#aumeme

2008. The first time Shane met Rozanov, he introduced himself with that easy grin and a firm handshake. Your brother always had a way with people. You, well, you just stood by the players tunnel with Scott,arms wrapped around your duffel, still buzzing from your own practice session on the morning ice. Your blades were tucked in the bag,figure skates, not hockey,but you could still feel the glide in your bones.

And then he looked at you.

Ilya Rozanov. Number 81 for Boston Bears. Fresh off the ice from warmups, sweat cutting through his liner’s scent as he passed by. But he didn’t just brush past you. He slowed. Pale eyes flicked over your face, lingered and then dropped pointedly to your bag. A beat too long on those slender blades peeking out from under zipped nylon.

Then he said something low in Russian to his teammate and walked on. But later? During warmups? You were leaning against the glass near your brother’s bench,the one spot you always claimed and felt it again,that prickle between your shoulders. You turned slightly and caught him skating laps alone along his team’s line… but not looking at goalies or defensemen or even Shane.

Nope.His gaze was locked on you. Tracking every shift of weight.

The sound of crackling speakers takes you out of your gaze and back to reality….The announcer's voice crackles though the arena, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to welcome the Boston Bears for our first preseason game of the season!"

A smattering of applause erupts around you. The stands are filling fast, fans buzzing with excitement, some sporting Montreal jerseys, others representing Boston. You scan the ice, the teams running drills, the puck sailing through the air, and the players moving with a brutal grace. The air is thick with anticipation and your gaze finds your brother Shane. He's skating laps around the rink, stick in hand, eyes locked on the puck. He looks focused, ready, in his element. You can't help but smile, pride swelling in your chest. Shane's always been the golden boy, the one everyone's rooting for. Even now, you can see the fans cheering him on, the announcers calling his number, his jersey a beacon of hope on the ice. And yet, something catches your eye, a subtle movement in your peripheral vision. Just a flash, really. A figure in a white away jersey skating along the boards, his movements a stark contrast to the flurry of colors around him. It's Rozanov, number 81. Despite the chaos on the ice, he looks more at ease out here than any other player, gliding effortlessly. But it's his gaze that draws you in. Intense, almost predatory as it's honed in on you again. Your heart quickens, a mix of nervousness and, you'll admit, something more. Your brother was right. Rozanov was an exceptional player, the kind who could own the rink with a flick of his wrist. And that's the problem, because he's staring at you. No, not just staring ,studying, his eyes darting from your face to your hands, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

He breaks from the play for just a second, coasting near the glass,close to where you’re standing and taps his stick twice against the ice. A signal? A taunt? Or just him settling in? Then, under the roar of the crowd and a sudden burst of music, he tilts his head slightly. Not at Shane. At you. And mouths two words. "Watch me."

The sound of it is swallowed up by the noise, but the message is clear. He wants you to watch him and that smirk, it's cocky, daring… almost like he knows something you don’t. You blink, unsure if you heard right. But before you can process it, he’s already back in formation, skating backward with effortless precision, his eyes still finding yours one last time.

Then the puck drops.

And just like that,the game begins.

The first period unfolds in a storm of speed and skill. Shane's team is holding their own, the score even. But every so often, your gaze flickers to Rozanov on the ice. He's like a force of nature, carving through defenders with ease, setting up plays that leave the opposing team reeling. And when he scores his first goal, just before the buzzer, his eyes find yours again. That smirk is there, even more obvious now. The message is clear. He's showing off, and you're the audience. The second period starts, and the momentum shifts. The Boston Bears start to build a lead, and every move seems to be orchestrated by Rozanov. He's everywhere, the puck glued to his stick, his mind one step ahead. It's mesmerizing, almost… beautiful.

Meanwhile, you're torn between watching the game and watching him. Your brother's playing his heart out, but Rozanov… he's something else. Dangerous. Exciting. The third period is a nail-biter. The score is close, the tension in the arena palpable. Your hands are clenched around the rail, knuckles white. On the ice, your brother is putting up a fight, but the Bears, led by Rozanov, are relentless. You can see the frustration creeping onto Shane's face, see the weariness creeping into his movements. Rozanov, on the other hand, is as fresh as ever. It's like the game has just begun for him, his stamina and agility seemingly endless. And then, with just minutes left on the clock, it happens. Rozanov breaks through the defense again. You can see your brother trying to catch up, but he's too far behind. The Russian weaves past one player after another, his movements fluid and precise. The crowd is on their feet, screaming,some for him, some against.

And then he shoots.

The puck rockets toward the net... and finds its mark. The arena erupts in a mix of cheers and groans as the scoreboard ticks up another point for Boston. Your heart sinks and it was you that would have to deal with Shane’s skulking all night. But as soon as that red light flashes behind your hometown goalie…

Rozanov turns to you again. Your heart skips a beat, that cocky smile still in place, the sweat on his brow glistening in the harsh rink lights. He's so damn confident, it's infuriating. The final buzzer sounds, the game ends. Your brother's team lost, and Rozanov isn't bothering to hide his victory. He skates near the glass again, his eyes locking on yours. This time, he doesn't say anything, just tilts his head in that same, infuriatingly arrogant way. The crowd begins to disperse, but you're rooted in place, the mix of emotions churning in your stomach: disappointment for Shane, anger at Rozanov's smug demeanor, and… something else, something you're not quite ready to admit.

As the teams file off the rink, you hear your brother's voice, and turn from Rosanov’s gaze. Shane's making his way towards you, jaw clenched, face flushed. He looks pissed. "That guy’s insufferable," Shane mutters, ripping off his gloves as he stomps toward you. "Thinks he owns the ice just ‘cause he scored a few goals."

You open your mouth to respond, but then a low voice cuts through the noise, smooth and edged with amusement.

" a few? No. I can count them for you if you like”

Rozanov leans against the glass beside you, still in full gear, sweat damp hair clinging to his temples. He smirks down at Shane. "You forgot empty net."

Shane scoffs. "Whatever, Rozanov. You got lucky."

"Luck?" Ilya tilts his head, eyes flicking to you for a heartbeat,dark, knowing,before returning to Shane. "There's no luck in this game," he says, "just skill. And I seem to have more of it."

Shane bristles, a flush of anger rising to his cheeks. He opens his mouth to snap back, but you intervene, placing a restraining hand on his arm.

"Shane, leave it," you say quietly, feeling the tension radiating off him in waves. "He's not worth it."

But Rozanov hears you, the smirk on his face widening. "Oh, isn't that sweet," he drawls, the Russian accent thick as he addresses you. "girlfriend?”

Shane bristles even more at that, but you can see the glint in Rozanov's eyes, the smug satisfaction in stirring the pot. You bit out a laugh and the. you snap, stepping forward with fire in your voice, "I'm his sister,you arrogant prick."

Rozanov's smirk doesn't fade if anything, it deepens. His pale eyes flick from Shane to you, slow and deliberate. That look again... lingering just a beat too long on the curve of your waist as you turn away.

You don’t wait for a reply. Grabbing Shane’s wrist, you pull him along toward the tunnel. “Let’s go.” and barge into Rosanov’s shoulder, aggressively.

Behind you, low enough that only you might catch it:

"Ah... sister," Rozanov murmurs in that rough accent. “Even better.”

You don’t look back.

But your pulse does.

And somewhere behind glass and shadow? He watches every step,not because of Shane.

Because of you.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of games and practices, tension simmering beneath the surface. Shane's team is playing better, but Rozanov's still a pain in the ass: scoring goal after goal, taunting the crowds, and sending you those infuriating smirks from across the rink. You, on the other hand, you've been working hard on your figure skating, finding solace in the rhythm of blades on ice. It feels like a world away from his rough hockey games. And then, on a quiet Monday morning, you're alone on the rink at the arena. The lights are dimmed, just enough for visibility. You skate in slow circles, practicing your footwork and spins. It's peaceful here,the world outside fades into silence.

But you're not as alone as you think.

Above in the shadows of an empty press box,Rozanov leans against the glass,his arms crossed,his gaze locked on your every move below.

You don't see him,your focus is inward,on form,on flow,but he sees everything. the arch of your back,the precision in your turns,the grace that defies gravity. You're alive out here.And he's been watching long enough to know it means something. He can't tear his eyes away from you, tracking every glide, every shift of weight. The ice is your element, just as the rink is his. Your movements are poetry, and he's a captive audience. But there's more than just skill in the way you move. There's a passion, an intensity that draws him in. Despite himself, he finds himself leaning closer, his breath fogging the glass. You're completely oblivious to his presence above, lost in the music of your own performance, every spin and pirouette a symphony on ice. As he watches, a flicker of something akin to admiration stirs in him. It's an unfamiliar feeling, one that clashes with his usual cockiness. But here, in the hushed silence of the arena,with you gliding below, it feels oddly right. He's seen you at the games, of course. Cheering for your brother, glaring at him across the rink. But this is different. Here, you're not Shane's sister' or his rival.

You're simply a mesmerizing figure on the ice. And Rozanov is captivated. You finish your routine, breathless but satisfied, and skate toward the bench. Unaware of the eyes still upon you, you unzip your practice jacket and grab your towel ,then head for the locker room. Rozanov doesn’t move.He stays there in the darkened press box a moment longer, fingers tapping once against the glass. The locker room is quiet this early, the rest of the team still hours away. You strip off your practice gear and start the water, letting it run warm before stepping under the shower head.The sound of the water masks everything else, leaving you in your own world of steam and spray. The tension from the week melts away with each drop, your thoughts drifting…

Until the creak of the locker room door interrupts you. You assume it's probably a fellow skater or a staff member. Without thinking, you call out, "Occupied."

There's a brief pause, and you continue your shower, the water running over your shoulders. But then...

"I know." That voice.Low, rough, unmistakably Russian. Your heart skips a beat. You freeze, the shower still running, your back to the rest of the room. It can't be. Slowly, you turn your head, peeking out from behind the partition. There's Rozanov, standing just inside the locker room door, his gaze fixed on you. He's already shedding his hoodie, revealing a form,fitting workout shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. "Don't mind me."

"This is the women's locker room You know," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady given the pounding in your chest. But Rozanov just smirks, leaning against the door. "I’m aware," he repeats, his gaze sliding over you, taking in the droplets on your skin, the flush of surprise on your face as he leans against one of the sinks.

"Then what are you doing in here?"

He shrugs nonchalantly, as if invading a women's locker room is something he does every damn day. "Needed a shower." His eyes stay firmly on you, that smirk turning almost feral as he adds, "Saw you go in."

You swallow, feeling exposed under his gaze. The steam from the shower seems to cling to the air, making every movement, every expression feel heightened. "There are showers in the men's locker room," you point out.

"I like these ones better." Rozanov pushes off the sink, strolling towards you with a confidence you find equal parts infuriating and attractive. He stops just at the edge of the cubical, eyeing you with a smirk. "Besides, I like the view better here."

You feel heat rise to your cheeks, a mix of annoyance and something else. "You're cocky, anyone ever tell you that?"

He laughs, the sound deep and gravelly. "Many times." He takes another step closer, the steam thick around him now. You can see his muscles move under the now damp shirt, the way his eyes never leave your face.

"You should go." Your voice wavers slightly. "Before someone sees you."

"I don't care," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do you?"

And that's when you realize... part of you doesn't either. That's when the door creaks again, and footsteps echo through the empty locker room. Both of your heads snap toward the sound. You react on instinct, grabbing Rozanov's arm and yanking him into the open shower stall with you. The water is still warm, and he ends up against your back, both of you plastered in tight quarters. He makes a low sound of surprise, his body tense and solid against yours. His arms automatically come up to brace himself on the walls, trapping you in front of him. The footsteps echo closer, and you slam a hand over his mouth to quiet him.

Your heart is pounding, the proximity doing strange things to your senses. You can feel his breath on your neck, his body an insistent heat behind you. And the steam, the water pouring down around you, does nothing to calm your racing pulse.

The footsteps come to a stop outside the row of cubicles.

"Everything okay in there?" You recognize the rink female attendant's voice. Your mind scrambles for an answer. "Y-yes!" you call out, voice slightly strained. "Just... just finishing up!"

There's a pause. You hold your breath, hand still clamped over Rozanov’s mouth.

He doesn't resist. In fact, he shifts subtly—closer—and that’s when you feel it: the ghost of a smirk against your palm.

"Alright miss y/n," the attendant says finally. "if you need anything just shout"

The footsteps retreat. The tension doesn't leave the air,it thickens. You slowly lower your hand from his mouth, but he doesn’t move away. He's looking down, that damn smirk on his face as his gaze wanders over your body. The water has made the thin fabric of your shirt cling to you, leaving little to the imagination. And Rozanov takes full advantage, his eyes lingering on the curves of your hips, your thighs... you feel that gaze like a physical touch. His own clothes are sticking to him, the shirt now almost see through, the outline of his abs visible beneath. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he draws in a breath, his voice low when he speaks.

"You know," he says, his hands still braced against the shower wall on either side of you. "This is a very... compromising position, yeah?"

You shiver, but not from the cold. His proximity is overwhelming,the heat coming off him, the way he towers over you, the fact that you can feel every contour of his body against yours. He's doing it deliberately, that cocky smirk never wavering. You snap out of your daze, covering yourself with your arms and glaring at him. "You don't say."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. His eyes flicker to your arms, to the way you're trying to shield yourself from his gaze. "No need to be modest now, darlin'. I've seen more than that already."

Heat floods your cheeks. You know he's teasing, that he's getting a perverse pleasure from how off balance he's got you. And that, infuriatingly, only makes something low in your stomach stir. "And whose fault is that?" you shoot back, lifting your chin. "I could’ve left you out there to get caught like a pervert.”

His grin widens, unrepentant. “You didn’t.”

A beat.

Water streams between you, steam curling in the air as he finally leans in close enough that his next words land like a whisper against your ear.

“...Why?”

The breath hitches in your throat. His proximity is intoxicating, the scent of him,sweat and soap and something more distinctly him clouding your thoughts. And that smirk, goddammit, that infuriating smirk.

You try to respond, but he moves again, his body pressing against yours, pushing you back against the shower wall. The water sprays down on you, but all you feel is his heat.

You want to resist. Want to push him off, to maintain some scrap of dignity after letting him get away with this much. But instead, your hands find his shoulders. They don't push him away, though. They just... rest there. Palms pressed flat against the damp fabric of his shirt, feeling the muscles shift as he moves.

He notices. That smirk turns into a full blown, cocky as hell grin, and his own hands move to your hips, gripping them firmly. Pulling you closer. Your heart is beating wildly, your body responding to his touch in a way that's both thrilling and infuriating. You're acutely aware of every place where he's touching you, the water making everything feel even more intimate.

He lifts one hand from your hip, fingers tracing along your jaw, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "You didn't answer my question," he says, his voice low and rough. You swallow hard, words failing you as his fingers ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck. "I... I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. The truth of it hangs in the steamy air between you.

He stills, his thumb brushing over your pulse point,fast, betraying you. His pale eyes search yours, not mocking now. Just... considering.

Then that smirk creeps back, slow and dangerous. "Liar."

Before you can protest, he leans in not all the way,just enough for his breath to graze your lips.

"Next time," he murmurs, "don't pull me into the shower unless you plan to follow through."

And then he pulls away, he actually walks away and leaves you there, flushed and flustered, and you can hear the faint echo of his laughter as he walks away. It takes a moment for your thoughts to clear enough to finish your shower, but the whole time, your mind is racing.

The audacity of that man.

The confidence, the attitude, the... damn it, the attraction. It's infuriating. And yet... you know he's right. You did pull him in here, against all reason. A shiver runs through you as you remember the feeling of his body against yours, the heat of him...

For the rest of the week, you try to push the shower incident out of your mind. You focus on skating, on your craft, anything to distract yourself from thoughts of Rozanov and that damn smirk. But your mind keeps wandering back to it. To the way he looked at you, the way he touched you. The way his voice had dropped, deep and rough as he leaned in... You shake it off. This is stupid. He’s your brother’s rival player. There can't be anything between you.

But you can't forget the way your body reacted to his touch. The next day, you find yourself at the arena again. There's a game tonight,Shane's team versus Boston and as always, you'll be watching from your usual spot. But this time... something feels different. You know Rozanov will be there. You know he'll look for you in the crowd. Two can play that game. The game was brutal.

Boston came in with fire, Rozanov slicing through the defense like he owned the ice. He scored early,that same cocky smirk flashing your way after the goal but Shane’s team answered hard. Hits got dirtier, tempers flared.

And then it happened,a collision in front of your brother’s net. Rozanov went down hard, shoulder slamming into the post. He stayed down for a breath too long… but then rose, jaw set, eyes burning.

He played the rest of the game on pure spite.

But tonight? Luck wasn’t on his side.

A breakaway stolen. A penalty in overtime that cost them everything. And when Shane fired home the winning goal? The arena erupted and you let yourself cheer loud and proud for your brother.

Now?

The stands are emptying fast. Boston's players leave quietly,heads low ,while Montreal celebrates deep into Rogers Room champagne toasts and backslaps. Even Shane texts

“Celeb time! You comin?”

You don’t reply yet.

“Be there in 15,” you text back, adding a smiley just to sell it. “Just grabbing something from my locker.”

You take your time in your own locker room, dawdling as if you're looking for something. You're not, of course. You know exactly what you're going to do. Finally, you leave, making your way through the familiar corridors to the showers. The lights are low when you enter, just a few bulbs illuminating the tiled room. You can hear the faint sound of water running. The men's showers are open, unlike the women’s,just privacy in numbers. But tonight, the room is empty except for one figure under the spray.

Rozanov.

He's standing with his back to you, water cascading down his shoulders and over the sharp lines of his back muscles. Steam curls around him as he tilts his head up into the stream, hands dragging through his damp hair. He's gloriously unaware of you, and you take a moment to appreciate the view. The way the water rolls down his back, following the deep cuts of his spine before disappearing under that perfectly shaped..

Wow.

You bite your lip. No denying it,he’s built like a damn sculpture. And for someone who just lost a game, he carries himself like he already won.

But not tonight.

Tonight? You're here to even the score.

Quietly, you step forward, heels clicking against wet tile until they stop just outside the spray.

"Enjoying that shower?"

Rozanov's shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. But to his credit, he doesn’t whirl around. He just lifts his head from the water, turning enough that you can catch the edge of an arrogant smirk.

"Would be better with company."

He makes no attempt to cover himself, even though he must know you're there. In fact, he spreads his arms and stretches leisurely, the water running in rivulets down the length of his body. You bite the inside of your cheek. Damn him. Always so sure of himself.

He turns slowly, water glistening on his skin as he pivots to face you,fully unashamed, completely on display.

And holy fuck. He’s thick, heavy at half mast just from the shift in posture. The steam does nothing to hide it,the long line of him against his thigh, thick with promise. Your mouth goes dry.

But you don’t flinch.

Instead, you cross your arms and tilt your head with a smirk of your own,one that mirrors his damn arrogance perfectly.

“Luck isn’t on your side today,” you say coolly, “I’m not here to shower.”

His lips twitch. “Then why are you here…?”

