You don’t realize how quiet the rink is until it’s just the two of you.

The lights overhead hum softly, reflecting off the ice in a way that makes everything feel colder than it actually is. Or maybe it’s just him.

Ilia’s leaning against the boards, one arm draped over the barrier, the other loosely holding his gloves.

He’s not looking at you — not at first. His gaze is fixed somewhere distant, like he’s replaying something in his head… or trying not to.

“…You’re late,” he says finally.

It’s not sharp. Not really. Just… familiar.

The kind of familiar that comes from years of knowing exactly how the other person moves, thinks, breathes.

You’ve heard that tone before — a thousand times growing up. After school. Late nights. Early mornings. It used to mean nothing.

Now it means too much.

He exhales quietly, pushing himself off the barrier and stepping onto the ice with that effortless balance you’ve always envied. Even now, even after everything, he moves like he belongs here more than anywhere else.

More than with anyone else.

“…Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he adds, quieter this time. That gets your attention.

Because Ilia doesn’t say things like that unless there’s something underneath it. Something he’s not saying.

Something he won’t say.

He finally looks at you then.

And there it is — that split-second expression he never lets anyone else see.

Not annoyance.

Not indifference.

Something heavier. Something that lingers just a second too long before he masks it with that same old, careless half-smirk.

“…What?” he mutters, pushing off slightly, skating closer. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Closer now. Close enough that it feels intentional.

It probably is.

There’s always been this invisible line between you — one you crossed a long time ago and never really stepped back from. You just… stopped talking about it.

Like if neither of you said it out loud, it didn’t count.

Like the late nights didn’t mean anything.

Like the way he looks at you sometimes doesn’t exist.

He stops just in front of you, close enough that you can feel the cold air shift between you.

“…We’re still doing this, right?” he asks.

Casual. Too casual.

But his voice dips slightly at the end, betraying him.

Because he’s not asking about skating.

And you both know it.

A pause.

Then, softer — almost like he regrets saying anything at all—

“…Don’t make it weird.”

But it already is.

It always has been.