Ilia Malinin has been Jacob’s idol for years To Jacob, Ilia is more myth than man. After dominating figure skating for two years, Ilia has become the sport’s untouchable star— the greatest skater in history. So when Jacob makes Team USA and suddenly trains beside him, it feels unreal. Every glance from Ilia feels precious. Every word matters. And beneath Jacob’s admiration lies a secret he has never voiced: he wants him Ilia notices immediately He sees the starstruck looks, the nervous smiles, the devotion in Jacob’s every gesture. More importantly, he understands something dangerous Jacob would never refuse him That realization becomes intention Ilia gets closer, carefully. He gives Jacob attention in measured doses—private jokes, lingering conversations, moments of warmth that feel intimate only because Jacob desperately wants them to mean something. Jacob mistakes manipulation for connection For the first time at Ilia's apartment, alone with him, Jacob is overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. His pulse races Ilia makes the first move with effortless confidence There is no hesitation in him, because this was always the plan Jacob gives in immediately, too overwhelmed and longing to resist. For one night, he feels chosen By morning, the illusion is gone Ilia is cold—detached, as if the night meant nothing. When he asks Jacob to leave, he does so gently but with finality Jacob leaves hollow He tears himself apart searching for what he did wrong. Was he disappointing? Too needy? Not good enough? He blames himself, because blaming Ilia would destroy the image he built of him After that, their friendship changes. The warmth disappears. Ilia keeps him at a distance, offering just enough acknowledgment to keep Jacob desperate. Jacob says nothing, terrified of losing him completely Then, whenever they are alone, Ilia comes back Only when he wants something. The pattern becomes consistent: distance, silence, indifference—then sudden attention, intimacy, and coldness again Ilia never promises anything. He gives Jacob only scraps, just enough to keep him starving Because Ilia understands the truth better than Jacob does Jacob is addicted to being wanted by him What they become resembles friends with benefits, but there is nothing equal about it. This is devotion turned into leverage, worship weaponized He knows Ilia does not love him. He knows he is being used But every time Ilia reaches for him, the same devastating thought returns He chose me

Chapter 1: First Touch

The ice was the only place Jacob Chen ever felt real. Outside the rink, the world was a blur of muted sounds and soft edges, a place where he moved like a guest in his own life. But here, under the stark arena lights with the chill biting through his thin practice clothes, every nerve was alive. Each push of his blade was a sentence; each turn, a paragraph in a story only he knew how to tell.

He finished his routine, chest heaving, breath pluming in the cold air. His eyes instinctively found the other side of the rink. Ilia Malinin was practicing quad axels. Not just practicing—dissecting them. His takeoff was a violent, perfect torque, his body a contained explosion in the air. The landing was a whisper. It was obscene, how easy he made the impossible look.

Jacob’s coach shouted something about his edge work. He nodded, but he was already watching Ilia glide to a stop, unzip his team jacket, and take a long pull from his water bottle. A strand of platinum hair stuck to his damp temple. Jacob looked away, heat crawling up his own neck.

Later, in the locker room, the steam from the showers blurred the mirrors. Jacob was stuffing his gear into his bag when he felt a presence behind him.

“Your step sequence was slow today,” Ilia’s voice cut through the humid air. It was flat, observational. “You’re thinking too much.”

Jacob turned. Ilia was already dressed, his posture relaxed against the locker bank, one ankle crossed over the other. He was the only person who could make a sweatshirt and track pants look like a tailored suit.

“I was trying to get the emotion right,” Jacob said, his own voice sounding too quiet.

“Emotion is for after the medals.” Ilia pushed off the lockers and walked over, closing the distance. He smelled like cold air and expensive soap. “The judges only see the technical panel first. Get the levels, then be poetic.” He reached out and adjusted the collar of Jacob’s shirt, his fingers brushing the skin of Jacob’s neck. The touch was brief, impersonal, and it left a brand. “My place. Eight o’clock. We’ll look at your video.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a circuit closing.

Ilia’s apartment was a monument to minimalism. White walls, polished concrete floors, furniture that was all sharp angles and neutral fabrics. A single floor lamp cast a precise pool of light in the living room, leaving the corners in deep shadow. The only signs of life were a sleek laptop on the glass coffee table and Ilia’s tailored wool coat, discarded over the back of a chair. It smelled like citrus and leather.

