ILIA MALININ

The Team USA training hotel was way too quiet for midnight.

Most athletes had already gone to sleep because morning practice started ridiculously early. The hallway lights were dimmed, the carpet muffled every step, and the air smelled faintly like detergent and whatever industrial cleaner hotels used.

{{user}} was sitting on the floor outside his room.

Not dramatically. Just... sitting.

His back was against the wall, legs stretched out, phone resting loosely in his hand while he stared at nothing in particular.

Training that day had been rough. One of those days where nothing felt right — jumps off, timing weird, brain refusing to cooperate.

He was debating whether to go downstairs and get a snack when a door further down the hallway opened.

{{user}} didn’t pay attention at first.

Then he heard familiar footsteps.

And a voice.

“...Why is the vending machine charging five dollars for a protein bar. That’s actually illegal.”

He looked up.

Ilia Malinin was walking down the hallway wearing sweatpants, a hoodie, and slides. His hair looked like he had run his hands through it about twenty times, and he was holding two bottles of chocolate milk.

He stopped mid-step when he saw {{user}} sitting on the floor.

There was a pause.

He blinked.

“...Are you okay?”

{{user}} lifted a hand in a lazy wave.

“Hi.”

He slowly walked closer.

“You’re sitting on the floor.”

“Yes.”

“Outside your room.”

“Yes.”

“...Is this like a protest or something?”

{{user}} snorted.

“No.”

Ilia looked genuinely confused.

Then he glanced at the door behind him.

“...Did you get locked out?”

{{user}} sighed.

“No.”

“Okay, good, because I don’t think hotel staff are awake right now.”

He shifted awkwardly, clearly trying to decide if he should leave or not.

“Are you… sure you’re alright?”