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2026-08-31
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Guys My Age

Summary:

Shane Hollander had just turned twenty-one, and somehow, dating already exhausted him.

The guys his age were always something—too immature, too lazy, too emotional, not emotional enough, terrible at communicating, or completely allergic to commitment. Shane had never found anyone who felt right.

Then, on the night of his twenty-first birthday, he met thirty-eight-year-old billionaire CEO Ilya Rozanov.

Work Text:

Twenty-one.

Shane Hollander had officially survived twenty-one years of life, and apparently the reward was being forced to drink something that tasted like gasoline mixed with regret.

“Absolutely not.”

Shane slammed the tiny shot glass onto the table and immediately reached for the glass of water beside it.

His friends erupted.

Rose nearly folded in half laughing. “Your face!”

“That was disgusting.”

“It was tequila.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It’s your birthday!”

“And?”

“And you’re twenty-one!”

Shane narrowed his eyes at her while taking another desperate drink of water. “I was twenty-one five minutes ago when you made me drink the first one.”

“And you’ll still be twenty-one when I make you drink the third.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Rose grinned.

Shane pointed threateningly at her. “I mean it.”

She immediately turned toward their other friends. “Birthday boy wants another shot!”

Cheers exploded around the table.

“Traitors!”

Shane couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

This was exactly what he’d wanted.

Not necessarily the alcohol.

Definitely not the alcohol.

But this.

His friends.

Music so loud it vibrated through the floor. Colored lights sweeping across the enormous club. People packed around the dance floor downstairs while the upper level offered private tables, lounges, and balconies overlooking everything below.

Rose had somehow managed to reserve one of the smaller VIP sections for his birthday.

Shane hadn’t asked how.

He suspected several people had contributed money and refused to tell him.

He loved them for it.

Even if they were currently attempting to poison him.

“Twenty-one!” Rose shouted.

“Twenty-one!” everyone echoed.

Shane groaned.

They threw back their shots.

Shane followed.

And immediately grimaced.

Again.

-

Across the room, someone laughed.

Not chuckled.

Actually laughed.

Ilya Rozanov lowered his vodka from his mouth and stared across the VIP level.

For the first time in nearly twenty minutes, something had managed to hold his attention.

He hadn’t wanted to come tonight.

Not because he didn’t love his father.

He did.

His father was officially retiring after decades of work, and the family had decided this required a celebration big enough that half of them had flown into the city for it.

Dinner had been enjoyable.

The club afterward?

Less so.

Ilya had been sitting on one of the couches for the last ten minutes, slowly sipping Russian vodka while everyone around him talked.

His sister had already accused him of being miserable.

His mother had told him to stop checking his phone.

His cousin had attempted to drag him downstairs.

Svetlana had threatened to confiscate his drink if he didn’t socialize.

Ilya had ignored all of them.

At thirty-eight, he had perfected the art of ignoring people.

Especially people who loved him.

Then the young man had walked into the VIP section.

Ilya had noticed him immediately.

Which, by itself, was unusual.

People noticed Ilya.

Ilya rarely noticed them.

It was simply the reality of being Ilya Rozanov.

CEO of Aurelius Industries, billionaire several times over, and the man business magazines alternated between calling brilliant, ruthless, revolutionary, impossible, and—in one particularly ridiculous profile—the most intimidating bachelor in corporate America.

He hated that article.

His mother had framed it.

-

Aurelius Industries had begun as an engineering and infrastructure company before expanding into technology, transportation, energy, and international development. Under Ilya, it had become one of the largest privately controlled corporations in the world.

His reputation had grown with it.

People expected someone cold.

They weren’t entirely wrong.

Ilya was private. Blunt. Difficult to impress. Almost impossible to intimidate.

But the people who actually worked with him knew something else.

His executive assistant was his best friend.

Several department heads were people he regularly had dinner with.

One of his closest friends had started as an intern twelve years ago.

But inside Aurelius?

Svetlana called him Mr. Rozanov.

He called her Ms. Vetrova.

She scheduled meetings like everyone else.

Her proposals were rejected if they weren’t good enough.

Her performance reviews were handled exactly as company policy required.

Friendship purchased no advantages.

Disagreement earned no punishment.

It was one of the reasons employees stayed.

Ilya demanded excellence, but he was fair.

And loyal.

Painfully loyal.

Which apparently made people find him more attractive.

-

Men flirted with him.

Women flirted with him.

Employees from other companies flirted with him during negotiations.

A journalist had once slipped her phone number into his suit pocket during an interview.

Nothing.

Not disgust.

Not discomfort.

Just—

Nothing.

No spark.

No curiosity.

No desire to see them again.

His family had spent years trying to understand it.

His mother and sisters especially.

Eventually Ilya had explained it as simply as he could.

He wasn’t opposed to love.

He wasn’t afraid of commitment.

He simply hadn’t met anyone who made him want either.

And Ilya refused to build a life with someone simply because society had decided thirty-eight was too old to come home to an empty house.

If he loved someone someday, wonderful.

If he didn’t?

He had family.

Friends.

A career he loved.

A life he had built carefully.

That was enough.

At least, it had been.

Up until ten minutes ago.

Because now he couldn’t stop looking across the room.

His first thought had been immediate.

Young.

Far too young.

The dark-haired man had walked into the VIP section surrounded by friends, laughing while one woman held his hand and pulled him toward their table.

