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The problem, Ilya thought, was that he finally had time. Actual hours. Not a rushed morning before practice. Not a midnight phone call where Shane was half-asleep and still explaining something too complicated for any sane human, or naked and his phone set up on a tripod. Not a quick visit squeezed between games and flights.
Shane was here. In Boston. In Ilya’s apartment. For longer than 12 consecutive hours.
Logically, that meant they should be spending all that time together, preferably horizontal.
Instead, here they were.
“No.” Ilya said, flat.
From the bedroom, Shane made a noise, half-dressed, completely unhelpful. “Ilya—”
“No.”
“It’s just a few hours—”
“Oh, is it?”
Shane leaned in the doorway, jeans on, sweater half-on, hair still damp from the shower. “You’re being dramatic.”
Ilya, standing by the mirror, adjusted his outfit with more attention than he’d given it five minutes ago. “It involves leaving apartment. That is enough.”
“That’s the whole issue?” Shane sounded amused.
“No,” Ilya said. “The issue is that you are here—” he gestured vaguely, “—and we are not taking advantage.”
Shane snorted. “You make it sound like a limited-time offer.”
“It is.”
“That’s… actually fair.”
Ilya checked himself in the mirror again. At some point in this argument, he’d apparently decided to go out, because the outfit had escalated, black pants, sharp and just tight enough, a dark shirt, half-unbuttoned, collar loose, fabric almost sheer in the apartment light.
Shane looked him over. “…You said you didn’t want to go.”
“I do not.”
“Then why are you dressed like that?”
Ilya glanced at him. “I have standards.”
Shane smirked. “Feels unrelated.”
“It is always related.”
Shane’s laugh was quiet, fond. He, in contrast, looked normal. Deliberately normal. Dark jeans and a soft gray sweater under a plain jacket. Comfortable. Familiar. The sort of thing that let him blend in, which, considering who he was going out with, was a reasonable life choice.
“I’m just saying,” Shane added, “you don’t look like someone who hates clubs.”
“I hate this club.” Ilya replied, immediate.
“You don’t even know which one you’re going to.”
“I can feel it.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is instinct.”
“Your instincts are dramatic.”
“They are correct.”
Shane’s mouth twitched. Then, softer, “You look good.”
Ilya blinked. Looked away, just for a second. “I always look good.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, smile smaller now. “You do.”
The drive was quiet. Not awkward, just… easy.
Shane drove, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping absently on his thigh to the music. Ilya angled toward him in the passenger seat, watching the city slide by in streaks of light.
“We could be at home right now.” he said eventually.
“Probably.” Shane agreed.
“And instead we´re here.”
“I’m managing it.”
“You are enabling it.”
“That too.”
Ilya huffed, but his heart wasn’t in it. After a moment, he reached out and tapped Shane’s arm, soft. “…You text me when you get there.”
Shane flashed him a half-smile. “Yeah. You too.”
“I always do.”
“I know.”
Pause.
“Where am I even going?” Ilya asked, finally.
“Svetlana didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“That’s… not concerning at all.”
“It is very concerning.”
Shane laughed under his breath, pulling up to a stoplight. “I’m meeting Rose downtown. Some club she picked.”
“Of course she did.” Ilya rolled his eyes.
“What about you?”
Ilya shrugged. “Also club. Apparently.”
Shane glanced sideways. “…We’re really doing this.”
“Yes.”
“…This is stupid.”
“Very.”
But they both smiled.
Shane dropped Ilya off first. The place was smaller than expected, wedged between two shops, a flickering neon sign half-lit above the door.
Ilya considered it for all of two seconds. Then shrugged. “…Could be worse.”
“That’s a glowing review.”
“I will make it better.”
“Sounds like you.” Shane nudged his shoulder. “Text me.”
“I will.”
“Immediately.”
Ilya rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Drive safe.”
“I always do.”
Another beat. Neither one moved.
Then Ilya opened the door, stepping into the chill. He did glance back before heading in, Shane watched him go, didn’t pull away until Ilya was gone.
By the time Shane got to the club, the line had doubled. The music was thumping so hard the sidewalk vibrated.
