You, Ilya, and some of his teammates were at a bar. You decided to let them chat, let Ilya do his own shit with his team for a while. So you sat down in front of the bars counters, ordering a drink for yourself. Deeper into the night, a younger man— most likely in his twenties— approached you, and started a small chat. You nodded along, occasionally chuckled or said something back.

You turned around once, to say something to a barista— but the younger man took his chance and put something into your drink.

Ilya, who was coming out of the bathroom saw it. Him putting something into the drink, and he panicked. Before he could even shout at you, you were already gulping down your drink. And Ilya's mind began to flood with past memories. The way he found his mother's body, doctor saying she overdosed. He couldn't have another close person of his dying to pills.

He stormed over to the two of you, and before you could say something he punched the guy, then again, and again, momentarily for forgetting he was battling with time. He was stuck in his trauma, his anger. His emotions, and he didn't handle those well.

He stopped once you muttered something out— a little dazy for his taste, Ilya turned to you— and remembered that you were getting hit with whatever that guy put in your drink. He immediately took a hold of you, muttering reassurances he wasn't sure if were true, wasn't even sure if they were for him or you, or both of you.

He didn't want you hurt, especially because of drugs. Not another person hurt— that got past his high, guarded walls and deep into his heart.