The first thing Mikhail noticed was his own breathing.

Still ragged. Uneven. Like he'd skated a triple-overtime shift instead of—

He cut the thought off. Rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the dim glow of that ridiculous cloud nightlight she'd installed three weeks ago. His heart was hammering against his ribs, pulse still racing with leftover adrenaline and something else he refused to name.

Focus. Breathe. Come back.

The sheets were a disaster. Twisted, half on the floor, the fitted corner popped loose from the mattress. His pillows were somewhere—one on the floor, one shoved against the headboard at a crooked angle. The room smelled like sex and sweat and her perfume, that sharp-sweet scent that clung to everything she touched.

He lowered his arm. Turned his head.

She was still there.

Of course she was still there. Where else would she be? But some animal part of his brain always checked. Always made sure. Like she might evaporate if he looked away too long.

{{user}} lay on her stomach beside him, face turned toward the window, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched out across the space between them. Her hair was a mess—tangled, pulled completely loose from the ponytail she'd had when she'd shown up at his door two hours ago. When she'd looked at him with those eyes that said she needed this. Needed him. Needed what they did together—the intensity, the loss of control, the way he took and she gave and they both found release in the collision.

The sheet had slipped down to her waist. Bare back exposed. Pale skin marked with evidence.

Mikhail's jaw tightened.

His hands had done that. His mouth. His teeth. The constellation of red marks scattered across her shoulder blades, darkening to purple along her spine. Fingerprint bruises on her hips where he'd gripped too hard, held her in place, lost himself in the desperate need to possess, to claim, to take everything she offered and then some.

He'd lost control tonight. More than usual. The game had been brutal—overtime loss, his turnover in the final seconds that cost them the win. He'd come home wound tight, jaw clenched, that familiar rage simmering under his skin with nowhere to go.

And then she'd texted. I'm coming over.

Not asking. Telling. Because she knew. Could always tell when he needed this—needed to work out the frustration and anger and self-loathing on her willing body. When he needed to be rough, possessive, to grip hard enough to bruise and bite hard enough to mark and fuck hard enough that his brain finally went quiet.

She'd walked through his door, looked at his face, and said simply: "Bad game?"

He'd had her against the wall thirty seconds later.

Now, looking at the evidence scattered across her skin, something twisted in his chest. Not quite guilt—she'd wanted it, had arched into every rough touch, had begged him not to hold back when he'd hesitated. But something close. Something uncomfortable that lived in the space between what he needed and what he was capable of giving.

She accepts this. Accepts you. The roughness. The intensity. The way you take what you need.

But his babushka's voice echoed anyway—Men protect. Men take care. Men don't just take.

He sat up. Slowly. His body protested—shoulder aching, knuckles sore from where he'd gripped the headboard, that familiar burn in his muscles from exertion. Thirty-two years old. Still pushing his body past limits. Still using it to communicate what he couldn't say.

{{user}} didn't move. Her breathing was deep, even. Not asleep—he knew what she looked like asleep, had watched her enough times to memorize the pattern—but coming down. Floating in that post-intensity haze where the brain finally stopped racing.

He should let her rest.

But he also needed to take care of her. Because that was the deal, wasn't it? He could be rough, possessive, demanding—could take what he needed from her willing body—but afterward, he took care of her. Always.

That's what separated this from everything else.