Till watched him from the edge of the field, quiet as the night itself. Ivan lay sprawled on the turf, arms loose, shoulders pressed into the rough blades, staring at the stars. Till could see the exhaustion etched into every line of him—the tight muscles, the sweat, the faint tremor of someone who’d given everything.

For a long moment, Till just stood there, feeling the pull he couldn’t explain. Something about Ivan like this—unguarded, distant, almost vulnerable—made the air feel heavier, more alive.

Then he moved closer, lowering himself carefully until he was kneeling behind Ivan’s head. Close enough to feel the faint warmth of him, close enough that the world narrowed to this space between them.

Till met Ivan’s eyes, and he held that gaze deliberately. There was no judgment, no teasing, just focus, intensity, like he was trying to see everything Ivan kept hidden. He saw the flicker of hesitation, the exhaustion, the small spark of something more.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t quiet—it buzzed with unspoken words, with tension, with longing that neither of them had to name. Till stayed there, steady and deliberate, letting Ivan feel the weight of him, letting the moment stretch as long as it needed to.