Then she’d shouted over the music.

“SHANE!”

The young man had turned.

She had lifted a shot glass.

“TO TWENTY-ONE!”

The entire table had cheered.

Ilya had almost rolled his eyes in relief.

Legal.

Then Shane had taken the shot.

His entire face had crumpled.

Nose wrinkling.

Eyes squeezing shut.

Lips twisting dramatically before he grabbed his water.

And Ilya laughed.

Actually laughed.

That was what got everyone’s attention.

Svetlana stopped midsentence.

His sister turned.

His mother looked immediately suspicious.

Three women in his family followed his gaze almost simultaneously.

There was silence.

Then his mother leaned slightly forward.

“Oh.”

Ilya looked at her.

She was staring across the room.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

His sister followed their mother’s gaze.

Her eyebrows rose.

Then she smiled.

“Oh.”

“Stop.”

His aunt joined them.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Ilya said.

“Someone has caught Ilya’s attention.”

“No one has caught—”

“He’s cute,” his mother announced.

Ilya closed his eyes.

Svetlana snorted into her drink.

“Very cute,” his sister agreed.

“I hate all of you.”

His father, completely uninterested in matchmaking for once, raised his glass from the opposite couch.

“To retirement.”

Ilya pointed at him. “Thank you.”

His father smiled.

Then looked toward Shane.

Paused.

And added, “He is cute.”

The table exploded.

Ilya muttered something vicious in Russian.

But when he lifted his vodka again—

His eyes went right back to Shane.

-

Shane was expressive.

That was the first thing Ilya noticed.

Everything showed on his face.

Everything.

Rose whispered something into his ear.

Shane’s jaw dropped.

He slapped her arm.

Rose laughed.

Shane tried to remain offended for approximately four seconds before laughing too.

Another friend came back carrying drinks and Shane immediately moved everyone’s phones out of the way, rearranging the table so there was space.

Someone couldn’t hear the conversation.

Shane leaned closer.

Someone stumbled walking past their booth.

Shane automatically reached out and steadied them.

A stranger complimented his shirt.

Shane smiled brightly and complimented their shoes.

Someone approached their table and clearly tried flirting.

That was interesting.

Ilya straightened slightly.

The man was probably around Shane’s age. Tall. Handsome. Confident.

He said something.

Shane smiled politely.

The man leaned closer.

Shane’s smile weakened.

Rose’s eyes narrowed.

The man said something else.

Shane shook his head.

Still polite.

Still kind.

But completely uninterested.

The man eventually walked away.

Shane immediately dropped backward onto the couch.

Rose said something.

Shane threw both hands into the air.

Ilya couldn’t hear him from here.

He wished he could.

He watched Rose laugh.

Then Shane started talking animatedly.

His friends listened.

And Ilya found himself watching Shane’s hands.

He talked with them.

Passionately.

“What do you think he’s saying?”

Ilya slowly looked beside him.

Svetlana was sitting there.

Smirking.

“I don’t care.”

“You’ve been staring at him for fifteen minutes.”

“I am observing.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“Very important distinction.”

Ilya glared.

Svetlana calmly sipped her cocktail.

“You haven’t observed anything this closely since the Singapore acquisition.”

His sister burst out laughing.

“Fuck all of you.”

-

Across the room, Shane had no idea.

Because Shane was currently complaining.

“I am done.”

Rose nodded solemnly. “You’ve said that before.”

“No. Seriously. I’m done.”

“With?”

Shane gestured vaguely toward the man who had just left.

“That.”

“Men?”

“Men our age.”

Rose gasped dramatically.

Shane ignored her.

“I can’t do it anymore.”

“Not even a few hours ago, you were also a man our age.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I absolutely do. I just enjoy bothering you.”

Shane grabbed one of the decorative pillows and shoved it against her.

Rose laughed.

“I just…” Shane sighed, leaning back. “I’m tired.”

His friends quieted.

They’d heard pieces of this before.

Tonight, though, maybe because it was his birthday, Shane finally said all of it.

“I’m tired of dating someone and feeling like I’m their mother.”

Rose grimaced.

“I’m tired of reminding people to answer texts. I’m tired of guys thinking communication means sending a meme after ignoring you for three days.”

Someone across the table lifted their glass. “That one was painfully specific.”

“Because it happened!”

They laughed.

Shane pointed around the table, getting more animated now.

“And I’m tired of every disagreement becoming this stupid competition over who can pretend to care less. Like—God forbid you actually like the person you’re dating.”

“Embarrassing,” Rose deadpanned.

“Apparently!”

Shane threw his hands up.

“And sex is even worse.”

A few eyebrows rose.

Rose immediately leaned forward.

“Oh, we’re getting into it now.”

“Yes, we are, because I’m annoyed.” Shane sat forward. “Why does everything have to be a performance? Why does everything have to be about proving something? Half of them don’t even know what they like. They just know what they think they’re supposed to like.”

“Amen.”

“And then afterward they act like having an actual conversation is going to kill them.”

One of his friends shook her head sympathetically. “Twenty-something men.”

“Exactly.”

Shane grabbed his drink.

“I’m just not attracted to them anymore.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Rose blinked. “Like…at all?”

“I don’t know.”

Shane stared into his glass.

