Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Alhaitham learned to skate around the same time he learned to read.

At four years old, he was small enough that the hockey pads swallowed him whole. The helmet slid over his eyebrows. The gloves made his hands look twice their size. His grandmother used to laugh from the bleachers and say he looked like a determined marshmallow wobbling across the ice.

But he didn’t wobble for long.

He had focus.

He had discipline.

He gained balance.

If he fell, he stood back up without complaint. If he missed the puck, he reset the drill. If the older boys skated faster, he memorized the pattern of their feet and tried again.

By twelve, hockey wasn’t just something he did.

It was the axis his life rotated around.

School, rink, home. Repeat.

He spent his evenings reading in bed until his eyes were heavy and his mornings before sunrise tying his skates, getting ready for practice. His world was structured and predictable: the echo of pucks against boards, the rhythm of drills, the clean logic of angles and motion.

That summer, the local rink extended its public hours.

The air inside always smelled faintly of metal and cold water, like iron left in snow. The fluorescent lights reflected across the ice in dull, shimmering bands, turning the surface into something almost glass-like. During the quiet hours, the sessions when most people went home, after the Zamboni had finished one of its passes, the rink became hollow and echoing.

Alhaitham preferred it that way.

Less noise.

Fewer distractions.

Just the scrape of blades and the hollow crack of puck against stick.

That was when he saw him.

He had been working on his stickhandling near the blue line, weaving the puck back and forth through cones, when a blur of gold caught the edge of his vision.

At center ice, someone was spinning.

Not the chaotic kind of spinning younger kids attempted for fun—arms flailing, balance uncertain.

No this was tight.

Centered.

Controlled.

A long blond braid trailed behind him, whipping in a clean arc before settling against his back as the rotation slowed. His blades bit into the ice with a soft, precise hiss.

He didn’t wobble.

Didn’t stumble.

He simply glided out of it like gravity didn’t apply to him.

Alhaitham stood there longer than he meant to.

The blond skater pushed off again. Deep edges carved crescent shapes into the ice, lines so clean they looked drawn with intention. His arms swept upward and then inward as he launched into a jump.

One rotation.

Two.

He landed backward on one foot as if it required no thought at all, knee bending smoothly to absorb the impact before he flowed into a backward glide.

Hockey required power.

Force.

Impact.

This was something else entirely.

It was sharp without being violent. Precise without being rigid.

It looked like flight, like art.

The next day, the blond boy was there again.

And the next.

It didn’t seem to matter when Alhaitham arrived—early morning, late afternoon, awkward in-between hours—the other skater was always already on the ice.

Always practicing.

Always alone.

He never seemed to notice anyone watching.

Alhaitham told himself that he wasn’t watching.

He told himself he was just studying footwork. Observing edge control for cross-training purposes. Figure skating demanded control over a blade’s entire surface; there were practical applications for hockey.

There were.

But when the blond boy nearly caught his toe pick on a landing and stumbled half a step, laughing at himself before brushing ice from his gloves with exaggerated annoyance, something tightened in Alhaitham’s chest in a way that didn’t feel analytical at all.

It felt—

Strange.

Two weeks passed before he learned his name.

Alhaitham was sitting on the bench unlacing his skates when the rink lights flickered faintly—the signal that closing time had arrived.

“Alright, Kaveh! Off the ice!” the owner called from near the entrance. “You’re going to live here if I let you.”

The blond skater startled like someone waking from a dream.

For the first time, the trance broke.

He blinked around the rink, eyes unfocused for half a second before awareness returned. A sheepish grin spread across his face as he skated toward the exit, slowing neatly at the boards.

Kaveh.

The name settled into Alhaitham’s mind with immediate certainty.

Kaveh.

Noble.

It fit.

The next morning, Alhaitham arrived just before the rink opened.

He told himself it was for extra practice.

The parking lot was nearly empty. The sky was pale, barely awake, streaked with early light. He adjusted the strap of his hockey bag on his shoulder as he approached the doors—and stopped.

Someone else was already there.

Kaveh leaned casually against the wall near the entrance, skates slung over one shoulder, braid hanging neatly down his back. He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Their eyes met.

And then Kaveh smiled.

It was sudden.

Bright.

Unfiltered.

“Hi!” he said, straightening immediately. “Do you skate here too? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Alhaitham hesitated half a second before answering.

“I practice here every day, just like you.”

Kaveh blinked.

Then he laughed, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest.

“Oh no. That’s so embarrassing. I’m usually in the zone when I’m on the ice. I promise it’s not personal that I haven’t noticed you.”

He stepped closer and stuck out his hand.

“I’m Kaveh. Nice to meet you!”

Alhaitham stared at the offered hand like it required solving.

Then he took it.

“I’m Alhaitham.”

Kaveh’s grip was warm despite the morning chill. He squeezed once before letting go, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Are you a figure skater?” he asked eagerly, already glancing at the bag slung over Alhaitham’s shoulder. “I could teach you some tricks if you’d like.”

“Hockey,” Alhaitham replied. “But I’d like that.”

Kaveh’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really?”

Alhaitham glanced down at the skates inside his bag.

“I don’t have figure skates.”

Kaveh gasped softly. “Tragic. Absolutely tragic. You need a toe pick.”

Alhaitham looked back up at him.

“I can get some. I’ll go buy a pair.”

The grin that spread across Kaveh’s face was almost blinding in the early light.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Kaveh clasped his hands together in delight. “You’re a good kid. Alright, I’ll teach you everything I know.”

And just like that, it became routine.

That summer blurred into early mornings and scraped knees.

Kaveh was dramatic about everything. When Alhaitham fell, Kaveh gasped like it was a national tragedy. When he managed a decent bunny hop, Kaveh applauded loudly enough that the entire rink turned to look.

“My perfect junior!” he would announce to no one in particular. “Witness the future of skating—my greatest creation!”

Alhaitham pretended to find it excessive.

He secretly practiced harder because of it.

He learned pivot drills first, then one-foot spins, they moved on to a waltz jump.

Then, inevitably, Kaveh insisted on teaching him a Salchow.

“That’s unnecessary,” Alhaitham argued.

“It’s about principle,” Kaveh countered immediately. “You can’t half-learn an art this beautiful.”

Alhaitham rolled his eyes.

He tried anyway.

The first few attempts ended in bruised hips and sharp exhalations against the ice.

But then—

Rotation.