You take one step forward,just enough so the edge of the spray kisses your shoes and hold his gaze like steel. Rozanov's gaze is locked on yours, the smirk still playing at his lips. But you see the tension in his shoulders,the set of his jaw. You're getting to him. With a deliberate nonchalance you reach for the shower handle to turn it off, then you reach out and run your fingertips down the length of his arm, watching his muscles tense under your touch. You don't stop there though. Your hand skates over his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. He lets out a low breath, his eyes narrowing as you circle him. Your fingers explore the contours of his body with a teasing slowness, tracing the sharp lines of muscle as water drips down his skin. You move behind him, your breath just barely ghosting across his shoulder. He tenses, but doesn't pull away.

You can hear him draw in a sharp breath as your hand slips to his waist, fingers trailing over taut abs and the defined vee. He sucks in a ragged breath. You can feel his body coiled like a spring, on edge and ready to snap. But he stays still, letting you have your fun. Your hand continues its slow journey down, lower now, and you can feel the shiver that runs through him. You move closer, your body pressed lightly against his back, chest flush with his shoulder blades. Your lips brush his earlobe, and you whisper so softly he barely hears it over the thrum of the shower.

"Seems like you need some help” your eyes glance over his now hard length and then back up to his eyes. His breath hitches,a quick intake that you can almost taste. His muscles are taut,and you can practically feel the tension radiating off him in waves. You pull away slowly, your fingers trailing off his skin as you step back into the dry tile.He doesn't move at first.

Then just as you walk back to leave,he reaches out.

Not for you.

His hand wraps around himself, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours through the haze. Thick fingers slide down his length with a slick glide of water that still lingered there and intent. One stroke. Then another. Your breath catches in your throat as he watches you while touching himself. You couldn’t help but smirk. He was confident, unashamed and he murmurs low enough that only you can hear.

"Keep walking... if you want."

It's a dare. A challenge.

And you never could turn down a challenge. You stay put and you don't look away. Your eyes are locked on his, dark and heavy. Your mind races, and every nerve tingles with anticipation. He wants this. You see it in the way his gaze never breaks from yours. His thumb swipes over the head, and his breath stutters in a soft groan. You swallow, the sound of it audible in the sudden quiet of the locker room. His strokes are slow, deliberate,each one drawing out the tension in his body. But it's not just physical. You can see it in his eyes,the hunger, the heat, the way they darken when you don't look away.

He’s not just touching himself. He’s showing you exactly what you do to him. And he wants you to know he’s thinking of you,your hands, your mouth, your body under his as that thumb circles again and he lets out a low, rough sound from deep in his chest…

"Y/N," he growls,your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

One word.And suddenly... this isn’t a game anymore. You step forward again, closing the distance until you’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Without breaking eye contact, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his length,hot, heavy, pulsing in your grip.

He lets out a sharp breath, hips twitching forward instinctively. You match his rhythm for a few strokes,slow, teasing your thumb gliding over the slick tip as he watches you with darkening eyes. His hands fall to his sides. He’s letting you take control.

And then…

You stop. Pull your hand away. Step back.

Just like that,leaving him hard and breathless under the dying steam of the shower lights. His jaw clenches. A muscle ticks at his temple as he stares at you,want blazing in those pale Russian eyes now raw with want and frustration. He lets out a little laugh at the audacity.

“You little…” He doesn’t finish.

You smile demurely, the picture of innocence as you reply. "Just being helpful,let’s call it motivation."

He lets out a low scoff, almost a growl. You're getting to him, pushing him to the edge.

"Is that what you call this?" he asks, gesturing vaguely at the shower and his very still prominent boner. You smirk. He's practically bristling with frustration, but you're not giving in easily.

"What would you call it, then?" You ask not so innocently. He takes a step forward, water still dripping from his body. "I'd call it torture," he growls, voice thick with desire. "Sweet, beautiful torture."

He's close now, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. But you don't back down.Instead, you reach out and touch his chest again,slick fingers trailing over muscle as your voice drops to a whisper.

"Then maybe next time... you'll think twice before walking away first."

The contact makes him shiver,his jaw clenching as he tries to hold himself together. But you know you've got him. He grabs your wrist, fingers encircling it in a vice grip.

"You're playing with fire," he warns, but there's a ragged edge to his voice now. He's barely holding on.

You tilt your head, looking up at him with a smirk. "And you're losing,big guy."

And just like that, you pull your wrist free and turn, walking toward the door without a backward glance. The cool air hits your skin as you leave the steam behind, but the fire between your legs lingers. You head to the bar where Shane's team is celebrating,loud music, clinking glasses, cheers echoing off brick walls. You slide into a booth beside Shane who throws an arm around you.

"Where were you?" he asks.

"Just had a few things to do, I’m here now"you say with a small smile as you order a drink and scan the room. The night wears on. The alcohol flows, the stories get wilder. You're laughing and talking with the team, losing track of time. The thrill of your encounter with Rozanov still fresh in your mind, but you push it aside,focus on the celebrations.

Shane throws his arm around your shoulders, eyes a bit glassy as he grins.

"You see where those Boston jerks are off sulking?" he slurs, nodding towards a booth across the room. "Looks like they're drowning their sorrows." You follow his gaze to the booth where the Boston players are huddled together, faces long and solemn. It's a stark contrast to the joyous mood on your side of the room.

"Yeah, looks like they're not taking the loss too well," you agree, watching as a few of them nurse their drinks. "Can't say I blame them."

Shane shrugs, downing the rest of his beer. "They deserve to sulk. They were cocky bastards."

His teammate Scott slides into the booth next to you, slapping down a fresh round of shots. "Let em sulk," he says, his grin wide and easy. "Maybe they'll learn a little respect next time."

You laugh at that and take the shot Scott passes you. The burning liquid slides down your throat,adding fuel to the buzz already coursing through you. You're feeling good,relaxed,the tension from earlier all but forgotten. Across the room, your gaze flickers back to the Boston table. There's still no sign of Rozanov.

"You're staring," Shane says, nudging you with his elbow. "Don't tell me you're actually feeling sorry for them?"

You snap your eyes back to him, shaking your head with a laugh. "No. Just wondering where their captain is."

Scott raises an eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment,just gives you a knowing smirk before raising his glass. As the music swells and the night deepens, you slide out of the booth. Time to dance. The floor’s packed, pulsing underfoot. You let the rhythm take over,hands in the air,carefree and glowing in the dim lights, until a familiar presence cuts through the crowd like ice. You’re lost in the beat, body swaying with a slow, hypnotic rhythm,eyes closed, hair swinging as you move through the sea of dancers. The bass thrums in your chest, matching your pulse.

Then… warmth. A broad chest presses against your back. Strong arms slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

No words.

You don’t need them to know who it is.

Rozanov. the scent of him lingering, wearing dark jeans and a half unbuttoned black shirt that smells like cologne and cold air. His stubble grazes your neck as he leans down, voice rough and low near your ear.

“Torture me… then walk away.. moving like this” His hips roll once against yours in time with the music,slow,dangerous. “Not fair y/n”

You can feel him,hard again pressing into you through his jeans. You don’t pull away. Instead, you arch back slightly, your body moving with his as if it’s second nature. The heat between you is electric, every shift of your hips sending a jolt through your system.

"Maybe I just like seeing you worked up," you murmur over your shoulder, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He growls low in his throat, a sound that vibrates right through you and tightens his grip on your waist. His other hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair as he tilts your head to the side,his mouth dangerously close to yours.

“Careful,” he warns.“Or I’ll stop being patient.”

His words are like a challenge, one you aren’t quite ready to back down from. You turn in his arms, so you’re facing him, still moving with the music but now with that delicious friction of bodies pressed tightly together.

"Who says I want you to be patient?" you retort, meeting his gaze defiantly.His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire. The hand in your hair tightens almost painfully as he pulls you even closer. You can feel the hard line of him, the heat of him, and it’s dizzying. “But Not here," you say breathlessly, glancing over at where Shane and the team are drinking heavily, completely oblivious to what's going on.

Rozanov follows your gaze, then his eyes drop back to your mouth, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a wolfish grin. " then where?"

You hesitate, biting your lip. There is something about him, about the way he’s looking at you, makes everything feel inevitable.

"1410" you find yourself saying, the words slipping from your lips before you can overthink it.

He says nothing.

Just stares at you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your hip,like he’s memorizing the shape of it through your clothes.

Then he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. Hot. Possessive. “Be ready.”

And just like that… he lets you go. Disappears into the crowd like a shadow, leaving you standing there,breathless, buzzing, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with dancing.

You touch your lips absently as you walk back to Shane’s table.

“Everything good?” Scott asks with a knowing look as he eyes where Rozanov vanished into the dark. "Yesss,everything's fine," you say, sliding back into the booth with a small smile.

Scott leans forward, grinning. "Looked like something interesting was happening out there."

You roll your eyes. "Just a dance. Get over yourself."

Shane barely looks up from his beer, laughing at something a teammate said. You catch his shoulder and give it a soft shake.

"Hey, I'm gonna head back," you tell him."Too much to drink,need some air and sleep."

He waves you off with a sloppy grin but adds. “okay, be safe”

“the hotels next door shane,I think I’ll be fine” you peck his cheek and say bye to everyone.

“Don't do anything I wouldn’t do!" Scott leans in to a hug with a smirk.

You smirk as you grab your jacket and head for the door. The hotel room is quiet, the city lights casting soft patterns through the sheer curtains. You kick off your heels, peeling away your clothes with slow, deliberate movements. The silk of your night top slips over your skin like a whisper, cool and smooth.

You're standing by the window when you hear it. A knock.

Not loud. Not impatient.

Just one firm sound that reverberates through the quiet. Your breath catches. You glance at the door, heart hammering in a mix of nerves and anticipation. For a second you think, Maybe it's not him.

But then…Another knock.

You don't move right away. The knock hangs in the air, echoing softly in the quiet room. Your pulse thrums at your throat as you stare at the door, bare feet rooted to the plush carpet.Silk clings to your skin. The city hums beyond the glass. And that knock,so controlled, so certain it feels like a challenge all over again. You step forward slowly, not toward the door, but to the small mirror beside it. Adjusting your top. Running fingers through your hair. Let him wait. Let him wonder if you’ll answer at all.

You stand before the door for one more second, then reach for the handle. Your fingers twist and the latch clicks. And as the door creaks open, there he stands in the hallway.

Rozanov. His eyes lock onto yours, taking in the silk of your night top, the way it drapes over you. A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.

"Thought I might have to knock again."

You lift an eyebrow, leaning against the jamb. "And what if I didnt answer?"

He takes a step forward, crowding you in the doorway without crossing the threshold. His voice drops, low and rough.

"Then I’d have waited. All night."

Your breath hitches. There's something about the way he says it ,no arrogance now, just heat and hunger laid bare.

You step back slowly… letting him in. The door clicks shut behind him. The room seems to shrink in his presence. The air seems to crackle, like the moment before a storm. Rozanov prowls the room, his footsteps silent on the carpet. And when he turns, his gaze finds you.

Then his eyes roaming over the silk. "Silk suits you."

You resist the urge to shiver, trying to stay steady and casual. "You like it?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "What if I said I'd rather have you out of it?"

You cross your arms, lifting your chin with a slow, knowing smile. "That all depends," you say, voice like velvet. "How bad do you want me out of it?"

He goes very still, those pale eyes narrowing with something dangerous and dark.

You take a step forward.

"Show me what I do to you," you whisper. "Take it off. All of it."

A beat passes.

Then another.

And just like that... the cocky Russian finally looks unraveled.

Because no one's ever told him what to do before. But you just did. And he likes it way more than he should. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving yours. The fabric drops to the floor. Then his belt. The slow slide of metal through loops. The zipper coming down with deliberate slowness, like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

But you don’t.

You just watch. And when he steps out of his jeans, fully bare under the low hotel lights,hard, proud, wanting,he doesn’t move toward you. Just stands there. Offering himself to your gaze like an altar at midnight.

You let your eyes wander slowly over him, taking in every inch of the man before you. The powerful thighs, the sharp V leading down to his thick cock,already hard and twitching with anticipation and those pale eyes, so full of fire. You don’t rush. Instead, you walk a slow circle around him, your fingers trailing lightly over his shoulder as you pass behind. When you stop in front of him again, your voice is low,soft but unshaken.

"good boy”

A flicker crosses his face,surprise? Arousal? Maybe both.

You move closer,close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Your fingers dance over his chest, tracing the defined lines of muscle with featherlight touches. The anticipation is almost painful. Rozanov shivers under your touch, his expression still schooled to that dangerous smirk, but his eyes betray his desire.

"You're testing me," he murmurs.

"And you love it." Your nails ghost over his abdomen, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His breath hitches, the rhythm of your touch setting your own nerves alight. You can feel the tension in his body,coiled like a spring. He's trying to stay in control but you can see it slipping.

"Tell me how much you want this," you whisper, your breath brushing over his lips. "Tell me what I do to you."

His gaze darkens, fingers twitching at his side. He's still trying to hold back. To keep that cocky persona intact. But there's no denying it now ,he's desperate to touch you. His jaw clenches,like he's resisting something inside. Then his hand moves,slowly reaching out to graze your hip. That rough thumb tracing over the silk.

"You do this," he growls, voice thick with barely restrained desire. "Every time I see you. You walk into a room and my brain stops."

His hand slides higher,under the silk of your top, fingers skimming the warm skin of your back.

"I think of your hands on me. Your mouth... that night in the shower." His breath is ragged now. "And I don’t sleep."

Your pulse jumps at his words.

"Is that why you came tonight?" you ask softly,half teasing but half needing to know.

He doesn't answer with words.Instead,his other hand finds your thigh,pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. "Only if you're very good," you murmur, your voice a velvet tease as you tilt your head just enough to brush your lips against his,then pull away.

His hands tighten on you, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "You're trying to kill me."

"Maybe." You smile, slow and wicked. "But wouldn't it be a fun way to go?"

His gaze narrows,the heat in his eyes making your breath catch. "Careful," he warns, voice edged with a dangerous desire. "You're playing with fire."

"And you love it, don't you?"

He doesn't get a chance to answer. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you off your feet as if they're nothing. You gasp, wrapping your legs around him on instinct as he pins you against the wall.

The impact pushes the air from your lungs,the sound of his name a breathless gasp. His lips find your neck, hot and demanding, nipping at your skin until you're arching into him,your body burning all over. He's pressing into you, hard muscles shifting against you with every labored breath, and you can feel how badly he wants you. Your hands slide down his back, nails digging in and leaving pale lines in their wake.

His hips roll against you, slow and deliberate, dragging a moan from deep in your throat. The friction is maddening,just enough to tease, never enough to satisfy.

“You feel that?” he growls into your ear, voice rough with restraint. “All for you.”

You bite your lip, pulse racing as your fingers twist in his hair. "Prove it," you whisper. "Show me how much."

He raises his head to meet your gaze, his eyes blazing. There's a challenge there now,a raw, animal need that matches your own.

He wants you. Desperately.

And he's going to show you.

His body grinds against you, slow and sensual,as he leans in to catch your earlobe between his teeth. "You want me to prove it? Then ask nicely."

Your heart stutters at the command,your breath coming in short gasps. You're not used to taking orders,but there's something in the way he says it that makes you want to submit.

"Please," you breathe, arching into him.

"Please what?" he prompts,voice low and rough as he drags his lips down your neck,nipping at the sensitive spot that makes you shiver. You tilt your head back, lips parting as a moan escapes. His touch is maddening, every graze of his teeth and slide of his hands driving you higher.Finally, you arch into him, your voice dropping to a whisper laced with fire.

"Are you going to fuck me... or not… Rozanov?"

His breath hitches.

And for the first time tonight?

The great Ilya Rozanov has nothing to say.Because you just shattered his control with six words. Then a dark, dangerous laugh rumbles through his chest,the sound of control slipping. "Ты меня убиваешь… Но да, я собираюсь тебя трахнуть..." he mutters under his breath.

“if you didn’t know, I don’t speak Russian as fluently as you” you raise an eyebrow. But fuck did it sound hot. He chuckles then nuzzles into you ear, biting.

“it means… You're killing me and yes I am going to fuck you” before crashing his lips onto yours in a kiss that's all hunger and heat.

No more games.

His hands grip your ass, lifting you higher as he carries you across the room like you weigh nothing. You barely feel the sheets against your back when he lays you down, already spreading your thighs with rough possession. Clothes are torn away,silk gives way to skin. Everything is a rush, fever-hot and desperate. Every touch leaves you breathless,wanting more. His hands are everywhere at once, exploring every inch of skin in reach. Then there are his lips... trailing kisses down your neck,your chest, your stomach, each one leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

His mouth lingers on each hip bone before trailing further down. He's close,so close now...Your hands tighten in the sheets… and he pauses. You lift your head to look at him, breathing hard. He's on his knees between your legs,pale eyes smolder in the low light. His gaze travels over you,taking in every detail with almost reverent intensity.

Then he leans forward,hands gliding up your thighs as he bends over you, lips hovering just above yours. "Look at me," he murmurs, his voice like rough velvet. "I want you to watch me when I taste you.. and when I fuck you."

Your heart stutters at the command,heat coiling tight in your core. Then his lips find yours in a slow, searing kiss. You can taste the desire in it, the need... and something darker that makes you shiver. He pulls away, lips curving in a wicked smile as his fingers trail down your body.

"Watch me.. " he says again, voice low enough for you to feel the vibrations in your chest. His head dips down between your spread thighs. He pauses, breathing in deeply,as if taking in your scent. Then his tongue slips out,just a hint of a touch across your lips. It's slow and deliberate... teasing.

You gasp, your hips arching in response. "oh god..."

He looks up at you through pale eyelashes,his eyes burning with need. "That's not my name.."

You nearly laugh,the moment almost shattered by a giggle. Almost.

Instead, you reach down,threading your fingers through his hair. "Then show me…"

You don't finish the sentence.

He shuts you up the only way he knows how... by showing you. His tongue slides through your folds in a slow, firm stroke, and you gasp,back arching off the bed. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, exploring you like he’s memorizing every shiver.

“Rozanov,” you breathe his name like a prayer.

He hums against your skin in response,a low vibration that sends shockwaves through your body. One of his hands grips your thigh tighter,pulling you closer as he delves deeper with his tongue. Circling,moving,sucking just enough to drive you insane.Your fingers twist into the sheets,fingers tugging at them as if trying to anchor yourself while everything else spins out of control. "Don’t stop" you gasp, voice breaking as your hips lift to meet his mouth.

He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’m just getting started,” he murmurs before plunging back in,faster now, tongue flicking with purpose, relentless. One hand slips beneath you to grip your ass, tilting your hips higher like he’s claiming every inch of you. Your breath comes in short, desperate bursts. The pleasure builds,hot and sharp and right when you think you can’t take anymore…

He slows.

Just enough to make you whimper.

“Eyes on me,” he demands again.

Your eyes snap open,meeting his gaze as he looks up at you. His mouth glistening. His eyes burning.

"Good girl.." he murmurs, voice rough with approval. He dips his head down,his lips finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your breath hitches as he moves, teasing with teeth and tongue while holding your gaze the whole time. He moves up your body,slow and deliberate,leaving a trail of kisses until his lips crash onto yours in a heated kiss.

"Can you taste yourself?" he growls against your lips.

You don’t answer. Instead,your hand slides down his chest,fingers wrapping around the thick base of his cock. He groans into your mouth at the contact,his hips jerking forward instinctively.

"Fuck,Y/N.."

"Like that?" you whisper, stroking him slowly, teasing the tip with your thumb.

