My heart is so full of you

“Liza, we’re doing math, not fact-checking your brother.” Raising an eyebrow, a smile tugs at your lips. “Just pretend that, suddenly, he became incredibly generous.”

“I don't think he would.”

“Liza…”

“Can we please take a break?” she exhales, collapsing onto the couch with full force and shutting her eyes tight.

You’re just about to remind her that you’ve already taken three breaks in the past two hours. But before you can even open your mouth, her eyes blink awake, a soft, pleading expression washing over her face.

“Can you make pancakes for me?” she murmurs, her lips forming a pout. “I’m hungry.”

She’s using that innocent, puppy-dog expression she always deploys to get exactly what she wants. Even though you firmly remind yourself not to cave in every single time, you find yourself nodding anyway. You set the math book aside and stand up from the couch.

Liza lets out a cheer of victory, yelling a loud "thank you!" after you as you trot toward the kitchen. You aren't even slightly annoyed that she managed to manipulate you yet again.

You’ve been babysitting Liza for almost two years now, occasionally slipping into the role of a tutor whenever she has a hard time understanding math topics or memorizing new vocabulary words in French. You genuinely like spending time at the Malinin household. Both of her parents are incredibly fond of you, trusting you to look after their daughter while they spend long hours over at the ice rink. Things are great—almost perfect—if it weren’t for him.

Currently, he is downstairs in his bedroom playing Fortnite while you start beating the eggs. The faint, muffled sounds of his shouting and frustrated exclamations reach your ears, twisting something tight in your stomach.

Babysitting Liza is easy, but pretending you don’t have a massive crush on her older brother is agonizingly hard. You can’t seem to contain yourself around him. Even the simplest interactions, like a brief conversation, make your heart rate pick up just enough for a wave of warmth to spread throughout your entire body. Especially when his fingers accidentally brush against yours.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of your mind, you exhale softly and begin rummaging through the kitchen cabinets for the flour. Just then, your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s Jackie, your roommate. She’s probably looking for her top—the exact one you're currently wearing, considering half of your own clothes are piled up in a laundry hamper at home.

You almost decide to ignore it, but you ultimately swipe your thumb across the lock screen anyway.

“Hi, Jackie.”

“Are you busy?” There’s a distinct edge of frustration in her tone, bordering on absolute panic.

“No, I’m just making pancakes for Liza.” You glance back at the living room. Liza has already turned on the TV and is watching an old Russian cartoon about a wolf and a bunny on YouTube. She has made you watch it numerous times—even Ilia joining the two of you on rare occasions—but you can never seem to remember the exact title. “What’s up?”

“I’m fucked,” Jackie exclaims. Her brows draw together as she dramatically buries her head into a pillow for a few seconds before looking back up at the camera. “My Halloween costume just arrived, and it’s two sizes too small!”

“Oh.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?! How am I supposed to get a cool costume when Halloween is in three days?!”

“Let’s not panic yet.”

“Ugh.” Groaning, she sits up on her bed, staring miserably into space without blinking before letting out another exclamation. “And it’s not just my costume! We have to get a new one for Lulu, too! I have to match with my girlfriend!”

“Okay, okay,” you say, trying to calm her down while your mind scrambles for alternatives.

Before you can think of anything, she notices the top you're wearing, her eyes narrowing as she probably prepares to scold you for stealing yet another piece of her wardrobe. You quickly cut her off. “Umm… what about… Velma and Daphne from Scooby-Doo? You’re already a redhead, so you wouldn’t even need a wig!”

“Cartoon characters?!”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

“No.” She shakes her head firmly, not bothering to give you a proper reason for the rejection. “I want something hot.”

“What about that one lesbian couple from Yellowjackets?”

“Van and Taissa?”

“No, the one with your name.”

“Jackie and Shauna.” She hesitates for a second, the tip of her tongue sticking out as she thinks. The expression immediately reminds you of a certain person, his intensely concentrated face floating right up into your mind. “Lost potential. We should’ve at least gotten their make-out scene.”

“Yeah, I agree.”

“But no, I feel like most people wouldn’t get it, and I don’t want to spend the whole party explaining it to them!”

Both of you go quiet for a moment. You continue mixing the batter while she sighs heavily, trying to brainstorm new ideas. Then you pause, looking back at the screen with an excited face.

“Billy and Sidney!” you exclaim, dropping the spatula and leaning in toward the screen. “It’s hot and it's obvious! And you can get the mask literally today—pretty sure I saw it in the shop right down at our cafe corner.”

“Ghostface?”

“Yeah! Don’t tell me it isn’t perfect!”

“I mean yeah, for you it’s the ultimate fantasy,” she smiles, her eyes crinkling as your brows furrow.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on.” She rolls her eyes. “Every time we watch the movies and Ghostface comes on screen, you get all intense and excited. And then you end up disappointed when he guts the victims instead of dicking them down… it’s quite cute, actually.”

“I mean…” Licking your lips, you shrug, not bothering to deny the allegations when they are perfectly true. “It is hot. Ghostface is hot. When you know there’s no real danger involved, of course it’s… exciting.”

“Oh wow, who would’ve thought getting a call from Ghostface would be your ultimate roleplay fantasy.”

“Obviously, it depends on who’s behind the mask.”

“What about a 5’9" fake blonde Russian guy with blue eyes?”

“Jackie!” you gasp, your heart leaping into your throat. You glance around the kitchen frantically before backing off to peek into the living room, praying no one is around to hear her—especially him. “I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Who knows, maybe I even did you a favor.”

“It’s not funny!”

“Alright, alright,” she sighs, waving you off through the screen. “I’ll call Lulu and we’ll figure something out.”

“Okay. Do tell me about it later.” You wave back, extending your fingertip toward the screen. “Bye, Jackie.”

“Wait, is that my top you’re wearing?!” She squints at the camera, her eyebrows drawing together in a furious line.

Before she can level any further accusations, you quickly press the red button, ending the call.

You don’t even realize that the background noise from downstairs has completely faded. The only sound left in the house is the muffled audio from Liza's cartoon playing in the living room, the unfamiliar Russian words not even registering in your brain anymore.

Then you hear a soft meow. Your face immediately lights up as you look down and spot Mysti’s shiny, jet-black fur. Crouching down, you scoop her up into your arms. Her body instantly relaxes against you, and you gently kiss the top of her head.

“There you are. I haven't seen you all day.”

It’s almost as if she understands you, letting out another quiet meow as she snuggles deeper into your embrace. You take a seat on one of the barstools pulled up to the kitchen island, stroking her soft fur with one hand and scrolling through your phone with the other, occasionally dropping soft kisses onto her ears.

Then, a movement catches your eye. You look up from your screen and freeze as your eyes meet his.

Ilia is wearing a simple blue sweatshirt, his headphones hanging loosely around his neck. He gives you a tight, polite smile as he heads toward the fridge, clearly on the hunt for something to drink.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he replies, pulling out a carton of apple juice just as you suspected. He closes the fridge door with his elbow and holds the carton out toward you. “Do you want some?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you making pancakes?”

“Yeah, Liza asked me to.”

“Cool.” He offers you a sheepish smile, his blue eyes briefly darting down to the cat curled up in your lap. “She really likes you.”

“Yeah,” you smile down at Mysti, brushing a fingertip over her long whiskers. Her bright green eyes stare up at you with pure curiosity. “She’s really affectionate.”

Ilia lets out a sudden laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The sound makes something flutter in your stomach. Your chest tightens at the sheer sight of him—his messy blond locks falling perfectly across his forehead, his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Mysti is not affectionate,” he says, putting a heavy emphasis on the word as he shakes his head. “If I want to cuddle with her, I literally have to bribe her with food.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like the high-pitched voice you use with her.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Just a little bit,” you grin, offering him a playful look. He doesn’t even look remotely annoyed by the jab; if anything, his smile widens.

“Would there be some pancakes left over for me?”

“Oh, yeah,” you nod quickly. “For sure.”

“Good. I love your pancakes.”

“Oh.”

Your eyebrows rise slightly. You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the intense way he’s staring at you makes your palms go instantly sweaty. Instead of actually thanking him, you just press your lips together, offer a tight smile, and abruptly bury your face back into your phone screen to hide your blushing cheeks.

“Are you still playing Fortnite?” Liza suddenly barges into the kitchen barefoot, her hair messily slung over her shoulders.

“No, I’m done streaming.”

“Did you lose again?”

“Liza,” he groans, rolling his eyes dramatically. You bite the inside of your cheek to contain the chuckle escaping your throat. “Did you finish your math homework?”

“Why do you care? It’s not like you ever want to help me anyway.”

Leaving the siblings to bicker, you slide down from your chair. The batter is ready, and it’s time to start cooking. Sensing the conversation is over, Ilia quickly disappears back downstairs into his room to resume whatever he was doing, leaving a heavy weight of disappointment hanging in your chest.

Thankfully, Liza is there to keep you company. She happily chatters away from her spot at the island, asking you questions about your university studies and your friends. But at the mere mention of Jackie, your mind flashes straight back to your earlier phone call. A tight, nervous knot forms in your stomach as your imagination vividly places him behind that Ghostface mask.

The night before Halloween, when Tatyana asks you to stay with Liza overnight, you don't have the heart to turn her down. Both parents are forced to fly out for a last-minute change of plans, and Tatyana mentions that Ilia is out of town staying with a friend. The newfound information leaves you both disappointed and relieved.

“I’m a little sleepy,” Liza mumbles after spending hours watching movies with you. Being the cool babysitter you are, you've let her stay up way past her bedtime.

“Okay,” you reply softly, removing the almost empty bowl of popcorn from her lap. “Go on up to bed. We can finish the movie tomorrow.”

“Okay.” She yields easily, getting up and giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Liza. Sleep tight.”

She walks lazily toward the stairs. Before she disappears, you slip back into your authoritative role and yell out for her not to forget to brush her teeth.

Once she's upstairs, you settle back into a comfortable position on the couch with Mysti curling up by your legs. When you pull the cat up into your arms, she doesn’t even protest, her warm body beating faintly against your chest. You scroll through Instagram, and a small smile forms on your face when you notice Ilia has liked your recent story—a photo of you helping Jackie put up Halloween decorations.

Time passes in a blur. At some point, you drift off to sleep with your head hanging uncomfortably over your shoulder.

You're jolted awake by the distinct, sharp ringing of a phone. Mysti raises her head from your stomach, ears perked. You sit up, blinking against the darkness of the living room, where the glowing television screen is the only source of light. It’s the house landline ringing. When you glance at your phone's lock screen and find that it’s almost 2:00 AM, your eyebrows furrow. A trace of panic settles in your chest as you wonder who could possibly be calling this late.

Stepping over to the receiver, you pick it up.

“Hello?” you answer, your voice a little groggy from a dry throat.

There’s heavy silence on the other end of the line, lasting just long enough to make you uneasy before a voice finally speaks. It’s a man’s voice, and you don’t recognize it at all. He sounds middle-aged, but it definitely isn’t Roman. You feel Mysti’s tail brush against your leg, her face nudging your ankle for attention.

“Hello,” the man says.

“Yes?”

“Who is this?” he asks.

You pause for a second, unsure of how to handle a stranger calling a house where you're babysitting. “Who are you trying to reach?”

“What number is this?”

“What number are you trying to reach?” Impatience slips into your voice. You wait for a response that never comes. Ultimately deciding it’s time to end the weird interaction, you snap, “I think you have the wrong number. Bye.”

You slam the phone back onto its cradle, your eyelids still heavy from your nap. Moving into the kitchen, you flick the lights on and pour yourself a glass of cold water. Mysti watches you with curious eyes, and you just offer her a shrug in response.

Then, the landline rings again.

You freeze, glass halfway to your lips. Suddenly, a realization hits you, and a wave of recognition washes over your brain. Your voice is filled with a mixture of amusement and annoyance as you pick up the phone. “Hello.”

“I'm sorry. I guess I dialed the wrong number,” the voice says.

“So why did you dial it again?” you answer, effortlessly recalling the exact script of a movie conversation you’ve seen multiple times over the years. You practically know it by heart.

“To apologize.”

“You're forgiven. Bye now,” you chuckle, a relaxed, easy tone slipping into your voice. “Okay, this was funny, Jackie, I admit it. But you’re not coming over to finish what you started, so just let me sleep now. Bye.”

“Wait, wait, don't hang up.” There’s a sudden flash of panic in his almost monotonous voice, and you silently scold yourself for not realizing how good her voice changer app actually sounds. “I’m not Jackie.”

“Right, sure.”

“And I’m here to finish what I’ve started.”

The voice drops lower, shifting into a deeper, menacing register that inadvertently sends a shiver straight down your spine. Your throat goes dry for a second. A sudden rush of blood hits your face as your brain scrambles to make sense of the situation.

Deciding you're done playing into her prank, you end the call with a hard press of the button. You immediately reach for your phone, dialing Jackie with mild irritation, ready to chew her out for feeding into your secret fantasies only to ultimately disappoint you.

She immediately answers. The image on the screen blinks slightly as a heavy, flushed redness covers her face. Even through the speaker, you can hear a chaotic wave of background noise—familiar voices mixing together and music thumping.

She’s drunk, you realize instantly.

“Hey!” Jackie waves at the camera, blowing you a sloppy kiss before giggling. “How’s the babysitting going?”

“Are you drunk?”

“Yeah! Wes bought extra wine and we decided to celebrate early.” She proudly raises an empty bottle to show you. “I hope those cute pajamas you’re wearing aren’t mine, by the way.”

“They’re not.”

“Good, because you’d have gotten into big trouble.”

She chuckles, her words slurring slightly. You stare frozen at the screen, desperately trying to decide whether she’s being real right now or just putting up a incredibly good act. Before you can figure it out, someone snatches the phone away from her hand. A very drunk Wes waves at you, immediately assuming you must be bored out of your mind and loudly wishing you could be there with them. The conversation drags on for a painful two minutes before you finally beg him to give the phone back to Jackie.

“Hey, Jackie,” you say, trying your absolute best to sound casual, but the doubts are eating you alive from the inside out. “Have you, by any chance, mentioned that Ghostface thing to anyone?”

“Ghostface what?”

“You know.” You shrug, watching her confused expression through the screen until it slowly relaxes into sudden realization.

“Oh, that thing,” she emphasizes, letting out another giggle. “No. Why?”