Landing.

Shaky, arms windmilling, but upright.

Kaveh grabbed his shoulders before he could fully process it.

“I knew you could do it!”

He was beaming like Alhaitham had just won a medal.

Alhaitham decided that expression alone was worth every bruise.

And then summer ended.

Schedules shifted. Practice times changed.

On the first Saturday he went to the rink expecting to see Kaveh, but the ice was empty.

He told himself it was coincidence.

He focused on his stickhandling again instead of his jumps.

The next weekend—empty again.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

Alhaitham kept looking anyway.

Every time the doors opened, his eyes lifted automatically.

Every time they fell again.

Years passed like that.

By eighteen, Alhaitham was six foot four, broader through the shoulders, his features sharpened into something people described as “intimidating.” On the ice, he was a playmaker with surgical timing—calm under pressure, economical with movement, rarely rattled. Coaches praised his composure. Commentators praised his vision. Teammates complained, loudly and often, about his refusal to engage in pointless locker room banter.

He played for Minnesota now. He was professional, structured, predictable.

He told himself the summer of figure skating had been a detour.

A childhood curiosity. Cross-training, at best.

But some habits evolved into ritual.

Every so often, when the rink was nearly empty, he would unlatch the bottom compartment of his locker and take out a different pair of skates.

Figure skates.

Not the original pair—those were long retired—but successors. Sleeker. Properly fitted. Maintained with more care than he admitted to anyone.

He would lace them slowly, methodically, ignoring the strange quiet that always settled in his chest when he did.

The first pair he’d ever bought hung on a hook inside his locker, blades dulled with time. At first, the guys had torn into him for it.

“Didn’t know we signed a ballerina,” Zandik had laughed, dangling one of them by the lace.

Sethos had raised a brow. “You hiding a second career?”

Alhaitham had simply taken the skate back and said, “It’s a good luck charm.”

That had been enough. No one on the winning team argued with superstition.

On the ice, when he was alone, he would test his edges the way Kaveh taught him.

Deeper. Cleaner. Controlled.

He could feel the difference immediately—how the blade responded, how the ice yielded. He would carve slow figure eights, leaning into the curve until centrifugal force tugged at his ribs. He’d center himself for a spin, arms folding in, the world narrowing to a blur of white and sound.

And sometimes—rarely—he would attempt a jump.

He never messed up a salchow anymore.

He never thought about why that mattered.

And then, one evening, it happened by chance.

He had come home from practice later than usual, shoulders aching, knuckles bruised beneath tape. The apartment was dim except for the television casting shifting light across the walls. He flipped through channels without paying attention, stopping only when the sound changed.

Applause.

A commentator’s bright voice layered over orchestral music.

“And now, returned from france—”

Alhaitham stilled when the camera cut to the ice.

Blond hair—longer now—secured back neatly, no braid this time but still unmistakable. The same posture. The same way he rolled his shoulders once before starting; it was like he was shrugging off gravity itself.

he was older, stronger, and more radiant in a way that felt almost unfair.

Alhaitham didn’t blink.

Kaveh moved like he owned the ice, every extension deliberate, every landing precise. The jumps were higher now. More rotations. The kind of technical content commentators fawned over.

But it was the in-between that made Alhaitham’s throat tighten.

The transitions. The arms. The expression.

He remembered those.

He stood there long after the program ended, after the scores flashed, after the camera cut away.

The angel on skates had come back into view.

Alhaitham did not keep up with Kaveh.

Not actively.

He didn’t search his name. Didn’t scroll interviews. Didn’t watch highlight reels at two in the morning. Though the thought of doing such things had definitely crossed his mind; he thought it probably crossed some moral boundaries as well.

That would imply intention. Obsession even.

What he did instead was simple coincidence.

He enjoyed watching figure skating, it was a beautiful sport.

If commentary mentioned a certain blond skater returning from Europe, he might turn up the volume.

If a program listing showed men’s figure skating finals, he might clear his evening schedule.

It was statistical probability, really.

If he watched enough competitions, eventually Kaveh would appear.

And he always did.

He was stronger, too. His jumps had sharpened over the years—quads added to his arsenal, transitions seamless. The dramatic flair remained, thankfully. The expressive arms. The absolute commitment to every piece of music he touched.

Alhaitham told himself he was observing technical growth.

He ignored the fact that he could recognize Kaveh’s silhouette before the camera zoomed in.

Two years passed like that.

Two years of strict contracts that he used as an excuse for why he didn't have a girlfriend. two years of playoff pushes and media training seminars about “building personal brand engagement.” Two years of Cyno accusing him of being emotionally constipated and Sethos calling him a wet cat.

“Seriously,” Sethos had said once, sprawled across the locker room bench. “What’s with the figure skating obsession? You don’t watch any other sport, and you don’t seem like the type to appreciate the arts.”

“It’s an appreciation for edge control,” Alhaitham replied dryly.

Cyno narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a normal answer.”

The rest of the team theorized endlessly. Secret girlfriend. Secret hobby. Secret life.

Alhaitham let them.

Because it was easier than explaining.

And when Kaveh stepped onto the ice each time, something in his chest would settle into place.

Just coincidence.
Nothing more.

And then—

The Winter Olympics.

When the roster was finalized and his name was on it. Alhaitham only nodded once when his coach told him. A single, contained exhale. He packed his bags. He did not allow himself to think about anything beyond hockey.

At twenty, he stood in the tunnel beneath blinding stadium lights with the USA crest stitched over his heart. The ice ahead gleamed under a thousand beams, the arena roaring with a force that vibrated through the soles of his skates.

This was what he had worked toward since he was four years old.

This was the pinnacle.

When they surged onto the ice, he let instinct take over.

He saw the ice in patterns and probabilities, lanes opening before they existed, defenders shifting a fraction too late. He threaded passes through impossibly narrow seams, redirected momentum with subtle stick taps, slowed the game down until it bent to his tempo.

He didn’t just overpower opponents.

He dismantled them.

If there were nerves, they never surfaced.

He slipped Sethos a blind backhand pass that turned into a goal, and orchestrated a power play that left the opposing goalie guessing wrong.

He wasn’t loud about it. He never was.

He simply made the right choice at the exact right second.

By the third period, the crowd’s chanting blurred into white noise. The quiet satisfaction of building something beautiful out of motion and chaos.

When the final horn sounded and Team USA secured the win, the arena detonated.

