#kk97

Answers come easy.

“Cottage.”

“Florida.”

“Europe for a bit.”

“Nowhere. Sleeping.”

There’s laughter, overlapping, not really a conversation so much as noise filling the space.

Then someone looks over at Kirill.

“What about you, Kirill?”

He doesn’t think about it. He never has to.

“Russia,” he says, like it’s obvious.

It always is.

“How long?” Matt asks, glancing over while he’s pulling his shirt off.

Kirill shrugs, toweling his hair. “Couple weeks. Two, maybe.”

“And then?” Brock adds, not looking up from where he’s retaping his stick.

Kirill hesitates for a second, but it’s not hesitation that means anything. Just… not a question he usually has to answer.

“Come back,” he says. “Stay here.”

Quinn looks over at that, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Stay here doing what?”

Kirill shrugs again. “Just… summer.”

Marcus lets out a short laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” Kirill says, a little defensive now, though he’s not entirely sure why.

“Okay, but like—” Brock glances up this time, “you got someone here, don’t you?”

There’s a shift.

Subtle. Nothing dramatic. But enough that the conversation narrows in, focuses.

Kirill frowns. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Marcus repeats, dragging the word out a little. “So what, you’re gonna disappear to Russia for a bit and then just… come back and hang out with her like it’s nothing?”

“It is nothing,” Kirill says. “I go every year.”

“Yeah, but not every year you have a girlfriend,” Matt points out.

He doesn’t say anything to that.

Because it’s true.

“Is she coming?” Quinn asks, more neutral than the others. Not pushing, just… curious.

Kirill shakes his head. “No. She has work. Her own stuff. It's only been a couple months.”

“That’s not really the question,” Marcus says, leaning forward slightly. “Like, did you ask?”

Kirill’s jaw tightens, just a little. “No.”

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Just… loaded in a way he didn’t expect.

Brock exchanges a look with Matt, something unspoken passing between them.

“What?” Kirill says, sharper now. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Brock says, but he’s smiling a little. “Just… if I’m her, I might think you’re not that serious.”

“That’s not—” Kirill stops, frustration flickering. “That’s not what it is.”

“Then what is it?” Marcus presses, not mean about it, just blunt in that way he tends to be.

“I’m gonna see her all summer,” Kirill says. “Here.”

“After you go home,” Matt adds.

“Yes.”

“So she gets what’s left,” Marcus says.

“That’s not fair,” Kirill shoots back.

“I’m not saying it is fair,” Marcus replies. “I’m saying that’s how it might look.”

Silence stretches for a second.

Kirill looks away, grabbing his bag, pretending to look for something he doesn’t actually need.

Quinn speaks again, quieter. “I mean, if you’re serious about her… you show her where you come from.”

Kirill glances up at that.

“You bring her into your life,” Quinn adds. “Not just the part that’s here.”

“It feels a little early to fly her out to meet my family,” Kirill says, almost immediately.

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees. “But girls need that reassurance.”

Brock nods. “Yeah. It’s not really about the time. It’s about the message.”

“What message?” Kirill asks, though he already feels like he knows.

“That you see this going somewhere,” Matt says simply.

Marcus leans back again, stretching his arms out behind him. “Go big,” he adds, grinning a little. “End of season, nice dinner, say something that makes it clear. Girls like that.”

Kirill huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Are we?” Marcus raises an eyebrow.

Kirill doesn’t answer.

Because the thing is—

It doesn’t feel ridiculous.

Not entirely.

It lingers longer than it should.

It would’ve been easy to brush off, to let it dissolve into the rest of the noise, but it doesn’t. It follows him out of the locker room, into the car, into the quiet moments where there’s nothing else competing for his attention.

He thinks about you.

About the way your life has expanded in the past year, how full it’s become in ways that don’t revolve around him anymore. Your schedule, your work, the way you move through your days with a kind of independence that he admires but doesn’t always understand how to fit himself into.

He thinks about the times you’ve said you’re busy.

About the nights you haven’t been there when he gets home.

About how normal that’s become.

And then he thinks about what Brock said—

If I’m her, I might think you’re not that serious.

It settles somewhere uncomfortable.

Because he knows how he feels.

He just hasn’t said it in a way that looks like something.

