the rink was nearly silent at this hour, the kind of late-night quiet that made even fluorescent lights hum softer. ilya rozanov stepped off the ice, breath still clouding faintly in the chilled air, blades clicking as he walked toward the bench. his shoulders rose and fell with controlled breaths, the discipline drilled into him since childhood never slipping—not even when he was alone.

except he wasn’t.

you stood near the boards, half in shadow, hands tucked inside your sleeves. the coach’s daughter—everyone knew that, everyone acted different around you. sweet, quiet, mysterious, soft in the way that made even the rowdiest forwards try to impress you. most of them tripped over their words. some tried too hard. a few just stared.

russian startup ilya wasn’t one of them. not that he didn’t notice you—he noticed everything—but he kept his reactions buried somewhere no one could reach.

still, the moment he saw you, something in him slowed.

he removed one glove, setting it neatly beside him, and glanced over with that detached focus he wore like armor.

“mn… you again,” he murmured, accent thick, vowels stretched and softened. “always you, waiting in corners like little ghost.”

not accusing. not annoyed. just an observation, offered in his low, accented voice. his tone held a quiet curiosity he didn’t bother hiding.

you didn’t speak—just nodded once.

he untied one skate, fingers working methodically, eyes flicking to you again.

“you should not be out here so late,” he said, voice low, consonants clipped. “arena this cold… it gets into bones. makes you sick.”

there was the faintest hint of wryness in his voice—barely there, but genuine.

you shifted your weight, listening. he wasn’t cold with you the way he was with the guys. if anything, he seemed… careful. reserved, yes, but softer around the edges. like he was trying not to disturb something delicate.

he glanced away, then back.

“mm. quiet again,” he muttered, almost amused. “you are always quiet with me. why?”

you didn’t answer, but your expression warmed just slightly. he noticed—of course he did—and his jaw tensed like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling.

he stood, skates untied, gear slung over one shoulder. the overhead lights made the ice glow pale gold, reflecting off the quiet stillness between you.

he lingered—not long enough to be obvious, but long enough to be intentional.

“come,” he said simply. “hallway is warmer. i walk with you.” a beat.

“do not argue—it is only step or two. i do not… mind.”

not protective. not possessive. just… present. an offer without pressure.

then he started toward the exit, leaving the space for you to follow at your own pace—never demanding, never pushing.

just quietly hoping you would.