Welp.

It was funny.

Whenever they ran into each other in the school hallways, Shane would change direction and vanish the moment he saw him. On one particularly memorable occasion—when Ilya decided to take the initiative—he was pretty sure Shane had faked an emergency just to avoid having that conversation. He still laughed whenever he thought about it.

The thing was, Ilya was trying to be patient. Trying to give him space.

Patience wasn't exactly his strong suit, but damn it, he was trying not to be a jerk about the whole thing.

He was trying to be cool about it for Shane Hollander’s sake.

Even though Shane was avoiding him, he knew the guy didn't hate him. At most, he was embarrassed by the awkward way they’d discovered they were soulmates and by what was written on their soulmate marks.

When he was fourteen and first saw the words written on his waist, Ilya hadn't known what to think.

"You can't smoke here."

The very first thing his soulmate would say to him was a complaint.

Great.

He didn't want to blame that phrase, but it was probably the reason Ilya had started smoking in the first place. He enjoyed the challenge, and in some strange way, it made him feel closer to the person destined for him.

Of course, when they actually met, he hadn't intended to reply with that insult, and he regretted the words the moment they left his lips.

S'yebis' otsyuda. “Fuck off.”

It hadn't been intentional; he’d spoken purely out of reflex. He would have said something nicer if he’d been paying attention, but—damn it—the words had slipped out before he could stop them, driven more by his reflexive irritation at being told he was doing something wrong than by any real thought.

He really hoped Shane wasn't upset about it. He didn't want to think about how Shane must have felt seeing those words appear on his skin for the first time and then translating their meaning.

Sighing, Ilya closed his locker while gathering his books. He was grabbing the textbooks for his next class when he spotted Shane at the far end of the hallway, walking toward him completely distracted. He was gorgeous. Ilya hadn't realized he had a "type" until he saw that boy—tall, with a serious expression and beautiful freckles dusting his cheeks. He was simply perfect.

When Shane got close and finally saw Ilya, he froze for a few seconds like a deer in headlights. Those brown eyes stared back at him, and he looked ready to bolt at any moment, though there was clearly no ill will in his gaze. He was probably just shy.

When Ilya took a step toward him—likely because he enjoyed teasing him and watching him get flustered—Shane turned around, ready to run.

He’d taken about three steps when Ilya couldn't help himself and spoke up:

“You can't keep running away from me forever, Shane,” Ilya said, loud enough for him to hear.

Shane stopped, looking almost embarrassed by the excuse he was about to give. His shoulders tensed for a moment, and he hesitated a few seconds before finally turning just enough to glance at Ilya over his shoulder.

"I'm just late for class," Shane replied. As he spoke, a flush slowly crept across his face, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He turned away again, though, and resumed walking at a brisk pace.

Ilya raised an eyebrow as he watched him walk off.

"Your class is in the other direction," he pointed out.

Shane froze mid-step.

Ilya leaned back against the locker and crossed his arms over his chest, an amused smile threatening to break across his face. He could practically see the exact moment Shane realized his mistake.

Shane turned to look at Ilya, blinked, and turned beet red.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Ilya repeated, amused and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

He watched Shane walk past him with hesitant steps, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. The effort it took, however, was almost painfully obvious.

Then, as soon as he’d put a few meters of distance between them, he started to run. Literally run.

Ilya couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face as he watched the other boy’s figure disappear down the hallway.

He was cute when he was nervous.

It was worth being patient.

He would wait until he was ready to talk.

-

A few days later, Ilya was smoking outside the school, leaning against the brick wall and watching the smoke dissipate in the cold air.

The break was nearly over, and the flow of students was gradually slowing down. Ilya took another unhurried drag, his eyes wandering distractedly across the courtyard.

He had an English test later and was so stressed that he couldn't resist the urge to sneak a cigarette.

That was when he saw Shane approaching.

