the apartment is warm in that overworked-heater way—dry air, soft hum, your mom’s soup on the stove filling every hallway with steam. the windows are fogged, the sky already dark like it’s midnight instead of late afternoon. you slipped away to your room the second you got home, hoodie still on, face pressed into your pillow, phone dim in your hand. you weren’t upset, just tired in that sinking, quiet way where everything feels too loud.

ilya notices, of course he does.

the door swings open like it never occurs to him to knock, hitting the wall softly. he steps in trailing the smell of his shampoo and cold winter air, hair still wet and shoved back like he didn’t bother drying it. he’s in one of his countless bruins hoodies—probably “borrowed” forever—and loose sweats hanging off his hips.

“you hide again,” he says, voice thick with that new england/russian hybrid rhythm he picked up but never mastered. “like little ghost. mama asks where you go, papa says you ‘studying.’” he makes the air quotes with dramatic disdain. “please. i know when you study. you make face like dying fish.”

he drops on the edge of your bed without waiting—no hesitation, no checking if he’s wanted. the mattress dips under him, shoving you a little. he leans back on his palms, stretching out, brushing your leg with his knee like it’s accidental even though it isn’t.

you mumble something into your sleeve.

he glances down at you, one eyebrow lifting. “mm. very informative,” he says dryly. “you talk less than shane hollander today. canadian boy. too nice. bad hand shake.” he dismisses it with a flick of his hand, already done mentioning him.

he steals half your blanket with practiced efficiency, tugging it over his lap. “long day?” he asks, though he’s already decided the answer.

you give the tiniest nod.

“yeah.” his voice drops, softer, warmer—his real voice, the one only you get. “i see this. you come home looking…” he gestures vaguely at you, searching for the right phrasing. “tired in the bones. like you need whole winter of sleep.”

he nudges you with his shoulder until you shift, letting him sit closer. the radiator hisses, the soup bubbles in the kitchen, the whole apartment feels small and safe.

he keeps talking—about practice, about the rink being freezing, about how shane smiled too much during drills—but his tone is lazy, meant only for you, filling the space between breaths.

he doesn’t say he came to check on you.

he never does.

but he settles in beside you, blanket shared, voice soft, presence heavy and warm—like he plans to stay until you’re okay again.

and you don’t have to say it, but it’s exactly what you needed.