He lets out a ragged breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder as you squeeze tighter,just enough to make him shudder.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he grits out, voice thick with need.

You grin against his skin. “Good.”

Your hand moves faster now,wrapping around his thick length in a firm rhythm. He groans,hips bucking into your touch as his fingers dig into the mattress.

“Wait,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to catch your wrist. “If you keep that up… I won’t last.”

You pout playfully. "And that's a bad thing?"

He smirks down at you,a dark,hungry look in his eyes before leaning in close again,his lips brushing yours.

“No,” he murmurs.“I want to be inside you when I come.”

You bite your lip, letting your hand fall away slowly. "Then what are you waiting for?"

He growls,low and rough and in one swift motion, he positions himself between your thighs. The broad head of his cock presses against your entrance, teasing, making you writhe beneath him.

“Look at me," he demands again,voice like velvet over steel. Your eyes lock with his as he pushes forward,slow, deliberate, stretching you perfectly. A moan tears from your throat at the fullness, your nails raking down his back. He doesn’t move right away. Just stays buried deep, forehead resting against yours, breathing ragged.

"Ты моя…" he whispers,rough and raw against your skin.

You don’t know Russian. But you feel it. Mine. He gives you a moment to adjust,hands running over your skin in a soothing caress even though every muscle in his body is rigid with restraint. Then, he starts moving. Slow, tortuous slides that drive you mad,his lips finding yours in a deep, drugging kiss.

You wrap your legs tighter around him,fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to pull him closer. Closer.

He pulls back from the kiss,breathless,his eyes darker now.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs.

You almost laugh at the question. Your body is trembling. Every nerve is on fire. It's good, so so good.

"Never better. Now stop asking questions."

He grins,the cocky smirk you love. "Demanding. I like that." He rolls his hips just the way you like,making you gasp. "But you’re in no position to make demands right now."

You grip his shoulders and flip the two of you, pushing him down onto his back. He looks up at you with a mix of surprise and approval, his hands settling possessively on your hips.

You lean down,breathless,your lips brushing against his ear. "Oh, really?"

He lets out a low laugh, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Feisty," he murmurs, his fingers tracing teasing circles on your skin. You can see the playfulness in his eyes, the challenge glinting like a dare.

"You think you're in control now?" he asks, his voice a deep rumble that makes everything inside you throb. You answer with movement. Slow, deliberate rolls of your hips,taking him deep, then rising up until just the tip remains inside. Your hands press against his chest for balance, fingers splayed over the hard planes of muscle as you watch his expression twist with restraint.

“I am in control," you whisper, sinking down again,this time with a teasing grind that makes his breath catch. His thumbs dig into your hips. You rise and fall with slow, torturous rhythm,each slide making him twitch inside you, each roll of your hips drawing a deeper groan from his chest. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s trying to guide you, but you resist,setting your own pace.

“Y/N… fuck” His voice is rougher now, almost pleading. You keep going, rocking against him,your own breathing growing ragged as the tension builds again. One of his hands slides up your back,the touch almost desperate as he pulls you closer.

He lifts himself up,mouth skimming over your collarbone in a trail of hot, open,mouthed kisses. Then he murmurs against your skin, voice raw and rough.

"You're driving me insane, let me fuck you." In one swift move, he flips you beneath him,hard and fast and pinning your wrists above your head. There’s no warning. Just power.

He slams into you with a deep, relentless thrust that steals your breath. Your cry echoes off the walls as he sets a brutal pace, each snap of his hips driving you toward the edge. The bed creaks under the force of it, sheets tangling around your legs as he fucks into you like he’s claiming every inch.

“Mine,” he growls again,voice rough with possession and this time, you believe it.

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Just feel.

And then…

He lets go of your wrists and grabs your hips instead,yanking you back onto him with each thrust,his body covering yours as his mouth finds the curve of your neck in a searing bite.

You’re trembling,fingers clutching at the sheets,far beyond words now.

"Rozanov..." It comes out like a prayer,a plea.

He doesn't slow down.Not even close. Instead,his hand reaches around,your clit already so sensitive...one flick makes stars burst behind eyelids as he fuck you still. "Y/N." The way he says your name is like a command. Sharp,low,a warning. You shiver,your body responding to the dark edge lacing his voice. You know what he wants - what he expects. And for the first time,you want it too.

"Look at me," he murmurs,his tone softer now,barely above a whisper. He leans in,fingers tracing the line of your jaw, the touch almost gentle. Your eyes flutter open,meeting his. The raw need in his gaze hits you like a wave,his hips never slowing,each thrust deep and relentless.

“Ilya..." You say it,fingers tangling in the sheets as he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

“you going to cum for me y/n?" he growls against your mouth,his voice thick with desire. You can’t lie. Your body is coiled tight,a storm building between you.

"So close.." you gasp, your voice breaking as his hand finds your clit again, circling with just the right pressure.

His thrusts grow harder,deeper,pushing you to the edge.

“Then cum," he commands,ruthless and tender all at once."Cum on my cock.”

Your back arches off the bed,the world shattering around you as pleasure rips through every nerve. Your inner walls clamp down around him,milking him as wave after wave crashes over you.He doesn't stop,keeps moving through it,fucking into you relentlessly until he finally lets go. "Ilya” Your voice breaks as the orgasm rips through you, your nails dragging down his back in wild, desperate lines. He groans at the sting,hips stuttering for just a second before he drives into you one last time,deep and stills.

Hot and pulsing inside you, he buries his face in your neck with a ragged breath.

“fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin. You lie there for a moment, both of you catching your breath. Then, he slowly pulls out, collapsing beside you on the bed. The silence stretches, nothing but the sound of your racing heartbeats and the soft rustle of sheets. Your eyes flutter shut,sleep pulling at the edges of your mind as you curl into his chest. The room is warm,the city lights outside casting everything in pale shadows. His arm wraps around you in a possessive hold, pulling you closer. You can feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest with each breath,still a little ragged. He nuzzles into your hair, breath ghosting over your neck in a way that makes you shiver. “fuck," he mutters, voice heavy. "...I think you are going to break me”

You let out a soft laugh,still a little breathless, your hand trailing over his chest idly. "I'm pretty sure you can handle yourself," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He hums in response,the vibration traveling through your body. "You'd be surprised... I think you're dangerous for me."

You prop yourself up on your elbow,looking down at him with a teasing grin. "Are you admitting weakness to your rivals sister rozanov?"

He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Careful," he warns, reaching up to catch a strand of your hair between his fingers. You laugh again, the sound soft and a little hoarse from earlier. "Or what?" you challenge, tugging gently at his hair again. "You'll have to keep coming back to shut me up?"

He pulls you down on top of him with a low growl, one hand sliding into your hair as he captures your lips in a slow, deep kiss. When he finally lets you go, his eyes are dark with promise.

"Maybe I already planned on it."

Your heart leaps at the words, your body responding automatically to his touch. You don't want to admit how much you like the sound of that, so you just bite your lip and try to sound dismissive. "Oh, really?" you tease. "What makes you so sure I'll let you come back?"

He chuckles,a low rough sound that sends a thrill through you. "I can be very persuasive," he murmurs,voice full of promise. "And you've seen how good I am at getting what I want."

You can feel your face heating at the reminder, the memories of just how good he is flashing through your mind. But you stubbornly lift your chin, trying to sound casual. "Maybe I'm not that easy," you say, knowing it's a lie.

He smirks,the corner of his mouth curving up in a way that makes your stomach flip. "Oh, sweetheart. Nothing about you is easy."

He gets up from the bed, stretching lazily in all his naked glory. You watch him, the sight of his muscles bunching and shifting as he moves making you bite back a sigh. "You're staring," he says, glancing over at you with a knowing smirk.

You quickly look away, flushing slightly. "Just making sure you're actually leaving."

He chuckles, pulling on a pair of jeans. "Afraid you'll miss me?"

"Terrified," you mutter, voice thick with sarcasm.

He leans down, bracing a hand on either side of your head. His lips brush yours—soft, almost sweet,before he pulls back with that maddening smirk.

“Then dream of me.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

You’re left alone in the quiet room, sheets tangled around you and his scent still on your skin.

Game on.

—————————-

The sun was setting over Mayfair, its golden rays casting long shadows over the well manicured townhouses of the neighbourhood. The evening air was alive with the sounds of carriages and the distant hum of a society preparing for another evening of balls, dinners, and dances. Amidst this world of propriety and tradition, a young woman walked with purposeful strides. Y/n Harrington had returned to London after many years away, having been sent away to France after her mother died. As her father said, for lessons in propriety and manners. Her hair curled softly around her face, framing her delicate features, and a soft touch of rouge added colour to her complexion. Her gown was a fashionable dark emerald silk, the fabric billowing slightly around her figure with each step she took. She carried herself with an air of elegance and confidence, a stark contrast to the rebellious girl she had once been. As she strolled through the bustling streets, heads turned discreetly. The young men who passed her by did so with subtle admiration, their gaze lingering just a tad too long on her curvaceous form. Some whispered to each other as she passed, her return to society was certainly a topic of interest. Y/n approached the familiar town house of her childhood, a feeling of nostalgia washed over her as she took in the familiar facade. With a deep breath, she ascended the steps and rang the bell. It wasn’t long before the door opened, and her father stood before her. His eyes widened slightly as he regarded the lady standing on his doorstep. She had grown into a stunning young woman, her features delicately framed by her curly locks, and her gown hugged her curves in a most admirable way.

"Y/n..." he managed, a mixture of surprise and relief in his tone. His gaze swept over her, taking in the changes that years apart had brought. "It's good to have you home." His words were simple but heartfelt, and the warmth in his eyes spoke volumes of the years he had missed her presence. "Father." Y/n replied with a soft smile, her heart swelling with a mix of emotions. She reached out for him, her slender fingers grasping his hand. "It's good to be back."

He pulled her into a tight embrace, and despite her time away, the familiarity and comfort of her father's arms brought a sense of belonging she hadn't realized she had missed so much. After a few moments, her father drew back, his grip lingering on her shoulders. "You've grown into such a woman, my dear." He said, his gaze studying her face. He took in the subtle changes, the hint of French sophistication that now danced in her eyes, and the way she carried herself with a newfound confidence. "I trust your time in France was... enlightening?" He inquired, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Y/n chuckled softly, a familiar playful glint lighting up her eyes. "Enlightening, indeed. I've learned many things, including proper dances and how to wield a fan with the precision of a dagger."

Her father chuckled, shaking his head indulgently. "I should have known you would find a way to turn propriety into a weapon."

Y/n's mischievous smirk widened, and she shrugged her shoulders delicately. "One has to add a touch of entertainment to the rigors of etiquette lessons, Father. Otherwise, I might have gone mad with boredom."

Her father sighed, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "And yet somehow, I suspect you still managed to scandalise your tutors and your cousins more than once."

Y/n pressed a gloved hand to her chest in mock offense. "Moi? Scandalous? Jamais.” The French word rolled off her tongue with effortless charm before she grinned. "Though I may have convinced a certain Comtesse that fencing lessons were an essential part of a lady's education."

Her father groaned, rubbing his temples. "Mon Dieu, child. What am I to do with you?"

"Love me unconditionally?" she teased, looping her arm through his. "And perhaps escort me to call upon the Bridgertons? I do owe them a visit after all these years of letter tedious writing" Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I’d hate for Anthony to think I’ve forgotten how to trounce him at Pall Mall."

Her father chuckled, patting her hand. "Very well. But please try not to send Violet into palpitations within the first five minutes."

Y/n's laugh was bright as she adjusted her gloves. "No promises."

Benedict’s POV

The Bridgerton drawing room was alive with its usual lively chaos,Hyacinth and Gregory debating the merits of raspberry tarts versus lemon cakes, Francesca calmly embroidering, and Colin stealing bites of said tarts when Hyacinth wasn’t looking. Benedict lounged near the window, sketchbook in hand, idly tracing the curve of Eloise’s scowl as she argued with Anthony over something trivial. And then, a sharp rap at the door. The butler’s voice, slightly perplexed. “The Harringtons,to see you”

The Harringtons?…Benedict’s pencil snapped between his fingers.

Y/n.

Before anyone could react, the doors swung open and there she stood. Her gown was demure in cut but daring in color,a deep emerald that made her eyes glow like mischief incarnate. The faintest hint of a smirk played on her lips as she surveyed the room, as if she’d been waiting for this moment for years. Which, of course, she had.

Violet gasped. “Y/n Harrington!”

“In the flesh,” she replied, dropping into a curtsy that was technically perfect but carried just enough irreverence to make Benedict’s chest tighten. “Though I do hope you’ll forgive my absence. France was lovely, but it sorely lacked” her gaze flicked to Benedict “adequate company.”

Anthony choked on his tea. Colin grinned like a fool. And Benedict? Benedict realized, with dawning horror, that he was smiling like an idiot. Benedict's heart leapt into his throat. Y/n was here, and she looked... different. Gone was the rebellious young girl from his memory, letters over the years didn’t quite picture… well this. She was replaced by a woman who commanded attention without even trying. The way the green fabric hugged her figure, the way her hair fell softly around her shoulders, it was enough to make a man lose his composure. He forced himself to stay seated, his grip on the sketchbook tight. He couldn't let her see how much her sudden reappearance affected him.

His mother’s eyes welled with tears as she rushed forward, arms outstretched. “Y/n!" She pulled her into a crushing embrace, her voice thick with emotion. “Oh, my dear girl,look at you! A vision! And just in time for the upcoming season”

Y/n laughed as she was passed from one sibling to the next,Francesca’s polite but warm hug, Anthony’s gruff, but Try not to start a scandal before supper hug and Colin’s enthusiastic lift off the ground before she swatted his shoulder. Then came Eloise,who seized her hands with wicked delight. “Finally! Someone with sense. Do you know how unbearable it’s been? Anthony married, Colin insufferably smug about his marriage, Francesca practically won’t shut up about her engagement”

“Eloise," Mother warned.

“…and Benedict," Eloise finished pointedly, “who still scowls at debutantes like they’ve personally offended his paintbrushes. I mean at least we can count on Benedict to scare off any potential suitors”

Benedict bristled at the mention of his name, his attention caught despite himself. He wanted to protest, to defend himself against his younger sister's teasing. But it was difficult to argue when she was entirely correct. He'd spent the last three years, gosh more, dodging every debutante that came his way, using his art and free spirit as both shield and excuse. The idea of marriage, of settling down with someone who wasn’t… her. Well it was all just suffocating.

And now here she was. Y/n, standing in his drawing room again,with her infuriatingly perfect smirk.His fingers tightened around his ruined sketchbook. "Scaring off debutantes is a sport at this point," he drawled, forcing nonchalance into his voice as he rose from his seat. "Though I suspect you might still give even give me a run for my money this season."

Her eyes,God, those eyes locked onto his, sparkling with mischief. "Oh, Benedict," she sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. "You flatter me. But I promise not to steal all your thunder."

His mouth quirked despite himself. Her banter, their easy back and forth, it was like no time had passed at all. Without thinking,he crossed the room to stand in front of her. Up close,the differences in her were even more pronounced. The way her dress hugged her curves, the faint scent of flowers that clung to her skin. He fought down a wave of unwelcome desire and, instead, opened his arms.

"Come here, troublesome”

She quirked an eyebrow questioningly, that damned smirk still in place. But she stepped forward all the same, her slender frame fitting against his like puzzle pieces. Benedict's arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. He inhaled deeply,his chin hooking over her shoulder. She felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his, it was both comforting and excruciating.

"I missed you" he murmured quietly, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. Her hands slid up his chest, settling lightly on his shoulders. Her touch, even through layers of fabric, was like a low simmer in his blood. He could feel her chuckle more than hear it, the vibration of her chest pressed against his. "Benedict Bridgerton, confessing he actually missed my company...the world must be ending."

He pulled back slightly, his grip remaining on her waist. "Don't let it get to your head," he retorted lightly, his eyes roaming over her face. "Too late. I can already feel my ego inflating by the second." she chuckled. He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. His fingers traced a path from the curve of her hip to the small of her back, his touch almost involuntarily possessive.

"It'll be a nightmare having you around again," he grumbled. "Causing trouble, driving my siblings mad..." His hand stilled on her waist. "Driving me mad, you sure it’s not too late to send her back Mr Harrington?”

Benedict barely had time to react before Y/n’s gloved hand swatted his arm with mock indignation. “Benedict!" she gasped, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "One would think years might have softened your tongue or at least your terrible manners."

Her father chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, she shouldn’t be as much of a troublesome lady, she has certainly changed, my boy." He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "...Well, that is yet to be seen at least, France looks to have done her the world of good."

Benedict’s gaze flickered back to Y/n’s face, lingering on the sly curve of her lips. Changed? Oh, she was different,softer curves, sharper wit, that maddening air of French elegance draped over her like silk. But the mischief? That glint in her eye? That was still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt. He leaned in, voice low enough for only her to hear. "If you think I believe for one second you’ve turned into some docile debutante, you’re sorely mistaken." His thumb brushed her waist,once, twice, before releasing her. "But by all means… prove me wrong."

Eloise groaned playfully. “God help them all then."

Violet clapped her hands together. "Well! Now that you’re back, Y/n, you simply must attend the Danbury’s ball tomorrow night. I insist!"

Y/n offered a gracious nod, her smile never slipping. "I'd be delighted."

Benedict's hand clenched at his side. Danbury's ball. Of course. It was the perfect opportunity to display London's newest “diamond” to society. Or she would be once the Queen sets her eyes on her again. And he'd have to watch every desperate man in the ton tripping over themselves to secure her attention, like bees to honey. He hated the thought of it, of all those other men, circling her like vultures, trying to impress her, to claim her. But he had no right to the possessive heat crawling through his veins. She wasn’t his. She never had been. Not in the way he wanted at least. His gaze flicked back to Y/n. She was chatting with his mother now, laughing at some whispered confidence. Something inside of him clenched tightly at the sight. Bloody hell. This season was going to be the death of him.

Y/n’s laughter echoed through the drawing room as Francesca and Hyacinth dragged her toward the sofa, already demanding a full account of her French fashions. “Oh, but you must let us see your gowns before the ball!” Hyacinth insisted, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Oh you will look a beauty and I heard the French cuts are scandalously low..”

“Hyacinth!” Violet gasped, fanning herself, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Colin, ever the charmer, leaned down to press a quick, brotherly kiss to Y/n’s temple. “More of a beauty than she already is? Impossible,” he teased, winking before straightening. “But alas, duty calls,Penelope awaits”

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully at his comment, swatting his shoulder. "Go on then, you rogue, say hello to pen for me"

Benedict watched the exchange with a frown, his jaw clenching. Colin’s easy affection, the way she giggled at his teasing, it was all perfectly innocent. She was like this with everyone. Always had been. But it didn’t stop the possessive, irrational part of him from wanting to step forward, to yank her away from the others, to keep her entirely to himself. Benedict tuned back into his sisters’ conversation just in time to catch the direction of it. Oh.

It was inevitable, really. With Y/n back, the topic of her suitors or lack thereof he hoped. It was bound to come up eventually. But that didn’t make it any easier for him to stand there, feigning nonchalance as his siblings grilled her. Francesca, ever the diplomatic one, began the inquisition.

"So, have you met any…interesting gentlemen in France, do you plan to here?"