“…Great.” Shane muttered, already checking his phone. No new messages. Weird. Rose had been texting non-stop earlier. Now? Nothing.
He frowned and typed.
Shane: Here.
Shane: Where are you?
No response. He shoved his phone in his pocket and headed inside.
Lights hit him instantly, bright, flashing, a little disorienting. The music was even louder inside, voices lost in the pulse of bass. Not really his thing, but Rose would drag him somewhere just like this.
He paused by the entrance, shoulders tensing automatically. Not his scene. But…he could picture Rose in here, laughing too loud, introducing him to strangers.
Honestly? That didn’t sound so bad.
He made his way to the bar, weaving through the crowd. Still no sign of Rose.
He slid onto a barstool.
“Ginger ale, please.” he told the bartender, and when his drink arrived, he checked his phone again. Nothing. He tapped his glass, scanned the crowd. Still no Rose.
And then, a tap on his shoulder.
Shane turned.
Curly hair, dark and falling effortlessly over bare shoulders. A dress that was so perfectly chosen for this room, intentional, confident, completely impossible to ignore.
A slow, sly smirk curved her lips.
“Hi.” she said, her voice low and calm, eyes fixed on Shane with a steady confidence that made him falter. Shane stared, caught for a beat, mind catching up to the unexpected encounter.
He managed to recover, pulling his composure back together. “Oh—hi?”
She tilted her head slightly, studying him with a kind of analytical poise that felt out of place in the noisy, neon-lit bar.
“You must be Shane.” she said, not bothering to make it a question, just stating the fact as if it was a detail she’d already confirmed. He nodded, feeling the oddity of the situation settle over him.
“…Yeah?” he replied, voice firmer now, as if speaking could anchor him in this unfamiliar exchange.
She gave a single, decisive nod, like a judge ruling on a case. “Svetlana.” The name landed with a weight he didn’t immediately place, then, slowly, recognition broke through.
“…Oh,” he said, the pieces fitting together. “You’re—Ilya’s friend, right?”
Her lips quirked, eyes glimmering with that same unreadable wit. “Correct.” The word felt like another gate swinging open.
Relief loosened his shoulders, it was easier to breathe knowing she wasn’t a total stranger.
“Good,” he admitted, exhaling a short laugh. “I thought I was about to accidentally meet a stranger in a very intense way.” She offered a small smile, just the ghost of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Not yet.” she replied, and it was impossible to tell if that was a promise or a threat.
Shane let out a huff, the tension already giving way to something more tentative and curious.
“Sorry, I´m meeting a friend here, she should be here somewhere. Blonde, short uh— Rose Landry. Have you seen her?” he asked, automatically glancing past Svetlana as if his friend might materialize from the swirling crowd and pulsing lights. Svetlana’s face didn’t shift, her composure unbroken.
“She will not be here.” she answered, her words clipped but not unkind.
Shane blinked, sorting through this information, processing rather than reacting.
“…Okay.” His tone was measured, open, trying to make sense of this new thread. “You know her? Did she say why?”
Instead of answering, Svetlana turned toward the bar, her movements smooth and precise. “Two drinks, something sweet.” she told the bartender, sliding onto the stool beside him with a kind of effortless authority that seemed to claim the space.
Shane hesitated, glancing at his own half-empty can. “I already have—” he began, but she cut him off with unwavering certainty.
“You will have another.” Her confidence was striking, almost hypnotic. He looked at her, then at his drink, then back again, as if searching for some way to resist.
“…You’re very confident about this.” She didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.” There was a pause, the moment suspended between them. Then he smiled, the tension draining from his face, replaced by a kind of surrender. “Okay, then.”
Because, honestly, he trusted Rose, and Rose had sent him Svetlana. That was enough, for now.
Whatever this was, he’d go with it.
The bartender was quick, two fresh drinks slid across the polished surface. Svetlana handed one to Shane, then pulled out her phone with deft, practiced movements, her eyes flicking over the screen as she typed something out, efficient, silent.
A small, satisfied smile flickered across her lips as she locked the screen and placed the phone face-down beside her, a gesture that felt both final and deliberate.