“You swear you’re telling me the truth?”

“Yeaah…?”

“So if I happened to ask if you called the house landline a few minutes ago, you’d say no, right?”

“No,” she hesitates, her eyebrows finally drawing together. “I mean, yeah, I'd say no. I didn’t call you. Honestly, who has time for you—”

“That’s rude!” Wes yells in the background.

“Yeah, Wes, you’re right,” she shakes her head, rubbing her palm over her face to wake herself up. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

You lie. Before she has a chance to press you for further details, you end the call with a quick, rushed "bye." Her confused voice fades instantly as the call cuts out, leaving you staring frozen at the kitchen wall.

Could this really be what you think it is? What you imagined all those nights ago sitting right here at this kitchen island?

You shake your head violently, trying to brush the thoughts aside. That’s impossible. It's surely just a delusion you’re feeding yourself. It isn’t something Ilia would ever do. And even if he did, you definitely wouldn’t be the person he’d choose to do it with.

You’re almost angry at yourself for even daring to hope, conclusively deciding that it’s just a cruel pre-Halloween prank made by god knows which neighborhood teenager. You’re about to turn around and leave the kitchen when the landline suddenly erupts into another loud ring.

Your patience snaps. Walking over, you rip the receiver off the wall and bite out the words with sharp irritation. “Okay, what the fuck?!”

“Why don't you want to talk to me?”

“Whoever you are, get lost, because this isn’t funny anymore!”

“It’s not meant to be funny.” His voice sounds dead serious, causing your heartbeat to pick up instantly. “It’s meant to be… exciting.”

Suddenly, you are mentally transported right back to that afternoon in the kitchen. The heavy emphasis he places on the word exciting forms a tight knot in your stomach.

You hadn’t realized it back then, but it hits you now—how quickly he had appeared upstairs in the kitchen right after your conversation with Jackie. How the muffled sounds of his streaming coming from his bedroom had faded away long before you even finished your conversation.

Could he have… heard you?

Your mouth hangs wide open in pure disbelief, your heart thumping wildly against your ribs. Glancing around the dark kitchen, your mind races with thousands of chaotic thoughts. Desperately trying to push the sheer panic aside, you grip the phone a little too tightly. You lick your dry lips, desperately scrambling to say something—anything—but he beats you to it.

“Do you like scary movies?”

“Yeah,” your voice comes out incredibly quiet, almost pathetic in a way that does absolutely nothing to ease your frayed nerves.

“What's your favorite scary movie?”

“Um… I don’t know.”

“Come on.” The deep, raspy voice brushes intimately against your ear, and the vivid image of him standing somewhere in the dark behind that mask is just enough to make you instinctively press your legs together. “You have to have a favorite.”

“Scream,” you reply.

This time, a tiny spark of confidence bleeds into your tone. You change the script, intentionally throwing a wrench into the familiar dialogue, completely unequipped for whatever direction he is about to steer this conversation into.

“Scream, huh?”

There is a brief, loaded pause on the other end of the line, followed by a low chuckle that vibrates directly through the phone and straight down to your core.

“A classic,” he murmurs. “So you like masked guys? The ones who get up close and personal? Who track your every move, listen to your breathing, and take exactly what they want?”

Your breath hitches, your grip tightening on the plastic receiver until your knuckles turn white. You lean back against the kitchen counter, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you’re certain he can hear it through the line. Looking down, you notice that Mysti has slipped away into the shadows, leaving you completely alone.

“Maybe,” you breathe out.

“In the movie, the girl always fights back. She doesn't just give the killer what he wants,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice, the sheer confidence radiating through the speaker. “But you aren’t the girl in the movie, are you? And we both know you’ve been begging for this call.”

You pause, completely unsure of how to reply. It is impossible to ignore the tight knot twisting in your stomach or the lump forming in your throat that feels entirely impossible to swallow.

“Are you gonna fight back?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low, demanding rasp.

“No,” you choke out. The sheer intensity of the situation sets your body on fire.

“You wanted Ghostface. You wanted him to come for you,” he rumbles, the digital distortion of the voice changer adding a dangerous edge to his words. “Now he’s on the line. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll let him take what he wants.”

Your reply comes out soft, almost innocent, completely stripping away any remaining defense. The line goes dead silent for a fraction of a second before he slams the phone down, ending the call.

A light sweat breaks out across your skin as you stand there, staring into the sudden, suffocating silence of the dark house. You wait for a few agonizing seconds, your chest heaving up and down, before you take your cell phone and redial his number.

Leaving the kitchen with slow, cautious footsteps, you hold the phone to your ear, desperately trying to hear the faint sound of the ringing on his end. Suddenly, you stop dead in your tracks.

The muffled sound of a phone ringing isn't coming from somewhere outside. It's vibrating from downstairs.

You take a deep breath, swallowing hard as your mouth waters with sheer anticipation. The ringing gets louder with every step you take, your heart rate picking up a frantic pace as you reach the bottom of the stairs and look down at his bedroom door handle.

When you push the door open, the pale moonlight softly pours into his room, casting long shadows across the floor. The ringing sound is completely clear now. It’s coming directly from inside his walk-in closet, vibrating through the quiet space and straight into your ears.

You walk toward it, your knees feeling weak. Stretching your palm out toward the closet handle, you briefly close your eyes, bracing yourself for the revelation.

But before your fingers can even touch the handle, the bedroom door behind you shuts with a loud slam.

You shriek, the phone slipping from your trembling hand and clattering loudly against the floor. You spin around instantly on your heels, your breath catching in your throat. There, standing right in front of the closed door, completely blocking your only exit, is the figure draped in a heavy black cloak—staring directly at you through the familiar, hollow eyes of the Ghostface mask.

He’s holding a knife at his side, the metal shining dangerously under the moonlight. He takes a step closer, your heart thumping wildly against your ribs as he steps directly in front of you. The sudden scent of his familiar cologne surrounds you, and any lingering doubt you might have had washes away in an instant. Instead, that intoxicating feeling rushes back over your body—the tight, deep ache between your thighs, and the intense shiver running straight down your spine.

“I didn’t lie,” the voice says. It escapes his throat, but it isn’t distorted anymore. It’s completely him, his familiar softness still present as an undertone beneath. “I’m here to finish what I’ve started.”

You watch his gloved hand raise toward your face, the rough texture of his thumb brushing slowly down your lower lip. You look up at him with a dazed, almost blurry expression, already entirely drunk on his touch. Your body moves instinctively when he nudges you backward toward the bed. The backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress just as a sharp metallic clink echoes through the room—the knife falling harmlessly to the floor.

He pushes you down onto the bed. The mattress dips deeply beneath his weight as he climbs on top of you, hovering over your frame as he uses his knees to push your legs wide open. You oblige him instantly, letting him settle flush between your thighs, your head throwing back against the pillows in sheer anticipation.

His gloved hand reaches for your face again, gently brushing a few stray strands of hair away from your forehead, the distorted features of the mask still staring down at you.

“Aren’t you gonna remove the mask?” you murmur, your hands coming up to touch his face.

Before you can reach the rubber, he stops you, catching both of your wrists in a firm grip and pinning your hands securely over your head with just one of his.

“No.”

His reply is short, leaving no room for argument. His body presses down harder against yours. When you shift your hips instinctively to feel him even closer, an inadvertent, low groan escapes his throat.

You hear him yank the leather gloves off his hands with his teeth, tossing them aside. A second later, you feel his bare, warm fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your thin pajama shirt. Your entire body trembles under his direct as his palms slide upward, brushing over your nipples. A soft, desperate moan escapes your throat, your eyes fluttering shut as he unbuttons the short-sleeved top with agonizing slowness. When he's finally done, the cool air of the bedroom hits your bare chest, making your skin prickle with goosebumps.

His hand travels further down. When he finally releases his grip on your wrists, your limbs stay exactly where they are, pinned by the sheer weight of the tension. He tugs down on your shorts with a sudden, newfound impatience, removing your panties next with a rush of heavy urgency.

You sit up slightly, shifting your arms out of the unbuttoned sleeves to remove the shirt completely. You lay entirely naked in front of him, your hair a wild mess against the pillows, your eyes dark and drunk with desire, your lips wet from nervously licking them in anticipation.

“Ilia,” you murmur his name like a plea, like a quiet prayer. “I want to see your face. Please.”

It’s as if your words undo something deep inside him. He pauses, haunching slightly back on his knees. Your arms come up, reaching out to pull back his black hood. The moment your fingertips graze the edges of the face mask, his hand doesn't shoot up, he doesn't catch your wrist to stop you from pulling it off, catching the edge of the rubber and peeling the mask off him completely.

The familiar, striking blue eyes immediately lock onto yours. His blond hair is a wild mess, his lips are flushed just as red as yours, and his breathing is heavy and intense. It takes your breath away to see the mask come off, revealing the boy you’ve craved for almost two years. You reach up, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from his forehead, a soft, breathless smile tugging at your lips.

"Hi."

"Hi," he whispers back.

The corner of his lips lifts into a small, boyish smile. The sheer absurdity and thrill of the moment catch up to you, and a quiet chuckle escapes your throat. But before you can say anything else, Ilia leans in, crashing his mouth onto yours with a sudden, full force that knocks the remaining breath completely out of your lungs.

He pushes you flat down onto the bed, his weight pinning you to the sheets as his kiss turns deep and messy. While his mouth claims yours, his hand works its way down, sliding smoothly between your thighs. A sharp, desperate moan escapes your throat, your eyes shutting tight as his warm fingers find you already completely slick and aching for him. He doesn't make you wait, sliding two fingers deep inside you with a firm, rhythmic stroke that makes your hips instinctively arch off the mattress.

He breaks the kiss, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down your jawline, neck, collarbone. His free hand cups your breast, his thumb sweeping over your hardened nipple, gently squeezing and rolling the peak until you're whimpering against his shoulder.

You grip his broad shoulders, your fingertips tangling deep into his soft hair as the friction of his fingers inside you drives you to the absolute brink. Then, he shifts his weight, dipping his head down between your legs. He hooks his hands under the backs of your knees, pulling your legs up and wrapping them over his shoulders, opening you up completely.

Any remaining stillness in the bedroom is utterly shattered. You unravel completely in front of him, your head tossing back against the pillows as he uses his mouth and tongue with an unhurried precision. The room is filled with the wet sound of his kisses, the breathless, ragged moans escaping your mouth, and the low, vibration of his deep groans whenever your body twitches against him.

By the time he finishes, you are completely undone. Overwhelming pleasure crashes over you so hard that tears prick the corners of your eyes, your chest heaving violently up and down as you ride out the heavy waves of your release.

Your eyes are shut tight against the intense aftershocks, your limbs heavy and useless. In the quiet, you hear the rustle of fabric as Ilia stands up beside the bed, shedding his clothes. When you finally blink your eyes open and lean up on your elbows, the sight before you makes your mouth go dry. He stands completely stripped in front of you, his broad shoulders and lean chest glistening under the pale moonlight filtering through the window.

He climbs back onto the mattress. Hooking a firm hand around your ankle, he slides you slightly down the bed to his level, instantly crawling back over you and crashing his lips onto yours again. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, your hands flying right back into his hair as you feel the hardness of him pressing directly against your inner thigh.

Before you can raise a hand to touch him—to try and return the favor and give him what he just gave you—he leans back. The sudden loss of his lips against yours feels almost painful. He stretches his arm toward the nightstand, rummaging through the drawer for a brief second before pulling out a small square wrapper. You watch him roll the condom on in the dim light, excitement and anticipation bursting through your chest.

When he settles back between your thighs, you open your legs wide for him in a welcoming, desperate invitation. You bite down hard on your lower lip, your eyes locking directly onto his blown-out, dark blue gaze. He lets out a low groan at the sight, and the exact second he hovers his weight over you, he pushes inside you in one deep, smooth motion.

A loud, breathless moan tears right through you.

"Ебать," Ilia groans softly, his voice entirely strained as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, freezing as the tight warmth of you closes around him.

You blink up at him in the dark, your mind a bit hazy. "Huh?"

"Nothing, love," he murmurs against your skin, silencing you with a deep kiss.

His hand comes up to cup your burning cheek, his thumb stroking your skin before his palm slowly trails down your arm, finally locking tightly around the curve of your waist. He holds your hip up as he continues to thrust into you, his rhythm locking in a relentless pace.

He doesn't stop there. As the pleasure builds, the composure he usually keeps completely breaks. He continues murmuring low, rough Russian words against your skin—words you can't decipher but know are praise from the tone of his voice. He whispers things into your ear that you never thought you'd hear from his lips, his breath hot and ragged.

Hooking his hands securely under your waist, he lifts you up just enough to deepen the angle completely. You throw one leg over his shoulder, choking out breathless, broken noises as he hits exactly the right spot with every single push. His heavy chain hangs down from his neck, brushing against your bare chest with every movement—a vivid, physical detail you had imagined a thousand times over in your head, now finally real.

His skin is burning hot against yours, his palms roaming possessively over your hips, your waist, and wherever else he can reach. When you feel the familiar, overwhelming tension building deep in your lower stomach again, you instinctively tighten around him.

That completely undoes him.

A loud, choked groan escapes his throat right below your ear. He quickens his pace before your body finally snaps, a second climax shattering through you. He lets out a ragged cry against your shoulder, his body shuddering violently as he buries himself deep inside you one last time, spending himself completely as you hold him tight.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the heavy, synchronized sound of your breathing. Ilia collapses softly against you, his chest rising and falling against yours, both of you completely spent. Your limbs feel entirely numb from exhaustion, a deep, heavy satisfaction settling over your skin.

It takes him a few seconds to regain his strength. Slowly, he lifts himself up on one arm, looming over you as he looks down at your face. With his other hand, he carefully reaches down to remove the condom, tying it off and tossing it into the small trash can by the nightstand before pulling the blanket up over both of your naked, cooling bodies. A lazy, soft smile stretches across his face, his blue eyes warm.

"Did I fulfill your ultimate fantasy?"

"Didn't Tatyana teach you it's rude to eavesdrop on others?"

"Jackie really did you a favor." He laughs, recalling your conversation word for word before leaning down to kiss you once again. It’s sweet this time, slow and unhurried—nothing like the desperate hunger and burning passion you experienced minutes ago. You capture his face in your hands, trailing your fingertips gently down his jawline, smiling right through the kiss.

