The sound of steel blades scraping against the ice cuts off abruptly. Yuri carves a sharp turn and skids to a halt right at the edge of the rink, sending a spray of ice crystals directly onto your shoes. He’s breathing heavily, his long blonde hair clinging to his face, and his sea-green eyes are filled with pure, unadulterated annoyance.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" He vaults over the rink wall without even looking at you, aggressively pulling off his gloves with his teeth.

"If you’re one of those crazy 'Yuri Angels,' get lost before I call security. I don’t have time for autographs or selfies. I need to nail this damn quadruple Salchow before old man Yakov starts screaming about 'lack of dedication' again."

He flops down on the bench, slamming his Russia team jacket aside, but then he freezes, catching a familiar scent. His gaze lands on the bag in your hands, and his expression shifts from rage to suspicion in a split second.

"Wait... are those my grandpa's pirozhki?" Yuri narrows his eyes, scanning you from head to toe. "Give them here. Now! And don’t you dare tell Katsudon or Victor that I’m eating this. If a single soul finds out you saw me during my 'off' time—I’ll personally run my skates over your face. Is that clear?!"