“Good luck.” she murmured, almost too softly to hear. Shane caught the words, his brow furrowing.
“…Good luck?” he echoed, uncertainty seeping into his voice, but she was already done, her attention closed, the conversation moved forward without him. He watched her, feeling like a chess piece being maneuvered around a board he hadn’t seen.
“I feel like I’ve been placed into something without reading the instructions.” he admitted finally, his tone half-joking, half-wary. Svetlana regarded him with calm assurance.
“You have, don´t you worry though. We´ll have fun.” she said, not offering comfort or alarm, just the honest truth.
“That’s concerning.” he replied, but her certainty was oddly steadying.
“It will be fine.”
He laughed, shaking his head, the absurdity of the situation settling around him like an old coat.
“Ilya obviously didn't warn me enough about you." Shane scoffed.
“He enjoys chaos, you can't relate I assume?” Her eyes flashed with a trace of amusement.
“He complains about my “boring-ness” constantly.”
Svetlana’s lips twitched.
“Does he now? And yet.” She raised her glass, an unspoken invitation. Shane smiled, a little helpless, and clinked his glass against hers. “You´re here, with the local party girl.”
“I guess I am.”
Across the city, the world felt similar. Ilya stepped into the club, the familiar thump of bass and rhythm washing over him, grounding him in the reality he understood best. The air was thick with heat and movement, bodies pressing together on the dance floor, real, exuberant, alive.
Low, golden lights cast everything in shadows and highlights, making the edges of the room blur and shimmer. Here, everything made sense.
Ilya navigated the crowd with ease, the music guiding his steps as he moved toward the bar, blending in because he belonged to this place, a fact that needed no explanation.
Drink in hand, he let himself settle, tension from earlier rolling off his shoulders. He checked his phone, no messages yet.
His gaze drifted over the crowd, searching for Svetlana. But he took his time, letting his attention wander, letting himself be carried by the lazy tide of music and light. Then, a flicker of blonde, a flash of familiar confidence cutting through the blur.
His attention fixed, and he watched as Rose approached, her stride easy, the suggestion of amusement in every step. He smirked, mostly to himself.
“…Oh.” he murmured under his breath.
Rose stopped in front of him, her smile wide and bright, as if she’d just stumbled onto the best joke of the night.
“Well. This is fun.” she announced, a hint of mischief in her eyes.
Ilya tilted his head, cutting straight through the pretense. “You.”
Her laughter was immediate, genuine. “Wow. Strong start.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “It’s accurate, I think.” he said jokingly.
She grinned. “I was expecting at least a ‘hello.’”
Ilya’s lips quirked. “Would be boring no?”
“Fair.” she conceded, the banter already a dance.
A brief silence fell, comfortably suspended between them.
“So Svet is not here huh?” Ilya observed.
“Nope.”
“And you’re not where you’re supposed to be.”
“Debatable.” Rose shot back, unflappable.
He studied her, reading the flickers of old annoyance, the faint residue of their shared history, a trace of the “you dated my boyfriend” tension. But it was fleeting, replaced by something easier.
She was transparent in a way that made her hard to dislike.
“Here to get back with Hollander?” he said, voice level.
“I think I´ve had enough, shortest relationship in history really,” she replied, quick and direct. “Like, blink and you’d miss it.”
“Still counts.”
She winced, but it was theatrical, entirely for show. “You’re really making me work for this, huh?”
“I’m figuring you out.” he countered, taking his time with a sip of his drink.
“Okay, scary.”
“You don´t have to pretend.”
“I’m an actress. I pretend for a living.”
“Forgot that part.”
She laughed, leaning casually against the bar, her presence bright and comfortable.
“So,” she said, eyes twinkling, “am I passing your very intense boyfriend test?”
Ilya’s gaze lingered, considering her, weighing the moment. “…You’re better than I remember.” he admitted finally.
Her face brightened, satisfied. “I’ll take it.”
“That’s not full approval.”
“I’ll earn it.”
“Optimistic, I like it.”
“Wow.” They shared a smile, a small secret forming between them.
Rose’s gaze swept over him, taking in every detail, the open shirt, the deliberate posture, the easy confidence that came with knowing he belonged.