"So," you murmur, your voice a little raspy as you trace a lazy finger over his forearm. "Staying with a friend out of town, huh?"

He lets out a soft chuckle, his chest vibrating against you. "I was supposed to, but then my mom texted me saying they had to fly out, and she mentioned you'd be staying overnight with Liza." He presses a quick, warm kiss to your neck. "I had to come up with a plan in approximately four hours. Luckily, the shop right around your favorite cafe corner still had a Ghostface mask left."

"How did you even know what my favorite cafe is?"

"You often bring pastries from there when you come over," he admits almost shyly, smiling down at you as he tenderly caresses your hair. "I just assumed."

"Did you really eavesdrop on my whole conversation with her?"

"Maybe," he says, a sudden trace of playful cockiness bleeding into his voice. "How often do you actually steal your roommate's clothes?"

"How often do you put on a whole roleplay act for girls?"

"Never." He shakes his head firmly, abandoning his smirk to snuggle deep into the crook of your neck. "It's strictly reserved for you. That 5’9" Russian guy really likes you, too. And for the record, I'm not a fake blonde."

His last words are completely muffled against your skin. You let out a laugh, gently hitting him on the shoulder as a comfortable warmth spreads through your chest. For the next few minutes, the bedroom falls into a stillness, the two of you simply basking in each other's presence and the lingering heat under the covers.

Then, the quiet is interrupted by a very familiar voice right at the bedroom door, followed by the distinct sound of tiny claws scratching against the wood.

Ilia tilts his head up, both of you snapping your gaze toward the door at the exact same time.

"That's Mysti."

"Yeah," you agree, a smile tugging at your lips. "I think she's here for me."

"Did Liza feed you lies that my own cat hates me?"

"No, but I think it's pretty obvious she likes me better."

"Fair enough," he huffs playfully. He shuts his eyes tight and heavily replaces his head back onto your chest, anchoring himself to you. "Sorry, Mysti, but it's my time for cuddling now. Go away."

The other side of the door goes quiet for a single minute. But when the black cat starts meowing even louder, you nudge Ilia’s shoulder. He lets out a dramatic sigh, finally pulling himself up and grabbing a discarded shirt to throw over his head. You quickly slip back into your pajama set resting on the floor beside the mattress.

The moment Ilia cracks the door open, Mysti immediately slips through the small gap like a shadow. She wastes no time, leaping straight onto the bed and padding over to collapse directly against your side, purring like a tiny engine.

Ilia stands by the edge of the bed, crossing his arms as he stares down at the cat completely taking over his spot, then looks up at you with a betrayed expression.

"Don't look at me like that," you giggle, reaching over to stroke Mysti's soft fur as she purrs even louder. "I told you she likes me better."

When the choice was get wrecked by the afternoon workout or his girlfriend, Ilia's dick picked, but he stands by it, at least for now. This, whatever happens, will definitely be more fun than the whiteboard's torture plans, and his soul needs better treats than the occasional fun-size chocolate wax to persevere.

It's the charged, silent pause where you know what comes next.

So far, only his shirt is off. If he keeps this up, he'll start wearing holes in the knees of his off-ice clothes too.

Planted to the bed between your legs instead of at training, Ilia justifies it as tongue exercises, another muscle that can be strengthened, good for articulation, more interviews and YouTubes in his bright future.

So he works, lips leaving light kisses and gentle mouths over your underwear until your hips beg for his fingers to yank them down before flinging the ruined pair away, unneeded. They can join your bottoms Ilia already stole, one tug followed by one kiss at a time, his lips leaving love's watermark.

It's the deep breath in before he licks that makes you ache. Your hold takes to his blond hair as his head tilts, angling, never afraid of trying something new. Ilia spreads you wider, limbs and folds, his hands fanning over and appreciating the smooth of your thighs before they're needed elsewhere. He lets his tongue circle, wet and warm, before lapping in, tasting you so far his nose presses to your needy clit. You can't help but grind.

"You shaved," you appreciate the soft touch against you.

Your feet drag his muscled sides, but that's not enough for Ilia. He coaxes, "Want to hear you."

Ilia will feel as though he's failed if your voice isn't weak from calling his name. He's used to being good at things. It's his identity. He's working on that.

"You taste so perfect to me," Ilia marvels, breath hot against your cunt, before kissing it more, giving a playful nip to your mound and then going back to sucks. You can feel his touch creep towards your center at a speed that feels unforgivably slow. You'll remember this later. You'll get him back.

The wet sounds mask your gasp as one finger slides inside. Ilia pumps it before deeming you need more. A second joins. He knows how to bend them.

"Oh, fuck!" You wince and buck when Ilia switches to fast flicks of his tongue across your clit. Up and down, then side to side, he tries different layouts until one, combined with his crooking fingers, makes you tug. Similar to planning jumps, all it takes is some time and a bit of finessing. He can go the distance.

Ilia recognizes your noises now. This part is like running a program. Don't stop.

Your back lifts in an arch. Ilia doubles his efforts, for you, for how much he loves seeing and feeling you come hard on him. He'd stopwatch how long you pulse rhythmically around him if you'd let him.

There's a growing wet spot on the bed beneath you. Ilia knows he could easily fit another finger; his heart and mind race when he figures he could find a place for them all, but he'll leave that for a different day. Right now, you are bare before him and on the brink, chanting his name in prayers, hair mussed and generally messy just for him. Because of him.

He pulls away only enough to say, "Want you to come. Come for me."

The simple sweetness behind his dirty words pushes you over, the need that had been building finally splitting in small spasms and high-pitched whines. It tears through you toes to top until your body stills, hot but blissed. Ilia hasn't stopped, only slowed his draws through you, fingering the extra wetness as much as you now. He dips his fingers once more, then pulls out to look.

When your eyes open, Ilia stares, lips plumped and chin still shiny, and asks so earnestly, "Did I do well for you?"

Like he is waiting for his scores. Between your legs, the kiss and cry. Like he would watch the video on repeat after to see where he might improve, artistic or technical.

"Mm," so well, you don't want to form sentences yet. You pull him up your body to finish stripping him down and return the favor, first kissing your tang from his smile.

"I'll take that as a yes," Ilia laughs as he lets you best him to his back beneath you on the bed.

when he’s about to cum, he pulls up his favorite picture of you - you on your first date together, smiling shyly as you hold your ice cream next to his. he remembers the excuse he’d given then (“i just like to catalogue the food i eat”) and not-so-surreptitiously eyeing your scoop (part out of greed, part because he wanted to taste it off you). it reminds him of the first time he knew he was whipped. couldn’t imagine falling in love with anyone else.

he thinks he must look like like a mess, face flushed bright pink, hair staticky from being pressed into the mattress, drool over the pillow. he’s moaning a muffled version of your name and praises into the stuffing - fuck, baby, you feel so good. just like that. don’t stop. fuck, please don’t stop.

he spills all over himself. his eyes squeeze shut and he shudders, weak whines spilling from his lips. he keeps himself until his eyes water from the sensitivity and he can’t cum anymore.

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, fingering, thigh riding, feeding (as a sexual device), semi-public sex, compulsion, fucked out reader, attempted hand job in a car oops, heavy mentions of blood, vampires, mentions of other supernatural beings, ripper ilia (feral, predatory, murderous vampires), tvd rules and regulations

ᯓ‎♪ just like heaven - the cure

it's not like they knew you were already fucking.

when the bottle landed on you, spun again, and found itself pointing toward ilia, they honestly thought it was funny. you two barely even talked; they assumed you only ever interacted when the group got together, given that you never seemed to be seen together otherwise. your roommate welcomed you into their group, and ilia weaseled his way into it through another entry not long after.

in short, you were calculated.

none of them would have predicted, well — you know.

"ilia, ffffuck."

they don't mesh with the other end of your acquaintances. they surely don't know that ilia is a bloodsucking vampire; nor that he's your boyfriend; nor that he sinks his teeth into your neck like a thanksgiving meal every other day.

so, naturally, it seemed like a funny joke to them when the bottle made its choice.

you put on your best show to date — aw, man, really? come on.

ilia had to spend seven whole minutes locked in a closet with you? a crime against humanity, they would have thought.

your friends told you and ilia that you guys were, quote, "no fun."

okay, so you'd show them fun.

the second the door closed, the switch flipped. and, well, here you are.

"do you think they bought it?" ilia mumbles into your mouth, pulling you into his lap as he slides down the cool expanse of the closet wall, hair creating static electricity from the contact.

"i think we sold it pretty well," you laugh, fingers moving to his deep red button-up and slipping down the center. with each popped button, the shirt falls further open, exposing the paleness of his skin. warmth radiates onto your fingertips; you leave the bottom attached, keeping the fabric on his shoulders.

your mouth begins just below his ribcage, dragging upward and mouthing wet kisses into the plush of his chest. ilia sighs from above; you hum a quiet shush into his pec, sucking a mark into the skin. you really fucking wish those wouldn't heal so fast.

"don't really wanna get caught," you mumble, at which he nods in agreement. "we don't have much time, anyway."

"you think i'm only keeping you here for seven minutes?" he suggests.

huh.

well, then.

you're sure as hell not going to complain.

your lips pull into a grin, hips grinding into his, the swell in his pants pressing into the apex of your inner thigh.

his hand finds the nape of your neck and pulls you down, mouth enveloping yours to muffle the careful hums rising from his throat. beneath the pad of his thumb, your heartbeat thumps, increasing in pace the harder his kiss becomes.

you whine, rolling your hips harder. the harsh material of his pants brushes over the thin expanse of your panties, already dampening between the plush of your thighs.

your palm slips between you, starting just above the waist of his pants — the softness of his stomach — and glides carefully upward until you reach his shoulder, just beneath the open shirt fabric. his skin is hot, cheeks already turning red as a mixture of heat and want rises to his face.

he groans into your mouth; the noise is deep, heavy, hot.

you swear you've already been in the closet for hours, and it's been all of three minutes.

just shy of half the time.

your hips shift just enough to position you against his thigh; his knee lifts, applying pressure between your legs. the gesture creates a wet patch on his pants. frankly, he couldn't care less. it'll dry by the time you're out — though your friends likely wouldn't notice it, anyway, with the inevitable mess you're going to walk out as.

you've gone a whole two days without sex. that's a record, nowadays.

damn your exams, and ilia's — well, vampire troubles. dangerous threats, and all that. typical business for that of whitmore, and the bunch of crazies you find yourself in classes with.

seriously, they must think they're slick, talking so openly in their lectures about prison worlds and witches and heretics — whatever the fuck those are — in front of other people. you only became acquainted with a few of them after you'd about had it with their very obvious supernatural banter (thanks to ilia's grand coaching).

thankfully, your friends are a lot more naïve.

and that daniel kid has no clue what is about to become of his poor closet.

you whine into ilia's mouth as your hips push further against the thickness of his thigh, rough fabric burning through your panties and against the sensitive, slick skin. arousal drips onto the thin, black cotton; your eyes squeeze tighter.

he lowers his knee flat onto the carpeted floor again, and you break off for air. your chest presses into his with every intake, hot breath fanning the tip of his nose when you exhale.

he doesn't make a show of tearing off clothes or ripping fabric, like most depictions of people (or, creatures?) like him make it seem. yeah, he's horny, and he's hard as fuck in his pants, but he doesn't have to act like an animal. and he has some respect for your money.

if he's going to absolutely destroy your white shirt, then the least he can do is spare your underwear.

he'd much rather save time, anyway, by bunching your skirt up, shoving your panties to the side, and sinking two fingers into your core, all before your mouth has properly reconnected with his.

you let a groan slip into the quiet air of the closet, hoping the smallness of the space and the thickness of winter coats inside are enough to mask the noise to your friends, no more than thirty feet shy of the door. either way, ilia could just compel them — make both of your lives a lot simpler.

as if he hasn't done that to about nine people already, since you started fucking like bunnies every day.

some days, he can't believe you've just accepted that he could get carried away at any given moment and rip someone in half, whether it's yourself or someone else. after witnessing it. all in the name of what, love?

his mouth finds your neck — the pulse of your carotid beating against his plush lips. your hips push against his hand, craving the friction already offered by the easy glide, arousal dripping onto his clothed thigh.

"'m hungry," he rasps into your skin, the sharpness of his teeth dragging over your neck and shooting a wave of desperation straight between your thighs. of course, as if the jagged glide of ringed fingers along your inner walls isn't enough to almost get you off.

"then eat," you moan, sucking in a hiss when teeth puncture skin, and the pain rises to your neck like a dangerous threat that you'll never get tired of.

really, you never considered yourself to be a masochist. but when someone is literally tearing into your skin so deeply that it throbs, and you're aroused by it, the sentiment isn't exactly falsified.

let alone, if you can't even get off anymore without ilia feeding on you like some kind of human blood bag.

his fingers curl inside, and a slurp sounds at your neck, a few stray droplets of blood trickling down the side and catching on your white top. it pulls a moan from your chest that nearly echoes off the wall adjacent to you; you decide trying to stay quiet won't be enough not to draw eyes (and ears).

you yank the nearest coat arm toward you and shove the fabric into your mouth; ilia grins into your neck, pushing long digits further into your pussy, already aching with the combination of need and pleasure-pain. an elongated moan as his hand grips you harder, and your thighs try to close involuntarily.

he's not even trying to be neat. not even remotely respecting that nothing in this room is his property to deface.

blood spurting onto the wall behind him when he breaks to catch his breath, dripping down his chin like some kind of filthy display that almost has you kissing him again, just to taste yourself on his lips.

delving back in before you can properly consider the idea, fingers spreading inside of you and stretching you out, the burn searing between your thighs as you grind down on his hand, trying to take as much of the length of the digits as you can.

"my fucking god, ilia," you whine into the thick coat, voice teetering on a rasp — and muffled by the fabric — as it breaks in the back of your throat. your eyes find the back of your head, hips chasing the high, continuous pain still throbbing at the side of your neck.

you bite down too hard on the sleeve, and the coat falls onto the floor beside you, revealing a few tiny droplets of blood around the cuff. you let the fabric fall from your mouth, leaving your lips parted with heavy breaths that trail into whimpers.

his hair — slick with sweat, blood decorating the blond tips — brushes the underside of your jaw, and your hand tangles into the bunched strands, fisting them in your palm and pushing him closer. your opposite palm wraps around his shin for support, keeping your weight up as your back arches in his hold.

