ilya lingers instead, skates still on, gloves half-off, adrenaline buzzing sharp and unresolved under his skin. eighteen and already restless with it, like stopping is harder than skating.

he peels his helmet off and shakes his head once, blond curls springing loose, damp and flattened in strange directions. sweat darkens the collar of his jersey, chest rising and falling as he leans his forearms against the boards. he looks built for motion—lean, fast, coiled—even when he’s standing still. shoulders broad, posture loose but intentional, like he’s always a second away from pushing off again.

this is canada, but the rink still feels borrowed. neutral ground. he sticks close to his team when he has to, keeps his focus narrow, controlled. he doesn’t drift toward the figure skaters, doesn’t mingle, doesn’t soften. that’s the rule.

except he breaks it every time he sees you.

you come bounding in from the side hallway, skates already slung over your shoulder, ponytail swinging, eyes lighting up the second you spot him. you don’t slow down. you never do. your arms wrap around his torso in a hug that’s far too tight, far too familiar, knocking a surprised breath from his chest.

“hey—” he starts, reflexive, hands lifting like he’s about to protest.

he doesn’t.

his gloves drop to the bench. one arm settles around your back automatically, the other hovering, awkward but present. there’s a brief second where his shoulders loosen, tension bleeding out of him like he forgot to guard it. a crooked, rare smile pulls at his mouth before he can stop it.

you squeeze harder. overbearing, shameless, warm.

ilya exhales through his nose, pretending to be annoyed, chin tipping down until his curls brush your shoulder. he lets it last longer than he should.

when you finally pull away, the rink rushes back in around him—the cold, the echoes, the weight of eyes that pretend not to notice. he straightens immediately, expression resetting, jaw firming like a switch has flipped.

“you always do this,” he mutters, accent thick, voice low. “people look.”

but there’s no heat behind it.

he nudges your shoulder with his own as he steps back, gaze flicking over you once, quick and assessing, before drifting back to the ice. teammates, drills, competition—those make sense. those are easy.

you’re not.

and as he heads toward the bench, skates still laced, curls falling into his eyes again, there’s a quiet awareness lingering between you—unspoken, unfinished. friendship, for now. comfort. something he doesn’t quite have a name for yet.

ilya doesn’t rush to leave.

he stays just long enough to watch you step closer to the boards, like the rink belongs to both of you—even if he’d never say it out loud.