Gloves flew into the air. Sticks slammed against the boards. Teammates crashed into one another in a tangle of red, white, and blue.

Cyno caught him around the shoulders. “You were relentless.”

“It was adequate.” Alhaitham replied evenly, already tugging off his gloves.

Sethos stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “We just won a game at the Olympics and that’s your reaction?”

Alhaitham was only half-listening.

Because through the lingering echo of celebration, over the arena speakers, came a different announcement.

“Men’s Figure Skating Short Program will begin in forty-five minutes in the secondary rink.”

The words threaded cleanly through the noise.

His pulse spiked.

A precise shift. Like sighting a target.

He moved immediately.

He was in the locker room as quickly as he could be.

Helmet unclipped. Gloves stripped off. Jersey peeled over his head in one smooth motion. He swapped skates for sneakers with mechanical efficiency, fingers steady despite the tremor coiled low in his chest.

Around him, champagne and energy fizzed through the locker room. Laughter. Shouting. Plans for interviews.

Cyno noticed first. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

Sethos frowned. “Media’s waiting. You always dodge them but at least pretend to care today.”

“I have somewhere to be.”

That made both of them go still.

“You?” Sethos blinked slowly. “Voluntarily? Does this have to do with that blond figure skater you watch? I think I saw that he qualified for the Olympics.”

Alhaitham didn’t dignify that with an answer. He pulled a hoodie over his head, accreditation pass swinging against his chest as he headed for the exit.

Avoiding the press was normal for him. In the mixed zone, reporters called half-heartedly in his direction, but he offered his usual dismissive nod and kept walking. Cameras drifted toward louder personalities. He was known for being quiet, for declining soundbites.

Nothing suspicious about that.

What would have been suspicious was the pace.

He was moving fast.

Not frantic. Never frantic. But faster than usual. Long strides eating distance, shoulders cutting cleanly through foot traffic. He didn’t slow until the roar of the main arena faded behind him and the hum of another crowd swelled ahead.

The secondary rink came into view.

It felt different in here.

The hockey arena had been thunderous—heavy with impact and territorial pride. This was brighter. Flags waved from every corner. Handmade signs glittered under the lights. Camera flashes burst like tiny stars against the ice.

The air felt warmer somehow, charged with anticipation instead of aggression.

Alhaitham slipped into the section reserved for athletes, barely aware of who he passed. His gaze was already fixed on the rink.

The ice was freshly resurfaced, smooth as glass.

He sat.

And only then did he feel it fully—the quiet vibration under his ribs.

He hadn’t seen Kaveh in person in eight years.

Not since a summer of early mornings and scraped knees. Not since long blond hair had been tied back in a braid that swung with every spin. Not since bright laughter had echoed against empty rink walls.

The lights dimmed.

Music swelled.

The announcer’s voice carried across the arena.

“Next to skate, representing the United States—”

The name echoed through the arena.

Alhaitham’s fingers curled slightly against his knees.

Kaveh stepped onto the ice.

The world narrowed.

The braid fell over one shoulder this time. His costume shimmered — white and red, almost ethereal under the spotlights.

Older.

Stronger.

But unmistakable.

Alhaitham felt the same stillness settle over him. The same feeling that he used to get when he watched from the blue line all those years ago.

The opening glide was slow. Intentional.

Then the first jump.

A quad toe spin. Clean. Effortless.

He recognized it easily, after all the years of watching figure skating on the tv.

The beauty of seeing it in real life though, it was much more than when he was watching through a screen.

The landing sent a spray of ice outward, controlled and deliberate, and the crowd exploded.

Alhaitham didn’t.

He just watched.

Every edge was deeper than he remembered. Every transition more complex. Kaveh didn’t just skate across the ice — he commanded it. Filled it. As if the rink had been built specifically to contain him.

There was a step sequence midway through the program that stole the air from the room. Intricate footwork, upper body fluid, braid snapping lightly with each turn. It was artistry sharpened by discipline.

Alhaitham’s chest tightened.

Eight years.

Seeing him now—not through a screen, not reduced to pixels and commentary—but here, carving real lines into real Olympic ice

It was overwhelming in a way Alhaitham didn't have language for.

The final spin slowed.

Music ended.

Silence held for half a heartbeat.

Then the arena erupted.

Kaveh lifted his chin slightly, breathing hard, eyes bright.

And he smiled.

The same smile from outside the rink doors at twelve years old.

Alhaitham exhaled slowly.

He had thought he’d come to observe.

To confirm that memory matched reality.

Instead, he realized something far more inconvenient.

The feeling hadn’t faded.