"taste so good," he praises with a murmur, kissing over the wounds on your neck and licking a stripe over blood-stained skin. "my favorite girl."

your quiet laugh buzzes against his mouth, nearly a perfect moment, if not for the sudden knocking on the door.

"hey, are you guys okay in there? it's been almost ten minutes."

fucking daniel, man.

"give us a few more minutes," ilia mumbles, pulling his fingers out to the tips and shoving them back in, drawing a squeak from your chest that he stifles with his mouth; the metallic taste you craved finally hits your tongue. still arousing, despite the unpleasant flavor.

"come on," he bangs, "you've been in there for way too long."

"go away," ilia threatens, and you don't even have the strength to protest.

rather, you moan.

of course, he hears.

"that's it," he shakes his head, "i'm coming in."

when the door swings open, your head turns over your shoulder to the noise, a soft beam of light streaming in from the cracked-open door.

and a gasp.

the sight is less than ideal. certainly daunting for someone entirely unsuspecting.

you, perched in ilia's lap, with his hand wedged so far between your thighs that it's fully disappeared. blood splattered across your neck, dripping all over your top from two puncture wounds in the soft skin. ilia's face covered, blue eyes even brighter from their bloodshot state, dark veins protruding beneath them.

blood everywhere, actually.

"what the fuck."

"ilia," you whisper, and his hand grips you firmer, intense gaze locking on your friend's.

"go back outside, tell your friends not to bother us, and forget this ever happened."

he walks out and shuts the door with a click.

ilia's lips find yours again, much firmer this time, hand pulling your hips closer and forcing your palm to glide up his shin. you moan into his mouth, not even caring to acknowledge being caught — it was far from the first time — hand reaching up to the array of hanging jackets and gripping one tightly as his fingers shove back into your pussy.

"feed," your voice a desperate, whiny plea for more as your hand fists into his crimson-dyed hair again and pulls him back to the crook of your neck. "eat, ilyusha. please."

at the sting of the nickname, he delves back in. as his teeth sink back into the wounds, blood exiting your stream once more, a noise trapped halfway between a moan and a sob breaks through your chest.

you no longer care who hears you.

if he were going any harder, you swear the edges of his rings would slice into you. and given your track record, it doesn't sound so bad.

the tips of his fingers press so deeply that they just barely brush your cervix; you swear you feel it in your stomach. wetness coats the outer shell of his hand, enough for it to glisten in the light, if there were any in the closet, save for the tiny beam where the door rises above the threshold.

another harsh tug at the jacket, and that, too, falls askew on the floor, just a few feet beside the first. you don't bother to reach for another; instead, brace your weight against the stained wall, smearing a small amount of blood across the beige paint.

"c'mon, baby," he urges gently, fangs disappearing behind his lips as he mouths at your neck, pressing soft kisses over the deep holes in your skin.

simultaneously, his thumb rises to your clit and applies pressure to the nerves, urging a breathy, strained noise from your throat; your hips grind one, two more times against his hand until he curls his fingers into just the right spot you need them.

you try to stifle the scream, but it barely works.

it's all too much — the throb at your pulse point, his fingers still working at your pussy, and the white-hot snap in your stomach as a gush of liquid coats the length of his fingers and drips from the back of his hand onto his thigh, then the carpet. your eyes rolling to the back of your head again as a string of incoherent sobs blisters on your tongue.

you've never come so hard.

ilia trails kisses up the column of your neck. the remnant of your blood leaves crimson kiss marks in his lips' wake, up to the edge of your jaw, where he sucks a spot into your skin as your pussy slowly unclenches around his fingers, now stilled inside you.

when he finally pulls them out, you whine at the loss. his fingers lift to his mouth, drenched in slickness, tongue slipping out to lick the sweetness away. he swallows you down, hums with satisfaction, wipes it dry on the outer edge of his thigh.

he runs a hand through sweat and blood-ridden hair, slicking it down to the top of his head before reaching between you again.

he tugs your panties down your thighs, the sudden roughness of the fabric burning against your already hot skin. your knees lift enough to let him slip them off — eyes still screwed shut as you try again to catch your breath, pussy still throbbing between your thighs.

he shoves the cotton into his pocket; you almost don't notice.

"what're you doing?"

"mine now," he murmurs into your bloodstained neck, and you hum when his human teeth graze the skin.

you tilt your head to kiss him again, savoring the feeling, the dull noise of his groan into your mouth as you shift in his lap — cock still hard in his pants, material all soaked by a mix of your cum and blood.

your arms wrap loosely around his neck as your back arches gently into his figure. his chest is littered with tiny splatters of blood, easily maskable with his shirt, while yours…not so much. only the sound of heavy breaths through noses remains in the small space; by now, you've forgotten that you're in someone else's home, someone else's closet, and that you've been inside it for all of twenty minutes.

the palm of your hand slips back between you and glides down the valley of his chest, resting over his stomach before letting the tips of your fingers brush the waistband of his pants.

"no no no," he mumbles, wrapping his hand around your wrist and moving it back over his shoulder. "not here."

"come on," you pout, eyebrows pulled together, "i can be quiet. and quick."

"no," he repeats, voice a little softer. "when we get home."

his house. mansion, more like.

home, as he started referring to it with you. it sends a chill down your spine. of want or love, you're not sure; maybe both.

you huff in reluctant agreement, shifting again to feel him beneath you. swallowing down a breath and moaning gently into the air, you let your weight fall into his lap.

"we gotta go," he whispers firmly, bringing his hands to your waist and lifting you to your knees, allowing him to slip out from under you.

"ugh," you complain under your breath; ilia chuckles.

though the very obvious tent in his pants isn't exactly a laughing matter.

as you manage to keep on your feet, the palm of your hand braces your weight on his shoulder, still bare and littered with blood. his fingers work at the buttons on his shirt, putting them back together and leaving the first two loose.

it's enough to hide the evidence, mostly.

perhaps, his hair is more to worry about.

or his chin.

or the stains all over your neck, your collarbone, your shirt, and the tips of your own hair. plus the marks all over.

ilia steps forward and brings his wrist to his lips; you grab him prematurely and pull his arm away.

"don't heal them."

"what?" he asks, confused. "you have cuts on your neck, baby." his fingers brush over the wounds, still depositing droplets of blood down the skin, "they're gonna notice."

"let them."

the corner of his lip twitches.

"okay," he whispers. "but you're not going out there like this." he reaches for the nearest jacket still hanging — leather brushes his fingertips, and he settles, yanking it off the hanger and holding it up by the collar behind you for your arms to slip in.

it should be enough to cover some of the blood.

perhaps, not the dried residue on your skin, but enough to get you out of the house and into the car.

when you finally emerge from the closet — leaving it a complete mess, blood smeared onto the walls, white stains etched into the carpet just below where he sat, clothes strewn on the floor — your friends' heads pique toward the noise.

it's somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes, now.

your hands are holding the jacket closed in front of your chest; ilia's palm stabilizes you at the small of your back, legs still not quite strong enough to hold their own.

"what the hell happened to you?"

you don't speak.

"she's tired," ilia answers instead, gaze locked on the girl who asked the question, perhaps a little too intense. "i'm gonna take her home."

daniel lets you out of the house without a word, entirely unbeknownst to what he'd witnessed, or why he's so calmly letting you leave, amid the confusion bubbling in his chest.

it's almost as if he doesn't have a choice…

he realizes — once you're snugly seated in the car and halfway down the road — that your jacket was his. yet still, he can't find it in him to take action. nor can he manage to conjure up an explanation to the others when he finds the fucked-up state of his poor hallway closet.

"illliaaaa," you murmur, voice sultry over the quiet music playing through the speakers.

you keep the jacket snug over your clothes — he keeps the white interior of the camaro spotless, and you're afraid to tarnish more of the car, after what you'd done to the exterior in the rink parking lot.

"yeah?"

"you're still hard," you point out, as if it isn't obvious, as your hand reaches over the console and slides onto the outer surface of his thigh. "lemme help."

"no, baby," he hesitates, "we're almost back."

your bottom lip juts out as the car rolls to a stop at a red light; no other vehicles in sight, nor a soul on the street.

"please?" you all but beg, voice dripping with sweetness as you ask oh, so politely.

somewhere in the mix, between stepping into the closet and coming so hard that you could barely think, you've become so cock drunk that all you can think of is getting him off properly, regardless of the circumstance.

surely, it isn't the same woman who had the nerve to back him against the car and force him to feed, even if it killed her.

"i wanna make you feel good, ilyusha," you pout.

god, every time you call him that.

you have no clue.

the tips of your fingers just barely brush over the tent between his thighs, so featherlight that he sucks in a breath. his eyes nearly flutter shut — cock so fucking sensitive, like this, even the smallest touch making him twitch. the warmth of your palm settles in his lap like a threat; it coaxes another careful noise out of him.

he almost considers pulling himself free right at the light and letting you give him a handjob under the wheel.

and while that's nothing you haven't done before, he has every intent to finish what he started at the house. where he can come inside of you, rather than classlessly on the edge of your hand on the side of some dingy road.

"no," he finalizes, "wait until we get home."

"…okay," you sigh, lifting your hand and planting a kiss onto his cheek as the light finally turns green.

he won't lie and say he doesn't miss your touch, though.

you rest your chin on your palm and gaze out the window, at passing trees and half-dimmed streetlights. in the distance, you swear you notice the figure of a blonde, but you opt to ignore it; you're probably just jaded.

you let out a relieved sigh when his house comes into view, the porch light illuminating the driveway just enough to let you see.

ilia — chivalrously — opens the passenger door for you. it barely closes before you're kissing him, pulling his body down to yours, and leaning into the deep blue paint on his car.

the leather jacket, two sizes too large, finally falls open and bares your top to him — ripped at the neckline, stains far too deep to wash out, a few decorative stitches pulled out. and, of course, your neck.

marked up and sore, two puncture wounds still delicately placed around your carotid as he runs the pad of his thumb over them.

he'll have them reopened soon enough.

"come on," as his hand slides down to your wrist and impatiently pulls you up to the door. lips finding yours again as he fumbles with the key and jams it into the hole.

the warmth of his house — your house — greets you as you step past the threshold, his hips involuntarily pressing closer to yours as he tries to close the door.

he's desperate, by now.

starving, again, too.

and based on the way he speeds you to the sofa, hand already making its way to the zipper on his pants, grin plastered on his face like some sort of threat — it's going to be a long night.

and you've long forgotten about your friends.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @qu4dgod, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @tiramisutin, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @thenerdysimp, @scamandersdoorbell, @lanadelquad, @iliaspradabag, @sinistersnakey, @ladybuzgs, @veniley, @in3edcuddles, @fionasapplepie

love u all <3

When you did get home, the first thing that greeted you was dishes in the sink. just great, you thought. When you glanced over at the stove, you realized ilia had not cooked dinner as he said he would.

You made your way over to the bedroom, ilia was just lying there, scrolling on his phone. He hadn’t even noticed you entered the room.

“Hi ilia” You greeted him. He didn’t even spare a glance at your direction and murmured a hello.

you waited for him to look up and at least acknowledge you, but he didn’t. you sighed and sat at the edge of the bed, not as close as you usually would have sat.

“Did you cook dinner tonight?” you asked him even though you knew the answer.

“No. sorry babe, i forgot. we can order food though.” he replied, glancing up from his phone screen.

“it’ll take at least an hour to get here” you murmured while inspecting the floor, you hadn’t had time to eat all day because you were just so busy, and yet you had to wait for takeout.

“yeah, i guess so. i just had some cereal, i can wait” he said absentmindedly, while reverting his gaze back onto his phone.

You were already upset that ilia had not cooked dinner, but he had eaten beforehand, and you assumed he did not wash the dishes, recalling the earlier state of the sink. but the worst of all, he wasn’t even looking at you.

“Did you even think about me?” you asked, visibly irritated.

He put his phone down, sat up, and looked at you. “What do you mean?” he creased his eyebrows and looked up at you with tired eyes.

“I mean that i was on my feet all day, i’m having a migraine, i barely had time to breathe let alone eat, and yet you didn’t cook dinner like you were supposed to, ate without me, and didn’t even bother to wash the fucking dishes! Did you even think about me?!” you yelled at him, avoiding eye contact.

“Well, i had a long day, i’ve been at the rink, and god forbid i come home tired and eat because i’ve been working out the whole day! just order online for fucks sake” he yelled back at you. you were both usually calm people, but it was made clear that you’ve both had a very long day.

“This isn’t about that!” you stood up from the bed. “You didn’t even think about our plans, you didn’t even think about me, even if you were too tired you could’ve just ordered it earlier because you know what time i come home, and you didn’t even bother to look at me.” you shouted.

“I’m just tired! you should know that, dating an athlete and-all. can we just order our fucking food please?” he exhaled, and raised his hand to his to push his hair back.

You notice the movement before you can even process it, and you flinch. you thought you were over your trauma, that it was all in the past, but some scars never fade away.

The room went quiet for a second. Ilia’s face softened when he saw you flinch. his heart ached and he forgot all about the stupid argument. Were you really scared of him? Did you really think he would hurt you over such a small thing?

He said your name, then followed up with, “You know i would never hurt you, right?”

“No, i know. i’m sorry” you muttered, not making eye contact with him. instead, your mind was taking you back to probably the worst moments of your life. your eyes were glassy as you muttered another sorry with a broken voice. You felt such shame rise within you. Why did you react like that? Were you so broken that even a simple hand raise frightened you?

Ilia just pulled you into a tight embrace and held you as you cried. “Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked you, with a soft voice so as to not scare you.

You shook your head. right now, things were too recent. too much. your brain kept replaying it over and over again. Maybe you would talk to him when you calmed down.

He just held you tighter and whispered “That’s fine too, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Your voice comes out softer than you expect—breathless, unsteady, not from nerves, but from the sheer weight of waiting. You’ve been waiting for months for this exact moment, and now he’s finally here, standing right in front of you. His hair is a little ruffled from travel, his smile as wide as ever.

“Hi, love.”

