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Ilya Rozanov, the oldest vampire in all of Europe and Asia. He had never felt a special connection with any human. The only thing he remembered from when he was human over three hundred years ago was seeing the most beautiful boy who had ever walked the Earth.

He had been beautiful in his eyes; he remembered him perfectly—silky, shiny black hair, a strong jawline, expressive eyes that reminded him of a puppy, freckles, and, his greatest temptation, full red lips.

He had seen thousands of men with those features, but the only one who had ever made his human heart beat was him. He remembered that this human had been the only one to captivate him, but he died in the ice, and shortly after, Ilya became a vampire.

Since becoming a vampire, he had understood that his emotions were amplified a thousandfold, especially considering that he was accustomed to feeling the same emotion or state of mind—boredom. He also discovered that the blood he drank influenced him: if his victim was drunk, he felt dizzy after drinking it; if they were angry or afraid, he felt pressure in his chest and panic.

In all those years, he had never encountered anyone attractive enough to truly draw him in. He was picky about his food and his home, never letting anyone enter his space. Perhaps that was why he had spent his entire vampire life alone. He had had sexual encounters over the centuries, but it was not something that truly interested him.

He could smell more intensely than any human, and sometimes the scent of humans disgusted him so much that he avoided contact with them and their smells.

But that night would change everything. He was bored, as usual. That week, he had traveled to Boston—something was calling him to that city. He was walking through the dark streets when he collided with him.

With the boy he had remembered since his humanity. He was identical: those eyes, those lips, that way of walking, and his scent. His scent—clean, sweet. His instincts told him to corner him and bite him, but his body did not respond. His mind went blank; he had never felt so clumsy around anyone.

The boy, almost falling from the impact, straightened his clothes and looked at him intently, as if some part of him recognized him from somewhere.

“Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” He decided to speak first, his Russian accent intact, one that would never fade no matter the centuries. He extended his hand to the young man with black hair, who seemed hesitant—he could read it on his face and hear his heart beating.
“No worries, I should have been more careful,” the young man replied, with the same accent Ilya remembered from that Canadian who had stolen his thoughts for so many years. “Excuse me, but… do I know you from somewhere?” He spoke again, confused, as he extended his hand to accept the greeting.

“No, but I would love to get to know you,” admitted the Russian, his accent thick and unmistakable, willing to meet this boy who reminded him so much of the past. “A pleasure, Ilya Rozanov.” He squeezed Shane’s hand lightly and winked in a teasing, flirty manner.

“Shane Hollander,” he replied, in that serious, calm tone. Ilya noticed how he swallowed hard and stared at him for far too long.

The silence lasted a few seconds, though it felt eternal. Their eyes met. A smile formed on Ilya’s lips as he recognized the name of the only man he had ever desired since his human days. He tilted his head to the side, glancing at Shane through his lashes.

“What are you doing out in the streets so late?” he asked, amused, taking a few steps back to lean against the wall. He could feel his mouth watering at Shane’s deliciously tempting scent, yet the young man seemed oblivious to the chaos he was causing in Ilya’s mind.

Shane crossed his arms, hesitant whether to answer honestly or not. But he didn’t know why he felt such a strange connection with the young man before him. He didn’t wait long to continue the conversation.

“I was coming from practice,” he spoke calmly, never taking his eyes off the man in front of him. He looked to be around the same age, but for some reason, Shane felt older—as if his clothes and accent belonged to another century.
“Practice at this hour?” asked the Russian, clearly confused. He trained until 1 a.m. in his right mind. I mean, he was a vampire who lived nocturnally, but he would never train at this hour. “What kind of practice calls for leaving now?”

Shane chuckled softly; Ilya knew he was laughing at his confused reaction. “Hockey practice. I have a very important game tomorrow, and I wanted to make sure I’m in top condition,” Shane replied, his voice less monotone, more interested in sharing.

Ilya tilted his head thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow, smiling. He remembered the first time he had seen this boy—he had died in the ice, and now he lived above it. That caught his attention deeply; he began to believe in reincarnation, in destiny, as if fate wanted him to find Shane again, this time without wasting a single moment.

“Oh. You should go to sleep if the game is that important,” he commented, stepping forward, then another step until he was inside Shane’s personal space. Shane didn’t move an inch, as if his body didn’t sense any danger.