Not even slightly.

~~~~~~~

The music faded, but Kaveh’s pulse did not.

For half a second after the final note of “Gilded Lily” dissolved into silence, the world held its breath.

Then the arena exploded.

The sound hit him like a wave—applause crashing down from every direction, flags waving, cameras flashing. Olympic ice. Olympic lights. Olympic audience.

stuffed animals flew onto the ice.

he noticed some people remember he mentioned wanting a snow leopard plushie and smiled.

He didn’t cry.

He refused to cry.

But as he bowed, chest rising and falling hard beneath the wine-red costume he’d agonized over for months, something inside him loosened.

He had done it.

The opening quad spin had felt light. The step sequence was clean. The quad axel at the end—centered, fast, controlled. He’d felt the music in his bones tonight, the aching swell of Cults carrying him through every edge.

He’d imagined this moment for years.

Olympic ice is different.

He thought it would be colder and heavier with expectation.

But when his blade first touched it tonight, it had felt exactly the same as the small rink he used to practice at when he was thirteen—fluorescent lights, empty stands, nothing but breath and frost and obsession.

It felt smoother than the ice he had practiced on in France, but that was probably because he wanted to be here, it didn’t carry the weight of others’ expectations, only his own.

He waved to the crowd again, smiling wide enough that his cheeks hurt.

This is what I’m meant to do.

Backstage, adrenaline hit harder.

His coach was talking—something about rotation speed, and positive GOE—but Kaveh was only half-listening. He was vibrating, half-floating, his braid damp against the back of his neck.

“The whole routine is a blur; I didn’t pop anything, right?” he asked.

“You did not pop anything,” his coach said firmly. “You were brilliant.”

Kaveh exhaled, finally allowing himself to grin properly.

“Okay. Good. Because I would have simply passed away. oh and I'd like to save one of those snow leopard stuffed animal! they were super cute! we can donate the rest."

By the time lunch rolled around in the Olympic Village dining hall, the adrenaline had softened into something fizzy and restless.

Kaveh sat across from Nilou, absently spearing a cherry tomato and then setting it back down. His salad was colorful and untouched. His mind was still on the ice.

Nilou, radiant as ever, warm-eyed and impossibly composed, had come to watch his performance even though hers had been just an hour before his.

“You looked beautiful,” she said, sipping her drink. “The step sequence? I almost cried.”

“You cry at everything.”

“Yes,” she agreed easily. “But that’s not the point.”

Kaveh huffed a soft laugh and leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “I just—it felt right. You know? Like I belonged there.”

Nilou’s expression softened. “You do belong there.”

The words landed gently. Kaveh opened his mouth to deflect with something dramatic—

—but Nilou’s phone buzzed against the table.

She glanced down casually.

Then blinked.

“Oh.”

Kaveh narrowed his eyes immediately. “That ‘oh’ is suspicious.”

Nilou tilted the screen toward herself, scrolling once. “Aw. This is cute.”

“What is?”

“You don’t see many hockey players supporting figure skating.”

Kaveh frowned. “What?”

She rotated the phone toward him.

A tweet filled the screen. Grainy, zoomed-in photo from the stands of the secondary rink.

The caption read:

Minnesota playmaker Alhaitham spotted at the men’s short program tonight 👀
Cross-sport respect? We love to see it.

The name hit first.

Alhaitham.

His brain recognized it before his body did. Before his lungs remembered how to function.

Then he saw the photo.

Gray hair—still as messy as ever. Broad shoulders beneath the hoodie. Sharp profile, more defined than memory allowed.

Kaveh stopped breathing.

He snatched the phone out of Nilou’s hand.

“No way.”

Nilou stared at him, half-offended, half-intrigued. “Do you know him?”

Kaveh’s eyes scanned the image again. It was blurry, clearly taken from a distance, but there was no mistaking him. The posture—straight-backed, attentive. The expression—calm, analytical.

Watching.

Focused.

The same way he used to watch from the blue line when he thought Kaveh wasn’t looking.

Kaveh blinked rapidly and tore his gaze away long enough to look at Nilou. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to grab your phone—”

“You absolutely meant to.”

“But this is Alhaitham,” Kaveh rushed on, words tumbling out too fast. “The kid I told you about. The one I trained that summer before I moved to France. It was right after my dad died.”

Nilou’s teasing expression melted into recognition.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Kaveh said faintly, looking back down at the screen. “That one.”

Nilou leaned across the table, squinting at the photo. 

Then she paused.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Kaveh demanded weakly.

“You didn’t tell me he was hot.”

Kaveh nearly dropped the phone.

“What?!”

“I mean,” Nilou started, “I’m exclusively into women, but I can acknowledge objective reality. This man is your type.”

Kaveh stared at her in horror. “He was twelve back then!” he hissed. “He was tiny and adorable, not—”

His eyes drifted back to the image.

The shoulders. The controlled stillness. The faint crease between his brows like he was analyzing footwork even from the stands.

“Oh my god,” Kaveh muttered, voice dropping. “Nilou, he’s hot now.”

Nilou covered her mouth to muffle her laughter.

“Like what am I supposed to do with this?” Kaveh whispered dramatically. “He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

Nilou arched a brow. “You taught him a salchow, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you used to call him your ‘perfect junior’ in front of strangers?”

“That is not relevant.”

“And you said he showed up at six in the morning just to practice with you?”

Kaveh faltered.

“…Yes.”

Nilou leaned back, folding her arms with quiet triumph. “He was at your Olympic performance. He remembers you.”

Kaveh looked down at the picture again.

Alhaitham wasn’t smiling in it. He wasn’t distracted. He wasn’t checking his phone.

He was watching.

Intent. Focused. Like he was studying every edge.

Kaveh’s stomach flipped.

Eight years.

Eight years and somehow, they were both here.

Olympians.

Under the same flag.

“Oh no,” Kaveh breathed.

Nilou grinned. “What?”

Kaveh handed the phone back slowly, eyes still distant. “I have the long program in three days.”

“…And?”

“And if he’s here again,” Kaveh said faintly, “I might actually fall apart.”

“If who’s there?” a familiar voice chimed in.

Kaveh looked up to see Tighnari sliding into the seat beside them, tray balanced effortlessly in one hand.

Nilou laughed. “You missed it. While you were getting food, we discovered that Kaveh’s little junior from his hometown is on the U.S. Olympic hockey team and watched his performance earlier.”

Tighnari tilted his head. “Oh? That’s kind of sweet.”

Nilou showed him the photo.

Tighnari leaned in, studying it carefully. “Hm.”

“What?” Kaveh asked warily.

“Well,” Tighnari said lightly, “make sure he’s not homophobic. You never know with hockey players.”