You pull him toward you by the collar of his sweater, throwing your arms around his neck as you practically jump into him. Instinctively, he catches you—his arms locking around your waist as he giggles, that familiar, bright laugh spilling into your ear. The open door doesn’t even cross your mind, you don’t think about the risk of someone walking down the hallway. Nothing registers in your brain except his scent, the solid, comforting warmth of his body against yours. You tighten your legs around his torso, kissing him repeatedly—his cheek, the corner of his mouth, wherever you can reach, your body utterly incapable of containing the excitement.

He laughs softly against your skin, breathless and bright, shifting his grip to keep you steady as he kisses the palms of your hands that cup his cheeks.

“You look really pretty,” you murmur, your voice sweet as your arms tighten around his neck. You look down at his red sweater, loving the way he basks in your compliments, the way he blushes, his smile softening into something shy and tender. “I’ve missed you, Ilyusha.”

“So have I,” he murmurs.

He closes the distance left between you, pressing his lips against yours. The sound you make is somewhere between a sigh and pure relief. Everything else dissolves into warmth—the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his hands, the way he continues peppering kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the sensitive side of your neck, his fingers tightening against your flesh. You tilt your head back without thinking, yielding to him, and then freeze slightly as the dead silence of the hallway stares back at you.

“We should probably close the door.”

“Right,” he breathes, like he’s only just remembered the concept of reality.

You slide down from him reluctantly, nudging him forward as you drag his suitcase inside. A small frog plushie dangles from the handle—worn from travel, his second emotional support right after the McQueen plushie. The second his shoes are kicked off, he looks around the apartment, waiting for you to lock the door so you can finally lead him inside.

“How was the flight?”

“The guy next to me snored the whole flight and my earphones were dead,” he sighs, pouting as you tug at his arm, pulling him into the living room. He looks around, but if he’s disappointed by the almost empty walls, the bare minimum furniture, and the lack of decor, he doesn’t comment on it.

“There’s not much to see, don’t break your neck.”

“I like it because it’s yours.” He flops down on the couch, pulling your arm so you go down right with him. It’s impossible not to cuddle into him, resting your head against his chest as you curl into his side. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m so ready to spend the next three days just like this.”

“It’s gonna get boring at some point.”

“Never.” His voice is firm. He smooches your cheek repeatedly before he pauses, his pale blue eyes flickering over your face. Even after all these years, a look like that from him is just enough to send a wave of warmth rushing across your body. He traces a fingertip over your exposed arm, slowly trailing down your t-shirt until he stops at the hem of your shorts. His question comes out in a low, suggestive murmur, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “So... what do we do now?”

“You will eat the pasta I made for you.”

“I’d rather start with dessert.”

You slap his hand away, a chuckle escaping your throat as you wriggle out of his grasp and sit up. “I’ll be in the kitchen. You go wash your hands.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

He sighs, shaking his head, but nevertheless does exactly what you say, moving toward the bathroom in an unhurried, lazy way. It still feels entirely unreal—having him here, filling your space like he’s always belonged in it. The smile refuses to leave your face.

You’re stirring the pot, the rich smell of the sauce filling the kitchen, when you feel his arms slide around your waist from behind. He presses a soft kiss just below your ear before resting his forehead against your neck, inhaling deeply.

“I haven’t had this in years.”

“I know.” You smile, leaning back into him. “I know you’ve missed it.”

“Mhm.”

You feel his hands slide beneath the hem of your t-shirt. The trace of his fingertips against your bare skin sends a shiver down your spine, making your breath hitch. He does it so naturally, with a kind of effortless innocence that you don’t even dare to disrupt—not until his slim fingers slide further upward.

“Ilia.” His name comes out like a warning, though your voice lacks any real conviction. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes, but I’d rather devour your pasta later and start with something else.”

His blatant suggestiveness amuses you, a familiar spark igniting your body when his fingers brush just beneath your breasts. You turn around in his embrace to face him, watching the way his own breath hitches when you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants, pulling him firmly against you.

“Is that so?”

“Hm.” His smile stretches into a lazy, satisfied grin, his eyes half-closing as you lean in and press a lingering, warm kiss just below his jaw. “I’ve missed you.”

“Then show me.”

The dare in your voice is all the invitation he needs. His grip on your waist tightens instantly, pulling you so flush against him that there isn’t a single pocket of air left between your bodies. Reaching blindly behind, you click the burner off just as he leans down, kissing you with a sudden force that knocks the breath out of you.

He doesn’t need to be told. The moment you hook your legs around his waist, he hoists you up, his grip locking beneath your thighs. He carries you out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom, the short distance passing in a blurred rush of friction and heavy breathing. He drops you onto the mattress with a soft thud, immediately hovering over you before you can even think of moving.

His face is completely flushed, his lips slightly agape as he pants against your skin, fierce determination in his pale blue eyes. His hands are frantic but sure as he peels away your clothes, tossing them aside without a second thought. His palms lock onto your hips, anchoring you to the sheets as he leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck and tracing a trail of kisses down your collarbone.

“Ilia,” you murmur between ragged breaths, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders. You instinctively open your legs wider as his weight settles heavily between them, but the thick fabric of his clothes is a barrier you suddenly can’t tolerate. You don’t like the way he’s still dressed; you want to feel him completely, the bare heat of his skin flushed against yours, the real warmth of him. “Take your clothes off.”

“Mhm,” he mutters against your skin, his hands sliding lower, too consumed by the touch of you to stop.

“Take it off.”

You push firmly against his chest, forcing yourself up into a sitting position so you can take matters into your own hands. You grab the hem of his red sweater, tugging it up and over his head, leaving his hair a wild mess. Your palms instantly press against his bare chest, your hands sliding all over his shoulders and down his torso, mapping out the months of missed time. His breath hitches, a sharp gasp leaving his mouth when your fingers find the button of his pants. He stands up just long enough to shed the remaining layers, kicking them carelessly onto the floor.

You wait for him expectantly, leaning back on your elbows, shifting your legs open in a silent invitation. He climbs back onto the bed, the mattress dipping deeply beneath his knees as he moves over you. Your back hits the pillows, and just as you’re about to close your eyes and surrender to the weight of him, he hooks his fingers firmly around your ankles.

With a sudden, powerful tug, he slides you down the mattress toward him. He dips his head between your legs, and the sound that escapes your throat pierces the quiet room.

The whole time, he is utterly restless. The playful, shy boy from the living room completely disappears, replaced by someone entirely focused on the body beneath him. He moves with a primal, desperate eagerness, kissing you at every single opportunity—your stomach, your hips, the inner of your thighs—as if he’s trying to imprint his touch into your skin. His hands roam restlessly over your shape, his fingers digging in just enough to leave faint, temporary marks, his head burying into you as he deeply inhales the familiar scent he’s been starved of for months.

Tears almost prick your eyes from the raw intensity of it. It’s too much and yet not enough. He knows your body perfectly, worshipping you with a devotion. Never once does he slow down, never once does he stop to chase his own pleasure. He is entirely consumed by giving you everything first, his own low groans echoing against your skin as he drives you over the edge.

You can’t seem to catch your breath, your chest heaving even after it’s finished and the room finally stills. The air in the bedroom feels thick, heavy with the scent of sex and heat. Ilia collapses softly against you, his strength entirely spent as he lays his head right on your chest.

He tangles his long limbs into yours, his legs weaving between yours, curling his entire body into your side as if trying to shrink the distance to absolutely nothing. Your fingers find their way into his damp hair, stroking the strands in a slow, rhythmic motion.

“Love.”

“Mhm,” you answer absentmindedly, tracing slow, random figures with your fingertips across his warm skin.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, looming over you with a sheepish smile.

“What is it?” you ask, looking up at him.

“Can we eat pasta now?”

The sudden question completely throws you off, and then you’re laughing at the sheer innocence of it. The familiar, bright smile stretches across his face, his eyes crinkling and his teeth on full display. He hoists himself up, rolling over to the side of the bed so you can get up. He watches you in quiet appreciation as you search for your scattered clothes around the room, slipping them back on. His pale chest glistens faintly with sweat as he sits up, clearly ready to say something else, but then his eyes suddenly widen in realization.

“Shit, I haven’t texted mom.” He reaches toward the nightstand, but of course, his phone isn’t there. “I don’t even know where I left it.”

“I’ll get it,” you mutter, padding out of the bedroom. You find it exactly where he dropped it on the couch, the screen lighting up with a fresh wave of notifications the second you pick it up. You don’t mean to look, but a familiar name catches your eye. Squinting at the screen, you quickly scan the texts from Tatyana. It’s all in Russian, but it’s impossible to miss the spelling of your own name—a sequence of letters permanently engraved in your mind ever since he showed you how to write it years ago.

You walk back into the bedroom, holding the phone out. “Hey, Ilia.”

Even if you don’t mean for it to happen, your tone must be completely off, because he looks up at you instantly caught off guard, his lips slightly agape. “Yeah...?”

“Didn’t you tell your parents you were visiting an online friend?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convincing at all. When you cross your arms over your chest and give him a suspicious stare, his face visibly flushes.

“Then why is your mom mentioning me in her texts?” You drop his phone onto the mattress, your eyes narrowing as you sit down on the edge of the bed, looking at him expectantly.

He subtly glances down at the screen, opens his mouth to speak, and then instantly pauses when he fails to find a single valid excuse. It tells you everything you need to know. Pressing his lips together into a tight line, he looks at you with a deeply apologetic face. “Uh... don’t be mad, okay?”

“Oh my god,” you exclaim, shoving his shoulder away. He lets out a dramatic groan in response. “You told your parents?!”

“Well, I had no choice!”

“You are so dead!”

“Hey!” He quickly catches your arm, stopping you right before you can pinch his sides. “Listen to me first, and then you can get mad at me if you must. We can argue about it all you want, and I promise I can spend hours making it up to you later.”

“What is wrong with you? You’ve been sounding like a horny middle schooler the whole day!”

“I just really missed you,” he says, offering another sheepish, helpless smile. When you roll your eyes, his expression finally settles into something more serious. “Look, remember when you stayed over and I left the bedroom door open so Mysti could wander out? Well, long story short, Mom went looking for her and... hey, at least we were just innocently sleeping.”

“That was... back in August!” You push hard against his chest, your eyebrows drawing together as you scold him, while he just sits there with his lips pressed tight. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Because I knew you’d get all... awkward about it,” he exclaims, throwing his hands up defensively. “And it’s fine! It’s just my mom. You know how much she loves you.”

“So it’s just your mom who knows?” your voice drops into pure sarcasm, already anticipating the answer.

He winces slightly. “Okay, yeah, my dad knows too...”

“Who else did you slip up with?”

“I didn’t slip up,” he huffs, trying to sound offended. “Blame it on Mysti.”

“You are impossible.”

“By the way, Mom gave me so much shit for it,” he adds, shuddering slightly as if the memory of the conversation still haunts him. “She genuinely thought I was having a secret affair with you or something... it was so embarrassing.”

“Serves you right.”

“Hey!” He chuckles, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “She was very happy, you know.”

“And did you spare her the details of my... PR relationship?”

“Yes. I told her he needed to boost his public image, and being the good friend you are, you made a sacrifice.” He refuses to mention Ollie’s l name, looking entirely content with his own explanation. He pauses for a moment, waiting to see if you're going to push it, before he licks his lips and looks toward the doorway. “So... now can we eat the pasta?”

You can’t help but smile at him. The pasta is still warm when you pile a generous portion onto his plate, grabbing a carton of apple juice from the fridge because you know he doesn’t like soda.

The rest of the evening flies by quickly. Even though he insists on doing the dishes, you turn him down, instead nudging him toward the bathroom to take a proper shower. Afterward, he settles comfortably into your bed, sighing in deep relief as he promises he'll wait up for you, a movie already picked out and ready to go.

But the second you step out of your own shower and call out his name because you forgot to bring a towel, the apartment is dead silent. He doesn’t answer.

Drying off as best as you can, you pad back into the bedroom a few minutes later to find him softly snoring. His face is completely squished against the pillow, his fingers gripping your McQueen plushie in one hand.

A wave of fondness washes over you. You quietly slip into the bed behind him, wrapping your arm around his torso and pulling yourself flush against his back. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his warm cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of your own body wash on his skin.

After months sleep finally comes to you with absolute ease.

October 25th

United States Grand Prix

“Yoo, that’s my sister!”

The moment you step into the garage after the race, Jace high-fives you, pulling you into a quick side-hug before your mom impatiently tugs at his jacket, waiting for her turn to congratulate you. After the heavy damage on track and multiple yellow flags, you somehow managed to fight your way into the points, finishing in P7—a position absolutely no one expected after such a chaotic race.

“I’m so proud of you,” your mom beams.

“Thanks, mom,” you give her a sheepish smile as she kisses both of your cheeks, gently brushing a lock of hair away that’s sticking to your sweaty face.

“You stink a little bit, though.”

“Jace!”

“What?!” he shrugs defensively as your mother lightly slaps his shoulder. “It was noticeable the second I hugged her!”

“Is it really necessary to bring that up in front of everyone?!”

“It’s not like others can't notice, mom. It’s fine,” you interject, highly amused.

“You are such a child, Jace. When are you going to grow up?!”

You smile, purposefully digging an elbow into his side as you walk past him toward the engineers. Everyone is happy with the result, congratulating you for the effort on track. Through the crowd, you catch Poppy watching you. You finish talking with your race engineer, nodding along to his feedback while drinking a bottle of water in one long go. The moment his back is turned, you approach her, wiping a few stray drops of water from your chin with the sleeve of your race suit.

“So,” you murmur, keeping your voice low. “How did it go?”

“He won gold.”

“Of course he did.” A subtle, proud smirk stretches across your face, and you shoot her a toothy grin that earns you a thoroughly unimpressed look in return. “Did he skate clean?”

“How would I know?” She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t watch his performance, I just checked the results.”

“How long till I have to give out interviews?”

She glances down at her watch—the one you gifted her after she spent months agonizing over whether or not to commit to such an expensive purchase. “Like seven minutes.”

“Alright, I’ll go freshen up.”

“You’re gonna watch his performance, aren’t you?” She looks at you with a slight, disappointing sigh. You don’t answer her. The silence gives away more than enough.

She has no idea about those three days he spent at your apartment. The two of you had barely left the space, only venturing out when you absolutely had to take out the trash or buy groceries. He had teased you relentlessly about keeping him locked away like a prisoner. The night before you both had to leave, you slipped on your shoes and forced him to do the same, completely ignoring his lazy attempts to change your mind. At midnight, you had strolled across the quiet streets of London with him by your side, your fingers tightly intertwined with his in the dark.

