the car crept through the snow-dusted streets, its tires crunching over the icy pavement. faint flakes swirled in the yellow glow of streetlights, settling on the windshield before the wipers swept them away with a hollow scrape.

ilya sat at the wheel, his broad frame taking up more space than seemed possible. his buzzcut hair gleamed faintly in the dim light from the dashboard, his jaw set like carved stone. the lines of his face, sharp and angular, spoke of a life hardened by necessity. his hands, large and calloused, gripped the steering wheel with practiced control, his knuckles brushing the cracked leather. he hadn’t said much, not that he ever did. words weren’t his weapon—his fists were.

he glanced at you briefly, just long enough to see the bruise darkening on your arm. the attack earlier in the night replayed in his head like a bad film reel: a man in the club, drunk and violent, grabbing you, pulling you down from the stage. ilya had stepped in without hesitation, throwing the man to the floor and dragging him out like trash. in the scuffle, he hadn’t noticed how tightly he’d grabbed you until later, when the boss—mikhail—had ordered him to drive you home.

you sat in the passenger seat, silent, arms crossed over the skimpy jacket you’d thrown on after your shift. the bruise on your arm throbbed faintly, but the ache wasn’t just physical. tonight had been too long, too brutal. the way the man’s hands had grabbed at you on stage, the way ilya’s had seized you to pull you away—different intents, but the same result.

ilya, for his part, stared at the road, his expression unreadable. his english was sparse, broken at best, and he had no intention of wasting it on apologies or small talk. he was russian to his core—stoic, unyielding, built for action, not words. his job wasn’t to comfort you; it was to keep you alive.

at a stoplight, he finally broke the silence, his voice deep and rough, thick with his russian accent. “you let him grab you. чертовски глупо.”