The dinner is his idea.

You notice that immediately.

Not because he doesn’t take you out, he does, but there’s a difference between something spontaneous and something planned like this. Intentional. A reservation made days in advance, a place that requires something nicer than what you’d usually throw on without thinking.

You feel it the second you walk in.

The lighting is low, warm. The kind of place where everything feels a little slowed down, a little more deliberate. Conversations quieter, movements softer.

You look at him across the table, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “What’s this for?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “End of season.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You study him for a second, like you might push, but you don’t. You let it go, because you trust him to say things when he’s ready, and because not everything needs to be dissected to mean something.

Dinner is easy.

It always is with him.

Conversation slips between things that matter and things that don’t, the kind of rhythm you’ve built over time without realizing it. You tell him about something that happened at work, he listens, asks questions in his usual quiet way. He talks about a play from practice, you follow along just enough to understand what he’s saying, not enough to pretend you know more than you do.

At some point, you laugh.

It’s something small, something inconsequential, but it catches him off guard a little. The sound of it, the way your face changes when you do.

And he just… looks at you.

Really looks.

The way the light hits your skin, the way you lean slightly forward when you’re engaged, the way your hand moves when you talk.

And the thought comes, clear and certain, without any buildup:

I love her.

It doesn’t feel overwhelming.

It feels obvious.

And right behind it—

Does she know that?

His chest tightens slightly.

He thinks about the conversation earlier.

About gestures. About making things clear.

About not letting something important go unsaid just because it feels understood.

So he says the first thing that feels big enough.

“Come to Russia with me this summer.”

You blink.

It’s subtle, but he notices it immediately. The way your expression shifts just slightly, like you’re recalibrating.

“Oh,” you say.

Not rejecting.

Just… surprised.

“I thought you were going for a couple weeks,” you add, tilting your head a little. “I wouldn’t want to, like, interrupt time with your family.”

“No,” he says quickly. “You wouldn’t.”

There’s a pause.

He feels it stretching, and instead of letting it settle, he fills it.

“Come for the whole summer,” he says. “Four months.”

This time, the shift is more obvious.

“Four months?” you repeat, a small, uncertain laugh slipping into your voice.

“Yeah,” he nods. “We can figure it out.”

The waiter appears then, like the universe has decided to interrupt at the worst possible moment.

“Can I interest you in dessert?”

Kirill doesn’t look away from you right away, like he’s waiting for your reaction to settle into something clearer.

When it doesn’t, he turns slightly. “Yeah. Chocolate cake.”

The waiter nods and leaves.

You glance at him.

There’s something off about the way he said it.

Not wrong, exactly.

Just… decided.

“We’ll figure out the details later,” he adds, like it’s already a plan.

You nod, because you don’t know what else to do with it in the middle of a restaurant, because it’s too big to unpack between courses and passing waiters and the soft clink of cutlery around you.

“Okay,” you say.

But it doesn’t feel like agreement.

You don’t bring it up again that night.

Neither does he.

And that’s the problem.

Because it sits there, unaddressed, growing just enough in the silence to feel heavier than it should.

A couple days pass.

You stay over.

That part hasn’t changed.

You fall asleep next to him easily, like you always do, your body fitting against his in that familiar, thoughtless way that makes everything else feel simpler.

You wake up the same way.

Curled into him, his arm wrapped loosely around you, his hand resting at your waist.

For a moment, everything feels normal.

Soft. Easy.

You tilt your head back slightly and realize he’s already awake.

Looking at you.

There’s something searching in it.

You smile, still half-asleep. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

His voice is quieter than usual.

“You’re happy?” he asks.

You blink, the question cutting through the haze of sleep. “Yeah,” you say, a small laugh following it. “Of course I am.”

He watches you for a second longer, like he’s measuring something.

“Okay,” he says. “Good.”

You frown slightly. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

A beat passes.

“Russia will be good,” he adds.

It’s the tone.

That’s what catches you.

Not excited. Not warm.

Like he’s trying to convince himself.

You push yourself up onto your elbow, the blanket slipping slightly as you shift.

“Can we talk about that?” you ask.

He stills immediately.

“Yeah,” he says, careful now. “Okay.”

