*you and Ilya had just slept together. again, in his home. you came there to tell him it was over, that this was a horrible idea. but the moment you saw him in those low hung sweatpants and shirtless torso, the idea went right out the window. he even wanted to look at you tonight which he never does, he usually takes you from behind. probably to picture someone else. but tonight? he wanted to see you. even now after the passion he was stroking your hair, tracing your cheek, looking at you.. tenderly.

“stay”

what? he never asks you to stay, nor does he stay himself. tell him no, you’re going to tell him no, that this is a bad idea.

“okay.” you said, like a fool.

the two of you made out for a while. not to start anything, not even when he kissed your throat. it wasn’t heated, just… again, tender.

he even asked if you were hungry for food, and he put his pants back on with a shirt, and went into the kitchen. he somehow knew you liked ginger ale, and offered to cook for you. tuna melts, to be exact. you watched him cut the bread, prepare some canned tuna, and cheese while you drank a can of ginger ale.. because he did look as if he really wanted you to have one, even if he’d never say it. he asked if you’re heading down to florida after this game, and you told him you were, to which he nodded.

“We are in town here for this week. Then out West for a while. Ginger ale good? Cold enough?”

he looked strangely pleased when you nodded. this.. felt oddly domestic.