The thought of Poppy ever finding out brings an amused smile to your face.

After stepping into your small private room to change your attire and grab a moment of rest between sessions, you slide down against the door onto the floor. Ignoring the notifications lighting up your screen, you immediately open YouTube and type his name into the search bar.

With a profound sense of pride, you watch him take his starting pose in the center of the ice, the rhinestones on his costume glimmering under the arena lights. Throughout the entire performance, a soft smile stays fixed on your lips. By the time he enters his final spin, tears are freely rolling down your cheeks.

He added a layback spin to his program. Just like you told him to months ago, cold and breathless, at the rink.

“We should call it off.”

It’s a few weeks into November when Ollie finally sits you down for a talk. He nervously fidgets with his hands, his knuckles turning white until the words spill from his mouth. You’re back in the hotel room after the charity event. Your dress shimmers under the dim lights, casting a faint glow that matches the exact shade of the sharp black tuxedo he’s wearing.

“I have talked to Sammy, and she gave me a green light,” he says. He pauses, waiting for your response. There is a quiet, fragile kind of hope written all over his face—like he’s silently begging you to speak up, to try and change his mind.

You press your lips together, your shoulders dropping slightly under the sudden weight of the topic.

“The season is ending soon anyways.”

“Then why can’t we wait a few more weeks?”

“Because I can’t continue like this anymore.” He sighs, his voice laced with a raw frustration. His tone carries a hint of accusation when you don’t immediately answer him. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingertips drumming against his leg. Then he stops, exhaling a sharp breath, as if realizing this is his absolute last chance to lay it all out and he’s simply not willing to let it go.

You shake your head, already anticipating the exact direction this conversation is headed.

“I love you,” he says.

“Ollie...”

“Yeah, just reminding you why you can’t expect me to go on like this.”

He exhales heavily, pushing himself up from his seat as he walks toward the hotel room door. You stand there frozen, entirely unsure of what to tell him, or if you’re even supposed to try and carry on the conversation at all.

“Ollie,” you call out, stopping him just as he reaches out. He hesitates, his back to you, his hand visibly tightening around the metal door handle. “You’re my friend.”

He turns his head slightly but doesn’t give you a verbal answer. His expression is somewhat blank, stripped of its usual warmth as he listens to you, but the truth is, you don’t even know what else to say. Despite how much you desperately want to fix things, reality settles heavily in the room—things will never go back to the way they were. You can’t be friends with him like you were before. Before you can make a fool out of yourself and say something you both know is entirely untrue, you press your lips together, dropping your gaze to avoid his stare.

He leaves right after that, the heavy click of the door echoing in the quiet room.

The next morning, the fallout is already in motion. When Poppy calls you, her voice is purely professional. She has already talked with Sammy, and they already have a formal statement written up and ready to put out to the media.

When the collaborative break-up post is finally published on both of your Instagram accounts, you don’t even bother to check it. You can't bring yourself to look at the comments or the public speculation.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes in your hand. It's a text from Ilia. It’s a simple, straightforward question, asking you whether it is really over or not.

You stare at the screen for a second before typing back a simple, one-word answer.

Yes

November 19th

Las Vegas Grand Prix

“Poppy, I’m gonna go mental.”

“It’s the last interview.”

“Help.”

She ignores your plea and simply nudges you forward. The next second, you’re standing directly in front of the camera. Obviously, the very first question out of the reporter's mouth is regarding your breakup with Ollie. You deliver the exact same rehearsed answer. It’s worded slightly differently each time to sound authentic, but the core message remains the same: both of your primary focuses need to be on your professional journeys, you share nothing but mutual respect for each other, and you kindly ask the media to respect your boundaries and privacy.

The paddock has felt incredibly tense. You haven't really crossed paths with Ollie at all, and the few times you bumped into Kimi, he treated you with a distinct, lingering awkwardness. Ollie must’ve told him everything, you assume, but you don't even bother trying to explain yourself to him. You’re already exhausted, especially after having to break the news to your own family, who still don’t quite understand what really happened between you two.

By the time you get back to your hotel room, you’re completely drained. You immediately call Ilia, whining loudly the second he picks up as he listens with infinite patience.

“I can’t wait to get home, it just sucks,” you groan, burying your face into the pillow. “God, I’m never drinking again. It always leads to stupid shit like this!”

“Yes, love. Quit drinking and smoking, you’ll be so much happier and healthier.”

“Why are you acting like I have some type of serious addiction?” Lifting your head, you give him a disappointed look. “I can’t even remember the last time I smoked!”

“Really?” he asks, pure amusement dripping from his voice as he raises his eyebrows. “Interesting. Because I can literally see the cigarette pack sitting right there on your nightstand.”

You pause, shifting your eyes guiltily toward the nightstand before quickly angling your phone so the camera only faces the bed you’re sprawled across. The panicked movement only makes him laugh, his head throwing back as the bright sound fills your speaker. He’s sitting at his desk, his gaming earphones slung loosely around his neck. He was midway through a session when you called, but being the good boyfriend he is, he stopped playing immediately to give you his undivided attention.

“You’re such a liar.”

“Well, I am stressed, and it helps me relax,” you murmur, your voice dropping into a muffled hum as you cuddle closer into the pillow.

“Soon enough you will no longer need it, because I will be there to help you relax, my quadgoddess.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Wow, can’t I be romantic anymore?” He sighs heavily, faking deep disappointment as he pouts at the camera. “You should let me try one of your cigarettes when you get back home. I wanna see what the appeal is about.”

“Are you seriously asking me to take away your cigarette virginity?”

“Yes, and you can do it in a romantic way.” He raises a suggestive eyebrow, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “I’ve seen this trend on TikTok where couples smoke, and one of them blows the smoke directly into the other’s mouth right before they kiss.”

“Oh my god.” You burst out laughing before he can even finish the sentence, the corners of your eyes glistening with a few light tears. “Liza doesn’t bully you nearly enough, I see.”

“I’m out here trying to lift your spirits, and this is the disrespect I get?”

“How exactly do you want me to thank you?” your voice drips with playful sarcasm, making the corner of his mouth lift into a lazy grin.

“Well... for starters—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because his bedroom door suddenly barges open. A familiar voice booms through the speaker. Even though you can’t understand the Russian flowing from his mom, the cat’s name stands out instantly.

“Ты не видел Мисти? Я нигде не могу её найти.”

(Have you seen Mysti? I can’t find her anywhere)

“Mom, I’m on a call,” Ilia vaguely gestures toward his phone screen.

If either of you expected Tatyana to catch the hint and politely leave, she does the exact opposite. She crosses the bedroom entirely, leaning over the back of his gaming chair to smile into the camera, seamlessly switching her language.

“Hi, sweetheart!”

Even though you’ve talked to her thousands of times over the years, your face instantly flushes hot. You quickly sit up in bed, straightening your posture. Now that his parents actually know the truth about your relationship, the reality of it embarrasses you a bit, even if she does absolutely nothing to highlight it.

“Hi, Tanya! How are you doing?” you barely manage to answer, your voice coming out much quieter and more reserved than it was a moment ago.

“Oh, great! Especially after hearing the news about you two.” Her smile widens, her teeth on full display as she affectionately rests her hands on her son’s shoulders. Ilia looks equally as awkward as you do, silently glaring at the camera in a desperate plea for her to realize he’s uncomfortable, but she ignores him entirely, keeping her eyes on you. “How is Vegas?”

“Oh, between the racing and the media interviews, I haven’t had much time to explore. Mostly I’m just stuck in the hotel room.”

“We watched you today, you were amazing.”

“Thanks, Tanya,” you smile, reminding yourself that there’s absolutely no reason to be nervous around her. You try to make a joke. “I hope you skipped the part where I crashed into the barrier on my outlap.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” she waves it off with a casual flick of her hand, as if your driving skills aren't even up for debate. “Liza said the track temperature was too cold or something.”

“Yeah, mom, whatever,” Ilia’s voice cuts in, completely impatient now as he wriggles out from under her grip and reaches to pull the phone closer to his face. “Go look for Mysti.”

“You promised to do the dishes, and you never did them.”

“Mom!” he groans loudly, burying his face in his hands while you aggressively bite back a laugh. “Зачем ты позоришь меня перед моей девушкой?!”

“He just asked me why am I embarrassing him in front of his girlfriend,” Tatyana translates for you a second later, pure amusement in her eyes. Ilia looks up, staring at her with a look of betrayal, but she just shrugs. “Don’t look at me like that. She knows how lazy you are with housework.”

“Yeah, Tanya, I already know,” you chime in, thoroughly enjoying the way his cheeks turn red as you both continue to tease him. “He is incredibly quick at making excuses, though.”

“Did he even help you around the house while he stayed with you in London?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ilia cuts in firmly. He pushes himself up from his gaming chair, taking the phone with him as he flees the room.

He doesn’t even give you a chance to say a proper goodbye to his mom, her Russian slowly fades into the background as he storms out into the hallway and begins climbing up the stairs.

“Spare me the embarrassment,” he mutters to the screen, still looking completely flushed. “I’ll go look for Mysti now.”

“Do the dishes while you’re at it!” Tanya’s voice echoes faintly from downstairs.

“I’m logging off,” he huffs into the camera.

You let out a loud laugh at his misery. “Fell free to log off, lazy boy.” You quickly blow him a kiss through the screen before hanging up—a habit you’ve acquired over the months of him doing the exact same.

December 6th

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix

The last race of the season ends in a success. A mix of perfect strategy, your driving skills, and pure luck pulls it all together, and you cross the finish line in P4—just one step away from the podium.

Kimi ends up winning the world championship. When you track him down to congratulate him, he is so ecstatic that you’re not entirely sure your words even register. With a massive smile, he wraps a heavy arm around your shoulder and smacks a loud kiss onto the top of your head, acting as if you were the sole reason for his victory. He showers everyone in the garage with relentless affection, his energy so infectious that it's impossible not to laugh.

You head back to the garage, ready to change out of your suit and head to the hotel for one final night before flying home. Instead, you find your team principal, Alan, waiting for you. He motions for you to follow him, and you trail behind, thoroughly confused.

The confusion only deepens when you step into his office and find Red Bull team principal, Laurent Mekies, already waiting there.

Laurent warmly congratulates you on the P4 finish. Alan gestures for you to take a seat, and you oblige, a sudden knot of anticipation twisting in your stomach. They start by highlighting your performance over the weekend, then pivot to Las Vegas, and eventually bring up your first pole position. Midway through their breakdown, your heartbeat starts to quicken as you realize exactly where this conversation is heading.

Alan leans forward, a subtle but evident smile breaking across his face. “We believe you may be ready for a different environment.”

After that, everything happens in a complete blink. Hands are shaken. Alan squeezes your shoulder, thanking you for the incredible season you spent with the team. Before you step out, he firmly reminds you about the strict discretion required before the official public statement is released. You nod quickly, leaving the office with a mildly shocked expression, forcing yourself to contain a grin so passing mechanics don't look at you too closely.

Walking down the paddock, you notice Ollie approaching from the opposite direction, his race suit tied loosely around his hips just like yours as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up, his eyes locking onto you, and his face slowly breaks into a genuine smile.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Ollie.”

“Congrats on P4,” he says, his smile widening. For a fraction of a second, you forget the heavy silence of the last few weeks, believing that things are entirely normal again. “You officially beat me in the championship.”

“Barely. Only eight points ahead.”

“Yeah, but you still did it.” He pauses, his expression softening into something tentative. It almost feels like he wants to say something more, but he hesitates, not quite knowing how to phrase it. “Are you coming to the club to celebrate with Kimi tonight?”

“Yeah, I can’t really miss out on that,” you chuckle, realizing you can't just rot in your hotel room on a night like this. “Though I feel like he’s already completely wasted. Did someone give him alcohol the second he hopped off the podium?”

“We’re in Abu Dhabi,” Ollie notes dryly. “And he’s twenty.”

“Didn’t exactly stop you last year, did it?”

“Oh, shut up.” He rolls his eyes, playfully nudging your shoulder, but the smile stays on his face. “Are you flying home tomorrow?”

“Yeah, back to Vienna.”

“I’m heading to London. I really missed my family.”

“Yeah. So did I.”

There’s another person you missed the most, but you keep his name to yourself, his existence remaining a quiet, unspoken boundary between the two of you.

Ollie takes a few steps backward, lifting a hand to say goodbye. “Enjoy the winter break.”

“You too.”

He turns his back to walk away, and you continue on your path, but something suddenly makes you stop. Maybe it’s the sheer excitement hammering in your chest, threatening to burst out, or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s Ollie—your friend who always had your back, who never once made you feel like you belonged in this paddock any less than the rest of them.

“Ollie,” you call out.

He stops, turning back to look at you with a slightly confused expression. The paddock around you is still busy, but it’s mostly engineers and staff members hurrying past, barely paying any attention to the two of you.

“I was actually just coming from Alan’s office,” you explain quickly. You aren't entirely sure if you’re breaking the discretion rule already, but the words fly out of your mouth before you can think to stop them. “I got promoted. I’m moving to Red Bull next year.”

His eyes instantly widen, and his face breaks into an unforced smile that you can’t help but mimic. He closes the distance between you, pulling you into a quick, firm hug before gripping your shoulders tightly.

“That’s sick!” He shakes you slightly, earning a breathless chuckle from you. “Oh my god, that’s absolutely amazing!”

“Thanks, Ollie.”

“You absolutely killed it this season. You deserve it so much.” His expression softens, his tight grip on your shoulders loosening. “I’m really happy for you.”

“I know, Ollie.”

“So... am I the first one to know?” A subtle, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “I promise I’ll be completely discreet about it.”

“You better be, or Poppy will literally hunt you down and end you.”

“Okay, yeah. That is a very serious threat.”

By the time you finish talking, a wave of relief washes over you. You realize that despite the mess of the past months, things are finally going to be fine between you two.

When you get back to the hotel, you immediately try to call Ilia to tell him the news, but he’s at a practice session. Giving up for the moment, you change quickly and head out to join Kimi and the rest of the grid at the club.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when you finally stumble back into your hotel room. You’re a little tipsy, giggling softly into your phone as the Face-Time call finally connects.