The other boy hesitated for a few seconds the moment he spotted him. His steps slowed to a near-halt, as if he were debating whether to keep going or turn around and run while he still had the chance.

For an instant, Ilya truly believed that was exactly what he would do; after a month of being avoided, he had grown used to seeing Shane’s back every time they crossed paths. But to his surprise, Shane finally gathered the courage and kept walking toward him.

"You really shouldn't be smoking here," Shane said. A small smile played on his lips as he spoke. Even though he was nervous—his fingers fidgeting with one another—he avoided looking Ilya in the eye for too long.

Ilya laughed when he heard that phrase.

Shane Hollander knew how to be funny?

"Fuck off," Ilya replied, clearly amused. Shane smiled at him, his nervousness seeming to vanish for a few seconds.

For a moment, the two fell silent. It was strange how that simple exchange of words seemed to relieve some of the tension that had been building between them for weeks.

After a while, Ilya let out a sigh.

"Sorry about the... swear word on your chin."

Shane’s smile faltered.

Instinctively, he raised his hand to his neck, his fingers finding the exact spot where the other mark was written. At that same instant, Ilya felt his own mark sting slightly.

It was always strange when that happened—a silent reminder that they were linked forever.

"At least it was in Russian", Ilya thought. It would be a thousand times more embarrassing if it were in English.

"It’s fine. I stopped caring about it a long time ago. And yours..."

Before Shane could finish, Ilya grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it a few inches, revealing the phrase written on his waist.

It was a casual gesture. Impulsive, perhaps.

Shane immediately turned red. His eyes widened for a moment before darting away to anywhere but Ilya’s exposed skin.

"Cool," he murmured, his fingers fidgeting nervously again. "Cool. Very cool."

Ilya had to stifle a laugh.

Silence settled between them once more. Ilya took another drag of his cigarette while Shane stood beside him, restless. Shane seemed to want to say something, but he dint know how.

Then, suddenly:

"So, do you want to come over to my dorm for dinner sometime?" The words tumbled out in a nervous rush. "I can make something for us. Do you have any allergies or intolerance? Is there anything you hate? Because I could make pasta, or soup. Do you like soup? Or meat. Actually, I could make..."

Ilya started to laugh.

Damn, Shane was adorable.

Smiling, Ilya dropped his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Then he took a few steps forward. Ilya moved closer slowly, until they were near enough for Shane to catch the faint scent of tobacco mixed with his cologne.

For a moment, Shane seemed to forget how to move.

Ilya tilted his head and planted a quick kiss on his lips. It was so brief that Shane barely had time to process it.

Then Ilya leaned in and kissed him again a little longer this time.

His hand rose almost automatically, without much thought, as if it already knew exactly where to go. His fingers found Shane’s chin—the exact spot where his soul mark was—and he used that hold to pull him closer, guiding his face with a gentleness that allowed their lips to align perfectly.

That simple touch made Shane tremble.

Ilya deepened the kiss calmly, grazing his lips unhurriedly. He gave the rigid Shane time to gradually yield and begin moving on his own. At first, Shane remained tense, as if still trying to figure out if this was real. But, little by little, that stiffness melted away.

Soon, Shane’s fingers touched Ilya’s waist, pulling him closer as well. His fingers found the exact spot where Ilya’s mark was, drawing a soft gasp from him against Shane’s lips.

They probably could have gone on kissing for a long time if the school bell hadn't rung.

When Ilya finally pulled back, he stayed close enough to still feel Shane’s breath. Blue eyes stared into brown ones with an almost fierce intensity.

Shane seemed to have completely forgotten how to breathe. His mouth opened and closed a few times until he finally said:

"Is that a yes?"

And Ilya couldn't help but laugh again.

Ilya was a big bear and made no secret of it; in fact, he was proud of it and loved the way people admired him. As a transfer student from Russia and the university's rising star, he was used to being the center of attention, and since his very first game, he had easily secured his spot as the team's second-favorite player.