“Do you always look like that at clubs?”
“Like what?” he asked, quirking a brow.
“Like you’re about to either start a fight or get proposed to.”
He considered that, lips curling into a smirk.
“I might do both.”
She laughed, delighted, and for a moment the tension vanished, replaced by something light and promising.
“I like you.” she said. Ilya’s smirk deepened.
“Yes. I get that a lot.” The awkwardness, whatever remained of it, seemed to dissolve, leaving only the possibility of fun.
Svetlana, Shane realized, was dangerous. But not in a way that announced itself, not loud and volatile like Rose, not the kind of chaos that threw a room off balance.
No, her danger was quieter, more insidious. It was in the way she listened, the way she weighed her words, calm and unruffled in the middle of the bar’s noise and swirling activity.
She radiated a kind of certainty that made Shane feel exposed, like he’d walked into a game without knowing the rules.
“Okay, but explain this to me again,” Shane said, now leaning on one elbow, the bar’s sticky surface grounding him as he nursed a drink that was nowhere near his first. “Because that stat doesn’t make sense.”
Svetlana met his gaze, unwavering.
“It makes perfect sense,” she replied, her tone patient but firm. “You’re just looking at it wrong.”
He shook his head, stubborn. “I’m not looking at it wrong.”
“You are.”
He paused, squinting as if the extra effort might clarify something. “Alright, say it again.”
Svetlana obliged, repeating herself slowly, each word crisp and deliberate. Shane listened intently, nodding along, trying to keep up. Then, understanding dawned. “…Oh.”
“Yes.”
“That’s actually—” He laughed, the sound a little too energetic, betraying how much the alcohol was affecting him. “That’s really clever.”
Svetlana’s lips twitched. “I know, the Vetrov legacy comes with intelligence.”
He pointed at her, grinning. “Seriously, that’s good. I like that.”
She raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly. “You’re easy to impress.”
“I’m not,” he protested, then, after a beat, relented. “Maybe I am. But only when it’s deserved.”
“Was it deserved?”
“It was.”
Shane took another sip, already regretting it as the edges of the room started to blur. Alcohol hit him quickly, he’d never been good at pacing himself. Svetlana, of course, had already noticed.
“You should slow down.” she observed, giggling.
“I am slow.” Shane replied, and immediately realized how nonsensical it sounded. He blinked, then laughed at himself, running a hand through his hair. “…That didn’t make sense.”
“No.”
“Okay,” He shook his head, grinning at the ridiculousness of it all. “This is why I don’t go out.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice softening. “Rose is very convincing.”
Svetlana nodded. “I know.”
There was a pause, a moment of quiet honesty between them.
“And you,” he added, pointing at her again like it suddenly mattered, “you’re also convincing.”
Svetlana’s expression didn’t change, but there was something approving in her stillness. “Glad I passed the inspection, Mr. Hollander.”
“Dangerous, actually.”
“You don´t know the half of it.”
Outside the club, Shane was propped against the lamppost, head tipped back, eyes glassy and bright. Svetlana kept a steady hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice, he was too busy thinking out loud, the alcohol loosening his tongue and blurring all his usual filters.
“…He’s just so fucking hot,” Shane blurted, words tumbling out in a rush, too much and too honest. “Like, have you seen him? The arms, the voice, the way he—”
He made a vague gesture that probably meant nothing, but in his mind, it explained everything. “Just—God. I want to climb him like a tree. All the time. Isn’t that stupid?”
Svetlana managed a small, amused noise. “Ilyusha does have arms,” she agreed, deadpan. “They are very visible.”
Shane grinned, dreamy and reckless.
“And his mouth. The way he looks at me when he’s close. I just—fuck, it’s like he wants to eat me alive. I want him to. I want him to push me up against a wall and just—ugh. I want his hands everywhere. He could do anything and I’d just—” He caught himself, giggling.
“God, I really shouldn’t say this stuff out loud. Sorry. Sorry. I just—” His head lolled toward her, a conspiratorial whisper. “I want him so bad. I want to see what he’d do if I let him—if I asked for it.”