The comment landed heavier than it should have.

Kaveh’s heart dipped, which was ridiculous. He knows his Alhaitham wouldn’t be a bigot. But he did wonder if Alhaitham was queer, or if he was straight—which he shouldn’t be thinking about because he didn’t need to know if his junior would be interested in him.

He looked back at the photo, truthfully could he even call Alhaitham his junior anymore?

That was a man, and a very hot man at that.

He swallowed. “He wasn’t like that,” he said to tighnari. “He was shy… and kind.”

Nilou’s eyes lit up suddenly. “Wait—”

She began typing rapidly, fingers flying across the screen.

“What are you doing?” Tighnari asked.

“Research.”

There was a brief silence as she scrolled. Then her face split into a victorious grin.

“See? He used pride tape while it was banned.”

She turned the phone toward them. A photo of Alhaitham mid-game, stick visible in his hands, wrapped with a strip of rainbow tape near the blade.

Kaveh blinked.

“And this interview,” Nilou continued, scrolling. “His teammate Cyno came out years ago. They’re still close. So maybe let’s not stereotype, Tigh.”

She flashed another image—Alhaitham beside a lean teammate with long white hair, both in Minnesota jerseys.

Tighnari’s jaw dropped slightly. “The one with the long hair—that’s the one that came out right?”

“Yeah,” Nilou said smirking. “That’s Cyno.”

Kaveh raised an eyebrow slowly. “Oh? Heart eyes from the ever-so-focused Tighnari?”

Tighnari rolled his eyes, ears faintly pink. “No. Men only ever disappoint me. I’m prioritizing myself and my career.”

“Sure you are,” Nilou teased.

But Kaveh was still staring at the photo.

“So he’s still friends with Cyno,” he murmured. “He used pride tape when it was banned.”

He hesitated.

“He wouldn’t be… disappointed, right?” The words felt strange in his mouth. “That I’m gay?”

Tighnari raised a brow. "I don't think he would be, and if he was then we'd just have to beat him up don't worry."

His gaze drifted back to the screen one last time before he forced himself to look away.

“Yeah, I don't think you could beat that in a fight. and either way—” he said, exhaling shakily, “if I see him while I’m performing my long program…”

He pressed his hand dramatically to his chest.

“I will absolutely bomb it.”

Tighnari tapped the edge of his fork thoughtfully, watching Kaveh spiral in real time.

“You’re overthinking this.”

“I am not overthinking,” Kaveh said immediately. “I am evaluating all possible emotional outcomes.”

Tighnari rolled his eyes. “That’s what overthinking is.”

Nilou snorted into her drink.

Tighnari leaned forward slightly. “When does the U.S. hockey team play next?”

Nilou was already checking. “Two days from now.”

Kaveh froze.

“That’s the day before your long program,” Tighnari added calmly.

Kaveh narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“You should go.”

“What?”

“You should go to his game,” Tighnari repeated. “Watch him play. Talk to him after.”

Kaveh stared at him like he’d suggested arson. “Talk to him? After eight years? ‘Hi, remember me? I forced you to buy figure skates and then disappeared without explanation’”

Nilou winced. “When you phrase it like that—”

Tighnari cut in smoothly. “If you talk to him before your long program, you won’t be imagining him in the crowd.”

Kaveh faltered.

“…What?”

“You’re nervous because you don’t know what he thinks of you,” Tighnari said. “If you see him first, if you talk, then he becomes a person again. Not some mysterious presence in the stands.”

Nilou nodded. “Exposure therapy.”

“That’s not what exposure therapy is,” Kaveh muttered weakly.

“But you get the point,” Tighnari said. “Go. Watch him. Then you won’t be distracted during your performance wondering if he’s there.”

Kaveh pressed his lips together.

Two days.

The day before his long program.

“That is either genius advice,” he said slowly, “or the worst decision of my life.”

Nilou beamed. “Only one way to find out.”

The hockey arena felt completely different from a skating rink.

Louder. Heavier. Charged in a way that felt less like anticipation and more like imminent collision.

Kaveh clutched lanyard with his pass and found his seat, trying not to look visibly out of place. The crowd around him was already chanting. Someone behind him painted a flag across their cheek. A group to his left were arguing loudly about line combinations.

He had no idea what that meant.

The players burst onto the ice in a rush of speed and noise, blades biting sharply, sticks tapping against the surface.

Kaveh blinked.

It was so fast.

He tried to follow the puck and lost it immediately.

Players were moving on and off the ice so quickly that he couldn’t tell who anyone was.

“Oh,” he murmured to himself. “That’s… aggressive.”

He barely registered the opening minutes, too busy trying to understand what constituted a foul, what icing was, why everyone kept crashing into each other intentionally.

And then—

He saw him.

Number 62 displayed boldly on his back. USA jersey fitting his broad shoulders perfectly. Hair slightly damp beneath his helmet.

Alhaitham.

He moved differently from the others.

Less frantic. More deliberate.

While the rest of the ice seemed chaotic, Alhaitham’s movements felt purposeful, almost surgical. He drifted into open space at exactly the right second. He received a pass without looking rushed. He redirected the puck with a subtle flick that sent it precisely where it needed to go.

Kaveh leaned forward in his seat without realizing it.

“Oh.”

Alhaitham carried the puck down the ice, weaving through defenders not with brute force but with timing—drawing one player in, slipping the puck around him at the last second, accelerating through the gap he’d created.

The crowd rose.

Kaveh’s breath caught.

Alhaitham shot.

The sound was sharp and clean.

The net rippled.

The arena exploded.

Kaveh shot to his feet with everyone else, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

“That was him,” he said to no one. “Damn, he’s good.”

He laughed breathlessly, hands flying to his face.

He didn’t understand any of the rules of this sport.

But he understood that.

Understood the focus in Alhaitham’s expression. The calm after scoring, like it had been inevitable. The way his teammates swarmed him, and he only allowed himself a small, controlled smile.

It was—

Kaveh swallowed.

It was very attractive.

By the third period, he wasn’t even pretending to follow anyone else. Every time Alhaitham stepped back onto the ice, Kaveh’s attention locked in. The way he set up plays. The way he anticipated movement. The subtle glance over his shoulder before threading a pass through traffic.

Focused.

Sharp.

Beautiful in an entirely different way than figure skating.

When the final horn sounded and the U.S. secured another win, Kaveh realized his hands were sore from clapping.

He waited until the stands began to clear before making his way down toward the lower level.

Athletes only exit through specific corridors, so he would find them.

He hovered near an area that looked promising, trying to appear casual and failing spectacularly.

Players began filtering out in clusters, laughing, exhausted, high on victory.

Kaveh scanned every face.