You rub at your eyes, trying to gather your thoughts into something that makes sense out loud.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said at dinner,” you start.

He nods once.

“And I just…” you let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “It felt kind of weird.”

His stomach drops.

“Weird how?” he asks.

You hesitate, choosing your words more carefully now.

“I know we originally talked about you going for a couple weeks and then coming back,” you say. “And I get it if you want to stay longer, like for the whole summer. That makes sense.”

He nods again.

“But asking me to come for four months…” you trail off, shaking your head slightly. “That’s a lot.”

You give a small, self-conscious laugh.

“I have a job,” you add. “I can’t just leave for an entire summer.”

“I know,” he says quickly.

“And even if I could,” you continue, your voice softening, “I don’t think I’d want to spend four months living with your family.”

You wince slightly. “In the nicest way possible.”

He stares at you, something like panic starting to flicker behind his expression.

“It just felt really sudden,” you go on. “Like… you didn’t really think about whether I’d actually want that. Or if it made sense for me. Or us, I mean I feel like we're still getting to know each other.”

He opens his mouth, but you keep going, because now that you’ve started, you can’t really stop.

“And it kind of made me wonder if it was something else,” you admit.

His brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“Like…” you shake your head, already feeling how ridiculous it sounds, but still needing to say it. “Like maybe it was a way to… put me off. Without actually saying it.”

He goes completely still.

“I know that sounds insane,” you add quickly. “But it just felt off. And if this is, like, not as serious for you as it is for me, you can just say that. You don’t have to… hint at it in a weird way.”

Your voice steadies.

“I can handle it.”

Silence settles over the room.

And then—

“Oh my god,” he says, sitting up abruptly.

You blink, startled.

“That is not what I was doing,” he says immediately. “At all.”

“Okay—”

“Do not come to Russia,” he adds quickly.

You stare at him. “What?”

“That’s a terrible idea,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “Four months? With my family? That’s—no.”

A small, surprised laugh escapes you. “Okay, now I’m definitely confused.”

He exhales sharply, frustration turning inward.

“The guys said something,” he admits.

You tilt your head. “What guys?”

“In the locker room,” he says. “They were saying if I’m serious about you, I should… do something big. Bring you home. Make it clear.”

You blink, processing that.

“And I thought—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I thought if I asked you like that, it would show you I’m serious.”

You stare at him for a second.

“And you didn’t think to ask what I would actually want?” you ask, not harsh, just… honest.

“I did,” he says quickly. “I just… overthought it.”

You huff out a small breath. “Yeah. That sounds right.”

He lets out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.

“I’m not trying to push you away,” he says, more serious now. “I was trying to do the opposite.”

You study him for a moment.

“And you don’t actually want me there for four months,” you say.

He shakes his head immediately. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Maybe a week,” he admits. “Two. Like a year from now”

You smile despite yourself.

“That sounds more reasonable.”

He nods, relief softening his shoulders.

“I do want you to meet my family,” he adds, more carefully this time. “Just… not like that.”

“I’d like that,” you say.

A small silence settles, lighter now.

You shift back down beside him, the tension easing out of your body as you do.

He follows you, pulling you closer almost instinctively, like he needs to reestablish something that slipped.

You go easily, settling against him, your head resting against his chest.

His arm wraps around you, steady.

“Just so you know,” he says quietly, “I wasn’t trying to get rid of you.”

“I know,” you murmur.

A beat passes.

“Even if that was a really bad way of showing it.”

You smile against him. “Yeah. It kind of was.”

He exhales, something like relief settling fully now, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

And this—

Still feeling tired from the nap you'd just woken up from, you stayed quiet and just leaned into him, bringing your legs up to lay across his lap. He let out a quiet laugh and tightened his hold on you, his eyes moving back to the tv.

A few minutes passed just like that, the two of you pressed together and the tv quiet in the background. Your fingers started absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeve of his tshirt, you barely even noticed you were doing it until your nail brushed his skin and your eyes were drawn to his arm. He shifted slightly at your touch and you watched the way his bicep flexed. The sight made your mouth water, so you kept looking over his muscles, his arms, his thighs, his torso where you knew his muscles were hiding under his shirt.

"You're so big," you blurted out without thinking.

He looked down at you, "big?"

