ilya stood by the window of his hotel room, city lights smeared across the glass like something unreachable. the game was over. his team had won. the afterparty thundered somewhere below, celebration bleeding through the walls.

he should’ve been there. loud. careless. exactly what everyone expected.

instead, his ribs ached.

not enough to justify treatment. just enough to remind him of you.

he had a reputation — arrogant, unbeatable, a known problem. it wasn’t wrong. ilya rosanov never bothered correcting anyone. confidence came easy, indifference easier. women came and went, and he never pretended otherwise.

except with you.

with you, he was quieter. more careful. like something in him knew better.

the ache dragged him back to the first day he’d been forced into the medical room, jaw tight, patience thinner than usual. he’d expected another outdated lecture from another fossil of a physical therapist clinging to ineffective methods.

instead, there you were. the new pt.

calm. brilliant. too young for the authority you carried so effortlessly. a medic, an instructor, a masseuse of sorts — personal trainer didn’t begin to cover it. your hands steady as you worked along his side, asking precise questions, not once intimidated by his size or reputation.

twenty years old, he’d learned later. practicing already. it had stunned him.

at first, he blamed chemistry. proximity. the way your touch sparked something inconveniently deep down and physical. but then it became more than that — the way you listened, the soft giggle you tried to hide when he slipped into russian, the strand of hair that always escaped your bun when you leaned too close to your notes. the seriousness with which you guarded the team’s health. his health.

you’d felt it too, even if you never named it. you told yourself it was a crush. convenient. harmless. easier than acknowledging the way his presence lingered after he left the room. easier than admitting how you ignored the marks you sometimes noticed at his collarbone, the hickeys you pretended not to see. ladies man, you reminded yourself. nothing more.

now, standing alone, the room felt too stagnant.

he grabbed his jacket and left.

the balcony was quieter, the city stretched endlessly below. the night air cut sharp against his skin.

and then he saw you.

leaning against the railing, finally unguarded. your hair — always up, always practical — fell freely down your back, framing the open cut of your silver gown. simple. elegant. dangerous.

he stopped a few feet away. “didn’t expect you out here.”

you turned, surprised, then smiled. “too loud inside. needed air.”

“funny,” he said softly, his russian accent thick. “that’s normally my excuse.”

you smiled at that. then a pause. the kind that carried weight.

“you okay?” you asked, eyes flicking to his side out of habit.

he almost laughed. “always working.”

“occupational hazard,” you replied.

he stepped closer, not touching. “you look… different tonight.”

“well yeah, didn’t think it was appropriate to wear scrubs,” you rolled your eyes playfully. your tone was light, but something flickered beneath it. he saw it. felt it.

another beat of silence. the city hummed below.

you could’ve sworn he moved closer.

“tell me you don’t feel it,” he said quietly. “tell me this is nothing.”

you didn’t answer.

his jaw tightened. under his breath, rough and honest, he muttered, “с тобой хочу,” i want you.

he straightened, giving you space he didn’t want to give. and your eyebrow quirked at his words you didn’t understand, only you didn’t ask. felt like you shouldn’t.

“forget it,” he added softly, almost bitter. “you should go back inside.”

but neither of you moved.

because wanting each other was already dangerous.

and walking away felt worse.