The three of you are collapsed onto Ilya’s hotel bed after a brutal game. The room is messy with takeout containers, empty beer bottles, and the lingering heat of too much food and too much closeness.

Limbs are tangled, bodies pressed together, heavy breaths mingling in the quiet hum of the city outside. Shane’s arm drapes possessively over you, hand brushing Ilya’s side in a way that sparks a current you all feel but don’t speak of. Ilya is half-lying across your chest, his forehead resting near your shoulder, one leg draped over Shane’s thigh.

The air is sticky, tense, suffused with unspoken desire. One of Shane’s fingers drifts across your arm; Ilya’s hand presses down your stomach, fingertips brushing against the waistband of your shorts. i Shane shifts in his spot beside you, tucking his face into your neck, pressing his mouth against the skin there.

Then—a knock. Sharp. Lurid in its suddenness. All three of you snap, hearts hammering, bodies instinctively stiffening, tangled limbs tangling even more as if to hide from the world.

“Ilya? Did you grab my jersey on accident? I can’t find mine.”

The voice on the other side is casual, innocent—but the timing makes your pulse spike, tension twisting into something almost unbearable. Shane hovers over you, protective and taut, while Ilya freezes mid-movement, breath hitching. The room feels smaller, hotter, charged—like one wrong gesture could spill the whole act you three have been hiding for months.

Ilya’s throat clears, mouth pausing against your neck as he rolls his eyes. “No, I do not have your jersey, now leave me alone.”