“I can look at a guy and know he’s attractive. Obviously. I’m not blind. But sexually?” He shrugged. “Nothing. Emotionally? Definitely nothing. They start talking and within ten minutes I’m thinking, Oh my God, you’re a child.”

Laughter broke around the table.

Shane groaned and covered his face.

“I sound horrible.”

“You don’t sound horrible,” Rose said.

“I sound eighty.”

“You’re twenty-one.”

“Exactly!”

“Twenty-one going on sixty-four.”

Shane kicked her lightly beneath the table.

Rose laughed.

“I just want someone who has their shit together,” Shane continued. “Is that really so terrible? Someone who knows what they want. Someone who can communicate. Someone who doesn’t think caring about somebody makes them weak. Someone who—”

He stopped.

His friends were staring.

Shane frowned. “What?”

Rose’s mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re judging me.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“You’re absolutely judging me.”

“I think,” one of their friends interrupted thoughtfully, “that Shane needs cheering up.”

Shane pointed at her. “I am perfectly cheered.”

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s my birthday. I’m having a wonderful time.”

“You just spent ten minutes explaining why the entire male population between twenty and twenty-nine has personally disappointed you.”

“Because they have.”

She nodded gravely.

“Exactly.”

Then her face brightened.

“You know what always helps me when I’m feeling down?”

Everyone looked at her.

She dramatically placed one hand over her heart.

“Singing.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Rose gasped.

Actually gasped.

Her hand shot out and grabbed Shane’s arm.

“Oh my God.”

Shane immediately became suspicious.

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You made a face.”

“What face?”

“The face you make before ruining my life.”

Rose ignored him, looking toward the opposite side of the VIP level.

“They have karaoke!”

Several heads turned.

Sure enough, tucked toward the far side of the club was a smaller stage. People had been going up throughout the night, though their group had barely paid attention.

Rose slowly turned back.

Her eyes met Shane’s.

Then she gasped again.

This one was louder.

Shane recoiled. “What now?”

“I have the perfect song.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what song!”

“I don’t need to.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.”

“Rose.”

She was already getting up.

Shane grabbed her wrist.

“Sit down.”

Rose pulled against him.

“Come on!”

“No!”

“Birthday karaoke!”

“I don’t sing!”

“You sing in the car!”

“That is a private venue!”

Their friends were beginning to catch on, laughter spreading around the table.

Rose suddenly stopped fighting him.

She stared down at Shane.

A wicked smile slowly appeared.

Shane’s stomach dropped.

“No.”

“You know what song fits everything you just spent the last ten minutes complaining about?”

Shane stared at her.

Rose’s smile widened.

Then realization struck.

His eyes went huge.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Rose screamed.

“YES!”

“No!”

“Guys My Age!”

The entire table erupted.

Shane dropped his face into his hands.

“No. No, no, no.”

“It is literally your anthem!”

“It is not my anthem!”

“You just gave us the spoken-word version!”

Someone nearly spit out their drink.

Another friend was already laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.

Rose grabbed both of Shane’s hands and hauled him upright.

“Come on, birthday boy.”

“Rose, I swear to God—”

“You’re twenty-one, you’re sick of twenty-one-year-old men, and there is a karaoke stage twenty feet away. The universe has spoken.”

“The universe needs to mind its business!”

But Shane was laughing now.

Which meant he’d already lost.

His friends knew it.

Rose knew it.

And, from across the VIP level, Ilya knew none of the context.

All he saw was the young man he’d been unable to stop watching for the better part of the night suddenly being dragged from his seat.

Shane caught the back of the couch, trying to resist while Rose pulled on both his hands.

His head tipped back with laughter.

His friends started chanting something Ilya couldn’t hear over the music.

Then Rose pointed toward the karaoke stage.

Ilya’s eyebrows lifted.

Beside him, Svetlana followed his gaze.

“Oh,” she murmured. “This should be entertaining.”

Ilya barely heard her.

Because Shane had finally surrendered.

Rose threw both arms into the air victoriously.

Shane shoved her shoulder, still laughing, before allowing himself to be pulled toward the stage.

And Ilya’s attention followed him every step of the way.

He had no idea that Shane was about to sing a song that would answer a question Ilya hadn’t even known he wanted to ask.

He had no idea that the joking complaints at that table had been about attraction.

About maturity.

About wanting something Shane hadn’t been able to find in anyone his own age.

And Shane had absolutely no idea that, across the room, a thirty-eight-year-old man who had never truly wanted anyone was already watching him like he was trying to figure out why he couldn’t look away.

-

The opening music began.

Rose immediately grabbed Shane’s hand.

Shane laughed, shaking his head.

Then the first part of the song started.

And something changed.

Not completely.

Shane was still laughing.

Still embarrassed.

Still clearly aware that his friends were watching.

But the song’s subject hit a little too close.

Guys his age.

Immature boys.

The exhaustion of wanting something deeper and continually finding people who didn’t know what they wanted.

Shane pointed toward Rose while singing the sentiment back at her.

Rose dramatically nodded.

The birthday table screamed.

Shane laughed.

Then—

He moved.

Ilya stopped lifting his glass.

Shane wasn’t doing anything outrageous.

He simply had rhythm.

A lot of it.

His shoulders rolled with the beat as he stepped sideways.

His hips followed naturally.

One hand held the microphone while the other ran briefly through his dark hair.

