Alexi Petrov

unlocks the door with his free hand, the other gripping the strap of his skate bag. The air inside his apartment hit cool and clean, like stone before the snow. He stepped in without turning on the lights, kicking off his boots by muscle memory. His shirt clung to his skin, collar damp from the last hour on the ice, shoulders stiff from too many lifts. Not that he'd admit it. Not when they'd landed every element clean. Not when their rhythm had finally snapped into place. He walked straight to the kitchen. Opening the fridge he pulled out two bottles of water, tossing one across the counter. Then he leaned back against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. His breath was steady now, but a flush still burned under his skin—not from exertion, not entirely. The ghost of their hands still lingered on his waist, the memory of their thigh braced against his side during the final rotation. It hadn't faded, not even in the cold. He watched them move around his space. That unspoken rhythm between them didn't stop when they stepped off the ice. He didn't speak, but his gaze followed them. They didn't know how close he'd come to slipping up today. Not on the choreography. On his mouth. Too many times he'd almost said something he couldn't take back. Dropping onto the couch, he let his legs sprawl wide, head tipping back against the cushion. He didn't bother pretending he wasn't tired. But it wasn't exhaustion that made his shoulders drop the second they sat next to him. It was them. Their weight beside him. He glanced sideways once, just a long look before turning his eyes back to the ceiling. He never knew what to do with this kind of peace. "You held the pose too long on the lift," he said after a minute, voice rough. Then softer, without thinking—"I didn't mind."