

A/N: Inspired by this TikTok I watched

It had always been easy with Ilia, in the way your hand finds his without thinking, the way he knows what you’re about to say before you say it. Easy in the way everyone else looks at you both like something’s obvious, something you’re both pretending not to see. Best friends. That’s what you were, what you said you were. And it worked, it had to, because Ilia was Ilia - impossible not to orbit. And you were just you, standing close enough to feel his gravity, but never quite stepping into it.

Except lately, things had been off. Too many almost-touches, too many lingering looks, too many moments where the air shifted, thick and heavy, like something was about to happen and then didn’t. Like now, the music is too loud, the room too full, laughter bouncing off the walls in a way that feels distant instead of warm. You stay tucked between people, smiling when expected, nodding along but never quite landing anywhere, never once meeting his eyes for longer than a second.

Ilia notices every time he drifts closer, you shift away. Every time his attention finds you, yours slips somewhere else, your phone, anyone but him. By the time you grab your jacket, no one questions it. You’re good at leaving quietly. The door shuts behind you, and the night hits, cold rain already soaking through your clothes as you step out into it, like you need it, like you deserve it. Inside, it takes Ilia all of five seconds to realize you’re gone and even less time to follow.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, voice cutting through the steady patter of rain.

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, hugging your jacket tighter around you as the storm soaks straight through it anyway. “I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you have.”

“Ilia-”

“Don’t.” His tone softens, but it somehow hits harder. “Don’t pretend. Not with me.”

That stings, because if there’s one person you never pretend with, it’s him. “I just...” You shake your head, pushing wet hair out of your face. “Things are weird.”

“They’re only weird because you’re making them weird.”

“Oh, I’m making them weird?” you shoot back, frustration bubbling up too fast, too sharp. “You’re the one acting like, like-”

“Like what?” he presses, stepping closer, rain dripping from his lashes, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Say it.”

Your chest tightens, you can’t say it. You can’t say like the way you look at me or like I’m not the only one feeling this. So instead, you default to the only safe thing you’ve ever had. “I thought we said we were just friends.”

The words hang between you, fragile and final. Ilia goes completely still. For a second, all you can hear is the rain filling the silence he doesn’t. Then he laughs, but there’s nothing amused about it. “We can never be just friends.”

Your heart drops because you hear it the worst possible way. Not we can be more, but we can’t even have this. “Oh.” The word leaves you small, breathless. “Okay.”

Ilia’s brows knit together. “Okay?”

You nod, even though it feels like something is splintering inside your chest. “Yeah. If that’s how you feel.”

“That’s how I feel?” he repeats, confusion bleeding into his voice.

“You said it,” you whisper. “We can’t be just friends.”

The rain is cold, or maybe that’s just the way your body is shutting down, piece by piece.

“So we won’t be,” you finish, forcing the words out before you can stop them. “I won’t make it weird anymore.”

His face changes, something flickering across it too fast for you to name. “Wait, what?”

But you’re already stepping back. Because this? This is exactly why you never crossed the line. Why you kept everything buried and controlled and safe. Because losing him like this? It was always the risk.

“I think I should go,” you say, voice barely steady.

Before he can respond you turn and walk. Each step feels heavier than the last, like you’re dragging something behind you - years of laughter, late nights, inside jokes, the way his name feels in your mouth. You make it three steps, then suddenly a hand wraps around your wrist, firm but still gentle. You gasp as you’re pulled back, your momentum spinning you around and then you’re there, right in front of him again, breath colliding with his.

“What are you doing?” you breathe.

“What are you doing?” he fires back, eyes wide, almost scared. “Don’t just walk away like that.”

“You just said we can’t-”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what did you mean, Ilia?” Your voice cracks, frustration and hurt spilling over. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me!”

He stares at you for a second, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he can’t believe you don’t get it. Then, softer but somehow more intense, “It means I can’t pretend anymore.”

Your breath catches.

“I can’t stand there and act like you’re just my friend when you’re-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, water dripping everywhere. “God, you’re everything. You always have been.”

The world narrows to just him.

“You think I want to lose you?” he continues, voice rough. “You think I’d ever say that?”

“I didn’t know what else to think,” you whisper.

“Then think this.” His grip tightens slightly on your wrist, not painful just grounding, like he needs to be sure you’re still here. “I’m in love with you.”

The words hit like lightning. “Ilia...”

“I’ve been in love with you,” he presses on, like if he stops now he won’t be able to say it again. “For so long it’s stupid. And yeah, we said we were just friends, but we lied. Or at least I did. Because I can’t do it anymore.” Your heart is racing so fast it almost hurts. “Say something,” he breathes.

You do, you step forward just enough to close the space between you. “You’re an idiot,” you murmur.

His face falls, just for a second. Then, you kiss him. It’s messy. Rain-soaked. Slightly off-angle. Perfect. For a moment, he freezes in shock, then he’s kissing you back like he’s been waiting his whole life for it, hand coming up to cradle your face, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. When you finally break apart, both of you breathless, foreheads pressed together, rain still pouring around you.

You whisper, “I’m in love with you too.”