Y/n's lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk as she settled against the settee, fan flicking open with practiced ease. "Interesting gentlemen? Oh, dozens," she mused, tapping her chin. "One who recited poetry...terrible poetry under my window and a rather persistent man who insisted fencing lessons required very close instruction." Her eyes slid to Benedict, glittering with challenge. "Though none quite as stubborn as the Englishmen of my acquaintance."

Eloise snorted into her tea. Hyacinth, perched on the armrest, gasped. "Were you courted?”

"Flirted with," Y/n corrected lightly, snapping her fan shut. "There's a difference. Besides...," she added, tilting her head slightly as if it all bored her. Benedict's eyes narrowed, irritation stirring at her nonchalant attitude. She'd flirted with other men. Of course she had. It was Y/n. But hearing it, so casually tossed out as if it were nothing, it stung more than he cared to admit. He wanted to snap at her to cease, but what right did he have?. She was free to do as she pleased. His jaw ticked as he shifted, trying to mask his irritation. "Oh, of course, just some light, meaningless flirtation."

Y/n's smirk deepened at his sarcasm. "Jealous, Bridgerton? and what about you hmm?”

Benedict's jaw tightened. Jealous? Who, him? Of some faceless French fools she'd toyed with in Paris? As if. Eloise, ever the provocateur, chimed in with a sly smile. "Mother's been quite insistent that our dear Benedict finally step into society, to stop the rakish behaviour this season...." she glanced her way at him. "remember that Benedict? our own mother calling you a rake?”

Benedict shot a sharp look at his sister, his eyes warning her silently to shut her trap. But she merely continued. Benedict groaned, raking a hand through his already unruly hair. "Eloise, must you…”

But Y/n was already grinning, that wicked gleam in her eye that he knew all too well. "A rake?" she repeated, leaning forward slightly, her fan tapping against her knee. "Oh, Benedict, do tell how many hearts have you broken this season?"

His nostrils flared. "None," he bit out.

"Liar," Eloise singsonged under her breath.

Benedict shot her a glare before turning back to Y/n, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher register. "you have no room to judge by the sounds of it”

Y/n arched a brow, unimpressed. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Because," he countered, stepping closer, the space between them crackling with something unspoken, "you've been off in France, charming poets and fencing instructors, while I've been stuck here enduring my mother's matchmaking schemes."

She tilted her head, studying him with those infuriatingly knowing eyes. "Poor Benedict," she teased. "So tormented."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her. "You have no idea."

For a heartbeat, she looked genuinely startled,then her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Then perhaps," she whispered back, "you should listen to your mother, maybe it is time to settle down”

Benedict's eyes darkened at her words, a sharp retort teetering on the edge of his tongue. Settle down? As if it were that easy. As if some proper debutante with her perfect manners and her simpering smiles could ever hold a candle to-

He bit back the words. No, he couldn't let her see the effect she had on him. He forced a shrug, his voice deliberately nonchalant. "Easier said than done. I have... particular standards, you see."

Y/n chuckled, her fan snapping open with a flick of her wrist. "Oh, of course. I imagine your list of standards must be quite long."

Benedict shifted, leaning against the bookshelf behind him, feigning nonchalance. "You have no idea," he drawled, his gaze roaming over her. "but when you do find a woman worth settling down for.. come find me”. Benedict watched the delicate arch of Y/n's brow lift at his words, her lips pursing in that way he knew meant trouble. Before she could volley back with some razor sharp retort, he pushed off the bookshelf and strode toward the door with purposeful ease.

"Alas," he said, tossing the words over his shoulder like a challenge, "I've pressing matters to attend to today” His fingers paused on the doorframe as he glanced back, letting his gaze trail deliberately down her form before meeting her eyes again with a slow smirk. Y/n's expression remained infuriatingly unreadable, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. But he didn't miss the quickening rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly on her fan. He lingered for a moment, waiting for a witty retort, a spark of annoyance. Something. But she merely offered a nonchalant wave of that blasted fan. "Run along then, I'm sure you have many hearts to break."

Benedict's grin widened at her dismissive tone. She was good, he'd give her that. "Au revoir." And with a final, mocking wink, he slipped out the door, the sound of his sisters giggles echoing faintly behind him as he disappeared down the hall.

Y/N POV

Y/n watched Benedict's broad form disappear through the door, her heart racing a little faster than she cared to admit. The nerve! That damnable smirk, the way he'd looked at her... She forced a deep breath, smoothing a non existent wrinkle from her skirts. She couldn't let him get to her. Still, his words lingered in her mind. Find me woman worth settling down for….

Eloise let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping dramatically onto the sofa beside her. “I for one am so glad to have you back," she muttered under her breath, throwing Y/n a knowing glance. “I have very much missed having someone to torment the ton with”

Violet Bridgerton, pointed a look at Eloise as she sat with your father. She was ever the picture of composed grace, merely fanning herself with an air of practiced serenity,though the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement at Eloise’s comment. “now now Eloise, there will be none of that.. Though I must say, my dear, it is quite… refreshing to see Benedict so thoroughly engaged in conversation again."

“Yes, well," Y/n replied smoothly, fluttering her fan, “I suppose he finds it entertaining to spar with someone who doesn't swoon at his every word."

Eloise snorted. “Oh please, Benedict hasn’t actually tried charming anyone in years. like mother said.. Rake”, darting a glance at her mother. Violet cleared her throat delicately. “Benedict has been rather… selective for quite some time."

“Selective?" Y/n repeated, arching a brow. “Is that what we're calling his perpetual avoidance of marriage now?"

“Avoidance implies he has a choice," Eloise muttered under her breath. A slight hint of a tease In her voice. Francesca, ever the peacemaker, smoothly intervened. “What matters is that you're back now, and the season will be infinitely more interesting for it."

Y/n smirked. “Oh, I plan to make it very interesting."

Hyacinth leaned forward eagerly. “Does that mean you'll be flirting with all of potential matches of the ton?” Violet gasped. “Hyacinth!" But Y/n merely laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. “Oh, my dear Hyacinth”

Hyacinth's eyes widened, clearly eager to hear more. But Y/n chuckled, shaking her head. "a true lady never reveals her secrets."

Eloise smirked, unable to resist adding, "And since when have you ever been a true lady?"

Y/n feigned a gasp of mock shock. "Eloise, you wound me." She pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. "I'll have you know, I have the manners of a proper lady now”

Eloise raised a brow, crossing her arms over her chest. "Oh, yes. I’m sure”

The sound of Y/n's laughter was cut short as her father cleared his throat pointedly from his seat beside Violet. "Yes, well," he interjected with a look that promised a lecture later, "let us focus on proper topics, shall we?"

Y/n batted her eyelashes innocently. "Of course, Father. We were just discussing... the weather."

Hyacinth snorted into her lemonade. Violet swiftly changed the subject, steering the conversation toward Francesca's upcoming engagement dinner,but not before casting Y/n a knowing glance. Y/n merely grinned behind her fan, her mind already racing with plans for tomorrow’s ball and the infuriatingly handsome Bridgerton who’d be there to witness it all.

______________________

You’ve seen him countless times since that night in Montreal.

So many stolen moments wrapped in hushed breaths, dim hotel lights, and the kind of sex that leaves your bones weak and your thoughts scattered.Each time was hotter than the last,charged with a hunger that felt less like lust and more like need. A silent game only you two played. No promises whispered. Just heat, hands, and the unspoken rule, No one can know. Especially Shane your brother.

You’d meet at the arenas when his team rolled through after a game, late night rendezvous disguised as your training, since you had so many figure skating completions coming up, perfect excuse. You’d slip into empty lounges or back corridors where shadows were thick, hearts pounding louder than skates on ice.And every time he touched you,it was different. Although you tried to avoid that. Not just rough possession anymore. Or something to have over your brother. There were softnesses now, the brush of his thumb across your jaw before he kissed you senseless, the way he’d hold you after like he never wanted to let go.

But then morning would come. And that would be gone, like it never happened. That was the agreement. And so reality came back. He'd leave without a word sometimes. Other times? A smirk over his shoulder as if to say. Still winning. You sometimes saw it as a power play, his hockey rivals sister. When he went back home to Russia,after playoffs ended you thought he would disappear from your world completely for a few weeks. But it never really happened like that. Not even oceans could kill what had started between you both,the current still humming under everything else happening around it. Your brother’s relentless rise… Rozanov’s growing legacy…and whatever this thing was twisting deep inside Ilya when no one was looking,including himself.

Because here's what no one saw. When he got home to the cold house with an atmosphere like the ice and medicine bottles lined up neatly beside an old man who barely spoke to him,unless he was bringing home a Gold. That he didn’t call anyone else first but you. Also while you were lying awake thinking about how nobody fucked like him ever again since those nights and how every other touch felt empty because they weren't his hands holding down your wrists or whispering filthy Russian promises only meant for you behind locked doors far away from cameras & contracts & reputations that demand perfection. This wasn't supposed to happen.But damn...It already did.

The silence stretches after your last thought, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Then your phone buzzes.

A single message lights up the screen. You saved him as ‘i’ like it’s not obvious who it is.

I: ‘Still thinking about me?’

Your breath catches. It’s been a few weeks since you last saw him,where he had you pressed against a cold wall and made you come with just his tongue and a whisper in Russian that still echoes in your dreams.

You don’t reply right away.

I: ‘Don’t pretend you weren’t just touching yourself thinking of my mouth on you again’

You bite your lip hard enough to sting.And then you answer.

You: ‘well aren’t you full of yourself? how do you know I’m not thinking about someone else?’

The dots appear instantly. Then stop.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Then finally

I: ‘Because no one else gets under your skin like I do... And we both know it hurts when I’m not there to fix it.

Your stomach flips,half arousal,half something deeper,you refuse to name yet.Before you can respond,the call comes through.Voice only.No video.Call waiting on line one flashing across the screen like a dare…

You take a deep breath before answering,letting the silence stretch just long enough to drive him crazy.

“who’s the one thinking about who now? I was busy," you say the second you pick up, teasing in your voice.

A low chuckle echoes through the line. "But you answered anyway."

"Go to sleep,Rozanov,"you whisper,though neither of us plans on sleeping tonight.

His voice drops,the accent thicker now like it always is when he’s tired.

“Can’t sleep, bore me to sleep will you?”The cocky bastard.

“you fucker, I will hang up this phone right now” you chuckled, threatening in your tone. Then his laugh,that fucking laugh. "Fine,fine. I'll behave." His voice is more teasing than serious now. "For now."

That makes you laugh,the tension between you both easing just a little. "I don't believe you," you say. "You're incapable of being good."

He hums in agreement,the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Can't argue with that."

There's a pause,the silence heavy with the weight of what's left unsaid.

"But I do have a question."

His voice drops,low and rough. “Are you in that big bed of yours all by yourself?”

You roll your eyes,even though he can’t see you. “I might be… why? You checking up on me?”

“Just curious.” A beat. Then softer: “Wish I was there to find out for myself.”

But before you can respond he says,casually now.“If I were there,I wouldn’t let you sleep at all.”

You laugh,trying to match his lightness despite the warmth pooling low in your stomach.

“Confident as always.”

“You love it,”he murmurs.

And damn him… He’s right,of course. It’s infuriating how fast he can undo you with just a few words. But you'll die before you admit that.

"You're so cocky, has anyone told you that?"

His chuckle is like velvet, dark and sinful. "All the time."

"It's annoying."

"But you like it," he counters, knowing he's right. "You're impossible," you mutter, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“And yet… you’re still on the phone with me,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. You roll over onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as if it holds answers. “I must enjoy suffering.”

He laughs low and knowing and it sends a shiver through you. “Then let me make it worse.”

Your breath hitches as his voice drops again, rougher now.“Tell me what you’re wearing.”

"A hockey jersey," you say,tone dry.

He chuckles again,the sound sending a jolt down to your core. "I must be rubbing off on you."

You roll your eyes even though he can't see. "Don't get cocky,Rozanov."

"Too late," he replies,voice cocky as ever. "And whose jersey is it?"

“Oh,” you pause, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Shane’s.” A beat of silence. Then “Blyad,” he growls, low and rough with amusement. “You’re wearing your brother’s jersey?”

You laugh softly, tracing the collar with one finger. "Yes, I'm supporting my home team obviously."

He scoffs, voice thick with mock outrage. "Disgraceful." But there's heat under it,the kind that coils in your stomach because you know exactly what he's thinking. "And I’m sure Shane would love knowing you’re under his jersey while talking to me." Your smile widens into a grin. "Oh, I’m sure he’d appreciate it even more to find out you’ve been fucking his sister in secret."

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter,dark, wild and then mutters something fast in Russian too quick to catch. You raise an eyebrow despite yourself.

“Did you just call me something dirty?” you feel yourself smirking.

A low chuckle echoes through the line,his accent rougher now, making your breath hitch.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he murmurs,voice full of that cocky self-assured confidence he always had.

You smile in spite of yourself. "Your English is getting better," you tease lightly. "Have you been practicing just for me?"

He laughs again,and the sound is like velvet, sending goosebumps down your arms. "Maybe. maybe not”

"oh yeah, how come hmm?" you challenge, voice soft but playful.

"Because I want you to understand me," he says, the teasing edge fading just slightly. "When I tell you how much I miss your body... when I say exactly what I’d do if I were there right now."

You shiver.

"And what’s that?" you whisper, despite knowing you shouldn’t play this game.

A slow smirk curls in his voice. “First,I’d take that fucking jersey off you… slowly.” His tone drops lower, rougher. “Then I’d kiss every inch of skin until you were begging.”

You close your eyes as the image floods your mind.

“But since we’re so far apart…” he continues, “I’ll settle for making sure to keep you awake tonight with my mouth in a different way.”

You swallow hard.Asshole. And yet… it’s working. But before you can answer The door to your room creaks open, and before you can react, Shane strolls in, a hoodie draped over his shoulders and his phone in one hand. You’d totally forgot that you’d agreed he could stay over this weekend.

"Yo," he says casually, tossing his bag onto the chair by the desk. "You seen my lucky skate laces? The ones from my last game?"

Your heart is still pounding from Ilya’s voice in your ear. You quickly press mute on the call,hopefully fast enough and try to keep your breathing steady.

"I don’t know where your dumb lucky things are and it’s fucking 22:30pm Shane, look for them tomorrow," you say with an exaggerated eye roll, pulling the covers up just slightly like that’ll hide anything. "And also,knock first!"

He ignores you completely, already rifling through your closet like it’s some kind of treasure hunt “They were with that jersey,” he insists “I left them in the bag with it after I gave it you after the game”

You freeze.Because guess what’s tucked under that very drawer?

A single black glove.

Rozanov's glove.

From their last heated encounter in Montreal,one you’d stupidly kept as a souvenir. You don’t know why.

"Shane." Your voice comes out sharper than intended “Get out of my closet."

He turns,mock offended.“Whoa chillax,Y/N,it’s not like I’m looking for sex toys or something.”

"Oh god shut up and get out!"

He laughs,finally stepping back,but not before giving you that look,the brotherly suspicion that cuts too close to home.

"You good?" He tilts his head."You seem… twitchy."

"Yeah!" You gesture wildly at the door.“Just tired! And violated! Go find your dumb laces somewhere else!"

He holds up both hands. “Fine,fine.I’m gone.” With one last smirk,he shuts the door behind him. You wait three full seconds before unmuting. Only to hear a low,murderous chuckle on the other end…

Rozanov, “Lucky laces… huh? and what sex toys hmm?”

"Fuck off” you grumble, cheeks warm. And he chuckles again,the sound low and rough in your ear.

He's enjoying this too much.

"Hey... when's your next game here?" you ask,tone casual.

"On Wednesday... why?" he asks,feigning nonchalance.

"Just curious." you reply.

"Mmmhmm." He doesn't believe you but there's in his own voice too. "What are you upto, pretty girl?"

You smile,despite yourself. The familiar nickname sends a warm shiver down your spine, even if you'd never admit it. "Wouldn't you like to know?" you tease back.

"... yeah." his voice drops lower. Rough,with a touch of heat that makes your heart skip. "I would."

"Too bad." you murmur,smiling to yourself. "I don't kiss and tell."

He growls,the sound reverberating through the line and straight to your core.

"Tease." He mutters.

"You love it." The words slide out before you can stop them. Dammit. "Oh, I know I do," he murmurs, voice dark and lazy like he’s already imagining it.

You bite your lip, then go for the kill.

“Funny you mention teasing… since I might be wearing something very interesting at the charity ball next week, if you attend that is.” it was a charity event that one of the hockey players were holding and all had been invited. A beat. “Something small that you can insert… and completely under your control.”

Silence.

Then a low, dangerous growl rumbles through the phone. “Y/N.”

You grin.

“And if you’re extra good during that game and don’t piss off shane” you add, voice barely above a whisper, “Maybe I’ll let you press the button yourself.”

“fuckkk,” he breathes rough, strangled and you can feel his restraint cracking from thousands of miles away.

“But until then…” You yawn dramatically. “I’m going to sleep. All alone in this big bed… with just this jersey on”

He lets out a sharp laugh,half fury, half helpless want.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters.

“Sweet dreams,” you whisper sweetly and hang up before he can respond.

Phone down,you stare at the ceiling with a smile playing on your lips.

Game on.

Ilya POV

Ilya stares at the phone in his hand for a few seconds,stunned.

He can't believe you just did that.

You had to be the most infuriating,teasing,perfect girl. His heart beats fast,he runs a hand through his hair,trying to steady himself but it's useless. The image you planted in his mind is too powerful to shake away.

"Fuuuuck, she is going to kill me," he mutters.

He's already thinking about next week.

Flight from Russia to Montreal

The jet hums softly, getting ready to set off. The cabin dimmed. Ilya leans back in his seat, one earbud in, the other dangling,just enough cover. His phone is angled low on his lap, hidden from wandering eyes.A message lights up the screen. A message or two won’t hurt before set off.

Y/N: Still thinking about those lucky laces? Or should I be worried you have them… and what else might’ve been in that drawer of mine?”

A smirk tugs at his lips,small, private. He types one handed, thumb moving fast.

I: “If I had find something else… you’d know. I’d make sure of it”

He hits send and exhales slow,sinking deeper into the seat,his mind already somewhere warmer than this fucking metal tube that will soon be flying over frozen lakes.

Then..

"Who's got you smiling like that?"

Nikita’s voice cuts through,the youngest rookie with a mouth too loud for his own good. He leans over from two rows back,half grinning like he’s about to expose state secrets.Ilya doesn’t look up,right away.His thumb traces the edge of your last text,the teasing tone still echoing in his head like it’s spoken aloud instead of typed.

"Just some girl," he says finally,casual as ice,dark eyes flicking sideways with a smirk that gives nothing real away."You wouldn't know her."

Nikita snorts.“Damn,Rozanov actually likes someone? Thought you only fucked puck bunnies between periods.”

That earns him a glare sharp enough to draw blood,but there's no heat behind it.Ilya just shakes his head,tucks the phone face down beneath his jacket,and leans back again,closing his eyes like he can will himself into silence before he says something stupid. Like how no one else touches him right anymore.How every time another woman tries,he thinks of your laugh.Your bite.The way you challenge him even when your legs are wrapped around him.

But no.One secret at a time.And this?This is not for them to know.Not yet.

Then the plane takes off, engines roaring to life, and the world shrinks to a speck of lights far below as the jet climbs into the darkening sky.He looks out the window, trying to count the stars,but all he can see is the memory of the way your body moved under his hands.The way you moved around him as if you belonged there...Ilya closes his eyes again.This is going to be a long, long flight.

