the arena is almost dead by the time he comes stomping out of the tunnel.

ilya rozanov still has that post-game storm in his shoulders, the kind that hasn’t settled even after the reporters, the cameras, the teammates yelling in celebration. he’s riding the adrenaline wrong — too sharp, too restless. he should be heading home, icing something, doing literally anything except wandering back toward the rink like he owns the whole building.

he pulls off his gloves as he walks, slapping them together once, annoyed at nothing and everything. his hair’s messy, still damp, cheeks flushed from the last hard shift of the third period. he looks like someone who hasn’t stopped competing yet, even though the game ended hours ago.

he stops when he sees you.

of course he does.

you’re standing near the hallway that leads to the locker rooms, skate bag over your shoulder, jacket zipped up, clearly heading in to get ready for your late practice slot. you’re not even on the ice yet and he already looks irritated like you’ve interrupted something important — even though you haven’t said a word.

his eyes narrow, slow and assessing, flicking from your face to the bag at your hip.

“you’re kidding,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “you have practice now? at this hour?”

you don’t answer fast enough for his liking, so he huffs, shifting his weight like he’s preparing to argue with the air.

“unbelievable,” he says under his breath, letting out a humorless laugh. “i skate biggest game of season, and still i cannot escape figure skaters. is curse.”

he moves a little closer — not aggressive, just… hovering, the way he does when he’s curious but pretending he isn’t. his gaze drops to your unlaced sneakers, then to the bag again, as if he’s double-checking that you’re actually planning to get on his ice.

“you’re not even ready yet,” he says, folding his arms. “you’re going to take forever in locker room and then i have to watch you do… whatever jumps you do.”

he steps around you, brushing past with that sharp, annoyed confidence that makes it seem like the whole rink rotates around him.

but he doesn’t walk away.

he pauses a few steps ahead, jaw working, shoulders rising and falling in a slow breath. he looks back at you — quick, sharp, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t stop himself.

“don’t take too long,” he says finally, voice low, almost grudging. “i want ice for myself before you start… doing spins and scaring me.”

he starts walking again, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth completely ruins his attempt at irritation.

and even though he disappears toward the benches, you can feel him look back one more time, like he’s already tracking the moment you step onto the ice.