If only he knew he was speaking to a vampire—something everyone believes to be a legend or a fiction invented by writers, something that over the years became mere fantasy. No one knew his story: he was the oldest Russian vampire. The vampire most written about—“the legend of Ilya, the vengeful vampire”—usually that’s how books described him.

He didn’t complain; they wrote his story quite well, though a few details weren’t exactly true. Like the tale of him killing an entire village over a lover—the reality was he was avenging his mother’s death, sacrificed because his father decreed that women shouldn’t learn to read or write, giving his own wife as the first victim of his father’s stupid law.

Returning to the present, he looked at Shane, smiling, and hesitantly reached out his hand.

“Yes, I think I should go,” Shane said, pulling him out of his daydream. Ilya cleared his throat and smiled, nodding slightly.

“You’re right. I’ll see you soon, Hollander.” His Russian accent sounded almost sexual for a moment, his voice low and husky. Shane blushed, stepping back quickly, not waiting for a response from the dark-haired man.

Ilya felt the need to retreat as quickly as possible. Shane’s sweat didn’t disgust him; on the contrary, it was what drew him most. It stirred in him an extreme desire—to bite, to drink his blood, to leave him trembling beneath his touch—but he couldn’t give in to these instincts that were so new, especially when he didn’t understand what was happening in his own head.

He walked down a deserted alley where he usually found junkies or drunks. He took advantage of their distraction to feed, always finding their blood bitter and burning his throat. But flirting with just anyone to get a meal had become tedious

He fed in that alley, and as he left, he wiped his mouth on his forearm, not expecting to run into Shane again—unaware of what had just happened in that shadowed passage.

“Oh, see you again,” the Russian feigned surprise, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket, a hidden glint dancing in his eyes.

“That’s right, my hotel’s nearby,” Shane said, surprised, offering a small smile as he stood, staring at him.

“Oh, mine too.” Ilya laughed lightly, amused, sliding his hands into his pockets.
“Imagine if it really is him,” Shane joked—or tried to—to break the awkward silence between them. Ilya only smiled, nodding, and started walking without saying a word.

Shane followed, not out of curiosity, but because his hotel was along the same path. The silence wasn’t entirely uncomfortable; Ilya could hear every rapid heartbeat of Shane’s. And if he wanted, he could hear his thoughts—but he preferred not to. He hated reading minds; it gave him an unsettling sensory overload.

They arrived at a luxury hotel and both stopped in front of it. “1214,” Ilya said, giving the number of his room, hoping Shane was as curious as he suspected. Then he turned and disappeared into the hallways.

He entered his room, dark, the windows all closed. His eyes, accustomed to the shadows, could see clearly. He walked across the room, sitting in a solitary chair in a corner, arms crossed, staring at the wall in front of him.

Focusing on his senses, remembering Shane made his heart race and ignited the urge to bite him, to taste his blood. But at the same time, he didn’t want to hurt him. The thought of causing harm filled him with both shame and rage. His throat tightened at the idea—it disgusted him to even consider it.

He didn’t understand why he felt such intense things for a boy he had just met. He definitely resembled the first boy who had ever caught his attention. He was identical, only that first boy had spoken with more emotion, whereas Shane… Shane seemed monotone, quieter, straighter.

He blinked a few times. He had never thought much about reincarnation—at least, not like he was thinking about it now. He approached his computer, typing “reincarnation” into the search engine. Nothing he read captured his attention, so he gave up and accepted his fate: he would see that man again.

What would he do now that he had him back in his life? That was the only question on his mind. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. He only knew one thing: he had to find a way to see him again. He couldn’t lose his chance a second time—not now that he had him so close.

Hours passed, his mind spinning with thoughts of their next encounter. When he felt dawn approaching, he settled into his bed. Sleeping in a bed wasn’t as comfortable as sleeping in his coffin, but he wasn’t in Russia to enjoy that luxury. So he just propped himself against the pillows and pulled the sheets completely over himself, hoping his impulses would fade little by little. As an ancient vampire, the sun no longer harmed him. But he preferred to stay like this, asleep during the day. The daytime was exhausting—so many people, so many unpleasant smells, crying babies… everything he hated, at the time he hated it the most.
He fell asleep after a while, cruelly trying to rest. His sleep didn’t last more than half an hour; his door sounded with timid knocks.