“Okay Romeo I hear you.” Svetlana said, lips twitching.
Shane groaned, covering his face with one hand. “I want him to wreck me, Svet, can I call you Svet? Like, just take control, mess me up, pin me down, tell me what to do—” He broke into another helpless laugh, almost sliding down the lamppost.
“God, I’m so fucking gone for him. It’s embarrassing.”
Across the city, Ilya was sprawled gracelessly on a bench, clutching the water bottle Rose had handed him, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. Rose watched with a grin, both hands ready to catch him if he started to tip.
“Shane is…” Ilya started, searching for words, “he is…” He gestured broadly.
“Beautiful. All of him. I want to put my hands everywhere. I want to hear him make noises for me. He makes these sounds—” Ilya closed his eyes, remembering, a little moan slipping out.
“He does not even know how much he makes me want. I want him loud, Rose. I want to pull his hair, leave marks, make him beg.” He looked over at Rose, as if daring her to judge.
“He always lets me. Maybe he wants that.”
Rose’s grin widened, eyes sparkling. “Oh, he definitely wants that. Trust me.”
Ilya nodded solemnly. “I want to ruin him. In the best way. I want him to feel everything. I want to make him come apart for me, just—”
He broke off, breathless, voice raw and open. “He is perfect. When he is under me, when he shivers—” He groaned, running a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration.
“Why is he so good? It is not fair.”
“He’s obsessed with you,” Rose said, softening. “You know that, right?”
Ilya just smiled, lips parted, eyes dazed. “I know. I want him to know I am obsessed, too. With his mouth, his hands, the way he looks at me when I touch him. He is so—good. He does not even see himself. I want to show him.”
Back at the lamppost, Shane was still rambling.
“I want him to talk to me in that voice—y’know, when he drops it low, gets all Russian and bossy. Just—God. Tell me what to do, tell me I’m his. Whatever he wants. I want to let go with him. I trust him.”
He closed his eyes, a stupid, happy smile on his face. “I want him to fuck me so hard I forget my name. Is that too much? That’s probably too much.”
Svetlana just laughed, steady and warm. “He wants you, Shane. All of you. Maybe even more than you want him.”
She squeezed his shoulder, guiding him forward. “Come on. Let’s get you home before you start describing exactly how.”
On the bench, Ilya slumped into Rose’s side, sighing.
“I want him tonight. I want to make him tremble. I want him to scream for me. He is everything.” He blinked, a little dazed. “You will not tell him I said all this?”
Rose grinned. “Not a word. Cross my heart.”
Ilya grinned back, drunk and happy. “Good. Later, I will say it myself.”
Rose helped him up, and together, they disappeared into the night, both of them full of too much feeling and not nearly enough restraint.
The street was a blur of neon and horns, stray laughter wafting from a line of late-night food trucks, music from every open club door layering the air in pulsing beats and bass.
Shane stumbled out into the mess, blinking hard, the world deliciously unsteady beneath him.
He was still grinning foolishly at something Svetlana had said, something about his “giraffe legs” when a familiar, wild silhouette caught his eye across the traffic.
He blinked once, twice, heart skipping. “Ilya?” His voice came out high and cracked, wobbling with anticipation.
On the other side, Ilya was mid-wobble himself, almost skipping, one hand raised in greeting and the other barely keeping his balance. “Shh… Shane!” he bellowed, the name stretched out and tangled in his accent, voice bouncing off taxi hoods and brick facades. “You… you—are… here!” He hiccupped, nearly spinning himself in a full circle with the force of his enthusiasm.
Not waiting for logic or crosswalks, Shane darted across the street, weaving through headlights and laughter. He met Ilya on the sidewalk, and the two collided, a clumsy tangle of limbs and giddy relief, both of them clutching at each other like life rafts in a stormy, half-liquid night.
“You idiot,” Shane managed, holding tight to Ilya’s shoulders, breathless with laughter. “I thought you were at—”
“I told you!” Ilya slurred, pushing his forehead into Shane’s, grinning stupidly. “Clubs are boring unless you are here!”