His shirt had ridden slightly upward from dancing, showing a narrow strip of skin above his jeans before dropping again.

Ilya’s gaze lingered.

Then immediately lifted.

“Interesting,” Svetlana murmured.

“Do you want to keep your job?”

“Yes.”

“Then silence.”

“You wouldn’t fire me.”

“No.”

“Because you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

She smiled.

But Ilya wasn’t smiling anymore.

He was watching Shane.

Because something about the performance had changed.

Shane wasn’t simply joking with his friends now.

The song moved into its central idea—that frustration with immature men had turned into curiosity about someone older, someone steadier.

Shane sang it differently.

He wasn’t screaming the words for fun.

He meant them.

Ilya could see it.

The way Shane’s smile became smaller.

The way he looked toward Rose during certain lines.

The way Rose pointed at him knowingly.

The way Shane laughed afterward, almost embarrassed that she’d caught him.

Ilya leaned forward.

His elbows rested against his knees.

The vodka sat forgotten between his hands.

His mother noticed.

Of course she noticed.

She noticed everything.

But this time she didn’t tease him.

Because she knew her son.

She knew what thirty-eight years of indifference looked like.

And this wasn’t indifference.

-

Onstage, Shane turned.

His back faced the crowd briefly.

His hips swayed with the rhythm.

Rose bumped hers against his.

Shane laughed and bumped her back.

The crowd cheered.

Then Shane spun around.

Dark hair falling slightly across his forehead.

Cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing.

Smile wide.

Alive.

Ilya stared.

He had been approached by models.

Actors.

Athletes.

He had attended parties filled with people routinely called the most beautiful men and women alive.

He’d appreciated beauty.

He wasn’t blind.

But appreciation had always been intellectual.

That person was handsome.

That woman was beautiful.

That man had striking eyes.

Then nothing.

No second thought.

No pull.

No desire.

This—

This was different.

Because Ilya didn’t simply think Shane was beautiful.

He wanted Shane to look at him.

The realization landed hard.

His fingers tightened around his glass.

Onstage, the song continued.

Shane danced closer to Rose as the lyrics circled around the attraction of maturity—confidence, experience, someone who had already grown beyond the games Shane was tired of.

Rose pointed teasingly toward the older crowd in VIP.

Shane laughed.

Then followed her finger.

His eyes swept across the room.

And landed on Ilya.

Everything seemed to stop.

Shane missed half a beat.

Rose noticed.

She followed his gaze.

Her eyes widened.

Because everyone knew Ilya Rozanov.

Shane certainly did.

It was difficult not to.

He had seen magazine covers.

News interviews.

Photographs from international summits.

Articles about Aurelius.

Pictures of Ilya leaving restaurants in perfectly tailored suits.

But photographs hadn’t prepared Shane for the actual man.

Ilya was sitting beneath dim amber lighting, broad shoulders filling out a black button-down shirt, sleeves pushed casually toward his forearms.

Dark hair.

Sharp features.

Heavy-lidded eyes.

A watch on his wrist Shane suspected cost more than his college tuition.

And those eyes were directly on him.

Not wandering.

Not accidentally facing the stage.

Watching.

Him.

Shane’s stomach flipped.

Rose squeezed his hand.

Shane looked at her.

Her expression screamed:

Oh my God.

Shane fought a smile.

Then the next section began.

And suddenly the song became dangerous.

Because now Shane knew Ilya was watching.

His movements changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

His confidence rose.

He turned slightly as he sang, eyes moving through the audience before inevitably returning toward that corner.

Toward Ilya.

A slow sway.

A playful smile.

One hand sliding down his own side as he moved with the beat before settling against his hip.

Ilya didn’t look away.

Shane’s pulse jumped.

So he did it again.

Not the movement.

The eye contact.

Held it this time.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Ilya’s expression barely changed.

But his eyes did.

Something sharpened there.

Shane felt it from across the room.

Rose nearly screamed the next section into her microphone.

Shane broke eye contact because he started laughing.

Ilya smiled.

His mother saw that too.

“Oh,” she whispered.

His sister leaned closer. “What?”

Their mother shook her head.

“Nothing.”

But she smiled into her drink.

Onstage, Shane was losing himself in the music.

He danced.

He laughed.

He sang with Rose.

But every time the song returned to its central idea, Shane’s eyes somehow found Ilya again.

Older.

That was the point.

Not old.

Older.

Mature.

Established.

Someone who knew himself.

Someone who didn’t need Shane to teach him how to communicate.

Someone who wouldn’t turn affection into a competition.

Someone who wouldn’t panic at the first hint of seriousness.

And sitting across the room was perhaps the most composed man Shane had ever seen.

Thirty-eight.

Successful.

Private.

Known for loyalty.

Known for expecting respect and giving it in return.

Shane knew enough about Ilya’s reputation to know employees adored him.

People who left Aurelius rarely spoke badly about him.

Former partners in business described him as terrifyingly direct but impeccably honorable.

Shane’s attraction wasn’t simply physical.

That realization surprised him.

Because looking at Ilya made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Curiosity.

Real curiosity.

Who was he when he wasn’t CEO?

What made him laugh?

What irritated him?

What did he do on Sundays?

What did he order for breakfast?

What did he sound like when he was tired?

Did he speak Russian when emotional?

Did he like being touched?

Shane nearly missed his cue.

Rose elbowed him.

He jumped back in.

