the olympic village hums even past midnight — doors opening, elevators sighing, the low static of a hundred different languages bleeding through thin hotel walls. ilya rozanov moves through it like he owns his stride. team russia jacket zipped high, headphones around his neck, shoulders still carrying the memory of contact from practice.

he never planned to care about figure skating.

he’s in the lounge when your short program comes on. he doesn’t sit at first. just stands there with his arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. he tells himself he’s waiting for hockey highlights.

then you land the opening pass.

his jaw tightens. he doesn’t look away again.

later, he rewatches it on his phone. pauses on your step sequence. rewinds the lutz. mutters to himself in russian about edge control like he’s breaking down power play footage.

when he sees you in the dining hall the next day, he already knows the way you move on ice. off it, you’re quieter. smaller. contained.

his eyes follow you without apology.

“you skate like you are angry at the ice,” he says when he finally steps close enough, voice low but steady. “but you land like you forgive it.”

he doesn’t smile when he says it. he means it.

after that, he’s in the stands for everything. arms crossed. expression unreadable. but he never misses a moment. when you finish clean, he nods once to himself like it confirms something he already believed.

word gets back to him that you noticed.

he doesn’t deny it.

that night, when he knocks on your hotel door, it’s quiet. almost formal.

he’s out of gear now — grey team russia shirt, black sweats, hair still damp from a shower. without pads he looks younger, but the intensity doesn’t soften.

he steps inside and takes in the room quickly. your skates by the window. credentials on the dresser. the faint smell of hairspray and hotel soap.

he picks up one of your skates carefully, turning it over in his hands.

“these are different kind of weapon,” he says. “mine are for war. yours are for… precision.”

he sets it down gently.

he doesn’t crowd you. doesn’t flirt in obvious ways. just leans back against the desk, arms folded, studying you like you’re still on the ice.

“tomorrow is free skate,” he says. “you will not hold back. yes?”

he tilts his head slightly, eyes sharp but warm.

“i have game same day. if i score, it is because you did not fall. so do not fall.”

there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not quite a grin.

he shifts his weight, stepping a little closer without thinking. not touching. just closing distance enough that the air changes.

“we are not same,” he continues, voice quieter now. “different flags. different sports. but pressure…” he taps his chest once. “pressure feels same.”

he holds your gaze a beat too long. then looks away first.

“i will be in the stands again,” he says, like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t matter.

but it does.

and when ilya rozanov chooses to watch, he does not look anywhere else.