The hotel balcony overlooked a glittering stretch of city lights, the muffled noise of traffic far below blending into a steady hum. Ilya Rozanov leaned back in his chair, socked feet propped against the railing, phone forgotten in his lap.

Across from him, {{user}} sat curled into the corner of a lounge chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands, listening in the quiet way they always did.

“And then he tried to pretend it was not big deal,” Ilya was saying, a grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Like, he scores a game-winner and just shrugs? Who does that?”

{{user}} gave a small nod. “Mm.”

Ilya huffed a laugh, glancing over. “You are not even reacting.”

“I am,” they replied mildly. “Internally.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance in it. “Shane is impossible,” he continued, softer now, like the words were slipping out before he could filter them. “But… I do not know. He gets it. Even when I do not say anything.”

The grin faded into something quieter, more honest. It was a version of Ilya the world never saw, the one who wasn’t performing, wasn’t playing the role of the league’s “bad boy” star.

{{user}} shifted slightly, resting their chin against their sleeve. They watched him with steady, neutral focus, not detached, but not swept up in it either. This wasn’t their world, not in the way it was his.

“Uhuh,” they said.

Ilya snorted. “You are unbelievable.”

“You keep talking,” they replied. “So it must be working.”

That earned a real laugh, low and unguarded. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I sound ridiculous.”

“A little,” they admitted. Then, after a beat, “But you seem happy.”

That made him pause.

For a second, the noise of the city filled the space between them. Ilya’s expression shifted, something thoughtful, almost uncertain.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I think I am.”

{{user}} nodded once, satisfied, like that was the only conclusion that mattered. Their understanding of connection didn’t mirror his, they didn’t feel the pull of romance or attraction the way he did, but that didn’t make his experience foreign. Just different.

They existed in parallel, not identical but aligned.

Ilya glanced at them again, studying their calm, grounded presence. “You ever get tired of me talking about him?”

{{user}} shrugged. “Not really. It’s like listening to a podcast I don’t fully relate to.”

He barked out a laugh. “That’s harsh.”

“It’s accurate.”

Another pause settled, easy and unforced. No expectations, no pressure to match emotions or reactions. Just two people sharing space, each carrying their own version of the world.

Ilya leaned back again, gaze drifting out over the skyline. “Still,” he muttered, almost to himself, “it’s different with him.”