…………..

There's a shift in the air as the plane begins its descent,a little shudder as the jet shucks off a few thousand feet.Ilya blinks,coming back to the present.A glance out the window tells him they're just minutes out now.He exhales,tries to shake the thoughts of you out of his head as the city comes into view.

He needs to focus.

The plane lands with a smooth roll, tires screeching lightly against the runway. Ilya waits, letting the others file out first. When he finally stands, he pulls his phone from his jacket. Airplane mode off. One new message waiting.

Y/N: Safe landing? Or did you crash thinking about me?

He smirks under his breath, thumb hovering,wants to answer right away but then tucks it away without replying. He grabs his bag and steps into the terminal. Montreal greets him with gray skies and a sharp gust of biting wind. He ducks through the terminal and out to the waiting car,sliding into the backseat with a nod to the driver. He feels his phone buzz again as the car rolls away from the airport. He can already guess who it is but resists the urge,tapping his thumb on the leather seat,watching the city passing by outside.

The car weaves through the early evening traffic, heading to the team hotel. The city is alive in a way that only winter brings,lights glittering on snow, holiday music wafting from passing cars, couples walking arm in arm.The phone buzzes in his pocket again,and this time he can't ignore it. His heart jumps as he sees it's from you,and when he opens the message,he has to bite back a growl.

Y/N: “I have something special to show you after tomorrow's game, if you are interested that is”

Y/N: “But only if you win. don’t tell my brother is said that. And if you behave.”

A pause, then another message instantly follows.

Y/N: “And no fighting with my brother. I don’t want a broken jaw distracting you from what I have planned.”

He smirks, slow and dangerous,like he already knows exactly what kind of trouble that mouth gets into.

I: “So it is something worth winning for?”

He waits a beat before sending the next line.

I: “But behaving was never my strong suit… though I might try… for you.”

Then one last text, typed with deliberate slowness.

I: “Just tell me one thing,am I going to see your face the second we’re alone? Or do I have to work for it?”

He hits send and leans back against the seat,a dark fire building in his chest.

Game on indeed.

Then a few minutes later another message appears.

Y/N: “Oh you’ll have to work for it…”

His breath catches.For a man who’s fought ice wars and stared down legends, he feels something dangerously close to being unglued by those words.Ilya closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightens like he can physically hold back the reaction coursing through him.He types slowly,this time with no smirk in his fingers.

I: “You love fucking with my head.”

A pause.

I: “And I’m not promising to behave anymore.”

He powers the phone off then,and tosses it onto the seat beside him,like it’s safer that way. Because if you keep talking like that?He won’t make it through tomorrow's game without crossing the ice straight for Shane,just so he can look him dead in the eye while knowing exactly what happens after the final buzzer.

"Rozanov." The rough voice cuts through the silence.Ilya blinks, comes out of his head to see the car has stopped. The hotel stretches out in front of them,glass and light against the darkening sky.He hadn’t even noticed they arrived.He exhales,tries to find his bearings as the driver climbs out and opens the door.Ilya steps out. Cold night air greets him.

He doesn’t text you.

Not even when he’s in the hotel room, shirt off, standing by the window with a bottle of water and his phone face down on the dresser like it’s evidence.

He tries to focus.

But then his old flame from St. Petersburg slides into his DMs,bold as ever, sending photos that used to make him hard without thought. Now? He scrolls past them without reply, thumb lingering instead on your gallery folder deep in his phone’s vault. To that one picture of you laughing, not even nudes, but your cheeks pink, eyes bright… completely unaware he’d snapped it mid conversation. He stares at it longer than he should.

Then shuts everything down.Lights out by 11. Discipline is armor tonight.

—

Morning comes,sharp and electric.

The rink is buzzing early,pre game warmups for both teams scheduled close to each other before media hits and coaches draw lines for battle plans later that day.His team filters onto the ice first,but Ilya lingers near the entrance,rather watching than skating right away,because you are out there. Must of had an earlier training practice. On blades as sharp as the secrets we keep. Even here,in leggings and gloves, your hair curly,your presence is like a wrecking ball to him. Your movements? Clean,fierce,determined.A figure skater sharpened into something sharper,a blade wrapped in silk no one sees but him now.

And yes,some of his teammates notice too.One mutters something low about “Hollander’s sister looking dangerous today.”

Ilya doesn’t correct him.Without thinking,he says quietly,

“She always does.”

The second you push off from the ice, glove wiping sweat from your brow, one of Ilya’s younger teammates,a cocky kid lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. Your brother really should keep you locked up you know?”

Someone snorts. “ save a few of those moves for us love.”

Ilya doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.

But his jaw clenches so hard it aches.Then you turn slightly as you pass them on your way to the exit and flip them off with that same effortless grace, one gloved hand lifting in the air without breaking stride.The team erupts in laughter.But not Ilya.No,he watches the way your hips sway under those fitted training pants,the bounce of your curls beneath the hooded jacket pulled tight around you. And something possessive flickers behind his ribs,hot and silent and dangerous. He should look away.

He doesn't. Because while they see just Shane Hollander's sister...He sees what should be his.

Your POV

Later that night, The arena is electric,crackling with that raw, live wire energy only a rivalry game can bring. You’re in your usual spot behind the visitor’s bench with your family,close enough to see every shift, every hit,every flicker of Ilya’s icy focus under the glare of the lights.Shane plays hard,always does but tonight it's like he’s fighting ghosts. One bad turnover leads to a clean Russian counter. Then another. Ilya doesn’t score but he sets up two goals with passes so sharp they slice through defense like butter,his voice rising in guttural Russian as he barks orders across the ice. And that final buzzer sounds,Boston wins.You feel it before you even see him,that pull,invisible and magnetic as Ilya peels off his helmet and skates toward the tunnel,his gaze scanning,burning until it finds you through the glass.

You don't smile.

Not yet.

But your eyes say everything. Later.

—

Post game showers run long,media scrums drag on,and Shane barely looks at you when he finally trudges out,wet hair stuck to his forehead,proud and bruised in all the right ways. Your family had gone home with Shane, you said you were meeting up with some friends after the game. But once they were gone,you linger near player exit two outside the arena. But not close to be seen,a bag slung over one shoulder,tapping your boot like impatience is an art form.Then,the door swings open.Ilya is dressed in jeans now,a hoodie half up,but eyes already locked onto yours like gravity just shifted its center to this exact point on earth where we are both standing now.

Ilya stops a foot away. “You gonna tell me what’s in that bag or do I have to search you?”His voice is a low slide through the night.

You lift your chin, a smirk playing at your lips. “Depends. Were you good?”

He takes a step closer, slow and deliberate like he owns the space between heartbeats. “I won.” His eyes flick over you,dark, hungry. “Didn’t start any fights. Didn’t touch your brother more than the handshake required.” A pause. Then quieter “I even smiled for the cameras like a civilized man.”

“So polite,” you tease, turning slightly as if to walk away.He grabs your wrist,gentle but firm and pulls you back just enough that his breath ghosts over your ear.

“Then I deserve my prize.”

You shiver, but don’t pull away.

“Maybe,” you say softly, holding his gaze in the dim glow of the arena’s exit light. "But we’re not doing this here."

His thumb brushes your pulse point.

"Then where?"

You tilt your head toward the quiet street beyond. "My place." Your voice drops to a whisper only he can hear "If you're still behaving."

"Y/N," he murmurs as he falls into step beside you down the sidewalk “your place?” he seem surprised.

"yess Ilya? where else?" you mutter. You suppose it had always been hotel rooms, his place wherever the games were placed.

He falls into easy stride beside you,shoulders slung forward against the cold.The city moves around you,taxis and late goers hurrying for last calls or warm beds.But for a moment,it feels like it's just you two,walking through the night. He looks good like that against the shadows,wind in his hair,hood pulled low. You can feel the heat of him even with the space between you. You don't pull away when he reaches for your hand. You guide him through quiet streets,the city blurring to a hum around you. The only real focus right now is the heat of him next to you,the rough brush of his thumb against your own.A silent walk in companionable silence,only broken when you turn off the sidewalk toward a small house set in the back of an old neighborhood. Ilya slows, watching the warm glow through the windows,the streetlights flickering behind him.

You glance back,a question in your lifted eyebrows.

"don’t worry, I’m not going to murder you”

He laughs,low,rough in his throat,before following you up the walk.The house greets you warm and homey,with photos lining the halls and cozy couches. You close the door behind him,and then it's just silence and him.

Alone.

"Make yourself at home," you say, shrugging off your jacket and tossing it over the couch. "Want a drink? We can order food.?"

He’s already looking around,eyes tracing the framed photos on the wall,Shane's rookie year,his first trophy,your completion photos, photos with the family at Christmas like normal happy people. Then he turns to you,his gaze heavy with something that isn't desire just yet.

But close.

"Yeah," he says finally, voice rough. "water and uh yeah we can order."

You nod toward the kitchen."Help yourself.I’ll be out in a sec.Don’t snoop."

A smirk tugs at his lips as he moves past you into the dim light of the living room."Wouldn’t dream of it."

You roll your eyes and disappear down the hallway,to your bedroom.The bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, you just stand there, heart thudding. You pull out the jersey from your drawer, enemy colours,black with bold white numbers, 81, his number, his name. The fabric slips over your head,your arms sliding into sleeves too long,your thighs exposed beneath the hem.

No panties.No bra.

Just Ilya’s name stitched across your back,and the quiet thrill of knowing exactly what this would do to him. You take a breath,touch your lips once with two fingers...then open the door.He’s on the couch,his phone in hand but looks up instantly,the second he hears you step out.And freezes.Water bottle halfway to his mouth.Eyes go dark.Jaw locks tight enough to crack bone. He swallows.His throat clicks.His hands are gripping the bottle now,fingers white.Your breath stutters as you take in the look on his face.He's staring at you like he's never seen you before,like he's seeing a hallucination.He doesn't move when you walk toward him,and he sure as hell doesn't look away.His gaze is rough as he watches you cross the room,the jersey shifting as you move,showing more and more skin with each step.

When you reach him, you take the water from his hands, set it on the table deliberately. His eyes haven’t shifted from the jersey once,and you feel the heat of his gaze like a fire.

You move closer.

He could reach out,grab you,pull you onto his lap right now and you wouldn’t resist.Instead, he just watches you with that dark,wild gaze. "Like what you see?" Your voice is soft,and the smile on your lips is too cocky.He stares for one more long minute.Then he lunges.He grabs you by the hips and pulls you down so you're straddling his legs,his arms around you, holding you to him in one single, fluid motion.You gasp,your hands automatically grab his shoulders. His head lowers,and he buries his nose in your neck,inhaling deep like he's trying to breathe in your scent,and you can feel his hands,tight,unyielding against your hips as his thumbs press into the bare flesh exposed by the jersey.Your breath quickens.His lips brush your ear.

"You did this on purpose."He murmurs,voice rough.

"Mmm," you say, arching into him slightly,a breathy sound that is more a moan than a word.He growls.Your skin is burning,your own hands moving over his shoulders,tangling in his hair. His lips trail down your neck,teeth against your throat and you shiver,back arching in his grip, hips rocking into his. He grips harder,pulls you down,makes you grind into the hard lines of the muscles in his thighs,and you hear him curse low under his breath,the sound sending fire through your veins.

Your head falls back,exposing your neck to his mouth.He bites down,teeth harsh enough to mark,and you can feel his grin when you let out a sharp gasp.He's breathing hard already,his hands skimming up your back,over the jersey,skin burning hot under his palms.

His voice is ragged in your ear, "I'm going to ruin you."

"Promises,promises," you say,and your voice almost doesn't have the steadiness to match the words.He laughs low,a breathless sound.Then your back is against the couch cushions,your legs around his waist,his mouth hot on your throat and you can feel him everywhere,everywhere except where you need him.

Your nails rake across his back.He hisses,but doesn't pull away. "Fucking Tease," he growls, voice dark and ragged against your skin, one hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, rough fingers just shy of where you're already aching. "You wear my jersey like this on purpose and expect me to just sit here”

Your breath hitches as his thumb brushes over you,just once, a slow, maddening press to your clit, realising you had no pants on.

"You're soaked," he murmurs, like it's an accusation. Like he’s winning.You moan softly,involuntarily,and his eyes flash with triumph. "You did this to yourself," he says, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in smoke. His thumb circles again,slowly,maddeningly. "Walking out here in my jersey? Like a fucking altar call?" He leans down,his breath hot against your ear. "Like you were made for me?"

You can't speak.Can't think.Just feel,everywhere.He slips two fingers inside you without warning,and you cry out,back arching off the couch.

"Look at me," he demands.Your eyes snap open,and he’s watching you with that dark intensity,no mercy,just hunger and control and something deeper that neither of us can name right now. You stare down the dark well of his gaze, and the world seems to spin around you, everything tipping off its axis until you're falling,falling,falling, and he's the only thing in focus, the only solid point in this mad world.

"You're mine," he says flatly,voice just a rough edge of command. "No one else gets to see you like this." His fingers crook inside you, pressing deep, and you almost lose all control. "Answer me." He's watching you so closely. Waiting.

You bite back a moan. "No one."

"No one else," he echoes,the command in his voice like a lash. "You understand me?"

You can barely get the words out,the world blurring at the edges. "Yes. God,yes."

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dark velvet against your skin. His thumb presses harder now,in time with his fingers, and you're coming apart,shattering beneath him like glass in a fire.

You cry out,his name torn from your lips without thought.And he doesn't stop.Not when you're trembling.Not when you beg.

Not until you’re gasping for air and your body goes slack under his hands. Only then does he slow,withdrawing gently,his fingers gliding out of you as he watches the aftermath ripple across your face.He brings those fingers to his mouth,sucking them clean without breaking eye contact,dark,glossy eyes holding yours like a brand.

Your chest heaves, skin flushed, every nerve still humming.

You can’t look away. Can’t speak.

He leans in slow,too slow and presses a kiss to your collarbone, gentle for once. A contrast that makes your throat tighten.

Then “Now,”his voice is rough again, “I’m going to fuck you, while you are wearing my name”

"Mmm," you say, your voice a breathless hum. "Promised me you would."

He smirks against your skin dark, dangerous, utterly undone and in one smooth motion, flips you beneath him on the couch.Your legs part for him instinctively. He doesn’t rush. No,he takes his time unzipping his jeans just enough to free himself, hard and heavy against your thigh. One hand grips your hip to hold you down as the other tugs the jersey up around your waist.

You’re bare beneath it.Exposed.Ready.

He lines up slow,tip just grazing your entrance and holds still.

"Look at me," he growls again.

You do.

And then he sinks in deep with one brutal thrust that steals every thought from your mind except him,his name on his jersey over your shoulder,his eyes locked on yours,his body claiming yours again and again like it’s always belonged here.A moan rips from your throat and he doesn’t move at first,jaw clenched so tight you think it might break as he lets you feel all of him,fills every inch of space like punishment and worship all at once.

"You feel that?" His voice is raw,ravaged."This? is all for you”

You can't speak,but nod,breath hitching as tears prick the corners ofyour eyes,not from pain,but something deeper.

"You’re mine," he growls, starting to move, slow, deep strokes that drag across every nerve. "Say it."

Your fingers claw at his back, nails leaving red trails. You shake your head slightly, teasing even now.He chuckles darkly and pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in harder, making you cry out.

"Say it."

Tears spill over.

"Ilya..." It's a whimper. A surrender.

He leans down,nose brushing yours,his voice dropping to a whisper only you could ever hear,"No one else. Say it."

You gasp as he thrusts again,powerful,certain.

"Yours... I'm yours."

"Good," he breathes, his forehead dropping to yours,his hips never slowing. He’s relentless,every stroke deeper than the last,each one carving his name into your skin without a pen in sight.You cling to him,legs tightening around his waist,fingers tangled in his hair as the world narrows to this:the heat between you,the sound of skin on skin,the quiet thud of the couch against the wall with every thrust.

He kisses you then hard,messy,no grace,tongue sliding against yours like he’s starving. And maybe he is. Maybe this is what happens when you hide how you feel for years,till it all explodes into something reckless and real.

His hand slips between your bodies again,his thumb circling your clit just right,and suddenly,you're coming with a sob,his name ripped from your throat like a prayer.He follows instantly,a guttural groan tearing from deep in his chest as he buries himself inside you,pulsing hot and thick,sure and claiming until there's nothing left but us,tangled breathless,on this couch,in this house,in this moment that feels too big to survive.For long after,he doesn't move.Just holds you close,breathing hard,nose pressed into your neck like if he lets go,you'll vanish.And quietly,so quietly it almost gets lost in the dark.

"I kept my promise."

You don't ask which one.Winning.Behaving.Not starting a fight with Shane.Or that final unspoken vow written behind every touch. I won’t let go.

The night is still quiet outside. Your chest has finally stilled,breath evening out with his,your heart beating slow finally in perfect time to his. His forehead is still pressed against yours,his face buried in your neck, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his back,your mind still too hazy to form coherent thought beyond the feel of him,everywhere.There's a long moment of silence between you,the world held so still you couldn't say if seconds or hours are passing. It's him who breaks it finally,voice a low hum against your skin that's more felt than heard. "I should leave."

You don't say anything at first,just turn your head and press a kiss to his hair,almost involuntarily,before you catch yourself.He lifts his head then,meeting your gaze as he pulls away,not quite leaving,just enough to see your face.His eyes are dark,focused, searching.

"But I don't want to."

"Stay," you say,your voice hushed. "Just for tonight."

His eyes darken,a heat there that makes your breath stutter.He lifts a hand up,brushes a strand of hair from your face,tracing your lips softly with his thumb, as if he's still trying to memorize every part of you all over again.He swallows,his throat bobbing like he's fighting something much more than just himself.

He leans in, rests his forehead against yours again,brief, tender and just as you think he’s going to say yes, his jaw tightens.A beat.Then another.He pulls back slowly. Too slowly. Rolls off you without a word and stands, already tugging up his jeans, movements sharp with something that isn’t anger,regret.

You sit up slightly on the couch,the jersey slipping off one shoulder,hair wild from him,touch still humming under your skin. “Ilya…”

He won’t look at you when he zips up.

“I can’t,” he says roughly,staring at the floor like it holds answers neither of us have yet named.“Not like this.”

Your throat closes.

“Ilya” you whisper.“This was… real.”

He finally looks at you then,his eyes full of storm and fire and fear so much fear. For what saying yes could mean.

“I’m sorry y/n,” he says lowly,reaching for his jacket.“If I stay….” he didn’t finish that sentence. As if he stays tonight,something changes that can't be undone.And Ilya Rozanov doesn't run from fights on ice...but love?Love terrifies him more than any rival ever could.So without another word,he turns.

Opens the door.Steps into the cold night without looking back.

————————-

Taglist:

It's the annual charity ball that one of the hockey players and just so happens to be a very good friend of yours, Scott hunter. Most hockey players attend from different regions and countries. To Ilya, he saw it as an excuse for the elite and well off to gather together beneath glittering chandeliers and expensive lights to flaunt their wealth,drink expensive champagne and bid on donations. Ilya knows it's nothing more than a show,a chance for rich men and women to pat themselves on the back for good deeds while cameras flash and press scrambles for the best interviews.