He didn’t think much, approaching the door with eyes more closed than open. His shirt was somewhere other than on his body. His blond hair was messy. He opened the door, yawning—luckily, he was in a good mood.

“Oh, sorry, did I wake you?” Shane’s quick voice pulled him from his drowsiness, and he moved aside to let him pass, stretching lazily behind him.

“Don’t worry, Lyubimiy,” he said with his Russian accent more pronounced than usual, his voice rough and sleepy. The nickname was new; he never thought he’d use it on anyone.

“Uhmm,” the dark-haired boy began, pacing the room. Ilya, still more asleep than awake, quickly grabbed him by the shoulders. “Sorry, I don’t even know why I came,” he continued, now looking straight into his eyes.

Ilya smiled, moving closer to Shane, tentatively bringing his lips near the other’s. Shane didn’t pull back—he liked the courage the boy was showing.

“We can have some fun before your game,” Ilya teased slightly, staring at his lips, tempted to kiss him—but he wouldn’t, not unless Shane wanted it.

“Have fun? How do you mean?” His voice sounded confused. Ilya raised an eyebrow, amused—he wouldn’t have guessed Shane could be so innocent. Not when those puppy-like eyes looked at him as if daring him.

“Oh God, you’re so innocent,” the Russian joked, brushing Shane’s hair aside and holding his jaw with a marked mix of delicacy and roughness.

Shane’s eyes glimmered, darting quickly under Ilya’s touch. “Uhm,” he murmured, unsure how to react.
Ilya chuckled softly, stroking the boy’s chin, tilting his head. Something in him screamed to bite him—but he wouldn’t give in yet. There was still time for that.

“What do your instincts tell you?” Ilya asked, sounding more awake than before. Without removing his hand from Shane’s jaw, he could feel him swallowing hard—and, in some twisted way, he loved it.

“My instincts?” Shane murmured, confused, but his eyes didn’t leave the Russian. Nor did he pull away from the touch—if anything, he seemed to sink further into Ilya’s fingers.

“Yes, your instincts, Shane,” Ilya whispered against his ear, his Russian accent emphasizing the boy’s name. His fingers remained firmly on the other’s jaw, and he smiled slightly, breathing close.

Silence ruled the room for several seconds. The atmosphere felt heavy—not in a bad way, but dark, full of suspense and something about to happen.

Ilya felt the boy’s trembling hands on his shoulders and quickly pulled his head from Shane’s ear to look at him with curiosity. He didn’t comment, only stared. Shane’s gaze flicked from his lips to his eyes.

“It’s strange, but I feel a rare connection with you,” he murmured timidly, his voice serious, his eyes darting quickly—something Ilya noticed despite himself.

“Maybe in another life we knew each other,” Ilya tried to joke, gently caressing his jaw, dragging his nails lightly over the boy’s velvety skin.

“Another life.” He murmured, doubtful and thoughtful. “It could explain it,” he added, as if that answer had fully convinced him that it must be the best one.

“Tell me… what do you want to do?” Ilya murmured this time closer to his lips, keeping his smile intact.
“Kiss you,” Shane said, as if unaware of what he had just confessed.

Ilya tilted his head, smiling slightly, and couldn’t help but laugh. He leaned in a little closer, bringing his lips near Shane’s, smiled softly, and held his gaze for a few seconds.

“That’s what you want?” he asked, amused, lifting Shane’s chin gently.

Shane only nodded slightly, giving Ilya the space to lean in and kiss him delicately. He could have sworn his neurons had just died from the sensation of Shane’s lips—they were softer than he’d imagined, and strangely tasted like honey.

“You taste like honey,” Ilya whispered against his lips, nibbling a little harder while one hand tangled in Shane’s hair and the other slid down to his waist, pushing him slightly back so his spine rested against the wall.

“I had toast with honey for breakfast.” Shane chuckled softly, pressing back against the wall, sighing between kisses.

Ilya’s kisses and hands gradually became wilder with every passing second.

Slowly, he pushed Shane toward the armchair, caressing his sides and claiming his mouth, turning the kisses more carnal, craving more contact.

As a vampire, Ilya sometimes couldn’t control his strength or speed. But he had never lost control enough to bite Shane’s neck without permission.

