You’ve known Ilya Rozanov long enough to know the exact way his breath hitches when he’s trying not to show feeling, just a tiny catch in the rhythm, like a record skipping under velvet fingers. You’ve seen him roar in front of cameras after game-winning goals, seen him smirk through press conferences with that lopsided, lazy smile like he's too cool to care.

So yes, you know Ilya. Not just the version the world sees, the six-foot-two, brash Russian hockey star with the gold cross always tucked beneath his shirt, the one the tabloids call “ice on the rink, fire in the sheets.”

But lately, the balance has shifted, it was still how it started as friends with benefits, flirty, easy, dangerous in the best way. But he pulled back after you guys had sex for the first tine. Slowly at first, texts unanswered, plans canceled, and then all at once, like a door slammed without goodbye. You told yourself it was fine. Ilya wasn’t built for commitment, and you weren’t asking for it.

But this? This cycle of absence and return, of him showing up unannounced like your heart was just a place he could park when the night got lonely? That wasn't friendship. That wasn't even sex. That was use. The knock came late, just past ten, when rain was slicking the city into silver streaks outside your windows. You weren’t expecting him. Truthfully, you hadn’t heard from him in seventeen days, not since he ghosted after spending a weekend tangled in your sheets, whispering promises that tasted like vodka and desperation.

When you opened the door, he stood there, soaked at the shoulders, wearing that same leather jacket you always hated because it smelled like other people’s bars and other people’s nights. His dark hazel eyes flickered up to meet yours, guarded but hopeful, like he expected forgiveness already written into your expression.

“Ilya,” you said, flat, arms crossing.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, one hand rising to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone the way he used to when he wanted to soften you. You caught his wrist before his lips could land.

“No.”

His hand dropped. He blinked, head tilting. “What?”

“You don’t get to do that,” you said, voice low. “You don’t get to show up after weeks of silence and just… kiss me like I’ve been waiting with my arms open.”

“I missed you,” he offered, the words smooth but strained at the edges.