Ilya stands near the edge of the ballroom, a glass of untouched champagne in his hand, jaw tight as he watches the glittering farce unfold.The room is all sharp tuxedos and designer gowns, laughter too loud and smiles too practiced. He hates this. Hates how it feels like everyone’s playing a part,everyone except him.

But even worse?He can’t stop thinking about that night. The way you arched beneath him. The way you whispered his name like it meant something real. The way you asked him to stay…And he left.Regret claws at his ribs with every breath. He’d texted you,once, then again but your silence cut deeper than any words could’ve.You didn’t answer.

Because he walked away when he should’ve stayed.Because fear tasted like blood in the back of his throat.Because saying yes would mean admitting that what they had wasn't just lust or rivalry or some dangerous game that you’d both been playing.

It was something bigger.

Something that terrified him more than losing on ice ever could. He’d not known love really, until you. And now here she is,across the room in a deep red dress that hugs her curves,the kind of look that makes men forget their own names and she hasn't so much as glanced in his direction all evening.

Good.

Better this way…

Then Scott Hunter the ever charming hockey team mate who organises these events. With a larger than life grin fixed on his face pulls her into frame with Shane,talking to a group of wealthy donors from Scott's charity foundation,handsome,silverhaired men who lean just a little too close when they speak to her,buying time under polite smiles. It’s then we he overhears a particular conversation that makes him want to throw up.

“So Y/N is there someone special in your life? Or are we allowed to dream?”

Laughter follows,but not hers,not really. She hesitates,a flicker in her eyes before giving one soft “not right now” before another man chimes in.

“Then I'd be honored to take Miss Hollander out for dinner sometime.”

They're laughing again,pushing gently,expectantly,and she doesn’t say no because how do you reject generosity without sounding cold? The world narrows around him as those words ring in his ears. Not right now. And she fucking said yes.

He can feel the blood thumping in his head,the heat of jealousy turning to ice at the thought of anyone else taking you to dinner, touching you, hearing that soft laugh he knows is only for him. He's on the verge of just crossing the room, dragging you away,to hell with cameras and media, when a hand clamps down on his shoulder.It's his father,looking every inch the part in an expensive black suit. Hiding his illness, you’d never tell. Ilya starts, snapped out of his anger fueled fugue as he meets his father's gaze, cool and assessing, as always.

"Father," he murmurs, voice rougher than he intends.

His father gives him a sharp look. "You seem… tense, son."

Ilya tightens his grip on the champagne flute.

"Just bored of all this," he mutters, eyes flickering back to you across the room, surrounded by that group of men.

His father follows his gaze.

Then pauses.

A beat too long.

"You know her?" His voice drops, low with warning.Ilya doesn't answer at first. He can’t. Because just then, you laugh soft and warm,tilting your head as one of those men leans in a little too close, his hand brushing the small of your back like he has the right. Something inside Ilya snaps.

"Only casually from games," he lies through clenched teeth. "Hollander’s sister."

His father studies him for another long moment before a knowing smirk curls at the edge of his lips,a look that says you’re full of shit,without saying it at all.

"Come," he says smoothly."You will introduce me."

Ilya's stomach drops.

“Father—”

“Now.”

His father leads the way across the room,through the crowd of glittering lights and smiling faces, like he does this every day. Ilya follows,a muscle ticking in his jaw, feeling like he's walking into a trap. As they reach the other side, he makes the introductions, his voice as cool as an ice rink.

"Father, this is Shane Hollander's sister, Y/N. Y/N, this is my father, Grigori Rozanov." completely blanking the man next to her.

And Grigori,of course, takes your hand with a charming smile.

"A pleasure."

The man next to her, a son of one of the donors with a tailored tux and confidence too thick for the room, shifts slightly at the interruption,his hand still lingering near her lower back.

"Actually," he says smoothly, voice polite but edged "we were in the middle of a conversation."

Ilya doesn't look at him.Doesn't acknowledge him at all.Instead,he steps forward until he’s shoulder to shoulder with you,closing space like he has every right.

"And now she’s in a new one."

The tone is calm. Deadly.His father raises an eyebrow,but says nothing.Then she finally looks up.

Our eyes meet for the first time all night,dark,furious,restrained and something flutters in them,hurt? anger more likely knowing Y/n.Then she turns back to your father and offers a small smile,"It is an honor to meet you Mr.Rozanov."

"Y/N, is it?" His father says, his voice smooth as aged vodka. He holds your hand a second longer than necessary, eyes sharp with quiet calculation. "My son speaks of the Hollander boy often. Never mentioned you, are you yourself in the area."

Ilya’s jaw locks so tight he feels a vein pulse in his temple.And she still can’t look at him. "Yes, sir." She smiles politely." I'm a figure skater. Actually, I'll be competing in the upcoming season."

His father’s smile deepens, that strange glint in his eyes. "Impressive," he says, "the next Olympics, no doubt?"

She nods, and Ilya can practically feel her pride.

"I hope so," she says simply, but the way her shoulders straighten, chin lifting a little higher, is answer enough. "The qualifying competitions will begin in the next few months."

A spark of genuine interest flashes across his father’s face. Which with his illness, was music to his eyes and ears.

"A serious competitor then," he murmurs, his gaze flickering over her, calculating.She meets his gaze without flinching, and for a brief moment, Ilya sees a hint of the fire he knows so well in her eyes. "Yes, sir," she replies quietly, holding his gaze like she's holding her ground.

He laughs softly,a sound like gravel and smoke, not that ilya heard it often anymore. "I admire that. Determination is a rare trait. Especially for someone so young, maybe you could get to know my son and teach him a few things."

A flicker of something flares through her eyes, something like hurt or anger, but she masks it flawlessly.

"I'm sure I'm no match for your son," she says dryly. "But thank you for the time Mr.Rozanov."

A beat of silence settles like a blanket, and then his grin widens. "The pleasure was all mine, Miss Hollander." He gives a slight bow. “But I won’t keep you from your… companion.” He gives the donor’s son a polite nod that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“he’s not her companion” Ilya mutters under his breathe, it makes him feel sick. And just like that,his father glides away into the crowd, leaving Ilya standing there like he’s been gut punched.Silence.Then you finally look at him.Eyes sharp.Lips tight.

Voice low enough only he can hear as you pass.

“What are you playing at?”

" what am i playing at?," he mutters, voice rough, barely holding himself together.

But you’re already moving away, heels clicking against marble,a line of fire in your wake. And that man,smug bastard falls into step beside you, hand sliding low on your back again like he owns the space.Ilya sees red.He doesn’t think.

Just moves.In two strides he’s behind them,closing the gap like a storm rolling in. The man says something soft and laughing,you don’t pull away fast enough,and that’s all it takes.Ilya grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around hard.

“Don’t touch her,” he says, voice low, rough as broken glass.The man stumbles back, eyes wide with shock then flickering to annoyance. “Who the hell do you think you are? She doesn’t mind”

“She minds,” Ilya snaps, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

You step forward instantly. "Ilya stop”your voice sharp with anger and something else,but before you can finish,the guy smirks.

“Oh? And what are you to her?” he taunts, straightening his tie like this is some petty game. “she’s mine tonight”

Ilya doesn't hesitate.

He throws the punch.

Fast,hard,straight to the jaw.The crack echoes across half the ballroom,and suddenly,everyone turns.Gasps ripple through the crowd.Waiters freeze mid step.Champagne flutes tremble in hands.The man staggers,recovering fast,his face twisting into rage as he lunges back,but Ilya's already in motion,hands up ready for war. Then arms are dragging him back. one of his team members, then Hollander is off to her in an instance.

"Whoa whoa WHOA!" Shane’s voice cuts through,"ROZANOV! What THE FUCK?!"Ilya is then dragged back,the guys muscles straining against Rozanov’s fury while guests shout,"Stop!" "Security!" "Are they insane?"

Your POV

You’re shouting too now,fists clenched at your sides. His eyes are locked on you wild, desperate, raw as you stand there shaking,fists clenched,hair slightly loose from its elegant twist like you’re barely holding yourself together too.Shane follows his gaze to you,his expression confused."Y/n… are you okay?"

You nod sharply,"I’m fine."

Then your eyes snap back to Ilya, stomping towards him, grabbing his arm so hard his teammate lets him go, you lean in. "What are you fucking doing?" Your voice is low,but it cuts deeper than any shout could."You don't get to do this” still so silent, he walked away. What began as a secret and whatever it was now. He walked away. The words land like a slap.And for once,Rozanov has no defense.No cool smirk,no icy detachment.Just silence. Breathing hard,staring at the woman who owns every broken part of him without even trying.

His jaw works, words stuck in his throat, but all that comes out is a rough whisper. "He was touching you…"

Your eyes burn."And?” He flinches,the words a dagger in his ribs.You take a step closer,rage flaring. "You don't get to do that and not here, not now” still whispering.

He doesn’t look at Shane. Doesn't care about the crowd, the cameras flashing at the edges of the room, the murmurs spreading like wildfire.All he sees is you.Breathing hard. Furious. Beautiful.And when he speaks, his voice is raw.

"I do get to," he says lowly. like smoke after a gunshot. Anger sparks in your eyes you try grabbing his arm and aim to drag him away into a small room, he’s not budging at all.

"You're making a scene" you lean in, holding that fake smile but seething on the inside.

He scoffs, running a hand through his hair, eyes glittering with barely contained rage. "Like I give a shit?"

You grind your teeth,fighting a losing battle to stay calm. "Rozanov"

But he doesn't give you time to finish, he grabs your hand and pulls you away, through the crowds, ignoring startled gasps and curious eyes. Shane calls your name as you pass, but Ilya doesn't slow, his grip like iron. He shoves open the first door he sees, dragging you inside with him.You stumble through the door, heart pounding in your chest. The room is small, empty, dimly lit.You spin on him the moment the door slams shut. "You can't just..”

His eyes lock on yours, burning with a mix of anger and something else. "Shut up."

Your jaw snaps shut. The air around you feels charged, like the room is too small for the tension sparking between you. You fold your arms trying to ignore how your heart is still racing. You'll be damned if he knows even now, he has any effect on you. But before you can say anything, he steps closer, closing the space between you until you're backed against the door. His eyes roam over you, dark and intense.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" His voice is gravelly. Low. You swallow, hating the shiver that runs down your spine. "No," you say through gritted teeth. "I'm not hurt."

He steps closer, hands on the door on either side of you, caging you in. The room feels suddenly too warm.He is so close now you can feel the heat radiating from him. He leans down so his face is inches from yours, breath brushing your cheek. "Good."

"Because if I had to watch him lay another hand on you..." He lets the threat hang,voice rough, raw. Then his hands drop to your waist, not gentle.

"You let him."

Your breath hitches."I didn't let him do anything”

"You didn’t stop him either," he snaps,eyes blazing."You stood there. Laughing. Letting him touch you like you belonged to anyone but..”

"Like I belonged to you?" You shove at his chest,his words stoking a fire inside you."Don’t be delusional,Rozanov! You walked out! Remember”

He flinches,but doesn't back down.

"No one gets to touch what's mine,"he growls.

"And who decided that?"you fire back,breathless now."You don't get to leave and then act like this!"

"I was scared!" The words explode from him,sudden,fierce,honest in a way that steals the fight right out of you.Silence crashes between you.His eyes are wide now,ruthless and vulnerable all at once.

"I was afraid...of how much I wanted to stay."

You just stand there, eyes wide, heart thumping in your chest. You never thought you'd hear those words from his lips.

He lets out a bitter laugh, running hands through his hair. "I've always been good at running. From fights. From relationships. Hell, any kind of real commitment. But you…" He looks at you again, gaze heavy, almost reverent."You're the first person I've ever regretted leaving"

He steps closer, hands moving up to cup your face. Rough, yet gentle.

"Goddammit, Y/N. I want you so much it hurts. More than I ever wanted anything."

Your heart skips a beat.You grip the front of his tux, suddenly unsure who's holding who. "I don't do this," he says, voice low and ragged against your skin. "I don’t...feel like this. Not for anyone. But you..”His thumbs brush your cheeks, eyes searching yours like he’s memorizing every inch.

"You’re under my skin. In my head. Every damn day." A beat. His breath hitches so slight, so uncharacteristically raw that it steals the air from your lungs.

"I see you, and I can’t touch you, be with you the way I want and it wrecks me." He lets out a shaky breath, almost a laugh without humor. "Because I don’t want you to be a secret”

He leans his forehead down to touch yours.

“fuck I hate myself for it” Silence hums between you, thick and trembling.Then softer,the kind of quiet that only happens when someone lays their soul bare,he whispers

"I think...no, I know..I'm starting to fall in love with you."His hands tighten slightly on your face as if afraid you'll vanish.

"And yes it scares the hell out of me."

He waits, hands still cradling your face, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Say something,” he murmurs, voice breaking just slightly. “Anything. Yell at me. Hit me. Just… don’t stand there looking at me like that”

But you can’t move.Can’t speak.Ilya Rozanov the man who never shows weakness, who fights every battle alone,begging you to say something after confessing he’s falling.Your lips part,but nothing comes out.

He lets out a rough sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.“You’re killing me.”

You can't find the words. So you don't speak.Instead, you surge forward and kiss him.Hard. Desperate. Punishing.Your hands twist in his tie, dragging him down as the fire that's been building finally erupts between you anger,fear,longing,all colliding in a mess of teeth and tongue and breathless need.He groans into your mouth,hands sliding from your face to grip your waist,pulling you flush against him like he'll never let go and then the door slams open.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"Shane stands there,his face twisted in disbelief.Your brother’s voice cuts through the haze like ice water.

You break apart instantly,staggering back,but Ilya doesn’t move fast enough.He still has one hand on your hip,his chest rising hard,barely hiding what just happened.

"Shane.."you start,your voice shaky but defiant

"No." He holds up a hand,eyes flicking between both of you,incredulous."Nope. You do not get to explain this away." His gaze lands on Rozanov,pure fire behind it.“And YOU?! Seriously?! My fucking sister?!”

Ilya straightens,suddenly calm again,cold mask sliding back into place but his eyes…they’re still warm with everything he just said.

"I know,"he says simply,no excuse,no lie.

"You touched my sister?" Shane snaps, stepping forward, voice shaking with rage. "You think this is some kind of joke? Some rivalry flex? Huh? Was that the plan all along screw with me by getting close to her?"

Your stomach drops. "Shane, it’s not like that"

"Then what is it like?!" he explodes. "Because I just saw you two locked in a closet looking like you’ve been doing this for months! How long has this been going on?"

Silence.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.Ilya steps forward then,taller,stronger,facing Shane head on despite the fury radiating off him."It started as nothing,"he says,cold and clear."But it's not nothing anymore." You glare at him as if to say really, that’s all you could muster up. Shane lets out a harsh laugh."Oh wow. That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No," Ilya admits,his voice low but unshaken."Don’t look at her Like she did something wrong,for wanting someone who actually sees her."

Shane freezes,his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitches.

"She’s not some trophy,Rozanov!" he growls."She’s my sister!"

"And I’m not your enemy," Ilya fires back,stepping closer until they’re nearly chest to chest,your brother visibly seething but refusing to back down.

"No?" Shane scoffs."You've been trying to beat me at everything.Was fucking my sister just another way to win?" Ilya doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t blink.

Then he does something unexpected.He laughs.Quiet.A sad twist of his lips.

"Not even close."

"Y/n means more than winning," Ilya says, voice low but sharp as a blade. "More than the game. More than pride. More than you or me."He doesn't look at Shane when he says it.His eyes stay locked on you.

"I don’t care about beating you," he continues, still quiet. "I care about her. And if that makes me a threat… then fine."The room feels smaller now, the weight of everything pressing in.

Shane studies him, his face unreadable. The seconds stretch out like hours as the two men stand there, silent and tense.

"You really care about her?" Shane finally asks. His voice sounds almost raw.

Ilya holds his gaze. "If you're asking whether I'm using her to get to you," he says, each word like a bullet,"the answer's no."

Shane's shoulders slump slightly, tension easing. "You hurt her and I'll break your damn neck."

Ilya nods.

A sharp,serious gesture. No smart remark,no arrogant smirk.Just promise.

Shane looks between the two of you again, his expression hardening in a way that makes your heart ache."You could've told me you know. About whatever this is."

Your mouth goes dry."I’m not sorry if that’s what you are looking for” you say defiantly. Shane opens his mouth to respond, then stops.He looks at you, really looks at you,and his face softens just slightly.

"No," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know you're not sorry."

You hold your ground, chin lifting stubbornly, but the defiance falters a little under your brother's gaze. Shane finally sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Goddamnit, Y/n. When you decide to do something, you really go all in."

Guilt pricks at you, but you shove it aside. "I don't see the point in doing things halfway," you retort.

He gives a short, reluctant laugh. "Yeah, well. That's you."

His eyes flick back to Ilya, still wary but the fire’s dimmed. "Just...be real with her," he says quietly."No games."

Ilya doesn’t flinch."Never was with her," he says simply.Silence settles again.Heavier now.Not angry,just raw,human.Then Shane shakes his head,muttering,"Jesus christ" as he turns to leave,but not before shooting one last look at you.

"Don't make me regret not punching him in the face." The door slams shut, leaving you and Ilya alone. The silence is deafening, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy between you.Finally, Ilya lets out a deep exhale,running a hand through his hair.

"That went better than I expected," he says, a trace of dark humor in his voice. You step closer, punching him lightly in the chest, a mix of anger and relief making your words shake.

"You have a strange idea of going well," you manage, voice uneven. He grins then, a quick flash of teeth,the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Hey, look on the bright side," he teases. "Your brother didn’t actually kill me."

You scoff. "Only because he likes me more than he dislikes you apparently."

Ilya feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart. "I'm hurt."

A laugh surprises you, slipping free before you can stop it. "Don't get too cocky," you say, trying to stay cool but failing miserably. "His threat about breaking your neck was pretty serious."

He steps closer, eyes glinting. "Oh, I'm shivering in my boots."

"Or I’ll break your nose," you mutter.He smirks, leaning down until his mouth hovers near your ear. "Oh? Now you I am scared of." His voice drops, teasing."You’ve always had a mean right hook."

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. “god you are a prick.”

He chuckles, breath warm against your skin. "And yet you're still here."

You give him a sidelong glance, fighting a smile."Someone's gotta keep your ego in check."

He steps back, eyebrow raised. "Is that what you've been doing all this time? Keeping me humble?"

"Exactly," you reply with mock sincerity. "It's a public service really."

He laughs,the sound rich and deep. "A public service. Of course."

Silence falls again, this time softer. More intimate.You're suddenly aware of how close you are.Ilya's gaze flicks to your mouth, just for a second. Then back to your eyes.

The heat in the room seems to tighten,coiling around you. You swallow, trying to sound casual.

"So... now what?"

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "I assume we go back out there and act like nothing happened."

You snort. "Right. Nothing at all, say that to the camera men who got full coverage of your swing"

He takes a step closer. Close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

"They got good angles, at least?" he teases, eyes glittering. You roll your eyes, trying not to show how his proximity affects you. "You'd probably think so."

He lets out a low rumble of laughter, the sound making goosebumps rise on your skin. "You underestimate my ego. Anything less than perfect is unacceptable."

You scoff, trying to stay cool but your heart traitorously speeding up just a touch. "Of course. Perfection is your middle name after all."

"You're not wrong there," he says, a smirk on his lips.You're about to retort but words die in your throat when he steps even closer,so close you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His eyes hold yours, dark and intense, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a moment.