He bit, taking a small sip of his blood, and a shiver ran down his spine. He had never tasted blood so delicious.

He felt his mind going blank as he bit and drank. He had to stop abruptly, drinking too much, noticing Shane growing weaker by the second.

He blinked a few times, catching his breath, stepping back slightly, anxious and surprised by the taste of his blood. His senses felt sharper than ever. He approached Shane again, taking him by the shoulders, feeling a twinge of guilt.

“Hollander,” he murmured with his Russian accent, touching his chin again while keeping his gaze locked on the young man’s eyes.

Shane looked lost, and Ilya quickly realized what had happened. He had likely put him in a trance without meaning to. He had this ability but often forgot he could use it.

He wasn’t going to panic, right? Ilya stepped closer, resting his hands on Shane’s shoulders, trying to pull him out of the trance. He kissed his lips softly, bringing him back quickly.

“Damn, you scared me, Hollander,” the Russian growled, lightly tapping his forehead.

Shane moved, staring ahead, blinking a few times as he processed what had just happened.

“Uh… did you just… drink my blood?” he asked, confused, covering his face, trying to think it through but not reacting much.

“Hehehe,” Ilya tried to stay calm, avoiding a second crisis. “Yes?” It sounded more like a question than a confirmation.

Ilya stepped back a few paces. Shane, still a little dizzy, stood and walked toward Ilya with a shy smile.

“Am I going to feel like this all day? I feel like I’m floating,” he whispered as he walked, almost drifting, and Ilya chuckled softly.

Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, kissed his forehead, and gently stroked his back, clearly careful and concerned about how Shane would feel after having his blood taken.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, embracing, until Shane fully came out of the trance. The transition was smooth, so it didn’t affect him too much—but even so, realizing it, he quickly pulled away.

Ilya scratched his head, watching the door as Shane left. He didn’t complain; he flopped onto the bed, remembering the soft taste of his blood.

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Six months had passed since that encounter, and Ilya had returned to Russia for the same old reasons. The memories of his mother—that was the only real reason he ever went back to Russia.

Since returning, he hadn’t taken any blood. And it wasn’t that he had a problem with going months without eating, but he reached a point where he started weakening. He couldn’t go out in the sun anymore, because he was so weak that it affected him.

It wasn’t like he was starving himself on purpose. He would never do that willingly. Since Shane, he had tried feeding on other humans, but his body felt repulsed by the taste of anyone else. They seemed bland and sour to him.

He would probably die of hunger if he continued like this. So he had to force himself to eat—but no human was as appetizing as Shane. He wanted to find him again, but he hadn’t seen him since that night.

He had looked him up online and discovered he was a great hockey player. Every day, he searched online to see which country he was in. He didn’t go looking for him in person because he didn’t have the energy to travel for hours.

So, he was very happy to see that Shane was going to be in Russia, in the same town where he lived. He didn’t want to act in a weird way (homosexual), but seeing Shane would probably be the best thing that could happen in his vampiric life.

Night fell. Ilya was leaning against a wall, smoking, near the skating rink where Shane was supposed to be training.

He had one arm crossed while holding the cigarette high. He looked paler than before, but that was normal—he hadn’t been out in daylight or eaten for months. He wasn’t extremely thin, but the difference in his physique was noticeable.

He kept his eyes closed, pretending to be there by chance.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He opened one eye, and when he saw who it was, he smirked slightly.

They stayed silent for several long minutes. “Hello, Shane Hollander,” he murmured with that thick accent.

“Hello, Ilya Rozanov,” Shane replied, tilting his head. “You look dead,” he joked while fixing his hair.

“Oh… what a good joke,” the Russian mocked, blinking and letting the cigarette fall. “Who says I’m not?” He tried to joke in the same tone.

But Shane’s reaction made him realize he had taken it literally. “Are you… dead?” he murmured, confused, then laughed once he understood.

“No? Yes? Who knows,” Ilya murmured, running two fingers over his neck to feel his pulse. “I’m breathing, so I guess I am.” He chuckled softly, shrugging.

Ilya’s fangs, which normally weren’t visible, now protruded slightly from his lips as he stared at Shane.

“Will you forgive me for last time?” he murmured, biting his lip, embarrassed at having bitten him without verbal permission.