His words came out in a burst, every syllable an exclamation point, as if confessing a secret to the universe.
Shane’s laugh turned into a hiccup. He leaned back, eyes glazed but shining. “I missed you too, you maniac. I had drinks, but honestly, it sucked without you.”
The words tumbled out, a little too loud, a little too honest.
Ilya’s hands found Shane’s waist, tugging him closer, and for a second they just stood there, swaying in time to some distant song, holding each other up.
“…Why’d you leave me alone tonight?” Ilya whined, voice muffled against Shane’s collarbone. “I am lost without you solnyshko.”
Shane’s hands slid down Ilya’s back, fingers splaying possessively. “I didn’t want to. I was just… being an idiot. Next time, you’re sticking with me. No escape.”
Ilya’s breath hitched, face buried in Shane’s neck. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” he murmured, voice thick and raw.
“I love you more.” Shane replied, and then, emboldened by drink and affection, he pressed his lips to Ilya’s jaw, sloppy, too eager, not caring who saw.
They were halfway to making out in front of a döner stand when two figures materialized on either side of them, Rose and Svetlana, moving with a kind of synchronized exasperation and barely-hidden delight.
“Uh-oh,” Rose whispered, elbowing Svetlana. “Look at them. We’re about thirty seconds from public indecency.”
Svetlana rolled her eyes, but her grin was sharp and conspiratorial. “Wouldn’t be the first time with these two. Ready to rescue the city from their terrible decisions?”
“After you, comrade.” Rose snorted, offering a mock-salute.
Shane didn’t notice their approach until Svetlana planted herself directly in front of him, hands on her hips, the very picture of bossy best friend.
“Boys. Taxi. Now,” she declared, but the sparkle in her eye gave her away. “Before you both start stripping or yelling about who’s hotter.”
Ilya only grinned wider, clutching at Shane possessively. “No! He’s mine. We need… at least five more minutes. Or a hotel room. Whichever.”
Shane cackled, nearly doubling over. “Whichever’s closer, honestly. Ilya’s got plans. Big plans.”
“I’m sure he does,” Rose quipped, grabbing Ilya by the arm and attempting to drag him away. “But I’d rather not bail anyone out of jail tonight. At least not before tomorrow.”
Ilya resisted, only half-seriously, letting himself be tugged toward the waiting taxi.
“Unfair. Rose, you do not know—he is—he is so—” His words fell apart in a drunken babble, but the intent was clear.
“Save yourselves,” Shane called dramatically over his shoulder as Svetlana herded him after Ilya. “These girls—are—monsters!”
“Always.” Svetlana shot back, steering him into the backseat. She slipped in beside him, grinning as he flopped across her lap for a moment, giggling uncontrollably.
“God, you’re a mess.” she teased, ruffling his hair.
“You know I look good.” he retorted, sticking his tongue out.
“Absolutely.” she agreed, and then, with a not-so-gentle shove, sat him upright as the taxi lurched forward.
Rose and Ilya collapsed into the next cab over, still giggling, with Ilya immediately melting against the window, glass fogging with every uneven breath.
Jane: Best night ever.
Shane texted Ilya, fingers fumbling the buttons so hard that it almost read “beet nigh trever.”
Lily: dditto
Lily: idiot
Ilya replied, already slumping sideways, a drunken smile glued to his mouth.
Traffic stopped for a light, and by some small miracle, the cabs ended up side by side.
Windows rolled down, Ilya called out with a grin, “Hey! Shane!” and when Shane’s head popped up, Ilya leaned right out, almost falling, and planted a kiss that was as messy as it was sweet, half on Shane’s cheek and half on his mouth. Shane let out a loud, delighted yelp, reaching up to yank Ilya’s shirt in return.
“Real kiss!” Shane demanded, voice hoarse and needy.
“Real!” Ilya agreed, lips finding Shane’s again with a drunken, urgent enthusiasm that threatened to tip both of them out of their windows.
The cabs honked, someone whistled, and both drivers exchanged long-suffering looks. Rose and Svetlana doubled over with laughter, nearly weeping as they steadied the boys and pulled them back into their respective rides.