"You know what would be perfect?" he murmurs. Your heart skips a beat, but you manage to keep your voice steady. "Oh yeah? What?"

His hand finds your waist, tugging you closer until there's no space left between you.

"Me," he whispers, his lips brushing yours with every word. "You. Kissing me right now or me fucking you,either one will do."

And just like that he leans in and kisses you, then he bites your lower lip, soft and sharp and teasing all at once.You gasp.Then shove him hard in the chest.

"Asshole!"

He laughs at the look on your face,a real laugh this time,not the cocky smirk you're used to.

"God,you're cute when you're mad at me," he teases.

You scowl. "Shut it." He raises an eyebrow,still grinning. "Or what? You'll hit me again?"

You huff, trying to look annoyed but the heat in your cheeks betrays you. "Don't tempt me, Rozanov."

He pulls you in fast, one arm locking around your waist, the other tangling in your hair as his lips find yours again,deep, possessive, mine.You gasp into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders.Then he spins you,sudden and smooth and suddenly your back is pressed to his chest, his mouth at the crook of your neck. Hot breath skates over skin. You shiver.

"well..," he murmurs against you, voice low and rough with want. "Other than wanting to fuck you...and love you like I should’ve been doing this whole time..." His teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

"...I’d actually like to take my girl on a proper date."

Your heart stutters at his words..."Your girl?" you manage to whisper, trying to sound unaffected. He grins against your skin, a rough scrape of stubble. "That's right. My girl."

Your heart swells at the words. Not just because of the way he says it,that low,husky tone that makes you weak in the knees but because he actually means it.You turn to face him, eyes locked on his.

"A date?" you repeat, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. "Like...a real date?"He smiles,that cocky arrogant smirk you both know and love.

"A real date," he says easily. "No secrets,no hiding. Just us."

"Just us," you repeat, your voice soft, almost wondering.

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle. "First time I’ve wanted that with anyone."

Your breath catches. "Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them."

"I mean every word," he says quietly. Then smirks. “And yes, i do plan to kiss you on this date too and a whole lot more after that.”

You roll your eyes but can't help smirking too. "I should hope so," you echo, trying to sound cheeky but your heart's doing somersaults.He laughs,the sound warm and low, before his expression turns serious. He takes your face in his hands, eyes searching yours. "This is real. You know that, right? I'm sick of pretending it isn't"

You lean into his touch, feeling the weight of his words. "I know," you whisper. And you do. For the first time, it doesn't feel like some whirlwind affair, a secret fling that can't last. It feels real. His eyes darken,something raw in their depths. "I'm sick of not having you the way I want."

You swallow past the lump in your throat,heart fluttering. "And how's that?"

He leans closer, voice gruff. "All of you. Every damn inch. Mine."

Your breath catches at the intensity in his eyes,the possessive edge to his words.He cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. "From now on, this isn't a secret. No hiding. No pretending.I'm gonna date the hell out of you,and everyone will know you're mine. "

You bite back a laugh despite the fluttery feeling in your chest. "Date the hell out of me, huh?"

He smirks,eyes glittering. "Damn right."

He grins as you laugh, that fierce, dangerous glint in his eyes. "Starting Right now."

You take a step back, playing along. "Right now?"

He nods, determination flaring in his gaze. "Right now."

Your heart skips a beat, excitement rushing through you. "Alright, you're on, Rozanov." He doesn't hesitate, takes your hand and starts leading you out of the building, right past the stunned faces and the hushed whispers, and you can't help the smile spreading across your face. He weaves through the crowd, your hand locked in his like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.Past cameras.Past stunned teammates.Right by his father, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing,just gives a slow, knowing nod.And then you’re outside, the cool air hitting your skin as Ilya pulls you toward a sleek black car idling at the curb. He stops by the car, turning to face you. The streetlights cast his face in sharp shadows.

"So," he says quietly. "Date, or...?"

You raise an eyebrow, trying to act nonchalant despite your pounding heart. "Date, or...?" you echo. He steps closer,that glint in his eyes again. "Or we can go straight to your place, skip the whole dinner and..”

You scoff, trying to hide the shiver running down your spine. "Skipping the date already? Wow, way to be romantic, Rozanov."

He smirks, stepping even closer until his body is flush against yours. "Oh you’ll get the romance," he murmurs against your ear. "but right now I think I prefer...”

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. “And what would you prefer hmm?”

His hand slides around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. “That I’d rather have you naked beneath me right now and take you on as many dates later”

A breathy laugh escapes before you can stop it.

"God," you mutter, shaking your head with a grin.Then without warning you rise on your toes and kiss him hard.When you pull back,you say simply.

"Drive."

He doesn't need to be told twice.He has you pinned against the car in an instant, lips crashing against yours, rough and desperate. You gasp,hands fisting in his shirt as he kisses you like he's starving, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.The world spins away,the cold air forgotten as heat flares between you.Finally, you break apart, breathless and flushed.

"Yeah," he pants. "Definitely skipping the date."

You laugh, feeling lightheaded. "Good call." He opens the car door for you,a gentleman's gesture that still manages to feel incredibly sexy. You slide in, the cool leather a stark contrast against your burning skin.He rounds the car and slips into the driver's seat, starting the engine with a roar. He glances at you, that smug smirk back on his face. "Ready?"

"Ready," you breathe, heart racing.

Then he floors it, tires screeching on asphalt.You barely have time to catch your breath as he weaves through traffic,a reckless speed that sends adrenaline coursing through you. The city blurs past,a streaking mix of light and shadow,your breath catching with every sharp turn.And in the middle of it all, the only thing anchoring you is the feel of his hand gripping yours, his eyes darkened with a single-minded focus. The world rushes by in a dizzying blur, the city a kaleidoscope of lights outside the windows. You press your cheek to the cool glass, feeling alive and reckless and completely, utterly present.You look over at him, the streetlights and passing cars casting his face in sharp relief. His jaw is clenched,eyes fixed on the road but you can see the tension in every muscle, like he's desperate to keep his focus off you.You squeeze his hand, and he glances your way.

"Eyes on the road," you say, voice low.

"Hard to do with you looking at me like that," he mutters, but obligingly returns his gaze to the road.

You raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"

He gives you a sidelong glance, lips twitching. "Like you're undressing me in your head."

Heat flushes your cheeks. "I'm not," you tell him, trying to sound casual.

He laughs,low and rough,the sound filling the car. "You’re a shitty liar."

Your heart stutters at his words, heat pooling low in your stomach. But you force a scoff, refusing to let him see how he affects you.

"Like you're one to talk."

He shoots you a grin,eyes sparkling with laughter. "Touché."

You roll your eyes,trying to hide your own grin. The car falls into a comfortable silence,the city whizzing by outside the window. As the car curves around another bend,he reaches over and rests a hand on your thigh. A simple, easy gesture,but it sends sparks fluttering up your spine.You look at his hand,calloused and strong but surprisingly gentle against your skin. It moves higher,just a fraction,his thumb tracing idle patterns along the inside of your thigh.You shiver involuntarily,your breath catching.He smirks,voice rumbling lowly in the quiet of the car. "Cold?"

"No," you say a little too quickly.

His smirk widens at the hitch in your voice. Damn him. He knows exactly the effect he's having on you. His hand slides higher,fingers digging into your skin just enough to be teasing.

"You sure about that?" he asks, voice a low rumble.

You swallow, heart pounding against your ribs. "Completely certain," you manage, but even you can hear the slight unsteadiness in your voice.His thumb strokes along your inner thigh,making your breath catch again. You're certain he can feel the heat rising in you, can sense how much you want his hands all over you. But you're stubborn,refusing to give him the satisfaction. "That so?" he drawls,his thumb tracing a slow, maddening circle high on your thigh,almost but not quite brushing where you need it most. "Seems like you're pretty damn responsive to me."

He turns,meeting your eyes briefly before returning his gaze to the road.A muscle in his jaw flexes, as if he's straining to maintain control.You bite back a moan, heat coiling low in your stomach. "Shut up."

You glance at the nearing street sign, knowing your house is just around the corner.With a slow, deliberate smirk, you slide your hand down his chest and rest it high on his thigh. Then, ever so gently, you move it inward,fingertips brushing over the growing hardness beneath his trousers. He sucks in a sharp breath.You lean closer,his voice rough as gravel,"Keep doing that and I’ll crash this car."

"Then drive faster," you whisper against his ear before biting down softly on his lobe. He curses under his breath, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles go white. The car surges forward, tires screeching as he hits the accelerator.

He shoots you a dark look, eyes darkened with desire. "You're asking for it."

You just grin,your hand teasing a little higher, applying just enough pressure to send a shiver racing up his spine. His jaw clenches, muscles tensing. The car screeches to a halt, parking outside your house.He turns to you, face unreadable except for the fire in his eyes. His gaze flicks between you and the front door, as if calculating how much further he can push this game.

"Inside. Now."

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest. "What are you waiting for?" you challenge, keeping your voice steady despite the heat pooling low in your stomach.He's out of the car in a flash, rounding the front to fling your door open. Before you can blink, he's pulling you out, pinning you against the side of car,caging you in with his body. He dips his head until you're nose to nose.His voice is rough as gravel,"I'm gonna make you beg."

"Big talk," you whisper, your voice trembling in the most betraying way.

He smirks, clearly hearing it. "We'll see."

Then his lips crash against yours hard, demanding,hands sliding under your thighs to lift you up. You wrap your legs around his waist automatically as he carries you toward the front door like you weigh nothing.Fumbling for keys,you laugh breathlessly against his mouth. He growls and sets you down just long enough to shove the door open,careless of who sees or what breaks.The moment the door slams shut behind him he’s on you again.

He kicks the door shut, backing you into it in one fluid move. His body is a solid wall of muscle and heat against yours,the weight of him pressing you into the wood.He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, mouth grazing your ear. "You're not getting out of this until I have every...last...part of you." The words send a shiver down your spine, and he nips lightly at your earlobe, making you gasp. "Understand?"

"Mmmhmm..." you manage, breathless already.His hand slides up your thigh, under your dress, fingers teasing just at the edge of your panties. "Good girl," he murmurs against your neck.Then without warning he lifts you again,sure and strong,his mouth claiming yours in a deep,kiss that steals any thought left in your mind.He doesn't move for a long moment,just drinking in the sight of,your eyes dark with desire,your dress wrinkled,hair in disarray,thighs spread. It's like a switch has been flipped,whatever last remnants of civility and gentleness stripped away.He lowers you just for a second,His hand drifts from your neck to your collarbone,trailing a path down your body. "Lift your arms."

Your breath hitches at the command, his voice low and rough like gravel.Slowly, you raise your arms above your head. The moment he sees you're not going to resist,his hands return, sliding under your dress again,this time pulling it up in one smooth motion.Cool air hits your skin as he peels the fabric over your head,tossing it aside. He drinks in the sight of you,lips parting slightly.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathes.

The intensity of his gaze makes something flutter in your stomach, desire pooling low in your stomach. You reach for his shirt, wanting to touch his skin, but he catches your wrists,pinning them above your head with one hand.

"Patience," he murmurs, that arrogant smirk back on his face.You squirm beneath him,feeling exposed with your arms now locked in place. "Bastard," you mutter.

Your breath hitches, your body arching involuntarily beneath his gaze. His eyes rake over you, hot and dark and possessive as he takes in every curve,every freckle,every shiver.His hands find your hips, fingers flexing into flesh. "God," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So damn perfect ."Before you can reply, he's leaning in, pressing a trail of hot kisses along the line of your jaw, down the slender column of your neck.

He drags his mouth lower,hot, open mouthed kisses down your chest until he reaches the swell of your breast. Without warning, he takes a peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

You gasp, hips jerking into him. "Ilya"

He bites down just enough to make you cry out and then soothes it with his tongue.

"Sensitive," he murmurs against you,a dark promise in his voice."Good." His free hand finally releases one wrist so you can pull him closer as he works the other side with teeth and lips and tongue until you're trembling beneath him,mouth falling open in silent plea. "Please," you gasp,the word falling from your lips before you can stop it.He doesn't make you beg, like he said though. He lifts his head long enough to catch your eyes,a smirk playing across his face.

"Tell me what you want," he says,voice low and rough. You can hear the strain in it,the way he's holding back,and it makes everything inside you ache with wanting.

"I want you," you manage, breathless. "All of you.

"Mmmm." He smirks again. "Be more specific."

You glare at him, feeling heat rising in your cheeks. "You're seriously going to make me say it?"

His expression darkens, fingers digging into your hips. "Yes."

You bite your lip,heat spreading through you at his words. "I want you…everywhere," you say finally,voice thick with arousal. His eyes darken. "I know. But I want to hear you say it."

"Say what?" you whisper, playing dumb even as your body arches for him.

He leans down, teeth grazing your collarbone. "Tell me where you want my cock. The words send a jolt through you. Your breath hitches, heart pounding as the reality of this,of him washes over.

"Inside me," you gasp."I want it inside me. Now." His growl is feral as he surges up,pulling his shirt off in one motion,hands already working at his belt."God,you have no idea how long I've waited to hear that."

His voice is rough, almost ragged as his hands fumble with his jeans. You watch him for a second, heat surging through you ,then you're reaching for him, pulling on his waistband.

“Let me," you breathe, already feeling desperate. He drops his hands,let you take over.This time, there's no teasing,you don't bother to tease or make him wait. You need this too badly, too, need him.

Your fingers work quickly, the sound of his belt and zipper loud in the quiet room.Then he’s free, thick and heavy in your hand. You wrap your fingers around him, slow at first,then firmer,milking him with a practiced grip that makes him groan low in his throat.

“Y/n," he warns,his voice rough with restraint. "You do that any longer and I'm not gonna last."

A smug smile tugs at your lips."That bad?"

He grabs your wrist suddenly,pulling you up until you're flush against him. His eyes bore into yours,fierce and unrelenting.

"Bad? Baby, don’t pretend you don’t know."His hands slide down to grip your ass hard."Now ride me before I lose my damn mind.”

"Bossy," you murmur, but there's no real protest in your voice.

You shift him over to the sofa because you are too needy right now to make it too the bedroom. Then straddling his lap,guiding him to your entrance. For a heartbeat you hover there,your eyes locked on his.Then slowly,you sink down.A gasp tears from your lips as he fills you completely,the stretch,burn,pleasure all at once overwhelming. You freeze for a second,adjusting,to feeling so full of him.

“Don’t stop,” he grits out,hands flexing on your hips. “Keep going.”

"Gorgeous," he breathes, staring up at you,hands roaming over your body almost reverently."So goddamn perfect,y/n."

"Not fair." the words slip free, voice choked."Don't look at me like that."

His fingers dig bruises into your thighs."Can't help it," he rasps."I'm obsessed with you."

Your heart squeezes. No one's ever looked at you like that, like you're something precious. He leans forward, lips brushing your cheek,your jaw,the shell of your ear. "I can't stop watching you," he murmurs,voice ragged. "The way you move, the way you respond."

Your breath catches at the words. "I'm just me," you say softly ,voice trembling.

He pulls back, searching your face."Do you think that's not enough?"

You start moving,slow at first,rolling your hips to drive him crazy. He groans,hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks.

"You're killing me," he grits out, but his eyes are dark with pleasure as he watches you ride him.You lean down,taking his face in your hands,kissing him deeply. The angle changes,making him hit deeper,you cry out into his mouth.

That’s when he moves,fast and powerful flipping you onto your hands and knees,pushing you forward until you're on all fours before him. One hand grips your hip,the other tangles in your hair,pulling just enough to make you gasp.

“fuck y/n you are everything” he grits out,hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Then suddenly,he flips you around onto your knees,pulling you up by the waist."Look," he growls,palming a breast from behind while grinding into you deep."Watch me fuck you." A mirror across the room reflects everything,his body driving into yours,your head thrown back,his possessive hands on your skin.

"See how perfect?" he snarls."Every inch of you is mine."

You let out a broken whimper,the image making you ache. "fuck Ilya," you gasp,eyes locked on his in the mirror. You watch in the mirror, breathless and trembling at the image,the way he owns you, the raw possession in his every movement. Your eyes meet his through the reflection,half lidded and glazed with pleasure.

“You see it now?" he grunts, thrusting deep. "How fucking perfect you are? How much you were made for me?"

You can't speak. Can only nod, your body tightening around him as pleasure coils tighter,tighter.He leans over,your back arching as he drags his teeth along your shoulder."Say it," he demands."Tell me who you belong to."

"Yours," you gasp."I'm yours...Ilya...please..."

"That's it," he grunts,nipping at your ear."Say it again." as he thrusts into you hard.

You can barely breathe, let alone speak."I'm yours," you manage,gasping the words between moans."All yours, Ilya. I'm yours."

"Mine," he growls, the word like a vow as he drives into you harder, deeper.You cry out as pleasure crests, your body tightening around him like a vice. "Ilya!”

He doesn't let up,pinning you against his chest with one arm while his hand slips between your legs,toying with your clit in tight,circling motions.

"Cum for me," he demands against your ear."Let me feel it."

And you do,shattering around him with a broken sob,his name falling from your lips like prayer.He follows right after,burying himself deep as he groans,your name torn from his throat in Russian. For long moments,there's only ragged breathing,the sound of two hearts slamming against each other. Then he turns you in his arms,kissing you slow and deep."I’m staying with you tonight," he murmurs against your lips."always”

You melt against him, feeling boneless and sated,all tension gone.For a long time, you just lie there, wrapped in his arms,trying to catch your breath.Then he nuzzles into your hair,voice rumbling in his chest."Hey," he says softly."Look at me."

You turn,eyes meeting his. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

"Just so we're clear," he says quietly."I'm not done with you yet."

You laugh breathlessly,shifting closer. "Not done? I’m barely holding myself together.”

He smirks against your shoulder,his hands tracing slow patterns along your back. "Good."

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze with a soft smile. His eyes soften,one hand coming up to cup your face. "I'm going to say something," he begins,voice suddenly serious. "And I need you to listen."

You nod, heart suddenly in your throat. He takes a deep breath,a muscle tensing in his jaw. "I'm not very good with words. You know that."

You nod, watching him closely.He's never been one for words,always more comfortable showing his feelings through action.He swallows,his grip tightening ever so slightly. "But I need to say this."

A sudden flutter of nerves in your stomach. Then he looks straight at you,the intensity of his gaze robbing your breath. "I love you."

For a moment, you just stare at him,your heart skipping a beat. He loves you. Ilya Rozanov, the arrogant,cocky bastard, loves you.

You can feel the shock on your face,see it mirrored in his eyes. He watches you anxiously,waiting for your reaction,and it hits you just how vulnerable he's making himself.You recover quickly,smiling up at him. "About time," you say,voice hoarse."I was starting to think you were going to make me do it first."

Then You push him flat onto his back before he can react,straddling his chest with a smirk.

“ and I'm not done with you either, Rozanov," you whisper,leaning down to kiss along his jaw.

Then slowly,you slide down his body,trailing hot open mouthed kisses over every ridge of muscle until you reach your destination. You wrap your fingers around him again,slowly stroking. He groans,head falling back,but still watches you through half lidded eyes.

"Look at me,"you command softly.

He does. And as your mouth closes around him,his fingers tangling in your hair,you know one thing for sure…

this is far from over.

—————-

Escape from Oxford.