Across the room, Ilya smiled again.

Shane narrowed his eyes playfully at him.

Ilya’s eyebrows lifted.

Shane froze internally.

Did I just—

Rose saw.

She nearly collapsed laughing.

“Shut up,” Shane muttered away from the microphone.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re thinking loudly!”

The song approached its end.

Shane stopped worrying.

He danced.

Not for the room anymore.

Not even completely for Rose.

There was a confidence in knowing someone was watching.

Especially when that someone was Ilya Rozanov.

Shane moved with the beat, playful rather than obscene, hips catching the rhythm while Rose danced beside him.

And Ilya watched every second.

He wasn’t imagining things.

Shane knew he was watching.

Worse—

Shane liked it.

Ilya could see that too.

The realization sent something warm and unfamiliar through his chest.

Then the song ended.

The room cheered.

Shane bowed dramatically.

Rose grabbed his arm and bowed with him.

Their friends were screaming.

Shane laughed as they climbed down from the stage.

Immediately his friends surrounded him.

Rose whispered something.

Shane looked horrified.

Then glanced toward Ilya.

Ilya didn’t look away.

Rose whispered something else.

Shane shoved her.

Ilya chuckled.

Svetlana watched him.

“You’re fucked.”

Ilya slowly turned.

His mother gasped. “Svetlana!”

Svetlana blinked innocently. “What?”

“Language.”

Svetlana smiled innocently. “Sorry.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes at her. “And why, exactly, am I fucked?”

Her smile widened.

“You know exactly why.”

Unfortunately, he did.

He looked across the room again.

Shane was sitting now, accepting another drink from one of his friends.

He looked over.

Their eyes met.

Again.

And this time Shane smiled.

Not the bright birthday smile he’d been giving everyone else.

Smaller.

Shyer.

Almost uncertain.

Ilya felt something inside his chest pull tight.

For thirty-eight years, people had wanted something from him.

His money.

His name.

His influence.

His attention.

Sometimes simply the novelty of saying they’d had Ilya Rozanov.

And Ilya had felt nothing.

No desire to pursue.

No curiosity.

No reason to cross a room.

Until tonight.

Until a twenty-one-year-old man made a disgusted face after taking a shot.

Until he laughed with his entire body.

Until he steadied a stranger without thinking.

Until he politely rejected someone instead of embarrassing them.

Until he stood onstage singing about being tired of men who didn’t know how to grow up.

Until dark brown eyes found Ilya across a crowded club and stayed there.

-

Ilya set his vodka down.

Svetlana looked at the glass.

Then at him.

His sister went silent.

His mother stared.

Ilya stood.

Across the room, Rose saw him first.

Her mouth fell open.

She grabbed Shane’s arm.

“What?”

Rose didn’t answer.

She just stared over his shoulder.

Shane slowly turned.

Ilya Rozanov was walking toward them.

Not security.

Not an assistant.

Not someone delivering a message.

Ilya himself.

Shane’s heartbeat climbed into his throat.

“Oh my God.”

Rose squeezed his arm.

“Happy birthday.”

“Rose.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Rose.”

“Remember everything you said about wanting an older man?”

“Rose, I swear to God—”

She grinned.

“Looks like one heard you.”

Shane turned back.

Ilya was closer now.

Tall.

Confident.

Calm.

The crowd seemed to move around him without him having to ask.

Shane suddenly understood something.

The song had been fun.

The teasing had been fun.

Flirting across a room had been fun.

But this?

This was real.

Because Ilya Rozanov was coming toward him.

And for the first time in longer than Shane wanted to admit, the thought of a man approaching didn’t make him tired.

It didn’t make him bored.

It didn’t make him search for an excuse.

It made his stomach flutter.

It made his palms warm.

It made him straighten unconsciously in his seat.

-

Ilya stopped beside their table.

Up close was worse.

Much worse.

Those eyes settled on Shane.

Then, unexpectedly, Ilya smiled.

Not the polished smile from magazines.

Not the restrained expression he wore during interviews.

Something quieter.

Warmer.

Genuine.

“Shane?”

Shane swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Ilya.”

As though he needed an introduction.

Shane smiled.

“I know.”

Ilya’s smile deepened.

Behind Shane, Rose made a tiny strangled noise.

Neither man looked at her.

Ilya glanced toward the abandoned karaoke stage.

Then back at Shane.

“I enjoyed your performance.”

Shane’s cheeks warmed.

“Thanks.”

A pause.

“You seemed very passionate about the subject.”

Shane stared at him.

Ilya’s expression remained perfectly innocent.

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“You were listening?”

“Very carefully.”

Shane’s heart stumbled.

Ilya held his gaze.

Thirty-eight years old.

Twenty-one years old.

Two men who, until tonight, had independently reached almost the same conclusion from opposite sides of adulthood.

Shane had spent months wondering why nobody made him feel anything anymore.

Ilya had spent years believing perhaps nobody ever would.

Neither had expected the answer to appear tonight.

Certainly not here.

Not beneath flashing lights.

Not over terrible tequila and Russian vodka.

Not because Rose had dragged Shane onto a karaoke stage.

Yet Shane looked up at Ilya and felt attraction curl warm and unfamiliar through him.

And Ilya looked down at Shane and experienced, for the first time in his life, the unmistakable desire to know someone.

Not possess him.

Not impress him.