No gray hair.

No familiar steady gaze.

After fifteen minutes, the hallway thinned.

He checked the time.

6pm, dinner time.

He probably looked ridiculous standing there.

Maybe Alhaitham had already left through a different exit. Maybe he was in media interviews. Maybe—

Kaveh exhaled.

He turned slightly, mentally preparing to give up and go find food.

“Omg—are you Kaveh?”

He froze.

A young man stood a few feet away, eyes wide with recognition. He had long brown hair, partially pulled back with a few thin braids woven along one side. USA team jacket. He had a bright, curious expression.

“Um—yeah” Kaveh said cautiously.

The man broke into a grin and stuck out his hand. “I’m Sethos.”

Kaveh shook it automatically. “Hi?”

“One of my teammates is like your biggest fan, could—” Sethos cut himself off abruptly, glancing over his shoulder. “Actually, just wait here.”

Before Kaveh could respond, Sethos spun around and jogged back inside the building.

Kaveh blinked.

He stood there.

Awkwardly.

Alone by the doors.

A few staff members passed him, doing double takes. He tried to look natural but felt like he was failing.

His heart began to thud harder.

This was absurd. He was an Olympic athlete. He had performed in front of thousands.

Why was he so nervous now?

The doors swung open again.

Sethos reemerged.

And behind him—

Another figure stepped into view.

Gray hair slightly mussed from his helmet. USA hoodie pulled over broad shoulders. Expression composed—

Until their eyes met.

Kaveh’s breath vanished.

Alhaitham’s steps slowed almost imperceptibly.

His eyes widened.

Just slightly.

But Kaveh saw it.

Eight years collapsed in an instant.

They stood facing each other, the stadium lights reaching them while they stood just outside the stadium's doors, noise from inside spilling faintly into the night air.

“Um… I watched the game,” Kaveh said, immediately hating how small he sounded compared to the roaring arena they’d just left.

Sethos looked between them with open delight.

“Oh this is excellent,” he muttered, patting Alhaitham on the shoulder. “I’ll make fun of you later no matter what happens, so don’t be awkward on my account.”

“Sethos,” Alhaitham said flatly.

But Sethos was already backing away. “I’m serious. No matter the outcome.” He shot Kaveh a conspiratorial grin. “Good luck,” he added, and disappeared back inside.

Silence settled in his wake.

For a second, Alhaitham just stared at Kaveh.

Not rudely. Not blankly.

Just… staring. Like he was verifying something real.

“You watched the hockey game?” he asked finally.

Kaveh laughed awkwardly, heat creeping up his neck. “Uh, yeah. I guess that makes me a little crazy, huh? I don’t know anything about hockey. At all. I barely understood what was happening. But it looked cool! You were—” he waved his hands vaguely, “—very fast. And strategic. And there was a lot of crashing.”

Alhaitham’s mouth twitched.

“You stayed the whole time?”

“Of course I did,” Kaveh said automatically.

Alhaitham blinked once.

“You remember me?” he asked.

That made Kaveh pause.

The question hit him strangely.

How could he have forgotten him?

Alhaitham had been the only steady thing in a summer that felt like it might swallow him whole. He’d shown up every morning without fail. He’d looked at figure skating like it was something worth learning.

“Of course I remember you,” Kaveh said firmly. “You were my perfect junior.”

Alhaitham blinked again.

“Oh.”

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck.

“I, um,” he started, and then stopped. For a moment he looked almost uncertain, so different from the composed player Kaveh had watched orchestrate on the ice an hour ago.

“I watch your competitions,” he said finally.

Kaveh’s breath caught. “You what?”

“I don’t—” Alhaitham adjusted his sleeve, gaze briefly dropping to the ground before returning to Kaveh’s face. “Not in a strange way. I don’t look up your schedule or anything. That would be invasive.”

Kaveh bit back a smile.

“But if figure skating is on,” Alhaitham continued carefully, “I watch. In case you’re there.”

There was no bravado in it. No teasing.

Just a statement of fact.

Kaveh’s cheeks burned.

“You watch me perform?” he asked, unable to keep the warmth out of his voice.

“Yes,” Alhaitham said, more steadily now. “I saw you skate once after you returned to the U.S. I recognized you immediately.”

“Immediately?” Kaveh echoed faintly.

"you're hard to forget." Alhaitham started. “You know you still roll your shoulders before you start—like you’re shrugging off gravity.”

Kaveh stared at him.

“You noticed that?”

“I notice things,” Alhaitham replied simply.

There was a shift then.

Something subtle.

The hesitation that had edged Alhaitham’s voice moments ago began to fade. His posture straightened slightly—not stiff, but certain.

“You’ve improved,” he continued. “Your transitions are faster now. And your quad toe spin in the short program the other night had better height than the one you landed at Nationals last year.”

Kaveh’s jaw dropped.

“You—” He pointed accusingly. “You do watch me.”

Alhaitham’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “I said I did.”

Kaveh felt like he might combust.

“I can’t believe you remember Nationals from last year,” he muttered, staring at the pavement between them because eye contact suddenly felt lethal.

“It was a good program,” Alhaitham said. Then, after a brief pause, more quietly: “I was proud.”

Kaveh’s head snapped up.

“You were—?”

Alhaitham didn’t look away this time. “You worked hard. It showed.”

The sincerity in his tone made Kaveh’s chest tighten in a way far more dangerous than nerves before a performance.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The night air was cold, but Kaveh felt overheated.

Alhaitham shifted his weight slightly, as if reaching some internal decision.

“Would you,” he began, voice steady again, “like to get dinner?”

Kaveh blinked.

“Dinner?”

“Yes.” Alhaitham paused, then added, almost carefully, “We could talk. Catch up.”

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “I can even explain icing to you.”

Kaveh laughed, the sound bright and a little breathless. “Oh my god, yes. Please. I still don’t know what that is.”

“So that’s a yes?” Alhaitham asked.

Kaveh’s grin spread uncontrollably. “That is very much a yes.”

The relief that flickered across Alhaitham’s face was brief—but unmistakable.

“Alright,” he said. “I need to drop off my bag at my dorm.”

“I’ll wait,” Kaveh replied immediately.

Alhaitham nodded once, then hesitated.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

Kaveh’s heart did something deeply unhelpful.

“I’m glad you were there,” he answered.

They started walking towards the hockey dorms.

They walked in silence until they reached the dorms .

For a second, they just stood there—eight years of distance reduced to a few feet of pavement and the promise of dinner.

Then Alhaitham stepped backward toward the doors.

“Five minutes,” he repeated.

Kaveh clasped his hands together the second he disappeared inside, bouncing once on his toes like he’d just landed a jump.

He was absolutely going to fall apart during his long program.

But somehow—

He didn’t mind anymore.