His stomach felt empty, and he wanted to take Shane against that cold wall and bite his neck again.

“Oh, about that… I have a lot of questions.” Shane said, pulling his phone from his pocket and starting to read an extensive list of questions, from common to very strange.

They spent more than twenty minutes answering questions. Ilya crossed his arms, responding carefully so as not to reveal too much on some of them.

“What’s your favorite blood type?” That kind of question from Hollander made him laugh.

“Yours,” he answered honestly, then teased to lighten the seriousness of the moment.

They continued talking while walking through the streets like two lifelong friends. Ilya sometimes got distracted, looking at Shane’s neck, or simply lost in his thoughts.

“When was the last time you drank blood?” The question sounded curious, and Ilya didn’t have to think long to answer.

“Six months ago, since you… I haven’t been able to drink any more blood. It tastes bland to me,” he admitted casually—something rare and probably happening only once in a thousand times: a vampire could become obsessed with the blood of a being he desired in more than a carnal way.

“Oh… but won’t you starve?” Shane murmured, worried.

“I’m ancient. I can go like this for years. I suppose I’ll die if I don’t feed before losing control,” he said, walking ahead and glancing back at him with a small, playful wink.

“Drink my blood. I know you won’t kill me—you can drink from it,” Shane smiled as he said it, and Ilya’s expression turned serious.

“Don’t say things like that,” he murmured seriously. He didn’t want to hurt him. He would never forgive himself if he did.

Shane, who had very little concern for what might happen to him, just stepped closer to Ilya, holding his hand with those innocent eyes.

Ilya’s thoughts were dark. He couldn’t bite him. He would have to lose control, and Shane could end up seriously harmed—or, in the worst case, dead. He didn’t want that, but there was a high chance he could lose control. He kept walking, gently pushing Shane away. He was more absorbed in his thoughts than truly paying attention to what was happening.

Ilya Rozanov was known in town for his cold, arrogant personality. But anyone who had seen him before, and saw him at that moment lost in thought, would think he had become a different person.
Shane Hollander was curious, so he didn’t accept the push or the rejection of his blood.

“Ilya Rozanov, this is funny—there’s not much information about you on the internet,” he said, crossing his arms as he followed him, looking at him questioning.

“There can’t be anything on the Internet about my existence. How would I explain that I’ve been alive for hundreds of years? And I wouldn’t change my name,” Ilya said, finally emerging from his thoughts. He sighed, his Russian accent dragging over the words.

An awkward silence fell as they stopped. They were in front of a house that looked abandoned—or at least that’s how it appeared from the outside.

“Thanks for the company. But I recommend we keep our distance for now. As tempting and absolutely delicious as the idea of tasting you is, I can’t afford that luxury,” Ilya said calmly, leaning against the gate of the house. He stared at Shane, who didn’t seem to react.

“I’ve read a lot of books about vampires. Would it help if I offered my blood in a cup? I know the books I read are fiction,” Shane asked curiously. It was a good option if he really wanted to help.

“You want to help me that much?” Ilya murmured, laughing slightly, tilting his head to the side with a hint of mockery.

“Yes,” Shane replied firmly, stepping closer. “I can’t help it. Something about you draws me in.” He spoke honestly, far too honest for Ilya’s liking, who usually preferred to keep things unsaid.

Ilya chuckled, half-mocking, saying nothing else. He took Shane’s wrist and led him toward the house, dragging him with a gentle grip. If he wanted to escape, he would have had every opportunity.

“I don’t understand why you’re so helpful,” he laughed again as he opened the door, letting him in.
Inside, the house was like another world. It was as if time had stopped. The first thing that struck Shane was the walls, covered with diamond-patterned wallpaper in wine and gold. The floor was top-quality wood, and the lighting was warm yellow to mimic sunlight. The smell in the house was citrusy, but it was not a scent one could describe with ordinary words.

Shane was amazed at how old everything looked, yet it was in perfect condition. The décor was impeccable. He followed Ilya through the house until they reached the dining room, where he was completely dumbfounded.

The dining room felt like stepping back in time. The table was long and rectangular with several chairs, but one caught his eye: a golden chair with red cushions set apart from the table. A book lay on it, and right next to it was a piano.

