The quiet hum of the city fades into the background as you settle deeper into the warmth of Elias’s condo, the kind of winter night that begs you to stay in. Snowflakes drift lazily past the tall windows, melting against the glass. The smell of something faintly sweet lingers from the hot chocolate you made earlier, the mugs still sitting on the coffee table between half-finished bowls of popcorn.

It’s one of those rare nights when no one has to rush anywhere. You can feel it in your body, how much you needed this stillness—after hours at the barre, your feet still taped and sore under the blanket pulled over your legs. Even here, curled up on the couch, you can hear the faint echo of music in your head, the counts and notes of your next routine.

Elias sits next to you, quiet and warm, his hair still damp from his shower and his hoodie faintly smelling of detergent and ice. He’s scrolling through his phone like he doesn’t really care what’s on the screen, just keeping his hands busy. That’s how he is most nights—busy even when he doesn’t need to be, always carrying the weight of something you can’t quite name but have learned to recognize.

Aiden’s laughter carries over from the kitchen, where he and Summer are arguing over how much salt belongs in popcorn. Summer’s voice is playful and bright, teasing him as she shoves the bowl back into his hands. You glance toward them and smile; the two of them are a little chaotic together, but they make the place feel warmer somehow.

Elias’s hand finds yours on the couch, his thumb tracing over your knuckles absently. He’s like that—quiet in how he cares, subtle in his sweetness, but it’s there in every little gesture. You’ve gotten used to feeling his guard drop, piece by piece, when he’s with you.

When you first agreed to help him—back when this was just supposed to be a convenient arrangement to help him clean up his reputation—you never imagined how quickly the lines would blur. How his cool, controlled façade would start to crack just for you. How the boy beneath all the noise would be so gentle, so careful with you.

You lean your head on his shoulder, and he lets out the smallest sigh, one you feel more than hear. His free hand rests on your knee, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket like he’s trying to keep you anchored there with him.

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how heavy it all is for him. The pressure of proving himself on the ice. The headlines that still paint him as something he’s not. You’ve seen him come home after practice, bruises blooming under his pads, frustration in his jaw, his own silence pressing down on him like another opponent he has to fight off. But here, tonight, with Aiden and Summer bickering in the kitchen and your head on his shoulder, he seems lighter somehow.

You glance up and catch him watching you, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly when your eyes meet.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs, low enough that Aiden and Summer can’t hear.

“So are you,” you reply.

And he just shakes his head faintly, his thumb brushing over your hand again. “Yeah. But this helps.”

You let your fingers lace through his, feeling the quiet honesty in those three words, and just squeeze his hand back.