Kaveh stayed where he was, hands clasped behind his back so he wouldn’t fidget.

Excited. Nervous. Trying very hard not to think about the fact that a really hot guy had just asked him to dinner.

This was fine. Completely normal. Two childhood friends catching up. That was all.

He could absolutely focus on that.

Except eight years had done a number on Alhaitham.

He’d always been solid, even as a kid, but now it was very different. He was massive. Broad shoulders stretching his jacket, legs built for power instead of just practice drills, every movement controlled and deliberate. And the worst part was the way he looked at Kaveh.

Like he’d found something he’d been searching for.

Like Kaveh had hung the stars.

It was ridiculous. Kaveh was absolutely misreading it. He had to be.

But it didn’t stop that look from making his knees feel unreliable.

The dorm doors swung open again.

Alhaitham stepped out, hockey bag gone, hands free. His gaze scanned once—and the moment it landed on Kaveh, something in his expression visibly softened.

His shoulders loosened.

“Oh good,” Alhaitham said lightly, walking over. “I was afraid you’d run off while I was dropping off my stuff.”

He was teasing.

It wasn’t accusatory.

But the words hit somewhere old.

Kaveh swallowed.

That summer.

The sudden move. The rushed packing. His mother’s tight voice when she’d said they didn’t have time for drawn-out goodbyes. He hadn’t even been able to explain. He’d just—vanished.

“Haitham—” Kaveh started, the old nickname settling back in like a habit, “I didn’t want to leave. I hope you know that.”

Alhaitham went still.

“That summer was really nice,” Kaveh continued, quieter now. “You were working so hard. And I’m sorry I couldn’t properly tell you goodbye.”

For a second, there was only the distant hum of traffic and the muffled noise of the crowd behind them.

Alhaitham’s gaze was steady. Soft. Certain.

“I never doubted you, Kaveh,” he said.

The way he said it—like it was obvious—made something in Kaveh’s chest ache.

“I was glad when I saw you on my TV,” Alhaitham continued. “Skating.”

He looked almost thoughtful.

“When you left, my main concern was that you were out there somewhere and had given up skating.” His eyes flicked up, meeting Kaveh’s directly. “And the world would, simply put, end if you weren’t on its ice.”

Kaveh felt heat rush to his face so fast it was embarrassing.

“That’s dramatic,” he mumbled.

“It’s accurate,” Alhaitham replied.

Kaveh looked away before he could completely fall apart.

Alhaitham cleared his throat, the moment shifting.

“I am starving, though,” he added. “We really should go to the dining hall.”

“Right. Yes. Food. Normal dinner between normal people,” Kaveh said, already walking.

Alhaitham’s mouth twitched as he followed.

The dining hall was mostly empty at this hour, a few athletes lingering over late meals. They grabbed trays and sat across from each other at a small table near the window.

“So,” Kaveh said, pointing his fork at him, “explain icing. Again. Slowly.”

Alhaitham did.

Patiently.

And, annoyingly, very clearly.

Kaveh tried to listen, he really did, but it was difficult when Alhaitham would pause and say, “Does that make sense, Kaveh?” in that calm voice that made his name sound important.

He blushed every single time.

“So you just hit the puck all the way down and that’s bad?” Kaveh asked.

“It’s not inherently bad,” Alhaitham corrected. “It’s situational.”

“That sounds suspiciously like you’re avoiding admitting it’s confusing.”

“It’s not confusing.”

“It is.”

The conversation shifted easily after that.

Alhaitham asked about France—about the rinks, the training style, whether the crowds were different.

“It was a weird adjustment,” Kaveh admitted. “Everything felt sharper. More critical, maybe. I didn’t speak the language well at first.”

“But you adapted,” Alhaitham said.

“I had to.” Kaveh shrugged lightly. “The first thing I did when we moved was find the nearest rink. I didn’t even unpack.”

Alhaitham’s gaze softened.

“It was strange, though,” Kaveh added with a small laugh. “Not having my little junior to train.”

Alhaitham raised an eyebrow. “Little?”

“You were little.”

“I was tall for a twelve year old.”

“That still qualifies as short.”

“It does not.”

Kaveh grinned—but it faded just slightly at the edges.

“I kept expecting you to be there,” he admitted. “To mess up your edges and pretend you meant to.”

“I did not pretend.”

“You absolutely did.”

Alhaitham shook his head, but there was warmth in it.

They fell into a quieter rhythm after that. Talking about competitions. Teammates. Coaches. The way pressure changed as they got older.

Kaveh tried to treat it like a normal meal between two friends.

He really did.

But every time Alhaitham said his name—

Every time their eyes met for a second too long—

Every time Alhaitham looked at him like he was something rare and worth keeping—

Kaveh felt his composure slip.

At one point, their hands brushed reaching for the same napkin.

It was nothing.

Barely a second.

But Alhaitham paused.

And Kaveh very nearly short-circuited.

“You’re blushing,” Alhaitham observed calmly.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“It’s warm in here.” Kaveh defended.

“It’s not.”

Kaveh narrowed his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Alhaitham said, leaning forward just slightly, voice softer now, “you came to my game.”

Kaveh swallowed.

“And you watch mine,” he shot back.

Alhaitham didn’t deny it.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment—something unspoken hovering there, fragile and bright.

Eight years had changed a lot.

But somehow, sitting across from him now, it felt like they’d simply stepped back onto the same ice.

And Kaveh wasn’t sure what was more terrifying—

The possibility that this was just nostalgia.

Or the possibility that it wasn’t.

The dining hall had grown even quieter while they talked.

Most of the other athletes had finished eating and drifted out, leaving only a few scattered tables occupied. The overhead lights hummed softly. Outside the window, the Olympic Village glowed in gentle pools of lamplight.

Kaveh had just managed to steady his heartbeat when he felt a hand land lightly on his shoulder.

He looked up.

“Hi, Kaveh, how did the—”

Nilou stopped mid-sentence.

Her eyes slid from Kaveh… to Alhaitham.

And stayed there.

Alhaitham looked back at her calmly, assessing for half a second before something like recognition lit his expression.

“You’re Nilou,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m a big fan.”

Both Kaveh and Nilou froze.

“You know who I am?” Nilou asked slowly.

Alhaitham raised an eyebrow, as if the question itself was confusing. “Of course. Anyone who watches figure skating knows who you are. You’re one of the greatest skaters of all time.”

Kaveh choked on absolutely nothing.

Nilou blinked once.

Then she smirked.

“Oh? I didn’t know you were a fan of the sport.”

A faint blush crept across Alhaitham’s face, but he didn’t look away.

“Well,” he said, gesturing toward Kaveh with his fork, “you have this guy to thank. He trained me in figure skating when I was little. I’ve been obsessed ever since.”

Kaveh stared at him.

Obsessed?

Nilou’s smile widened in a way that spelled trouble.