“Wow, this house is like traveling through time,” Shane murmured, interested, looking around at the décor before glancing at Ilya, who seemed angelic in that moment.

Ilya was pouring some wine into glasses, the light catching his hair, making it look lighter, and his calm presence seemed almost unreal. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost like they were in slow motion. When he turned and smiled at Shane, his smile was dazzling—and those fangs looked irresistible. Shane wanted to have them against his neck again.

“Uhm, it’s from when I was human. I haven’t really fixed the house since then. My mother was the one who decorated it,” he said as he approached, placing the glasses on the table. He sat down in a chair and pulled another closer for Shane. “Have a seat.”

Shane didn’t hesitate and sat down, moving closer to Ilya as if, for some reason, he needed the physical contact. For some reason, it was his greatest desire.

Time passed as they drank wine and talked for hours about things that sometimes made no sense at all, but Ilya was happy to listen, even though he didn’t understand many of the hockey terms.

Shane remembered why he had come and looked at Ilya. Timidly, he took Ilya’s chin and leaned it toward his arm.

“Ilya, you can take me,” Shane said, smiling at him tenderly.

“Are you sure?” Ilya murmured softly, taking Shane’s wrist delicately. He wouldn’t bite him—he couldn’t bite him here without the need to turn him.

“Very sure,” Shane admitted, with that dazed smile—perhaps the effect of the alcohol. Or so Ilya thought, not realizing that it was because of him that Shane had that beautiful smile on his face.

“Alright, I’ll be careful if I hurt you,” he said as he leaned toward Shane’s neck, gently caressing the area he was about to bite. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmured, teasing but sweet.

Ilya was the typical guy who seemed cold, acted teasing, but had a purely soft and loving heart. When it was needed, he was completely different from how he appeared.

He leaned his mouth to Shane’s neck and lightly ran his tongue over the area. Shane remained still, but under Ilya’s tongue, he could feel his pulse racing.
“I trust you,” he said calmly, stretching his neck a little further to the side.

Something curious about vampire tongues was that their saliva acted like anesthesia, so Shane didn’t feel when Ilya bit his neck, nor did he feel when he drank his blood.

A few minutes passed. When Ilya pulled back, he cleaned his mouth of the blood, wiped his lips, and looked at Shane, raising his eyebrows, happy to have fed. His mouth tasted sweet, like Shane’s blood. He leaned back a little, caressing Shane’s cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he murmured softly, brushing Shane’s cheeks and smiling gently and foolishly at him.

“Ahmm.” He let out a little dazed laugh and rested his forehead on the other’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

After drinking his blood, Ilya felt dizzy from the alcohol in Shane’s system, and something else beyond that—something more protective, or even more heightened.

“Shane. Are you okay?” he murmured again, stroking his hair and then his back gently with care.

“Yes,” Shane whispered softly, lazily hugging Ilya. “I’m sleepy… can I sleep?” he murmured quietly, stretching comfortably.

“Sleep, Solnyshko,” Ilya murmured sweetly while playing with his hair—it was easy to do.

Ilya entertained himself with Shane’s hair for a long while, gently caressing his skull and letting himself be used as a living pillow. Something that was really funny if you looked at it that way.

After a while, Ilya felt his eyelids growing heavy. He got up carefully, carrying Shane gently in his arms. He only carried Shane and went up to the bedroom. It was strange—he usually slept in a coffin, and right next to him was a bed. But that bed had belonged to his mother centuries ago, and now he had someone just as special as his mother.

He laid Shane on the bed, tucked him in delicately, and moved his own coffin close to the bed. He lay down in the coffin. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, he didn’t just close them—he fell asleep, just like that. Comfortable, for the first time in years, he slept easily and quickly.

In the morning—or maybe it was noon—he still couldn’t tell what time it was or when he had fallen asleep. He only opened his eyes when he felt arms around his shoulders, unsure arms that didn’t quite know how to act around him.

“Ummm,” Ilya whined, snuggling against Shane and hugging him back. “Is something wrong?” His voice was even raspier than usual, and his accent sounded more Russian than normal.

“Uhmm, no, I just wanted to be close to you,” Shane admitted simply, leaning closer to him in a shy, sweet way.

“Well, okay. You can stay close to me,” he replied, hugging him tighter and lazily kissing his forehead.