That was probably why he and Shane didn't get along very well.

They had vastly different playing styles and disagreed on almost everything; perhaps that—all that pent-up frustration—was why Ilya had made Shane his primary target for teasing. It wasn't anything shocking, but Ilya loved calling him kotik instead of Captain —usually with a wide, amused grin—trying to elicit any reaction from Shane, no matter how small.

Shane, for his part, didn't seem to care and almost never reacted to the teasing. His brown eyes raked over Ilya, his expression always calm whenever the Russian was being particularly insufferable—as if he were deciding whether it was worth the energy to respond.

Usually, he decided it wasn't.

And that only made Ilya even more fired up.

Ilya knew Shane was anything but harmless—not with those muscles built for fight, which he kept hidden beneath loose clothing. After two years of training together, Ilya knew that Shane was hiding behind a veneer of docility, but that he was much more than people thought.

And also, he might have developed a secret crush on Shane. It appeared when he least expected it. Unfortunately—and to his disappointment—they weren't even friends. At best, they were teammates who shared a few classes and practice sessions.

But Ilya wanted more than that.

He wanted to be noticed, even if it was for acting ridiculous. He wanted to be able to give Shane everything, and—like an idiot—he realized he actually would if he could.

He would (probably) do anything for Shane Hollander.

—

On that particular day, they had just played a match against the Boston University team. The rivalry between the two squads ran deep; the tension was almost palpable the moment they stepped onto the ice.

Even so, they won. Shane and Ilya were unstoppable together, but—as in so many other games—much of that victory was due to Shane’s leadership. Shane commanded the game just as he always did: flawlessly. His natural talent was almost infuriating.

Ilya was certain that if they played on opposing teams, he would (probably) hate him.

It had been an excellent game, and everyone was in high spirits.

After the match, the teammates decided to celebrate the win at a bar. For a moment, Ilya was sure Shane would decline the invitation, as he always did, but—defying all expectations—he accepted.

He must have been in a really good mood.

As soon as they arrived at the bar, Marlow went to find a table big enough for everyone, while the other teammates headed for the dance floor, laughing and whooping loudly. Shane, on the other hand, stayed near the wall, simply watching his friends’ antics with a small smile on his lips.

That was why, less than three minutes after noticing Shane standing alone, Ilya approached him, unable to resist the urge to be by his side—even if only for a few seconds. Once he caught Shane’s attention, he held out a can, swaying it slightly in front of his eyes.

"Thanks, but..." Shane replied reflexively.

He didn't drink alcohol, regardless of the occasion; he was probably the most focused person Ilya knew. The only thing he allowed himself to drink—aside from what was on his diet plan—was a specific brand of ginger ale.

Shane was ready to refuse when he recognized the brand of his favorite soda, he frowned and looked at Ilya with a curious, incredulous expression.

"How did you..."

"I know you, Hollander" Ilya replied with a laugh. "Besides, you are boring. You are almost too predictable."

Shane rolled his eyes.

"Shut up." The words barely escaped his lips—little more than a whisper—yet he accepted the can. The smile on his face widened as he took the first sip, and then he shot Ilya a look that made his heart skip a beat.

Ilya really wanted to say "make me," but he didn't want to ruin the moment.

They hardly ever managed to be near each other without arguing, and for the first time in a long while, he felt that Shane was relaxed. He wasn't going to spoil that.

Ilya took a sip of his own beer, and for some reason, the moment felt perfect. He leaned against the wall beside Shane, their elbows lightly touching as they watched their friends joking and laughing out on the floor. Being there, right next to him, was better than Ilya had ever imagined.

Then, suddenly, everything happened too fast.

A commotion broke out on the dance floor involving one of the players from their team. One moment everyone was laughing; the next, voices had grown too loud, laced with irritation. Ilya frowned and, alongside Shane, walked almost instinctively toward the disturbance to see what had happened.