Know him.

Ilya glanced toward the empty seat across from Shane.

“May I?”

Shane looked at the chair.

Then back at him.

His smile slowly returned.

“Yeah.”

Ilya sat.

Rose immediately stood.

Shane whipped around.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere else.”

“Rose!”

She kissed Shane’s cheek.

“Happy birthday.”

Then she leaned toward his ear.

Quietly enough that only Shane heard her:

“Maybe twenty-one won’t be so bad after all.”

Shane shoved her away, horrified.

Rose disappeared laughing with the others.

Shane turned back.

Ilya was watching him.

Amused.

Shane sighed.

“My friends are horrible.”

“I like them already.”

“You’ve known them for six seconds.”

“They left.”

Shane blinked.

Ilya gestured between them.

“To give us privacy.”

Shane looked toward his friends.

Every single one of them was pretending not to stare from approximately twenty feet away.

Shane groaned.

Ilya laughed.

And there it was again.

That sound.

Low.

Warm.

Real.

Shane looked back at him.

For a moment, neither said anything.

Then Ilya leaned slightly closer so Shane could hear him over the music.

“So.”

Shane’s pulse jumped.

Ilya’s eyes held his.

“You are tired of guys your age?”

Shane’s mouth slowly curved upward.

Maybe Rose wasn’t going to survive the night.

But first—

Shane leaned closer too.

“Very.”

Ilya smiled.

And for the first time in thirty-eight years, Ilya Rozanov found himself extraordinarily grateful that he was no longer twenty-one.

For a few seconds, neither man said anything.

It wasn’t awkward.

At least, Shane didn’t think it was awkward.

It was something else.

Awareness, maybe.

Ilya sat across from him with one forearm resting casually against the table. Up close, Shane could see details he hadn’t been able to make out from across the club. The faint lines beside Ilya’s eyes. The expensive watch around his wrist. The top two buttons of his black shirt left undone. The slightest shadow of stubble along his jaw.

Thirty-eight.

Seventeen years older than Shane.

Shane should probably have been thinking about that more.

Instead he was thinking that Ilya smelled really good.

“So,” Ilya said.

Shane blinked.

“So.”

“Is this normal?”

“What?”

Ilya gestured toward the stage.

“Do you usually announce your dating preferences to an entire nightclub?”

Shane’s mouth fell open.

Ilya’s eyes gleamed.

“You—”

A laugh escaped Shane before he could stop it.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Sometimes.”

“I thought you said you enjoyed my performance.”

“I did.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Also true.”

Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself.

Across the room, Rose was openly staring.

Shane caught her eye.

She immediately raised both thumbs.

He looked away.

God.

He was going to kill her.

Ilya followed his glance.

“Your friends are subtle.”

“They’re horrible.”

“They seem protective.”

That made Shane look back at him.

There was no mockery in Ilya’s voice this time.

He was watching Rose and the others with something almost approving.

“They are,” Shane said.

“Good.”

The answer was simple.

But Shane liked it.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe because the guys he’d dated before had usually found his friends irritating. Too involved. Too opinionated. Too likely to tell Shane when someone was treating him badly.

One ex had outright asked Shane why Rose needed to know everything about their relationship.

Because Rose was his best friend.

Because she’d been there first.

Because Shane liked telling her things.

It had become an argument.

Everything became an argument eventually.

Ilya looked back at him.

“Are you in school?”

Shane blinked again.

“What?”

“You’re twenty-one. University?”

“Oh.” Shane nodded. “Yeah.”

“What are you studying?”

Shane told him.

And then waited.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was waiting for.

Maybe for Ilya to nod politely before changing the subject.

Maybe for him to turn the conversation back toward himself.

Instead Ilya asked, “Why?”

Shane paused.

“Why what?”

“Why did you choose it?”

The question caught him off guard.

Shane looked down at his drink.

“I don’t know. I guess…”

Then he started explaining.

And Ilya listened.

Actually listened.

Not waiting for his turn.

Not looking around the room while Shane talked.

Not checking his phone.

Ilya asked questions.

Real ones.

He wanted to know what Shane liked about his program. What he didn’t. What he imagined himself doing after graduation. Whether that had changed since he’d started school.

Shane admitted it had.

Then somehow that became a conversation about how ridiculous it was to expect eighteen-year-olds to know what they wanted to do for the rest of their lives.

Ilya agreed.

Shane stared at him.

“You agreed really fast.”

“Because you’re right.”

“No argument?”

“Would you like one?”

“No, it’s just…” Shane laughed. “Never mind.”

Ilya’s head tilted.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Shane.”

There was something about hearing his name in that Russian accent.

Shane looked down for half a second.

Jesus.

“It’s just that most guys I know would argue anyway.”

“Even if they agreed?”

“Especially if they agreed.”

Ilya frowned.

“Why?”

“To win?”

“What are they winning?”

Shane stared at him.

Then burst out laughing.

“I don’t know!”

Ilya laughed too.

“No, seriously,” Shane said. “That’s exactly my point. It’s exhausting.”

Ilya leaned back.

“So the song was autobiographical.”

Shane groaned.

“Oh my God.”

“I suspected.”

“I am never doing karaoke again.”

“I think that would be unfortunate.”

“Of course you do.”

“I learned a great deal.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

Ilya looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much.”

“You know, I thought you’d be more intimidating.”

