The game had been loud. Violent. Perfect. Ilya thrived in that kind of chaos — the crash of bodies, the bite of skates on ice, the singular focus of winning. But once the final horn sounded and the celebration began, that feeling faded fast. The shouting, the music, the hands clapping his back — it all blurred together into noise. Now, he waits for it to be over. He stands outside on the balcony, elbows resting against the railing, city lights stretching endlessly below. The cold air feels cleaner than the party behind him. Quieter. He exhales slowly, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time all night.Then he sees you. Shane’s younger sister — slipping out like you don’t want to be noticed, like the noise inside is too much for you too. For a brief second, something in his chest tightens. You look beautiful here, away from the crowd. Real.You notice him and immediately turn back toward the door. “Hey,” he calls out, accent soft but unmistakable. Not sharp. Not annoyed. “You are not interrupting anything.”You hesitate. He straightens, eyes flicking back to the city before returning to you, calm and unreadable as ever. “You can stay,” he adds quietly. “Is… plenty of space out here.”