“Thank you,” Shane murmured carefully, holding him even closer.

They stayed like that for maybe half an hour or more. Who really knew how long they stayed in that position? Time flowed calmly, and Ilya liked that—at least he rarely had the chance to relax in such a way.

“Does it hurt?” Ilya whispered, referring to his neck, since he never knew if his bite would cause pain afterward.

“No, I actually feel calmer. Like I’m floating on clouds,” Shane said carefully, thoughtfully commenting on how he felt.

“And is that good or bad?” Ilya teased, running his fingers through Shane’s hair, adjusting him just enough so he was equally comfortable in the coffin.

“It’s good. My mind doesn’t overthink as much,” he replied as if it were something normal to admit. He smiled a little, leaning closer to Ilya’s chest to hear his heartbeat.

Ilya nodded happily, glad that at least the effect of his bite was good for him and that he hadn’t hurt him.

“We should make you something to eat. You can’t stay in bed all day. Especially when you’ll probably go to such a tough training later,” Ilya muttered, sitting up slightly without letting go of him. He practically remained on top of him and kissed his forehead.

“You’re right. I should eat something so I don’t get dizzy during training,” Shane said happily, sitting up a bit with a smile.

“Aren’t you being a little too sappy?” Ilya asked, laughing as he got up from the coffin and glanced at the clock. It was barely eleven in the morning. “What do you want to eat?” he murmured gently.

Shane thought for a long moment. “A sandwich would be perfect,” he said, slowly getting up and flopping back onto the bed lazily. That wasn’t very like him, but he felt so calm.

Ilya smiled, adjusting his hair as he stood up. He took Shane’s hand, smiling gently, and drew him closer.
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After that incident, probably three weeks passed with very little contact between them. Shane was caught up in increasingly intense games and training, while Ilya grew more and more stressed from the lack of attention he was receiving. Surprisingly, he was someone who craved a lot of attention and wanted to be glued to Shane 24/7 like a little puppy.

He just formed a mental image of it—a vampire puppy—and felt secondhand embarrassment. The thought of him with bright eyes and tiny fangs on eager lips craving attention made him cringe.

Shane had invited him to Canada to spend some time together. He liked the idea but felt nervous. He didn’t know what to expect; he was a very anxious person, even if his bold attitude didn’t show it.

He packed his suitcase, folding his clothes carefully. His anxious hands moved between the garments, analyzing whether they were the right ones. Should he wear them, or would he look ridiculous?
He had repeated the process more than four times, adding and removing clothes each time.

He scratched his hair, sighed, and leaned forward to grab his phone.

<

> He sent the text, tossing the phone onto the pile of clothes beside him. He leaned back, thinking, laughing at himself for how ridiculous he looked. Over 300 years old and yet behaving like a lovesick teenager. Probably because he was in love.

The minutes passed slowly, far too slowly for Ilya’s liking. He checked his phone every five seconds, knowing Shane was probably asleep or something like that.

<

> Shane replied after a while. The message made Ilya’s heart race faster than usual.

—Oh holy vampires, I look like a desperate human— Ilya shouted, leaping onto the bed and running around the room in a panic.

—This can’t be… what’s wrong with me— he complained, frustrated, as he ran to grab his phone and flopped onto the pile of clothes.

Canasa was used to the cold in Russia, but this cold seemed to sink into his bones, aching even for an ancient vampire.

It also happened that he had traveled at the worst time—there was a snowstorm, because apparently traveling to Canada in winter wasn’t such a good idea.

The only good thing was that now he would spend a lot of time with Shane, and probably, much against his will (or so he pretended), they could stay cuddled together for hours. Although it seemed that Shane could handle the cold just fine.

The ride to the hotel where they would be staying was short. Shane had been pulled from training due to an ankle sprain that had turned into a small fracture that needed attention. This was the reason for their little winter vacation.

Once in the hotel room, both of them collapsed onto the bed, engaging in a battle of kisses and hugs that ended with them tangled together across the sheets like a little nest of love.

“You look radiant,” Shane murmured, kissing Ilya’s cheeks, capturing his attention one last time before falling asleep, feeling Ilya’s arms relax around him.

“And you, my delicious perdition, Lyubimiy,” Ilya whispered, watching Shane sleep, smiling with his fangs slightly exposed.