They watched Jacob’s footage from practice. Ilia sat close on the sofa, his thigh a firm line against Jacob’s. He paused the video, pointing at the screen.“See?Here. You’re already deciding to fall before you even leave the ice.” Ilia’s finger tapped the freeze-frame of Jacob’s face, a micro-expression of doubt. “Your body follows your brain. Your brain is a coward.”

Jacob flinched. The honesty was a needle, sharp and precise. “It’s a hard jump.”

“It’s physics.” Ilia leaned back, studying him. The blue-gray of his eyes in the dim light was like winter lake ice. “You have the build for it. You just don’t believe you deserve to land it.” He stood up and walked to the kitchen, leaving Jacob sitting alone in the silence. “You want a drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

Ilia returned with two glasses. He didn’t hand one to Jacob. Instead, he placed them on the table and remained standing, looking down at him. The dynamic shifted, rearranging itself into its familiar, uncomfortable shape.

“You watch me all the time,” Ilia stated.

Jacob’s throat tightened. “I learn from you.”

“You stare.” Ilia took a sip of water. “From the side, during run-throughs. In the gym. In the locker room.” He put his glass down. It made a soft, definitive click on the glass table. “What are you looking for?”

A confession clogged Jacob’s throat. I’m looking for a sign.A crack. Something that proves you’re as human as I am, and that you might need something, or someone, too.

“I’m looking at the best,” Jacob said, the words tasting like ash.

Ilia’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. It was the expression he wore when he landed a jump in competition—triumph, but a cold, private one. He moved then, a single, fluid step that brought him directly in front of Jacob. He caged him against the sofa, hands planted on the backrest on either side of Jacob’s head. The air left the room.

“Say it,” Ilia murmured, his voice low.

Jacob’s heart was a frantic animal against his ribs. He could smell the clean, sharp scent of him, see the faint pulse in his neck. This was the precipice. The one he both dreamed of and dreaded. “Say what?”

“What you want.”

Jacob’s mouth was dry. The words, when they came, were barely a breath. “I want you to see me.”

For a terrible second, nothing happened. Ilia’s face was unreadable. Then, he moved. His hand tangled in Jacob’s dark hair, pulling just enough to sting, to tilt his head back. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was possession. Ilia’s mouth was hot and demanding, tasting of cold water, and Jacob surrendered to it completely. He opened for him, a gasp turning into a soft, choked-off sound as Ilia’s tongue slid against his. He was drowning in it, in the sheer physical fact of Ilia Malinin wanting him, touching him.

Ilia broke the kiss, his breath warm on Jacob’s wet lips. He pulled Jacob up from the sofa and turned him, walking him backward until the cool, hard edge of the kitchen counter dug into his spine. His hands were everywhere—in Jacob’s hair, sliding under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, mapping the frantic beat of his heart, the tense planes of his stomach. Jacob gripped the counter’s edge, the world narrowing to the points of contact: the press of Ilia’s body against his, the bite of his teeth on Jacob’s lower lip, the relentless, knowing sweep of his hands.

This was it. This was the thing he had fantasized about in a thousand lonely hotel rooms. The consummation of a years-long worship. He felt chosen.Seen.

Ilia pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against Jacob’s. His eyes were open, watching. “You’re shaking,” he said, his thumb stroking Jacob’s hip bone.

“I know.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Ilia’s mouth. He leaned in again, his lips grazing the shell of Jacob’s ear. “Good.”

And in that single word, Jacob felt it. The chilling emptiness beneath the heat. The calculation in the caress. Ilia wasn’t lost in this. He was conducting it. He was observing Jacob’s shaking, his breathless sighs, his total surrender, with the same detached focus he applied to a jumping drill. He wasn’t sharing a moment; he was collecting one.

The realization was a sliver of ice in Jacob’s veins. But then Ilia kissed him again, deeper this time, and the ice melted under the sheer, addictive force of the want. Jacob chose to ignore it. He chose the feeling of being chosen, even if the choice was just for tonight, even if he was just a resource to be managed. He let himself be pushed back against the cold counter, let Ilia’s hands guide him, let the world dissolve into sensation.

He mistook the hunger for a heartbeat. He always would.