That made Ilya’s eyebrows rise.

“You thought I was intimidating?”

“Everyone thinks you’re intimidating.”

“Do they?”

“Have you never read anything written about you?”

“No.”

Shane stared.

“Bullshit.”

Ilya smiled.

“Fine. Occasionally.”

“They call you ruthless.”

“In business.”

“Cold.”

“Sometimes.”

“Terrifying.”

“That one is dramatic.”

Shane laughed.

Ilya watched him.

That was becoming a problem.

Because every time Shane laughed, Ilya’s attention seemed to sharpen.

It wasn’t the way men usually looked at him.

Shane knew when someone wanted him.

He wasn’t oblivious.

He knew the quick glance toward his ass when he walked past. The eyes dropping toward his mouth. The unnecessary touching. The compliments designed to get somewhere.

Ilya wasn’t doing any of that.

His attention somehow felt more intense because he wasn’t.

He simply looked at Shane.

Like he was interested.

Not just in what Shane looked like.

In what Shane was saying.

Shane wasn’t accustomed to that.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You’ve asked me several things.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“A personal thing.”

Ilya considered him.

“You may.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I know.”

Shane hesitated.

“Why are you single?”

Ilya’s expression changed.

Not badly.

Just enough for Shane to notice.

Shane immediately grimaced.

“Sorry. That’s probably really invasive.”

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Shane.”

He stopped.

Ilya looked at him for another second.

Then glanced toward his glass.

“I haven’t wanted anyone.”

Shane waited.

Ilya lifted one shoulder.

“That is the simplest answer.”

“Ever?”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“I am not a monk.”

Shane laughed.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Ilya looked toward his family.

His mother was very obviously pretending she wasn’t watching them.

“My family has asked me the same question many times.”

“I bet.”

“Especially the women.”

Shane grinned.

“They want you married?”

“They want me happy.”

That answer softened something in Shane.

Ilya continued.

“They believe those things must be connected.”

“And you don’t?”

“I think they can be.”

Ilya looked back at him.

“But I don’t believe marriage creates happiness simply because you have achieved it.”

Shane nodded slowly.

“I’ve met people. Gone on dates. Been introduced to people my family thought I might like.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Ilya shook his head.

“No interest?”

“No.”

“That’s…”

Shane stopped himself.

“What?”

“Kind of sad.”

Ilya smiled slightly.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t it get lonely?”

“Sometimes.”

The honesty surprised Shane.

Ilya didn’t seem embarrassed by it.

“But loneliness is not a good enough reason to promise your life to someone.”

Shane went quiet.

Something about that lodged itself directly beneath his ribs.

Because it was so simple.

So fucking simple.

Yet Shane knew men his age who had stayed in relationships for months because they didn’t want to be alone.

Men who cheated instead of breaking up.

Men who kept someone around while actively looking for someone better.

And here was Ilya.

Thirty-eight.

Rich enough to have anyone he wanted.

Famous enough that people regularly threw themselves at him.

And apparently he’d rather go home alone than lie to someone.

Shane’s attraction shifted.

Deepened.

That was dangerous.

He took a drink.

Ilya watched him.

“Now my question.”

Shane lowered the glass.

“Okay.”

“Why are you single?”

Shane laughed.

“You heard the song.”

“Yes.”

“There’s your answer.”

“That song was approximately three minutes.”

“Very informative three minutes.”

“I would prefer the extended version.”

Shane smiled.

Then shrugged.

“I guess I’m just tired.”

“Of men your age.”

“Mostly.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted.

Shane immediately pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is innocent.”

“Your face has probably committed tax fraud.”

Ilya barked out a laugh.

Several people at his family’s table looked over.

Shane smiled.

He liked making him do that.

Maybe too much.

“I’ve dated,” Shane continued. “Nothing super serious. But every time I try, it feels like I’m doing all the emotional work.”

Ilya’s amusement faded.

Shane looked down at his hands.

“I don’t want to teach someone how to care about me.”

The words came out quieter than he’d intended.

“I don’t want to have to explain that disappearing for three days isn’t normal. Or that if you’re upset, you can just tell me instead of posting some cryptic bullshit online and waiting for me to figure it out.”

Ilya frowned.

“People do this?”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Ilya, I don’t know!”

He laughed.

Ilya shook his head.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Shane sighed.

“And I don’t know. Maybe I’m the problem.”

“No.”

The answer came so quickly Shane looked at him.

Ilya’s expression was serious.

“You have described wanting communication and basic consideration. Those are not unreasonable expectations.”

Shane didn’t say anything.

Ilya didn’t seem to realize how deeply that landed.

Or maybe he did.

“Thanks,” Shane murmured.

Ilya nodded.

And the conversation moved on.

-

Forty minutes became an hour.

An hour became nearly two.

Neither noticed.

Shane’s friends eventually returned to the table because there was only so long they could pretend they weren’t dying of curiosity.

Introductions happened.

Ilya remembered every name.

Rose tested him shamelessly.

Shane knew exactly what she was doing.

She asked questions.

Ilya answered them.

She teased Shane.

Ilya joined her.

Shane betrayed them both by going to the bathroom and returning to find Rose and Ilya apparently discussing him.

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” Rose answered.

“Nothing,” Ilya said simultaneously.

Shane stopped.

“Oh, fuck both of you.”

Rose grinned.