“Yes, I’ve heard,” she said sweetly. “He still never shuts up about his perfect junior. You saved him that year.”

Kaveh felt the blood drain from his face—

And then rush back twice as hard.

“Nilou,” he hissed.

But she was already backing away.

“Well, I best be going,” she added cheerfully. “You two enjoy your dinner!”

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

Kaveh slowly turned back to face Alhaitham.

Alhaitham was smiling.

Not smug. Not teasing. Just warm. And—oh no.

He had dimples.

Kaveh had not been prepared for dimples.

This man was absolutely going to be the end of him.

“Still telling people I’m your junior, huh?” Alhaitham asked lightly.

Kaveh buried his face in his hands. “I cannot believe she just said that.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“I do not ‘never shut up,’” Kaveh protested from behind his fingers.

Alhaitham’s voice softened. “You talk about me?”

Kaveh peeked up at him.

This was dangerous territory.

“I mention you,” he corrected carefully. “Occasionally.”

“How occasionally?”

“Haitham.”

He didn’t answer. Just waited.

Kaveh sighed dramatically. “Fine. Maybe I bring you up when people talk about students. Or dedication. Or talent. Or… you know. Life-altering summers.”

Alhaitham’s expression changed at that.

Something quiet and bright settled in his eyes.

“You said I saved you,” he said.

Kaveh’s cheeks were still warm, but he lowered his hands.

“You did,” he said simply. “I was… not doing great that year. And you kept showing up. Even when I was awful company. Even when I didn’t feel like skating.”

Alhaitham didn’t interrupt.

“You reminded me why I loved it,” Kaveh continued. “So yes. You saved me.”

There was no teasing in his voice now.

Just truth.

For a moment, Alhaitham looked almost overwhelmed by it. Then he leaned back slightly, exhaling.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you saved me too.”

Kaveh blinked.

“What?”

“You took art and made it feel alive,” Alhaitham explained. “You made it feel important. That stuck.”

The air between them felt different again.

Heavier. But in a good way.

Kaveh realized, with a small jolt, that nearly an hour had passed.

He set his fork down slowly, glancing at the time on the wall clock, 8pm.

“…Oh,” he said.

Alhaitham followed his gaze. “You have training early tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question.

Kaveh groaned dramatically, tipping his head back in his chair. “Don’t remind me. If my coach sees me yawn once during practice, she’ll assume I’ve been partying all night.”

Alhaitham smiled faintly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The conversation had wound down naturally, like music fading after the last note.

But the quiet didn’t feel awkward.

It felt… warm.

Kaveh tapped his fingers lightly against the table before pushing his chair back.

“Well,” he said, standing and gathering his tray, “I should probably head back before I completely destroy tomorrow’s practice.”

Alhaitham stood too.

“I’ll walk you.”

The offer was immediate, matter-of-fact.

Kaveh blinked once, surprised—and then smiled.

“Okay.”

They returned their trays and stepped back out into the cool night air together.

The Olympic Village pathways were calm at this hour. A few athletes passed by in sweats and team jackets, talking quietly, heading back to their buildings. Somewhere in the distance someone laughed loudly.

Their footsteps fell into an easy rhythm.

For a little while they walked without talking, the quiet companionable rather than strained.

Kaveh shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, trying very hard not to overthink the fact that he was walking through the Olympic Village next to Alhaitham like this was a completely normal occurrence.

Which it was not.

Not at all.

“Your long program is tomorrow,” Alhaitham said.

Kaveh glanced over. “You know the schedule?”

“I looked it up after the short program.”

Of course he did.

Kaveh felt warmth creep back into his face.

“Well,” he said lightly, “no pressure then.”

“You’ll do well.”

The confidence in Alhaitham’s voice was so absolute that Kaveh didn’t even think to argue.

“Thanks.”

They turned the corner toward the residential buildings.

Kaveh’s dorm came into view—tall, bright windows stacked neatly in rows. A few athletes were lingering outside near the entrance, talking quietly.

They slowed as they approached.

And then stopped.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Kaveh rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware that this was the part where people usually said goodbye.

He didn’t want to.

But he also didn’t want to stand there forever like an idiot.

“So,” he said, smiling a little nervously, “I really enjoyed catching up.”

“I did too,” Alhaitham replied easily.

Kaveh hesitated.

Okay.

Be brave.

Just ask.

Worst case scenario, you embarrass yourself in front of the hottest hockey player alive. No big deal.

“We should—um—try not to lose contact again,” Kaveh said, forcing himself to hold Alhaitham’s gaze. “This time.”

There was a tiny pause.

Then something warm flickered in Alhaitham’s expression.

“I agree.”

Kaveh took a breath.

“Could I… get your number?”

The second the words left his mouth, panic flared in his chest.

Too forward.

Too obvious.

Why did he say it like that—

Alhaitham’s mouth curved into a small, amused smirk.

“Sure,” he said. “I can put it in your phone.”

Oh.

That was… smooth.

Kaveh fumbled slightly while pulling his phone from his pocket and handed it over.

Their fingers brushed as Alhaitham took it.

Kaveh’s face immediately warmed.

Ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

Alhaitham typed calmly for a few seconds, thumbs moving efficiently across the screen.

Then he handed the phone back.

“There.”

Kaveh glanced down.

“Cute Little Junior” sat neatly in his contacts now.

His heart did something very unhelpful.

When he looked back up, Alhaitham was smiling—small, but genuine.

“Cute? Awfully humble.” Kaveh said.

“I believe that was a word you used to use to describe me when we were younger. Do you no longer find it fitting?” Alhaitham had a fake pout on his face.

Definitely still cute.

Kaveh laughed, and Alhaitham's eyes brightened.

“It really was good to see you again, Alhaitham,” he said.

Alhaitham’s face softened “Thanks, again—for coming to my game.”

Kaveh felt that same flutter in his chest again.

“Thanks for inviting me to dinner,” he replied.

Alhaitham nodded once, “I’ll see you around.”

“Mhm!”

Then, with one last glance at him, he turned and started walking back down the path.

Kaveh watched him go for a moment before finally turning toward his building.

The second he stepped inside and reached his floor, the excitement he’d been containing all evening burst loose.

He practically bounced down the hallway.

When he pushed open the door to his room, Tighnari was sitting on the bed with a book, glasses perched low on his nose.

He looked up.

Paused.

Then slowly lowered the book.

“…You look like a schoolgirl,” Tighnari said.

Kaveh blinked.

“What?”

“It went well?”

Kaveh tried to maintain composure.

Failed completely.

A huge smile spread across his face.

“…Yeah,” he said softly.

“It went really well.”