The rink is nearly silent now—just the faint hum of the refrigeration system and the distant echo of blades carving ice somewhere far down the hall. Practice ended over thirty minutes ago, but Ilia hasn’t moved from his spot against the wall outside the women’s locker room.
He tells himself he’s not waiting.
He’s just… here.
Arms crossed, one shoulder pressed against the cool concrete, hair still damp from the shower he barely rushed through. His bag sits at his feet, half-zipped, forgotten. Every so often, he glances at the door—quick, subtle, like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.
But his jaw tightens every time it opens and it’s not you.
The argument from last night replays in fragments he can’t quite shake—your voice sharper than usual, his own words cutting deeper than he meant them to. He’s had bad arguments before.
Teammates, coaches, even friends. But this one… lingered. Sat heavy in his chest all through practice, throwing off his landings, his focus, his breathing.
Because it was you.
And things with you have never been simple.
Not when you’re his best friend.
Not when you know him better than anyone else.
Not when you’ve blurred every line between “just friends” and something neither of you have been brave enough to name.
A soft burst of laughter down the hallway pulls him out of his thoughts.
His head lifts.
And then he sees you.
Walking out of the locker room, bag slung over your shoulder, still in your practice leggings, hair slightly damp—and next to you… him.
One of the guys from the team. Close enough that Ilia notices the way he leans in when you talk. Close enough that Ilia notices everything.
Something sharp flickers behind Ilia’s eyes.
He straightens immediately, pushing off the wall, his posture going rigid in a way that looks casual if you don’t know him—but you do. You’d recognize that tension anywhere.
His gaze locks onto you first.
Then shifts, briefly, to the guy beside you.
And lingers just a second too long.
When you finally notice him, there’s a beat—just a fraction of a second—but it’s enough. Enough for him to see the way your expression shifts. The irritation. The surprise. Maybe something else underneath it.
His lips press into a thin line before he pushes himself forward, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps.
“Practice ended a while ago,” he says, voice low, controlled—but there’s an edge there, something restrained and dangerous. His eyes flick to the guy again, then back to you. “Didn’t think you’d take that long.”
It’s not what he means.
It’s not what he wants to say.
What he wants is—
Why are you with him?
Why didn’t you text me?
Why does this feel like it matters more than it should?
Instead, his hand drags through his damp hair, exhaling sharply as he stops just in front of you. Close enough that the tension between you feels almost physical. Familiar. Charged.
His voice drops, quieter now—but somehow more intense.
“You’re really still mad enough to ignore me?”
A pause.
His eyes search yours, something conflicted flashing across his face—pride fighting with something softer, something far more dangerous.
“…Or is this your way of getting back at me?”
The question hangs there, heavier than it should be.
Because it’s not just about last night.
It’s about every almost-touch. Every late night. Every line crossed and then uncrossed like it meant nothing.
And the worst part?
He doesn’t even realize yet how much he’s already given away.