“Hey, Ilyusha.”

“Oh no, you’re drunk,” he sighs, a fake look of deep disappointment crossing his face as he looks at the screen. “Your promise to quit was very short-lived, love.”

“I’m just happy.”

“I’m happy too. You’re finally coming home in a few days.”

He smiles warmly. You don’t bother to correct him—he thinks you're flying straight to London, entirely unaware that you’re actually planning to surprise him. As much as you had wanted to, you couldn’t be there for his 22nd birthday a few days ago. You had to settle for a late-night Face-Time call, helping him pick out an outfit before he went out with his friends. Minnie had kept you thoroughly updated the entire evening, sending you random pictures of him because she was "being a good friend," per her exact words.

“Hey, Ilyusha,” you start, your voice taking on a cheekier, teasing tone. “Remember when you asked me for a team t-shirt with my driver number on it?”

“Yes! And you still technically owe me that.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to get you a completely new shirt.” You watch his eyebrows draw together in confusion, and your smirk widens. “I’m gonna be racing for Red Bull next year.”

You watch the exact second the realization dawns on his face. His pale blue eyes widen completely, and a wide smile takes over his features. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god, love.” His mouth hangs open for a second before his face relaxes into an expression of pure, quiet pride. “You are so amazing. Literally unreal. I am so incredibly proud to be called your boyfriend. Hell, I can’t wait to be called your HAB.”

“My what?” you giggle, throwing your head back against the pillow.

“Isn’t that the male version of a WAG?”

“I am almost entirely certain that abbreviation does not exist, Ilyusha.”

“That is not the point! Oh my god, you’re gonna be racing for Red Bull!” His voice raises a few octaves, his excitement matching his wide eyes. “Do you even know what that means? Podiums and wins are so incoming. I am so excited to see you at the top of a podium drenched in champagne again. I fucking missed that sight.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ilyusha.”

“No, I’m serious. I’m so proud of you,” his voice drops, turning much quieter, softer, like he’s holding back the depth of what he’s feeling. “You worked so hard for this. You earned it.”

“Thank you, love.”

“Wow, I was waiting for that one,” he notes with an amused grin. “I finally upgraded from Ilyusha to love.”

“Teach me some proper Russian and I’ll give you even better names.”

“Should we start with anatomy?”

You roll your eyes into the camera while he laughs, a bright, clear sound. Somewhere between discussing your future plans and listening to him talk, you drift off to sleep with the phone still clutched in your hand.

The next morning, you are woken up by the sound of loud, aggressive banging on your hotel room door. You drag yourself out of bed and pull it open to find Poppy standing there. She looks furious. Before you can even open your mouth to ask what you possibly did wrong this time, she reaches out and playfully tugs at your hair, her expression instantly shifting from annoyed to excited.

“When exactly were you gonna tell me about the promotion?!”

The wait is finally over.

The season has officially finished, and you have finally flown back home. Jace picked you up from the airport, proudly strutting around in the Prada loafers he spent months begging you for. It is freezing in Vienna, the bitter December chill sending shivers down your spine as you roll your suitcase through the front door of your home.

The smell of dinner fills your nose instantly. The warmth of the house immediately chases away the winter cold as you settle comfortably into your usual seat at the table. Your mom crushes you into a hug before immediately piling a mountain of food onto your plate.

“This is amazing,” you sigh between bites, having desperately missed a proper home-cooked meal after spending weeks in hotels. “I’m spending the rest of the winter here.”

“Yes, of course,” she notes, her tone shifting into something strangely pointed. You completely miss the sarcasm in her voice, far too busy licking the leftover sauce residue off your fingers. “You’re staying here purely because of my cooking.”

“Mom, can you pass me the salt?” Jace asks, reaching across.

“It’s right in front of you, Jace.”

Ignoring them, you turn to your brother. “Jace, I need your car.”

“I feel like it’s high time you buy your own car,” he says, stopping mid-bite to shoot you a thoroughly annoyed look. “Are you seriously gonna keep begging for mine the whole time you’re staying here?”

“Well, you freely beg me to buy you expensive things.”

“Acting like you’re broke and you can’t afford them,” he sighs, subtly rolling his eyes as he relents. “What do you even need it for anyway?”

“I have errands to run.”

“Where exactly?” your mom chimes in. She fills your glass with orange juice, her voice dropping into a tone that is somewhat weirder, completely throwing you off guard. “In Reston?”

The way she is looking at you indicates exactly what you’re thinking. A heavy, sudden silence drops over the table. When you glance over at Jace, you find him actively avoiding your gaze, his head ducked low as he eats with full force to keep himself busy. You have your answer instantly.

“Cat got your tongue?” your mom asks, her voice slightly mocking but laced with the authority only a mother can pull off. “When exactly were you going to tell me about the whole act you’ve been putting up since the summer?”

You pause, entirely unsure of how to respond because attempting to defend yourself right now is completely pointless. Picking up your napkin with suddenly sweaty hands, you wipe your mouth, chewing your food much longer than necessary just so you can buy yourself a few extra seconds of time.

Your mom chuckles at your obvious stalling, shaking her head as she lets out a long exhale. “I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me. I’m your mother, surely I’d have understood.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ve been telling her,” Jace mutters, chiming in entirely too comfortably.

“Shut up,” you snap, reaching over to pinch his arm, your voice rising with frustration. “You lying, backstabbing weasel!”

“Hey, it’s not my fault!” He quickly slides his chair further away from you, throwing both hands up in surrender. “She already knew something was up!”

“I found his jacket in your closet,” your mom explains, and the image of the white Team USA jacket flashes vividly across your mind. “I thought it was weird that you kept it. I asked Jace about it, and he came up with the most pathetic excuse I’ve ever heard. And then, when I bumped into Ilia a few days later and he was acting all nervous and weird, I knew something was going on. Jace finally cracked and told me.”

“She made me! She literally threatened to take away my PlayStation!”

“Did you seriously rat me out over a PlayStation?!”

“Hey, it was for the better,” he shrugs, offering you a thoroughly sheepish smile that only makes you want to smack the back of his head even harder. “It was way better to just explain the truth than let her jump to the worst conclusions.”

“Just shut the fuck up and eat your food.”

“Right,” he mumbles. He quickly shoves his last bite into his mouth and rises from his seat. Grabbing a muffin from the counter on his way out, he silently flees the kitchen. Your glare practically burns a hole through his skull as he walks up the stairs.

When you finally turn around to face your mom, she has an amused expression on her face, biting into a strawberry as she rests her elbows on the table and leans in close toward you.

“So...” she murmurs, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Will you start, or should I?”

And then, knowing there's no point in hiding it anymore, you spill everything.

Because you’re giving Jace the silent treatment and your pride refuses to let you accept his offer—even when he repeatedly insists on handing over his car keys—you end up asking Minnie to drive you to Washington. She happily obliges without asking a single question, at least not until you get into the passenger seat and she starts updating you on every single piece of gossip you missed out on over the past few months.

“What exactly are we doing in Washington anyway?” Minnie asks, keeping her eyes on the road.

“To take a kitten home,” you reply simply. “I adopted her.”

“I thought you weren’t much of a cat person.”

“It’s for Ilia.”

“Doesn’t he have two already?”

“Well, he wants another one,” you sigh, getting a little impatient while explaining something that feels entirely simple in your eyes.

The subject of cats doesn’t hold her interest for long, and she smoothly transitions, brilliantly extracting information about how things finally ended with Ollie before you even realize you’re spilling the details.

The gray Ragdoll kitten is tiny, purring softly in your arms as you wrap her securely in a warm blanket. On the drive back, she sleeps on your lap, curling into a small, soft ball while you look down at her with pure admiration. You don’t want to move and risk waking her up, so when you pull up to a pet store, Minnie gets out alone to buy a proper carrier. She immediately panics over the endless options, calling your phone to make absolutely sure she’s getting the right one.

When she gets back in the car, she looks at you with a confused expression. “So, you’re just gonna barge into his house and hand him a kitten? What about his parents?”

“They know.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Liza doesn’t know, though,” you admit, pursing your lips. You hadn't really thought through the finer details when you originally planned the surprise. “He’s still at the rink right now.”

“Well, surprise him at home then,” she nudges your shoulder, giving you a playful look. “I can give you some lingerie if you don’t have any packed.”

“Minnie, his parents will literally be in the house.”

“He has his own bedroom, doesn’t he?” She rolls her eyes. “Is it still decorated with those ugly posters? I haven’t been there in forever.”

“Do you seriously expect me to sprawl across his mattress waiting for him in lingerie, and then proceed to fuck him while his mom is literally making dinner upstairs?”

“Surely you two have had sex while they were home before. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“Minnie!”

“Alright, alright,” she sighs, raising her hands in mock surrender. “You are absolutely no fun.”

You end up calling Tatyana. She confirms she’s still at the rink with Ilia, while Roman is back at the house with Liza. She insists that you go over and wait for them inside, and it doesn't take much convincing for you to agree. The idea of casually dropping by his home—especially with a new kitten and the task of breaking the news to Liza—feels a little unhinged and sudden. But you’re completely done with being a secret, and you simply cannot wait another day to see him.

Minnie is generous enough to drive you back to your place first to grab the gifts you brought, before finally dropping you off at Ilia’s front door.

Roman isn’t surprised at all when he opens the doorstep, Tatyana having already warned him about your unplanned visit. His eyes immediately drop to the carrier, his eyebrows raising slightly when a faint, high-pitched meow echoes from inside.

“Is that...?”

“Yeah, a kitten,” you smile sheepishly, stepping inside and pulling off your heavy winter coat. “Ilia mentioned wanting to get another one, so I thought I’d surprise him.”

“Yeah, he wants four cats,” Roman sighs, shaking his head at his son’s antics, though there’s a fond undertone to his voice. “He’s crazy.”

Mysti and Miu Miu appear in the hallway soon after. Both of them stare intently as you gently lift the gray kitten out of the carrier. Mysti gives you a look that heavily resembles pure, snobbish judgment, staring coldly from across the room before purposefully trotting away, pretending the newcomer doesn’t even exist. Miu Miu, however, approaches with deeply curious eyes. Following Roman’s instructions, you lower the kitten to the ground. Miu Miu inches closer, sniffing the tiny ball of fluff. The second the kitten tries to bump noses with her, Miu Miu blinks slowly, turns around, and walks away as if she needs a business day to process this life change. The reaction makes both you and Roman laugh.

He is genuinely surprised when you hand him his present—an autographed jersey from one of his favorite football clubs, which you managed to get when you and Liam attended a match a few months ago.

Liza is nowhere in sight to receive hers, so you head down the hall to find her. She’s in her room gaming, yelling loudly at her screen with her massive headphones securely over her ears. The sight immediately transfers you back to your school days, when you used to find Ilia in that exact same position a thousand times before. She barely even acknowledges your presence when you step into the space, far too focused on her match to realize it’s you and not a family member walking in.

Taking a silent step forward, you reach out and slide the headphones off her ears. She lets out a sharp yelp, her annoyed glare transforming into absolute shock the exact second her eyes lock onto your face.

“Hi, Liza.”

“No way!” Her eyes widen completely, and she instantly jumps up from her chair to throw her arms around you for a proper hug. You chuckle, lifting her slightly as she flashes you one of those rare, genuine grins that are usually reserved just for you. “What are you doing here?!”

“Well, your dad let me in.”

“Yeah, obviously, but—” She pauses, her expression shifting into deep confusion as she licks her lips. Her eyes squint, the crease between her eyebrows deepening while you try your best to maintain a casual face. Suddenly, the realization dawns on her. She shakes her head. “No way.”

“I don’t really know what you’re talking about,” you shrug, feigning total innocence.

“Oh my god, I knew something was up! He has been giggling like a literal schoolboy for the last few months!” She blinks a few times, trying to let the reality sink in. “Did you seriously get back with that loser?”

“Liza, come on.”

“He’s my brother, but he’s a loser,” she shrugs, though her stare is still bewildered. “Wait, but what about Ollie?”

“Have you ever heard of a PR relationship?”

“No.”

You sit her down on the edge of her bed and explain the situation as simply as it actually is. She seems a little annoyed that you kept it a secret from her while her parents apparently knew the entire time, but she quickly comes around. A soft, genuine smile brushes her face when she realizes she finally has you back full-time.

A few minutes later, you both hear a car pull into the driveway. Peeking through the bedroom window, you watch Ilia step out. His hair has grown a little too long, looking entirely puffy and ruffled after hours of skating at the rink.

“Ugh, you’re literally giving him the love eyes right now,” Liza notes with a look of theatrical disgust, making you laugh. “It’s a little disgusting.”

“You’ll fall in love one day too.”

At the mention of it, her cheeks visibly redden, but she stays silent, quickly looking away to avoid your eyes.

You softly slip out of her bedroom. Ilia is kicking off his sneakers, already talking to Miu Miu in that ridiculously high-pitched voice you always tease him about. He scoops her up, peppering quick kisses onto the top of her head while she purrs loudly. Then, he suddenly jolts.

Feeling something small brush against his ankle, he looks down. He freezes completely when he finds a tiny, gray kitten staring directly up at him, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Мам... подойди сюда.”

(Mom.. come here)

“Что случилось?” Tatyana’s voice calls out from the kitchen.

(What happened?)

“Откуда в доме серый котёнок?!”

(Where did this gray kitten in the house come from?)

He carefully sets Miu Miu down, bending over to scoop up the tiny kitten instead. But the second he stretches his fingers toward her, the kitten retreats, sprinting across the living room—right in your direction. Ilia immediately chases after her. When the kitten hides safely behind your legs, you lean down to pick her up, and Ilia freezes, his pale blue eyes going completely wide.

“Surprise.”

You grin at him. He finally snaps out of his trance, a massive smile breaking across his face as he practically sprints towards you. He wraps his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he covers your entire face in frantic, warm kisses. You laugh, playfully scolding him and reminding him that there is a fragile animal trapped between you.

“Isn’t she cute?” You lift the kitten up toward his face, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head as she purrs. “Look at her green eyes.”

“Love...” He looks at you as if you’re entirely unreal, still trapped in total disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Have you seriously never heard of a surprise?”

“And you got yourself a cat?” he smiles softly, extending a finger to gently pet her incredibly soft fur.

