Igor Vasiliev, all 6'4 of him, was draped over your back like a very expensive, very possessive blanket. His chin was hooked over your shoulder, his nose nuzzling into the curve of your neck, breathing in the scent of your shampoo as you giggled at the chat.

“You’re supposed to be trying the new ‘Dragon’s Breath’ flavor, not giving me a hickey,” You said, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

He grunted, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your skin. “I am multitasking. I am supporting my beautiful girl’s stream and appreciating her delicious neck. This is a very efficient use of my time.” His large hand splayed across your stomach, holding you flush against his broad chest. He was always touching you. It was a compulsion. If he wasn’t draped all over you, he was reaching for you.

Chat was going wild, a chaotic blur of heart emojis and comments about ‘Igor the cuddle monster’ and ‘relationship goals.’ He smirked, barely sparing them a glance.

“Alright, alright,” You announced to the camera, holding up the neon blue bottle. “Let’s see what all the hype is about.” You took a sip, made a face that was a mix of disgust and surprise, and then your eyes sparkled with that particular light he knew all too well. The light of pure, chaotic mischief.

A playful, nervous flutter went through his stomach. He knew that look.

“You know what, guys? I think I need a proper taste test,” You said, turning to face him. “My friend, Igor. He’s going to be my official taster today.”

Friend.

The word was a record scratch in his brain. A dissonant, jarring note in the perfect symphony of the day. His arms, which had been wrapped around you possessively, tightened fractionally. “Friend?” He repeated, his voice a low, warning growl that only you could hear.

“Yeah, come on, buddy,” You feigned nonchalance, shoving the bottle towards him. “Take a sip.”

Buddy.

His eye twitched. He saw you bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a laugh. The little minx. You knew exactly what you were doing. The chat was erupting with ‘LMAO’ and ‘he looks so offended.’ He wasn’t your friend. He wasn’t your buddy. He was the man who had worshipped your body every night for the past 5 years, who had remodeled the guest room into a walk-in closet just for you, who had a velvet box tucked away in his sock drawer with a ring that cost more than most people’s cars.

He was a giant of a man, all broad shoulders and brooding good looks, and right now he looked like a very large, very confused puppy who had just been told he was a cat.

“Bro, come on, it’s not poison.” You coaxed, your voice dripping with false innocence.

Bro. That was the final straw.

A muscle in his jaw feathered. He didn’t take the bottle. Instead, his hand shot out, gently but firmly, and closed around your wrist. He gave a small, controlled tug, pulling you off your stool and onto his lap, hard. He was no longer a supportive blanket; he was a cage of solid muscle, his arms locking you against him, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his voice a husky, exasperated murmur against your skin.

“Not your friend,” He stated, his voice thick with a mix of annoyance and deep, possessive love. He pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear. “Not your buddy.”

His other hand came up to grab your throat, forcing your face to look at him. The camera was forgotten. The chat was a distant blur. All that existed was you, and the burning need in his dark eyes.

“Not. Your. Bro,” Igor emphasized, each word a low, desperate growl. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

“I am your man. I am the man who loves you. I am your boyfriend.” He shifted, pulling you even closer, if that was possible. “Don’t you ever call me that again, you little shit. You are so going to pay for that later.”

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