He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, relief crashing over his features. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes your cheek, soft and disbelieving. “Good,” he says, lips ghosting over yours again. “Because I don't think we can go back to just being friends.”

The rain continues to patter around you both, as if your whole world didn't just shift in a matter of minutes.

Ilia knew two things when he walked into the dental clinic, firstly you had been texting him very confidently beforehand about how 'it’s literally just a quick nap, don’t be dramatic'. And secondly, the nurse at the front desk was already trying not to laugh when she asked, “You’re here for her, right?”

That should’ve been his warning, it wasn’t.

“Ilia!” Your voice echoed down the hallway before he even saw you.

Then you appeared. Well wobbled was more accurate. You were wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, socks sliding slightly on the polished floor, a nurse hovering behind you like you might just tip over at any moment. Your eyes lit up like he was the most exciting thing you’d ever seen.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, pointing at him like he’d just materialised out of thin air. “You’re real.”

Ilia blinked. “I was real this morning.”

You shook your head very seriously. “No, no, no. You could’ve been a hallucination. Like, like a very athletic ghost.”

The nurse laughed, Ilia rubbed his face. “Great. Fantastic. Love that.”

The second you reached him, you grabbed his hoodie sleeve with both hands like you were anchoring yourself to reality. “You came to get me,” you said, suddenly emotional.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, already bracing. “I said I would.”

Your face crumpled. “You’re so loyal,” you whimpered.

“Oh no,” the nurse muttered under her breath. “Here we go.”

And then you started crying full-on, dramatic, silent tears streaming down your face.

Ilia panicked immediately. “Hey, hey, what happened? Are you in pain? Did-”

“I LOVE YOU,” you sobbed.

He froze. The nurse choked. The world stopped. You sniffed loudly. “Like a lot. It’s actually embarrassing.”

Ilia stared at you, brain completely short-circuiting. “You... you what?”

But before he could process anything you suddenly stopped crying mid-sob, like someone flipped a switch. “Wait,” you said, squinting at him. “Have you always had two of you?”

“What?!”

You leaned closer, inspecting his face with intense concentration. “You’re doing that thing where you duplicate. That’s not fair. Pick one.”

“I am ONE person,” Ilia said, now fully stressed.

“Selfish,” you muttered.

Getting you to the car was an experience. Halfway there, you gasped again. “I HAVE A SECRET.”

Ilia didn’t even hesitate. “No, you don’t. Keep it.”

“I once ate an entire cake at 2am,” you confessed loudly.

“That’s not even bad.”

“It was someone else’s birthday cake.”

He paused. “Okay, that’s actually a crime.”

You nodded solemnly. “I’ve never told anyone. Not even you. Because I didn’t think you could handle the truth.”

“I’m handling it just fine.”

“You’re so strong,” you said, patting his arm proudly.

By the time he got you into the passenger seat, you were staring at your reflection in the mirror. “I look like a chipmunk.”

“You just had surgery.”

“I look cute,” you corrected, smiling at yourself. Then you gasped again. “WAIT. Do I still have teeth?”

“Yes.”

“ALL of them?”

He hesitated, “...no.”

You froze. “They stole my teeth.”

Ilia shut the car door slowly. “They removed your wisdom teeth. On purpose. You signed forms.”

“I’ve been ROBBED,” you said, horrified.

He had just started driving when you leaned your head against the window and whispered, “I think the dentist had a crush on me.”

Ilia nearly swerved. “What?”

“He said I was doing so good,” you said dreamily. “That’s basically a love confession.”

“That is literally his job.”

You turned to him, deeply offended. “Don’t invalidate my experiences.”

Five minutes later, you were laughing. Not just laughing, losing it. Like, uncontrollable, wheezing laughter.

“What?” Ilia asked, glancing over.

“I just remembered,” you giggled, clutching your stomach, “you fell on the ice that one time and just slid.”

He stared. “That was a serious moment.”

“You looked like a penguin,” you wheezed.

“I am not driving you anywhere ever again.”

Another emotional switch, you went quiet, too quiet. Ilia side-eyed you. “Why are you thinking?”

“Do my teeth know I love them?”

He blinked. “Your removed teeth?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “What if they’re scared?”

“They’re in a biohazard bag.”

You gasped, horrified. “YOU LEFT THEM THERE?”

“I didn’t take your teeth home like souvenirs!”

“Monster,” you whispered.

When he finally pulled up outside your place, he turned the engine off and looked at you. You were staring at him again very intently. “What now,” he sighed.

You reached over, cupping his face with both hands very gently. “I meant it,” you said, suddenly soft again. “About loving you.”

And for just a second it felt real and steady, not like chaos wrapped in a blanket. Ilia’s heart did something stupid. “You’re high,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Yeah,” you agreed. Then, “I ALSO LOVE PASTA.”

He dropped his head against the steering wheel. “Unbelievable.”

Ten minutes later, you were half-asleep on his shoulder, mumbling, “Don’t let them take my other teeth.”

“I won’t,” he said, adjusting the blanket around you.

“Ilia?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you still real?”

He glanced at you, smiling a little despite everything. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m real.”

You nodded, satisfied. “Good,” you murmured. “Because you’re my favourite one.”