The rink is almost empty when you step onto the ice.

The lights are dimmed just enough to make everything feel quieter, like the world has shrunk down to the sound of your blades and the faint hum overhead. Your music starts, echoing softly through the space, and you push off.

“Again,” he says.

You don’t even look over. You already know that tone.

Ilia Malinin stands by the boards, arms folded, watching like he always does—too focused, too sharp. You try not to think about it. You try not to think about him at all.

You go into the jump.

It’s close. Closer than before. Your landing almost holds—but not quite. Your blade skids, and you have to step out.

You exhale, frustrated.

“I had that.”

“You almost had it,” he corrects, immediately. “That’s not the same thing.”

You turn toward him, pushing back across the ice. “It felt right.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, simple, like that settles it.

You stop a few feet away from the boards, breath still uneven. There’s a pause—just long enough for something else to creep in under the surface of the conversation.

“You’re rushing the takeoff,” he adds, quieter now. “You hesitate, then overcompensate.”