“You two are going to cause an accident.” Rose wheezed, wiping her eyes.
“And then blame us!” Svetlana added, grinning and half-yelling so Rose would hear.
They reached their destination, Shane still halfway in Svetlana's lap, Ilya pulled him out of he car, glueing him to his body.
Determined to keep his hands under Shane’s shirt despite all odds, Svetlana and Rose finally managed to separate them, each with an iron grip and a threat to call both their coaches.
“Bedtime, boys,” Svetlana announced, not unkindly. “Show’s over.”
“Let’s get them upstairs before they eat each other.” Rose whispered conspiratorially, and Svetlana snorted.
Once the boys had been safely delivered, barely upright, into Ilya´s apartment and pointed in the direction of the bedroom, Rose and Svetlana slipped out of their shoes and made themselves at home in the living room.
The apartment was cozy and cluttered with the remnants of Ilya's chaotic life and Shane´s hoodies draped on the backs of chairs.
Svetlana headed for the kitchen, knowing this house almost as well as her own, and pulling a bottle of wine from the fridge while Rose fished out two mismatched glasses from a cabinet.
They flopped onto the couch, their legs tangled together and poured generous servings. The city buzzed on the other side of the windows, but here, it was just the two of them, fizzing from the night and from each other.
“They´re such a disaster.” Rose said, grinning into her glass. Her voice was low and meant just for Svet.
Svetlana smiled, eyes glinting with something private. “A beautiful disaster. I almost want to see what happens if they actually talk about… all that… tomorrow morning.”
Rose laughed, leaning into Svetlana´s side as their knees knocked together. “We’re not much better, you know. We just… hide it with style. What would they say if they saw us like this?”
Svetlana’s lips curled into a secretive little smile. “They’d be jealous. We have it figured out.”
She poured the last of the wine, handing the glass over, their hands lingering, fingers brushing with the kind of small, electric tenderness that always made Rose’s heart race.
They clinked glasses quietly, the cheers barely a whisper.
“To us.” Svetlana murmured, brushing her lips across Rose´s cheek, their affection so easy, so routine and so far from what anyone else ever saw.
Just as Rose was about to tease her with something sly, a muffled thump and a burst of laughter filtered down the stairwell, followed by a string of unmistakable noises. Moans, giggles and a sudden rhythmic banging against what was probably Ilya´s headboard.
Svetlana's expression didn´t change, but her lips twitched. “I think they´re having a very honest conversation up there.”
Rose snorted into her wine, nearly spilling it. “God, I hope the neighbors are cool.”
Svetlana grinned, looping an arm around Rose to pull her close. “Let them be. We have our own secrets to keep.”
Rose melted into the embrace, warm and delighted. “We´re much quieter.” she whispered, nuzzling close.
“For now.” Svetlana teased, and kissed her, soft and deep, laughter still trembling between them.
They drifted into a hush, the kind that only exists between people who know each other´s secrets. Rose´s breathing slowed, her hand curled loosely around Svetlana's, their legs tangled, bodies pressed close. Svetlana pulled Rose closer, if that was even possible, and pressed one last lingering kiss at her temple.
The city was loud, but their little camp in the living room was quieter, safer, a secret all their own. Hidden in the shared hush between every heartbeat and every muffled sound from upstairs.
Morning crept in gentle and drowsy, sunlight slipping through the blinds and pooling across the living room floor. Ilya padded down first, hair wild, pajamas wrinkled, moving with the slow, tentative steps of someone still half dreaming. Shane trailed after him, dragging an old hoodie around his shoulders and blinking drowsily at the mess of last night.
They stopped in the doorway at the same time. The couch was a fortress of blankets and tangled limbs, Rose and Svetlana bundled up together, faces pressed close, curls and blond strands mixed on the same pillow.
Their arms were wrapped tight around each other, empty glasses perched precariously on the coffee table nearby, a trail of discarded shirts and a stray bra littered the floor in the soft, golden light.
For a moment, Ilya and Shane just stood there, silent, grinning.
Shane nudged Ilya, whispering, “Told you there was something going on.”
Ilya smirked, pulling him a little closer. “Let them sleep. We will clean later.”