From the doorway, Liza is observing the entire scene with a completely flat expression. She lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh, covering her face with her hand as if she’s embarrassed to be related to him.

“Awww,” Ilia coos, completely ignoring his sister. “What are you gonna name her?”

“It’s for you, you loser,” Liza interjects, unable to hold herself back any longer. She glares at him as she walks past, yelling out in English so you don’t feel left out. “Mom! He is so stupid!”

“It really is for you,” you chuckle, carefully transferring the kitten into his arms. The tiny thing resists for a fraction of a second before completely relaxing against his chest. “You said you wanted another quad-cat.”

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, his eyes melting as he smiles down at her. “I did.”

“Happy late birthday, Ilyusha.”

You lean in, pressing your lips firmly against his. He lets out a long, heavy sigh of relief, deepening the kiss for a sweet moment. When you pull back, you gently brush a few wild strands of hair away from his forehead, letting your fingertips linger in the thick locks. “I think it’s officially time for a haircut.”

“I literally thought you were in London, and instead you’re standing in my hallway, gifting me a cat, and casually trying to make me book a salon appointment,” he murmurs. He looks at you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen, his gaze holding a deep, protective softness. He tucks one large arm securely around your waist, smooching your cheek loudly as you both start walking toward the living room. “God, I love you so much.”

“Get a room!”

Ilia quickly ducks his head as a small plastic cat toy flies directly past his ear. Liza stands there, looking entirely unbothered, earning a disappointed sigh from Ilia and a quick, stern reprimand from Roman in rapid Russian.

“Aren’t you supposed to be happy for me?” Ilia asks, raising a challenging eyebrow at his little sister.

“I would’ve been if you didn’t hide it from me the whole time.”

“You would have slipped up and told everyone.”

“I wouldn’t!” she huffs, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m not stupid like you!”

“Liza, must you always be so rude to your brother?” Tatyana asks, walking into the living room. She gives her daughter a sigh before turning her full attention to you. Her face immediately lights up, and she steps forward to wrap you in a warm hug. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

You smile, your chest filling with a sense of warmth that you were missing for years. You can feel Ilia’s gaze locked onto you, a soft, permanent smile resting on his lips as he reaches out and securely locks his fingers with yours.

Standing there in the middle of the living room, you realize you really are home.

Jet lag finally catches up to you, and somewhere between talking to Ilia in his room, you drift off.

It’s midnight when you wake up. Your head is resting in his lap while he slowly scrolls on his phone, his arm wrapped securely around you. You feel another source of warmth on your body—the gray kitten is curled up right next to your stomach. The room is dark except for the dim screen that lights up his face. His pale blue eyes shift down to look at you the second he notices you moving.

“Hey.”

“I think Liza is right,” you say, his eyebrows furrowing slightly in the dim light. “We should get you brown contacts. I feel like you’re staring right into my soul.”

He throws his phone face down on the bed and leans down, peppering your cheeks with quick kisses before completely tackling you. Laughter spills from your mouth as you squirm beneath him, finally begging him to stop until tears prick the corners of your eyes. Startled by the commotion, the kitten jumps off the bed, letting out a protesting meow until Ilia finally lets you go.

“Brown contacts, huh?”

“I apologize,” you breathe out, wiping the moisture from your eyes as you sit up. It's impossible to see anything in the pitch-black room, so you grab his phone off the mattress to check the time. The digital clock reads approximately 1 a.m. “Oh, fuck.”

“It’s fine. I called your mom earlier. She knows you’re staying over.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” You slide down from the edge of the bed and flip the light switch on. The sudden brightness illuminates his face, his messy hair tucked beneath his hoodie.

“You looked really cozy.”

“Well, now my energy battery is completely charged, and god knows when I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Oh, really?” he asks. The playfulness in his tone returns instantly as his lips curl into a smirk. You can already anticipate exactly where this is going. “Want me to help you spend that energy?”

You roll your eyes but still chuckle, a vivid memory flashing across your mind. It was back in eleventh grade—the two of you were making out on his bed, fully convinced you were home alone, right before Tatyana burst in to offer you both snacks. The memory alone is enough to make your cheeks burn all over again.

Instead of answering his offer, you reach for your bag and pull out one of the few tucked-away cigarettes you keep on hand before walking over to open the window. The freezing winter air immediately pierces the room, sending a sharp shiver down your spine.

“Love, what are you doing? It’s freezing,” he groans, shivering slightly from the bed.

“Come on.” You walk back over and tug tightly at his sleeve, forcing him to get up. He looks at you with a confused expression, not noticing the cigarette between your fingers until you hold it up right in front of his face. “Are you ready to have your virginity taken?”

“I’m a little nervous,” he plays along, his eyes widening in mock terror.

You laugh, throwing your head back as you dig into your bag for a lighter. The cigarette barely even tastes like tobacco; you had purposefully bought a tropical-flavored pack for him a few weeks ago in when you were thinking about his silly suggestion. You spark the lighter, the flame catching quickly before you place the filter between your lips. Ilia stands by the open window, looking at you completely mesmerized.

“Come here.”

Your voice is low as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling him firmly toward you. Despite the winter chill rushing into the bedroom, a sudden wave of heat pierces through your body the second he's close. His hot breath fawns over your face. He is staring directly at your mouth, his lips slightly agape as he waits, his expression completely soft and bewitched.

You take a slow drag, and then you lean in. Your lips barely brush against his as you blow the smoke directly into his mouth. Closing your eyes, you crash your mouth onto his, abandoning the cigarette by the windowsill. His hand immediately flies to the back of your head, his fingers tangling into your hair as you let out a soft whimper at his touch, fisting the fabric of his hoodie in your hands. By the time you finally pull away, you’re both breathless. Ilia smiles down at you, his mouth slightly red and glistening.

“That was romantic.”

“That was pure cringe. I am never attempting it again.”

“Oh, come on,” he rolls his eyes, tugging playfully at your sleeve as you giggle. He leans back in and kisses you again—much slower this time, his warm palms cupping your cheeks before traveling slowly down your body.

When he finally pulls away, he reaches over to shut the cold window, nudging you back toward the warmth of the bed. As you sit down, you feel a pair of small green eyes looking up at you from the floor.

“It’s officially time to give her a name,” you say.

“I can’t just do it in a single day,” he sighs, defending himself since he's been dodging the question since the evening. “I have to really think about it!”

“Well, hurry up. We can’t just call her 'kitten' forever.”

“Maybe we should just keep it like that. Kitty.”

“What happens when she grows up?” You raise an eyebrow, watching him lick his lips as he contemplates the flaw in his logic. “Also, I thought you wanted her name to start with an M.”

“Yes, but it’s so hard to pick out the perfect name!”

“Ask your fans, Ilyusha.”

He pauses, his eyes lighting up. “Wait, yes! That’s actually a good idea.”

Before you can respond, a faint scratching sound echoes from the bottom of the bedroom door. Ilia gets up to open it, letting the intruder inside. It’s Mysti. Her tail wiggles slowly as she approaches the bed, her green eyes locked onto yours before she effortlessly leaps onto the mattress. The gray kitten looks instantly intimidated by her presence, quickly scrambling to hide herself behind your leg.

Mysti settles down near your lap—not quite close enough to touch you, but close enough to let you know she isn’t entirely against the idea of you giving her some attention.

“I think she’s mad at you,” Ilia notes with an amused expression, sitting down next to you on the sheets while the kitten finds a safe refuge in his arms. “She’s jealous. She probably thinks you’ve replaced her.”

“Awww, is that right, Mysti?”

You use the exact same ridiculously high-pitched voice he always uses with his cats. Ilia rolls his eyes at your teasing, stubbornly insisting that he doesn’t sound anywhere near that ridiculous. Mysti eventually gives in to the attention, acting as if she doesn’t completely enjoy it, but she settles heavily into your lap anyway. She keeps her back turned to you, but she thoroughly basks in the gentle pets you give her.

It is just a few days before Christmas when Red Bull finally drops the official announcement of your contract.

Your popularity sky-rockets overnight. Poppy keeps flooding your phone with screenshots, constantly updating you on the rapid rise of your follower count. You spend Christmas and New Year's Eve back home in Vienna before flying out to London. The moment you offer Ilia to come and stay with you for a week, he immediately accepts. Poppy is initially dead-set against the idea, insisting that it’s way too soon to be seen together, but you completely tune her out.

On a handful of occasions, people recognize you on the streets of London. While you're walking alongside him, fans ask for pictures, but they don't pay much attention to Ilia at all—completely unaware that he is technically far more successful in his respective sport than you are in yours.

When Poppy demands to finally meet him, Ilia is visibly a little intimidated by her at first. She treats him with a healthy dose of skepticism, watching his every move. But by the time you both leave her flat, you know he has fully managed to charm her with his silly jokes and authentic nature.

She isn't the only one who has completely warmed up to him, either. Jace goes from mockingly calling him "Melatonin" to actively text-spamming Ilia for advice on various personal matters, strictly insisting that "girls just wouldn't understand."

By the time Valentine's Day comes around, Poppy officially gives you the green light to go public. Not that you were really waiting for her approval anyway.

“Ilia, no!”

“Come on, it’s literally perfect.”

“I swear to god I will kill you—”

Before you can stretch your hand across the couch and yank the phone out of his grasp, his thumb hits the screen. The chime of a posted Instagram upload pierces through the quiet room.

His photo dump starts with the most recent picture: it’s you playfully trying on his glasses while he takes a mirror selfie, his lips slightly puckered and his arm slung tightly around your shoulder. The next slide is from a few weeks ago in Reston—his arms are securely locked around your legs as he effortlessly carries you on his back. You’re wearing the custom white ice skates he gifted you after insisting you needed a pair of your own. Liza was the one taking the photo per his instructions, catching the exact moment both of you were laughing, your head buried deep into the crook of his neck.

The third picture is a candid from his bedroom. You are deeply asleep on his bed while Miu Miu rests directly behind your head, and Mysti is subtly caught in the frame, cuddling right into your arm. Only half of Ilia’s face is visible in the shot, the gray Ragdoll kitten sprawled across his chest.

Swiping further through the slides, it’s a timeline of the two of you growing up together—alternating between lovers, best friends, classmates. The final picture is from the very first time he ever attended one of your racing competitions. His glasses are slightly crooked on his nose, his arm wrapped around your shoulder as you proudly hold up your trophy to the camera.

The caption he chose is incredibly simple, entirely unprofessional, and exactly the kind of thing Poppy will absolutely lose her mind over.

Hard launch

“When Poppy calls, you are answering that phone,” you warn him, staring at the screen in disbelief.

“Yes, I will,” he says smoothly, completely unbothered. He acts like he's fully prepared to defend himself, he just keeps swiping through the pictures all over again, smiling at them as if he hadn't spent the last hour picking them out himself.

When your phone finally vibrates with Poppy’s caller ID, you immediately shove it into his hands. Ilia steps out of the room, and a few minutes later, he returns with a thoroughly victorious smirk on his face, gesturing for you to check your own Instagram app.

Poppy has already uploaded a post of the two of you together. It’s a stunning, high-quality professional photograph taken by your team's photographer, captioned with nothing but a single, simple red heart—enough to officially symbolize everything.

Over the following days, the internet speculations don't stop. Some corners of social media point out that you moved on too quickly. Others claim your relationship timeline suspiciously overlaps with your past one with Ollie, instantly sparking rumors of cheating, while a few threads claim the whole thing has been a PR stunt since day one. You don't think much of it, far too busy focusing on the winter testing and the season ahead.

Ilia accompanies you all the way to Melbourne for the opening race of the season. He proudly holds your hand as you walk through the paddock, happily flashing a grin every single time a photographer shoves a camera in your direction, his grip on your waist tightening protectively.

Ollie greets you warmly near the hospitality units, subtly acknowledging Ilia as they exchange a brief handshake. You’ve heard through Poppy that Ollie is seeing someone new—an Italian girl Kimi set him up with—and he genuinely seems happy.

Max gives you an incredibly hard time during the race. He challenges you at every single turn, pushing your limits through the corners all the way to the final straight. He ultimately beats you, but crossing the finish line right behind him is more than enough.

It’s P3. Your very first podium in Formula 1. The first female driver to ever stand on a podium in the history of the sport.

The exact moment you climb out of the cockpit, you rush straight to your team. They immediately swarm you—patting your back, squeezing your shoulders, aggressively drumming their fists against your helmet in celebration.

You finally unclip the chin strap and pull the helmet off, your sweaty hair sticking to your forehead as you look past the crowding media. Your eyes instantly lock onto the one person patiently waiting at the barriers, his pale blue eyes staring at you with an expression of overflowing pride.

“Hi,” you breathe out, stepping toward him.

You lean across the barrier, quickly kissing him as the camera flashes erupt twice as hard around you.

He keeps his eyes fixed entirely on you the whole time you’re standing up on the podium. Tears pool in your eyes. The heavy weight of reality settles in, and you realize that the exact dreams the little version of you used to wish for are slowly, surely coming true.

Later, away from the prying eyes of the media, you finally catch a quiet moment alone with him in the back of the Red Bull garage. Your hair is completely sticky with leftover champagne.

Ilia steps close, using his thumbs to gently smooth the stray, wet pieces of hair away from your face.

“Max made it so hard out there today,” you groan, recalling the way your heart beat on the last lap. “On that final turn, I swear I thought I lost the rear entirely. There was just no clean exit.”

Ilia pauses, his hands lingering on your cheeks. His pale blue eyes lock onto yours, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Seems to be a habit with us,” he murmurs softly, his thumb tracing your jawline. “We never really had one of those either.”

You look at him confused, a slight frown drawing your eyebrows together, not catching the meaning behind his words. He grins, his grip around your waist tightening.

“You said there was no clean exit,” he explains. “There wasn’t one for us either.”

A sudden, breathless laugh slips past your lips as the meaning of his words finally clicks. The memory of two years of heavy silence and the absolute mess it took to find your way back to each other hangs between you. It hadn't been an easy path, it was messy, but looking at him now, you know it was worth it, because it brought you right back to him.

“You’re a loser,” you whisper, a smile breaking through your exhaustion as you reach up to wrap your arms tightly around his neck.

“Yeah, but I’m your loser,” he murmurs, his eyes melting into that soft, protective look that belongs entirely to you.