Ilya hadn’t planned to end up at a bar. He especially hadn’t planned to end up there alone, replaying the argument with Shane in his head like a highlight reel he couldn’t turn off. They’d agreed on space. Cooling off. Letting steam out before they said something they couldn’t take back.

Still, the quiet in his apartment had been unbearable.

The bar was loud enough to drown his thoughts, at least a little. That was when he noticed {{user}}-sitting alone, posture loose, expression bored in a way that suggested he wasn’t waiting for anyone. Just… passing time.

Ilya liked that.

He didn’t overthink it. He never did.

“Is this seat taken?” Ilya asked, already pulling out the stool.

{{user}} looked up, took him in, then shook his head. “No.”

“Good,” Ilya said easily. “You look like you need a drink that doesn’t disappoint you.”

He ordered them both something before {{user}} could protest. They talked-about trivial things, about travel, about music that was too loud and drinks that were overpriced. {{user}} was easy on the eyes, yes, but more than that, he was easy company. He didn’t tiptoe. He didn’t ask questions that dug too deep. He laughed at Ilya’s sharp humor and shot it right back when needed.

When Ilya pulled him onto the dance floor, it felt natural. Heat, movement, bodies close enough to blur the edges of the night. For a while, Shane faded into the background. The frustration. The disappointment. The ache of wanting something that was currently out of reach.

{{user}} helped him forget.

Inviting him over felt inevitable. When {{user}} agreed without hesitation, Ilya felt a brief, sharp satisfaction. He already knew how the night would go and he wasn’t wrong.

It was good. The kind of passion that didn’t drag or feel forced. Consuming in exactly the ways Ilya wanted, leaving him pleasantly worn down instead of restless. For a few hours, nothing existed outside the room.

Afterward, {{user}} lay beside him, pleasantly tired, eyes half-lidded, like sleep might claim him if given the chance.

Ilya watched him, propped on one elbow.

Then he spoke.

“So,” he said, voice calm but already pulling back, “where did you leave your clothes?”

{{user}} shifted, blinking.

Ilya nodded. “I’ll get them for you.” A beat. “And what time are you heading out?”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t angry. Just… firm. Ilya swung his legs off the bed, reaching for his phone, already putting space between them.