Louise is a shy, deeply insecure 20-year-old who has spent most of her life feeling too ordinary to be truly chosen. She never expects someone like Ilia Malinin, a three-time World Champion figure skater, to notice her—let alone pursue her. But he does. And once Ilia decides he wants her, he courts her with unwavering patience and quiet devotion. He doesn’t overwhelm her with grand gestures; he wins her over through consistency—through the way he listens, remembers, protects, and makes her feel precious in ways no one ever has. He opens doors, walks closest to the street, notices every subtle change in her mood, and loves caring for her as naturally as breathing. Their relationship becomes Louise's first experience with love, and with it comes overwhelming vulnerability. She cannot understand how a man so admired, so accomplished, and so certain could love someone as unsure of herself as she is. Yet Ilia never hesitates. He chooses her every day, with a tenderness so steady it slowly breaks down every doubt she has ever carried. When he teaches her to skate, their bond deepens. Louise struggles adorably on the ice, constantly losing balance, embarrassed by every stumble. Ilia, however, seems to love every second of it—mostly because it gives him endless excuses to hold her. His hands steady her waist, his arms catch her before every fall, and no matter how much she panics, he never lets her hit the ice. Slowly, admiration turns into devotion. Louise begins idolizing him not because he is a champion, but because of the man he is in private: gentle, protective, and impossibly devoted. She feels unimaginably lucky to be loved by him. What she doesn’t realize is that while she sees him as extraordinary, Ilia loves her just as deeply. He may have conquered her heart first—but he is just as hopelessly in love with her.

Chapter 1: The Forgotten Order

The afternoon light slanted through the café windows, thick and golden, turning the dust motes into glitter and the frost on the panes into a blurred crystal frame for the ice rink across the street. Louise watched it while she polished the same spot on the counter for the third time. A figure carved a long, graceful arc on the ice below, a blur of motion and certainty. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was him. Ilia Malinin. World Champion. A fact so absurdly separate from her own life it felt like watching a television through glass.

Her life was here. In the quiet clink of porcelain, the hiss of the steam wand, the faint, perpetual scent of vanilla and old paper that clung to the second-hand books lining the back wall. It was safe. It was small. She knew her place in it: wipe the tables, remember the regulars’ orders, smile with her lips closed so as not to seem too eager. Exist quietly.

The bell above the door jingled, and a rush of cold air snaked in, carrying the sharp, clean smell of ice. Louise didn’t look up, not right away. She finished wiping the counter, making sure the cloth left no streaks on the dark wood. A performance of normalcy. When she finally glanced over, he was there, unzipping his jacket.

Ilia. In her café. Again.

It was the third time this week. He always came in the late afternoon, after his training sessions, when the place was mostly empty. He never came with anyone.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than you’d expect from someone who commanded an entire rink. It was slightly breathless, like he’d hurried over.

“Hi.” The word came out as a puff of air. She busied herself with the espresso machine, her fingers, suddenly clumsy, knocking against the portafilter. “The usual?”

“Please.” He slid onto the same stool at the counter, the one by the window that gave a direct view of the rink’s entrance. He rested his elbows on the wood, watching her. She could feel it, a soft, persistent pressure between her shoulder blades.

She poured the dark roast, the stream of coffee a perfect, fragrant line into the ceramic cup. Black. No sugar. He’d ordered it that way the first time, and she’d memorized it, filing it away with the other useless facts she collected about customers. Mr. Henderson took his tea with two sugars and a morbid comment about the weather. The student girls wanted non-fat milk and extra foam. Ilia Malinin drank his coffee black and didn’t seem to like it.

She placed the cup in front of him. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Louise.”

Her name in his mouth did something strange to her stomach. He remembered. Of course he remembered; she wore a nametag. But he said it like it was a real word, not just letters on plastic.

She retreated to the other end of the counter, pretending to check the pastry case. In the reflection of the glass, she could see him. He didn’t pick up the cup. He just sat there, one hand curled loosely around it, his gaze fixed out the window or, sometimes, she swore, drifting back to her. He had these dark, focused eyes that saw everything. They were nothing like the eyes of the boys who came in here, glancing at her chest or through her. Ilia’s look was a thing you felt, a gentle scrutiny that made her want to check her hair for stray strands.

“Quiet today,” he said after a long silence. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space his words left behind.

“Midweek usually is.” She turned, forcing herself to meet his eyes for a second before looking at his shoulder. “How was practice?”

He smiled then, a small, easy thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “It was practice. Some days the ice is friendly. Some days it’s not. Today it was… negotiable.”

A laugh startled out of her, soft and brief. “You negotiate with the ice?”

“It’s better than arguing.” He took a sip of the coffee finally, and she saw the faint, almost imperceptible wince. He set it down. “Strong.”

“It’s the same as always.” She fiddled with the strings of her apron, twisting the coarse cotton around her finger. “You could try a latte. Or a cappuccino. People who don’t actually like coffee usually get those.”

He looked down at the cup, then back at her, his expression unreadable. “I don’t mind it.”

But you don’t drink it, she thought. You just buy it and sit here. The unspoken observation hung between them, charged and confusing. Was he waiting for someone? Killing time? Her mind, a well-oiled machine of self-deprecation, supplied the simplest answer: he pitied her. The quiet girl in the empty café. A champion’s charity project.

“You always work these hours?” he asked, pulling her from the spiral.

“Mostly. It’s peaceful.”

“You like peaceful things.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, delivered with a quiet certainty that felt more intimate than a touch. How could he know that? She just served him coffee.

“Peaceful is predictable,” she said, shrugging, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strained. “Predictable is good.”

“Is it?” He tilted his head. On the ice, his movements were explosive, breathtaking. Here, he was all contained energy, a coiled spring resting. “Sometimes predictable just feels like waiting.”

The statement was so perfectly aligned with the secret ache in her own chest that she had to look away, out at the golden light. She was an expert in waiting. Waiting for her life to start, waiting to become someone interesting, waiting for this bizarre, attentive shadow to leave her counter and go back to his real, glittering world.

He stood up abruptly, the stool legs scraping against the floor. Her heart gave a stupid, hopeful lurch that he was leaving, that the delicious, exhausting tension would break. He dug a few bills from his pocket and left them on the counter, far more than the coffee cost.

But he didn’t head for the door. He walked around the counter.

Louise froze. He was in the staff area. Her area. The world narrowed to the scent of him—cold air, sharp sweat, and something else, something clean like spearmint.

“Your, uh,” he said, his voice even softer. He reached out, his hand hovering near the collar of her worn sweater. “You’ve got… sugar, I think. From the bins.”

She stopped breathing. He didn’t touch her. He just waited, his fingers a breath away from her skin, until she managed a jerky nod. Then, with a precision so careful it was agonizing, he brushed two fingers across her collarbone. The contact was feather-light, over in a millisecond, but it burned like a brand.

He showed her the tiny, glittering grains of sugar on his fingertips. “See?”

All she could do was nod again, her throat impossibly tight.

He smiled that easy smile, but his eyes were dark pools, intense and unblinking. “Predictable,” he said, as if to himself. Then he turned and walked out, leaving his full, almost untouched coffee on the counter.

The bell jingled. The cold air swirled in and settled.

Louise stood there, her hand rising to her collarbone where his fingers had been. The skin tingled. She looked at the abandoned cup, then at the money on the counter, then out the window. He was already a distant figure, pulling the rink door open without a backward glance.

He was right. It did just feel like waiting. But for the first time, the waiting felt like it was for something. Something terrifying. And the most terrifying part was the tiny, forbidden hope blooming in her chest, whispering that he might be waiting, too.