They were just a step away when a body slammed violently into Shane—a completely unnecessary shove, driven solely by the intent to hurt him.

Someone—whom Ilya would later recognize as a player from the Boston team—hit him hard enough to make him instantly lose his balance.

Then came the sound. Low, almost stifled.

A hoarse noise escaped Shane’s lips—like the sound a wounded animal might make—quiet enough to go unnoticed amidst the chaos. Unnoticed by everyone except Ilya.

And in that instant, Ilya saw nothing but red.

The blue of in his eyes were consumed in a few seconds by the black of his pupils. Blood rushed through his veins so fast he could hear it pounding in his ears. Fury surged in his chest instantly, like gasoline meeting a flame.

Fuck this.

Before anyone could grasp what was happening, Ilya was already charging like a predator stalking its prey.

Fuck all of this

He struck his opponent with enough force to send him crashing to the ground—as if a man weighing well over a hundred and thirty kilos had no weight at all.

Then he began to rain down punches.

One blow. Then another. And another.

The man tried to defend himself. He landed a punch on Ilya, and as he tried to shove him away, his fingernails tore into Ilya’s cheek, leaving a stinging gash. But Ilya didn't care.

In that moment, only one thought filled his mind.

It wasn't enough.

In the distance, Ilya could almost hear Shane calling out to him, saying it was all right. It took four people to pull Ilya off his opponent. Even then, a part of him remained unsatisfied.

He wanted to kill that man.

His chest heaved with heavy breaths as he kept his eyes locked on the Boston player. The animal inside him was still thrashing, desperate to break free and finish what he had started.

At some point, Shane stepped closer.

His fingers touched the cut on Ilya’s cheek, carefully examining the wound. He almost seemed nervous, his hands trembled as the blood—the existence of which Ilya hadn’t even noticed until then—trickled down his skin.

Shane was saying something, but Ilya couldn’t make out a single word. All he could see was the man on the other side trying to get back up.

That son of a bitch could still stand.

He tried to break free from the hands holding him, wanting to finish the job, but Shane stepped in his way.

"Damn it, look at me, Ilya!" Shane snapped, his voice rough, edged with something close to anger. His fingers tightened around Ilya's jaw as his other hand cradled the back of his head, threading into his hair and forcing his gaze upward until their eyes met.

He didn't let him look away.

It took a few seconds for the blue to slowly return to Ilya’s eyes. As soon as he noticed the focus coming back, Shane let out an almost imperceptible sigh and guided Ilya’s face to his own neck, pressing him close in a silent gesture of protection—as if to say, without words, that he was safe.

The scent instantly overwhelmed his senses.

Ilya inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with that aroma, while the nightclub around them descended into chaos. Players from both teams were trading punches on all sides.

Ilya focused all his attention on Shane’s hand stroking his hair. He was murmuring something in French, his voice serving as an anchor. Gradually, the fury began to subside. He had almost managed to calm down when another player from the Boston team lunged toward him, clearly intent on avenging his friend.

The man looked deranged. His lips were pulled back, baring his fangs. He was in a semi-transformed state; his fingernails had elongated into claws ready to strike. But he didn't get any closer.

Shane pulled Ilya into a tight embrace, shielding him with his body—protecting him as if he were something precious—and simply growled. A deep, menacing sound rumbled in his chest, loud and powerful enough to silence the scuffle for a brief moment.

The scent of danger filled the air. It was heavy, suffocating, almost poisonous. A primal warning that made skin crawl and awakened an instinct, carrying a clear message: stay away.

People around them stepped back without even realizing it.

Shane’s eyes did not stray from the man before him; his pupils had contracted into dark slits, like those of a feline about to strike if provoked.

No one there knew exactly what kind of animal Shane Hollander was but in that moment, everyone understood they couldn't take another step.

And for the first time in his life, Ilya felt a mix of panic and desire course through his body.

Because his theory had finally been confirmed.

Shane Hollander was definitely not harmless.