The cobbled streets of Oxford were slick with rain, the moonlight fractured by the twisting alleys. The prison guards rattling over over the iron bars. Inside, Sherlock Holmes sat with his wrists bound in his cell,his sharp eyes scanning the shadows,calculating, waiting.

Then chaos. A figure dropped from the rooftops, landing with a thud as he took down one guard. Then the other guard rampaged from across the prison floor, and James Moriarty grinned down through the bars at Sherlock. Dressed as a gods damm chamber maid.

"Miss me?…Now get dressed”

Before Sherlock could reply, James flung a maids outfit at Sherlock. How delightful. Then flung a smoke bomb at the guards coming their way. The night erupted into coughing, swearing, and flailing truncheons. James yanked open the lock with a twisted bit of wire “Honestly, they should really upgrade these” and hauled Sherlock out.

“You're insane,"Sherlock hissed as they sprinted into the maze of alleyways. Behind them, whistles shrieked.

"Obviously," James laughed, shoving Sherlock sideways as a guard lunged for them. He drove his elbow into the man’s ribs. “But insane keeps you alive! for now”

They ducked into a cellar, breath ragged. The sound of boots thundered past outside.

Sherlock glared. "You do realize every constable in England will now hunting us?"

James wiped blood from his split lip, grinning. “Then we’d better find somewhere they won’t look.”

Sherlock hesitated. "Not with Mycroft then."

"Obviously not Mycroft," James scoffed. “you got any bright ideas holmes?”

James notices sherlocks unease as he leans against the damp wall, catching his breath as he studies Sherlock’s tense expression. The flicker of hesitation in his friend’s eyes is unusual,Sherlock Holmes never hesitates.

"Alright, out with it," James says, flicking a loose button from his stolen maid’s uniform at Sherlock’s forehead. "You’ve got that look,the one you get right before you say something dangerously clever or stupidly noble. Which is it this time?"

Sherlock exhales sharply, then meets his gaze.

"There’s... somewhere.. and..someone..."

James arches an eyebrow. "Not a lover, surely. Unless you’ve been keeping far more interesting company than I thought."

Sherlock’s jaw tightens. "My…sister."

James blinks. Then laughs. "What? Since when do you have a—" He stops abruptly, registering the seriousness in Sherlock’s face. "...You’re serious."

"She lives with our aunt. Outskirts of London. If anyone can hide us without Mycroft’s interference, or anyone’s for that matter,it’s her."

James tilts his head, intrigued. "And why haven’t you mentioned this mysterious sibling before?"

Sherlock’s gaze darkens. "Because she’s worse than I am."

James grins, wild and delighted. "Now that sounds promising." The wheels of the stolen carriage creak as they bump along the darkened streets of London back roads and then the country roads. The moon casting eerie shadows through the trees. James sits at the seat opposite Sherlock, as he guides the horses,tossing a stolen apple in the air and catching it with a smug grin.

“So,” he muses, “tell me more about this sister of yours. ‘Worse than you,’ was it? That’s quite the claim.”

Sherlock scowls right back at him, his fingers drumming restlessly against the reigns. “She’s clever. Too clever. And utterly unrestrained.”

James takes a dramatic bite of the apple, juice dripping down his chin. “Delightful. I like her already.”

“You won’t,” Sherlock mutters. Almost protective, as if he knew he would.

Suddenly, the carriage lurches violently as a gunshot rings out,the horses scream. James lunges forward, grabbing Sherlock’s arm as the entire vehicle tips sideways, crashing into the ditch beside the road. Dust and splintered wood fill the air. Through the wreckage, James sees them: two mounted constables, pistols drawn.

James coughing, half buried under the collapsed carriage door. “Ah. Seems they’ve caught up."

Sherlock,yanking James free with a grunt. “Brilliant deduction."

The constables dismount, boots crunching on gravel as they approach. James wipes blood from his temple, grin sharpening.

James began whispering, fever bright “Give them one of your speeches, Holmes. Distract them."

Sherlock deadpanned “They have guns."

James was already reaching for a broken spoke from the wheel. “So do we. Just—less shooty, more stabby—"

Before he could finish, a WHISTLE cuts through the night,not police, but lilting, mocking. From the trees above, a figure drops onto the nearest constable’s shoulders, kneeing him squarely in the face. The man collapses like a puppet with cut strings.

James began blinking at the newcomer. “…Or stabby is optional, apparently we are kicking them now.”

The second constable then spins, pistol raised,only for the stranger to kick it from his grip, then plant a boot in his stomach, sending him wheezing into the mud. Silence.

“Honestly, Sherlock. Couldn’t even outrun these idiots?"

The figure steps into the moonlight, her wild dark hair, eyes glinting like a blade catching light. She twirls the stolen pistol before tucking it into her belt. Sherlock spun round to James, dusting off his clothes. “James Moriarty… meet my sister.. y/n”

She was smiling sweetly at James. “Oh good. You brought me a present."

James, who was still sprawled in the dirt, grins back like a man who’s just found fireworks in a library.

“I adore her."

Sherlock reached his hand out to James. Before pinching the bridge of his own nose. “You would." James takes Sherlock’s hand, pulling himself up with a wince. His gaze darts between the two siblings, taking in the likeness, the differences. Sherlock may be intense, but this woman—James couldn’t look away. Sherlock wipes mud from his sleeve, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "How the hell did you find us? Aunt's house is miles from here."

She steps over the unconscious constable, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger with a smirk. "News spreads fast, brother dear. I heard of your misfortune”—her eyes flicker to James—"and I was already on my way to London. Imagine my shock when I learned there’d been a prison break. Surely,I thought, not my brilliant brother? He’d never be so reckless."

Sherlock scoffs.

She continues, kicking aside a discarded truncheon. "And yet... here you are. Leaving your usual sloppy crumb trail—torn coat snagged on a fence, footprints in the stable muck, that ridiculous maid’s costume—”

James gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "Excuse you, that costume was a tactical masterpiece."

She sizes him up, lips curling. "Oh, was it? Because from where I was watching, you tripped over your own petticoats twice."

James grins, undeterred. "Admit it—you were impressed."

"By your ability to nearly strangle yourself with a bonnet string? Mildly."

Sherlock exhales sharply, cutting in. "Enough. We need to move."

His sister rolls her eyes. "Always so dramatic. Come on then." She gestures toward the trees to where there was a carriage hiding behind the trees. Sherlock opens his mouth. “how did you know…” but she silences him with a sharp flick of her finger against his forehead,like scolding a wayward child.

"How did I know you’d come crawling my way?" She smirks, pivoting toward the waiting carriage. "Oh, Sherlock. You couldn’t go to Mycroft with this mess could you?. So who else?" She spreads her arms, mock bowing. "Your ever charming, ever underappreciated sister."

James claps his hands together, delighted. "I’m adopting her."

Sherlock drags a hand down his face. "God help me”

She flings open the carriage door with a flourish. "Hurry up, unless you’d prefer another chat with the constables?". James vaults in first, sprawling across the seat like a satisfied cat.

The carriage door slams shut behind them as they settle into the plush seats. Sherlock glares at his sister from across the compartment while James lounges, examining the interior with amusement. Sherlock,leaning forward, voice low. “you surely couldn’t have known I’d come looking for your aid and you are very well prepared for someone just visiting”

Y/n began adjusting her gloves casually. “I was Anticipating trouble, I must always come prepared. You’ve always had a flair for trouble—just never this theatrical. I’m guessing this is down to your new company..?”

James straightens, meeting her gaze with a smirk. "Guilty as charged. I’ve always preferred making an entrance."

She arches an elegant eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "An entrance indeed. I can see why my brother finds your company so… entertaining. And who might you be, then?"

Sherlock interjects, a note of caution in his voice. "This is James Moriarty, a… friend."

Something in her expression sharpens. A surprise. James raises a hand in greeting. "Pleasure."

Her gaze flicks between them, skeptical. "A friend?" Her words are laced with disbelief. "I must say, I never would have expected my brother to be capable of making any kind of friend."

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose, a look of pained embarrassment crossing his face. "Thank you, dear sister, for that heartfelt vote of confidence."

She laughs, genuine humour lighting in her eyes. "I call it as I see it, brother. Never were the most social sort." Her gaze finds James again, sizing him up. "But you seem to have found an equally intriguing companion."

James leans back, folding his arms behind his head. A lazy grin on his face, “I like to think I have a certain charm." Sherlock can’t help but roll his eyes. Sherlock sighs, rubbing his temples. "Yes, well his 'charm' is the reason we're currently wanted fugitives with no foreseeable way out of this mess."

James scoffs. "Oh please, don't act like you weren't already knee deep in trouble before I showed up."

Y/N smirks, crossing her arms. "So—what’s the plan now, geniuses? Because unless you fancy spending the next decade in shackles, I suggest we move quickly”

James snaps his fingers, grinning. "First,we ditch this carriage before they track it. then make our way to.. your aunts yes?… Second—" He leans forward, mischief glittering in his eyes. "—tell me, darling,how good are you at forgery?"

Sherlock groans. "No. Absolutely not."

Y/N tilts her head, intrigued. "Depends. What exactly are we forging?"

James' grin widens. "Oh, just some diplomatic papers. Maybe a pardon or two. Nothing too illegal."

Sherlock glares at him. "Nothing too illegal,you realize that's an oxymoron, yes?"

James waves a dismissive hand. "Semantics."

Y/N leans in, matching James' energy perfectly. "I like him. He’s fun."

Sherlock looks heavenward, muttering, "Gods”

James winks at her. "See? She gets it."

Sherlock exhales sharply. "I hate both of you."

Y/N pats his knee, sweetly condescending. "Aw, don’t be like that brother dear”.

James flops dramatically against the carriage seat, clutching his chest. "You wound me, Holmes. After I broke you out in such style—"

"Style?" Sherlock hisses, gesturing at James' torn petticoat still tangled around one boot. "You nearly got us both hanged because you insisted on escaping dressed as a scullery maid."

James grins, utterly unrepentant. "And yet, here we are. Alive, uncaptured, and about to be very cozy at your dear aunt's” His eyes flick to Y/N with theatrical wistfulness. "Tell me, do you keep port in the cellar? I do adore a good vintage after a daring escape."

Y/n props her chin on her hand, studying James like he's a fascinatingly reckless specimen. "Oh, we have better than port. She's got a 1792 cognac hidden behind the false wall in the library."

James gasps, clutching the carriage door like a swooning maiden. "Marry me.”

Sherlock chokes on air. Y/N laughs,bright, unguarded and James feels something dangerous twist behind his ribs. Outside, the distant clatter of hoofbeats echoes. The game isn't over yet. But oh, what fun they'll have. The carriage lurches to halt, pulling into the dirt driveway of a secluded country estate. The house stands dark against the night, the only light spilling from a downstairs window.

Y/N opens the door, stepping out into the chill air. James follows, stretching like a satisfied cat after a long nap. Sherlock is the last to emerge, eyes narrowing at the building. "You haven't told aunt we're coming, I assume?"

Y/N scoffs, twirling the stolen constable’s keys around her finger. "Of course not. Do I look like an amateur? And with the recent events, I didn’t fully expect this either brother” She strides toward the house without hesitation. "Besides.. Aunt's off gallivanting in Vienna. Won’t be back for weeks."

James whistles low, nudging Sherlock as they follow. "You do realize your sister is terrifyingly competent, yes?"

Sherlock exhales through his nose. "Unfortunately."

Y/N flings open the front door with a flourish, revealing the darkened foyer. "Welcome to your temporary hideout, gentlemen." She smirks, gesturing grandly.

James clasps his hands together as he walked the halls.

Sherlock slumped in the armchair. “I need a drink."

Y/N grins, tossing him a knowing look, then to her new acquaintance James. "Cognac’s in the library. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone."

James gasps, clutching his chest. "You’re leaving?”

She winks. "Only to fetch supplies. Play nice, boys."

Sherlock watches her vanish into the night, then turns to James. "You’re grinning”

James sighs dreamily. "She threatened me with arson and promised me fine liquor. I think I’m in love."

Sherlock shoves past him toward the library. "You’re insufferable."

James skips after him, undeterred. "And yet—" He slings an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. "—here we are!"

Sherlock shrugs him off with a glare. "Against my better judgment."

James laughs, already halfway to the false wall in the library. "Oh, come now—where’s your sense of adventure?"

Sherlock deadpans. "It died. In a ditch. Outside Oxford."

James uncorks the cognac with his teeth. "To resurrection, then." Sherlock scowls but accepts the offered glass. The cognac is rich, sweet fire on the tongue. James hums appreciatively, swirling his tumbler.

Sherlock watches him from the armchair, still nursing his own drink with a pinched expression. "You're enjoying this far too much."

James plops onto the rug, sprawling amidst the stacks of dusty books. "Can you blame me?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, just watches the amber liquid in his glass with hooded eyes. The silence settles, the only sounds the crackling fireplace and the distant hoot of an owl.

James breaks it. "May I pose a question?"

Sherlock's gaze flicks up, wary. "As if I could stop you."

James grins, propping his head on an elbow. "I'm curious about dear little Y/N."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, piques your curiosity about my sister?".James feigns innocence, swirling his drink. "Oh, just wondering how such a charming creature could come from such a stoic line."

Sherlock groans, rubbing his temples. "Don't even entertain ideas."

James bats his lashes, all faux-offended. "Who? Me? I have nothing but the purest intentions."

Sherlock scoffs. "Of course. You're a paragon of virtue." James gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I am wounded, Holmes. Deeply wounded."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, taking a generous sip of his cognac. "You'll manage."

James leans back on his elbows, a sly grin spreading across his face. "She's quite the firecracker, your sister is."

Sherlock tenses, narrowing his eyes. "Where are you going with this?"

James shrugs casually, his expression too smug to be nonchalant. "Oh, nowhere. Just appreciating her… spirited nature."

Sherlock rises from the chair, setting his glass aside. "James," he warns, voice lowered. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."

James holds up his hands, all faux-innocence again. "Can't a man admire a strong, intelligent woman without suspicion?"

Sherlock advances, looming over James. "Not when it's my sister."

James doesn't budge, looking up at Sherlock with an infuriating smirk. "Ooo Holmes you are protective. is this why you’ve never mentioned her?”

Sherlock stiffens, caught between irritation and resignation. "Of course, I'm protective. She's my sister!"

James sighs dramatically, flopping back onto the rug with a grin. "Fine, fine. I’ll behave."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You’ve never behaved a day in your life."

James winks. "True. But for you? I’ll pretend."

Sherlock exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something before following with "please James.." before turning away—just as the front door swings open again. Y/N strides in, arms laden with said provisions. There was bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and James squints—is that a second pistol tucked into her belt?

Y/n tosses the bag onto the table with a thud. "Supplies," she announces, then pauses, catching James’s stare.

He’s not hiding it well. Not quite blank, not quite neutral,something warmer flickers in his gaze as he looks her up and down: wild hair still dusted with night air, coat lined with hidden weapons, that sharp little smile playing on her lips like she knows exactly what he's thinking.

Y/n smirks. "See something you like?"

James grins lazily. "Possibly several somethings."

Sherlock gives James a glare.

Y/n steps closer to James, seating herself beside him on a chair,"You’re trouble aren’t you?”

“Trouble is subjective.” He says watching Sherlock from corner of eyes “And sometimes very rewarding”. Sherlock finally snaps. "James," Sherlock snaps, exasperated. "Stop trying to flirt with my sister."

Y/N chuckles, clearly amused by her brother's irritation. "What's the problem, Sherlock? nervous she might actually like me?”

Sherlock glares at her. "More like im worried for you, she’s a reckless lunatic." He turns to James. "And you. Have you no self preservation at all? You're flirting with my sister for one and someone who could cut you to shreds without batting an eyelash."

James raises an eyebrow, unaffected by Sherlock's concern. He grins like a Cheshire Cat. “and what a way to go”

Y/N laughs again, pouring herself a glass of wine. "Oh, please. Don't mind my brother. He's just jealous anyone might prefer me over his brooding brilliance."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, slouching back in his chair. "Jealous of your blatant disregard for consequences, more like."

Y/N smirks. "As if you're the picture of consequence management, brother dear."

Sherlock grumbles something about "pot calling the kettle black" as he refills his glass. James, thoroughly enjoying the banter, jumps in. "Ah, the Holmes siblings, the epitome of maturity and well adjusted behavior. we just need Mycroft now”

Sherlock winces as if the mere mention of Mycroft physically pains him. "God forbid. He'd have this place fortified with security measures for the royal family within the hour."

Y/N stifles a laugh. "And we all know how much you adore his overbearing paranoia."

Sherlock grimaces, taking a large gulp of his drink. "He's a pest."

Y/N hums, swirling her glass. "A pest who loves you dearly."

Sherlock mumbles something under his breath, something that sounded vaguely like "the sentiment is not returned"

Y/N smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Well, yes. You do have a way of showing your siblings your endearing affections, brother."

The words hang there—lightly spoken, but with an undercurrent of something sharper. Cold. Familiar. Then Y/N rolls her eyes at her brother's stubbornness. "we know how you loathe expressing affection."

Sherlock glares at her. "I express affection. In my own way."

Y/N raises an eyebrow. "If you call ignoring our existence and making sarcastic remarks 'affection', then yes, you're positively overflowing with it." The words hang in the air. Sherlock's eyes flicker with something, not just guilt but something quieter. "I wrote to you when I could."

Y/N sets her glass aside, standing up. "Yes, when you could find time between the danger and the endless self destruction it seems."

Sherlock's jaw tightens. "That's hardly fair."

She doesn't look at him. "Fair? Hardly. But this is a conversation for another time, I…am going to bed” Y/N exits, leaving Sherlock to his brooding. James, ever observant, eyes Sherlock cautiously.

Sherlock notices the look. "Not a single word."

James raises his hands in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Silence hangs between them until James breaks it with a sly grin. "But… I have a question."

Sherlock gives him a sidelong glance. "Of course, you do."

James leans forward, voice low. "Why didn't you visit her, or mention her?"

Sherlock's grip tightens on his glass. "That's none of your business."

James smirks, but there's a rare softness beneath it. "Come now, Holmes.—I think we’ve moved beyond 'none of your business'."

Sherlock stares into the fire, jaw working silently for a moment.

"...She reminds me," he says finally, quiet."Of home before everything fell apart."

He doesn’t say more.But James understood anyway,the guilt in every unanswered letter,the fear in facing someone who knew him deeper. Just her brother. James exhales slowly, his usual mischief fading into something quieter. He swirls his cognac, watching the liquid catch the firelight.

"...I get it," he says finally, voice uncharacteristically soft. Not pressing too much.

Sherlock glances at him, brow furrowed.

James shrugs, half smiling, nudging Sherlock’s boot with his own. "Besides. She's clearly the superior Holmes. It's only natural to be intimidated."

Sherlock scowls, but there's no real bite to it. "Shut up, Moriarty." Sherlock meets his gaze, and something passes between them,an understanding, maybe even gratitude, buried beneath layers of stubbornness and pride. Then James grins, sharp and familiar, breaking the moment. "Well, if you won't drink to reconciliation, drink to surviving another day. That, at least, is worth celebrating."

Sherlock sighs, but clinks his glass against James'.Outside, the wind rattles the old house. But for now, they drink. The fire burns low. The night stretches on.

And tomorrow? Well. Tomorrow's trouble will have to wait.

—————-