"Yeah," when you looked up and noticed the confused look on his face, you continued, "like, your muscles, they're so big, you're so strong and... big."

He grinned at that, clearly loving the ego boost, "you like muscles?"

You both knew he already knew the answer to that question, but you responded anyway, "yeah. I really like them." Your hand moved to grab his bicep and your eyes fixed on how you could barely wrap your fingers half way around his arm because it was so big.

He noticed the way your breathing got heavier, how you pressed your body closer to his, and it made him realize just how much you really liked his muscles. He grabbed you by the waist and pulled you onto him, so you were straddling his lap.

"You know what is big?" he asked with a smirk, his accent getting thicker, like it always did when he was flirting or trying to be sexy.

Your eyes widened and you pressed yourself closer to him, nodding almost frantically.

His smirk widened, he slipped his hands under your shirt to press against your back and bring your body even closer to him. You thought he was about to kiss you, but instead you felt his hips press up against you. He was already hard and it was clear he was trying to remind you just how big he was. A moan fell from your lips and you pressed your hands against his chest to brace yourself.

"You want?" he nodded down toward his lap.

Your breath hitched, "yeah. Yeah, I want you."

He pulled his own shirt off first, which made your mouth water, but you barely had time to react before he was taking your shirt off too. Much to his delight, you weren't wearing a bra, so he pressed his face forward into your chest and pressed kisses to the smooth skin of your tits.

"Kirill," you gasped. Your hands moved up to grab at his hair and you pulled him back just far enough so you could lean down and kiss him on the lips.

His lips moved with yours and his hands moved down to open his jeans. Your hands moved over his chest and arms, desperate to feel him.

Eventually, you pulled back from the kiss and tugged his pants and boxers down just enough to expose his hard dick.

"Big, yes?" he smirked.

"God I love you," you groaned as you started pulling your shorts off, "I fucking love how big you are."

He giggled a little at that, entertained by the fact that you were practically drooling and clawing at him, "I love you." He reached forward to touch you, his fingers sliding through your wetness. A low groan escaped his throat as he pressed two fingers inside you.

You gasped and gripped his bicep, "even your fingers are big."

You didn't let him finger you for long before you were pushing his hand away and muttering about wanting his dick. He happily let you slide down onto his hard length, your movements eager and rushed. You immediately started bouncing on him, pushing yourself up fast and letting yourself fall back down hard.

Kirill muttered something in Russian and gripped your hips, his fingers pressing into you so hard you were sure there would be bruises there later.

With the pace you were moving, it didn't take long for your thighs to start aching. You leaned forward, putting more of your weight against him but still trying to keep your pace.

He noticed your fatigue and immediately started using his hold on you to lift you up and down on his cock so you didn’t have to do all the work. You let out a soft sigh and turned your face into his neck, pressing kisses to his hot skin.

“Babe,” you breathed into his neck, “so good, so big oh my god.”

He thrusted his hips up into you harder, which only made your body go more limp. At that point, you were pretty much just lying there on top of him, letting him fuck up into you.

“Feel so good,” he whispered to you, his voice gruff and his accent thick.

You whined high in your throat, “Kirill.”

He cursed in Russian again and the sound of his voice, even though you didn’t understand the words, made you gasp. Your teeth caught on his skin. You nibbled on the side of his neck for a second before moving up and really sinking your teeth into his jaw.

“Fuck,” he barked.

You pulled back just enough to lick over the bite mark you’d left there.

“I love you,” you breathed hot against his skin, “you’re so fucking big. Fuck. I’m gonna cum.”

It was seconds later when your orgasm hit you and you clenched around his cock, which made him curse. You felt him give one last sharp thrust and then spill inside of you.

You were left limp and out of breath on top of him, completely fucked out. His hands moved up your bare back, holding and caressing you gently.

A few quiet minutes passed and you just let yourself melt into him. He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered sweet praises into your ear, his fingers scratching your scalp gently.

Soon enough, your eyes slipped shut and you fell into a light sleep against his shoulder. Later on, he would wake you and carry you to the shower to clean you up. In the shower, you’d also discover and fall in love with the bite mark you’d left on his jaw, as well as the bruises on your hips. But for now, he just let you sleep.