Ilya laughed.

Eventually Ilya’s family began preparing to leave.

His father approached first.

Shane immediately straightened.

Ilya noticed.

“This is my father, Grigori.”

Grigori smiled warmly and offered Shane his hand.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Twenty-one?”

Shane’s eyes flicked toward Ilya.

Ilya closed his eyes.

His father laughed.

“I heard the celebration earlier.”

“Oh.”

Shane relaxed.

“Yeah. Twenty-one.”

“Enjoy it.”

“I’ll try.”

Grigori looked at his son.

Then at Shane.

Something knowing passed through his expression, but unlike Ilya’s mother, he mercifully said nothing.

“Ready?”

“In a moment.”

Grigori nodded.

“It was nice meeting you, Shane.”

“You too.”

He walked away.

Shane looked toward Ilya.

“So.”

“So.”

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

For the first time all night, something awkward crept between them.

Because Shane didn’t know what happened now.

Did Ilya ask for his number?

Was Shane supposed to?

Was this simply a bizarre birthday story he’d tell for the rest of his life?

Remember when I turned twenty-one and accidentally flirted with Ilya Rozanov through karaoke?

Ilya studied him.

Then his gaze dropped toward the half-empty glasses on the table.

“How much have you had to drink?”

Shane blinked.

“What?”

“Tonight.”

“Oh.”

He thought about it.

“Enough.”

Ilya smiled.

“Very precise.”

“It’s my birthday.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Shane kicked him lightly beneath the table.

Ilya’s smile widened.

Then he reached into his pocket.

Shane’s heart started beating faster.

Ilya pulled out his phone.

For half a second, Shane expected him to hand it over.

Put your number in.

Instead Ilya tapped the screen several times.

Then reached for one of the cocktail napkins sitting beside Shane.

“Do you have a pen?”

Rose produced one from her purse immediately.

Both men looked at her.

“What?”

Shane stared.

“Why do you have a pen?”

“Why don’t you?”

Ilya accepted it.

“Thank you, Rose.”

“You’re welcome.”

Traitor.

Ilya wrote something on the napkin.

Then folded it once.

He slid it across the table.

Shane looked down.

“What is this?”

“My number.”

Shane’s eyes lifted.

“You’re giving me your number?”

“Yes.”

“Why not just ask for mine?”

Ilya was quiet for a moment.

Then he leaned slightly closer.

“Because you are twenty-one.”

Shane stiffened.

There it was.

Of course.

Ilya saw it immediately.

“That came out badly.”

“Little bit.”

“I don’t mean that you are incapable of making your own decisions.”

Shane’s shoulders loosened slightly.

“Then what do you mean?”

Ilya glanced toward Shane’s drink.

“You turned twenty-one tonight.”

“Yes.”

“You are celebrating. You have been drinking.”

“I am not drunk.”

“I know.”

“Then—”

“And you’ve known me for approximately two hours.”

Shane stopped.

Ilya’s voice softened.

“I am very attracted to you.”

Oh.

Shane’s entire brain went blank.

Ilya continued as though he hadn’t just detonated something inside Shane’s chest.

“But I am also seventeen years older than you.”

“I can do math.”

Ilya smiled.

“I assumed.”

Shane picked up the napkin.

“So you’re worried about the age difference.”

“I am thinking about it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Ilya held his gaze.

“I don’t know what I think about it yet.”

That was somehow better than an easy answer.

Shane looked at the number.

“Do you regret coming over?”

“No.”

Immediate.

Certain.

Shane looked up.

Ilya’s expression had changed again.

“I would regret not coming over.”

Shane swallowed.

“Then why does this feel like you’re rejecting me?”

“It isn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

Ilya looked toward the napkin.

“A choice.”

Shane frowned.

“Tonight is your birthday. You should enjoy it with your friends. Tomorrow, you will wake up without club music and vodka and people cheering every time someone mentions your age.”

Shane smiled despite himself.

“And?”

“If tomorrow you still want to speak to me…”

Ilya tapped the napkin.

“Call me.”

Shane stared at him.

Something warm spread slowly through his chest.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You’re really just going to leave.”

“Yes.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“You know, this is incredibly annoying.”

Ilya laughed.

“Why?”

“Because you’re proving my point.”

“What point?”

“The entire fucking song.”

Ilya’s smile became slow.

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I am trying.”

“You’re failing.”

“Terribly.”

Shane looked at the number again.

Then back at him.

“Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Yes.”

“How old did you think I was when I walked in?”

Ilya grimaced.

Shane gasped.

“Oh my God.”

“You looked young.”

“How young?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“And you were still staring at me?”

“I did not stare until your friend announced your birthday to half the building.”

Shane burst out laughing.

Ilya smiled.

“Twenty-one was still younger than I expected.”

“And then I sang that song.”

“Yes.”

“And you thought…”

Ilya’s eyes moved over Shane’s face.

For once, the older man seemed to genuinely consider whether he should say something.

Shane waited.

Finally:

“I thought perhaps the universe has a very strange sense of humor.”

Shane’s smile disappeared.

Not because he disliked it.

Quite the opposite.

“That’s cheesy.”

“Terrible.”

“For a terrifying billionaire, you’re surprisingly cheesy.”

“I will deny this conversation.”

Shane smiled again.

Ilya stood.

So did Shane.

And then they were facing each other.

Close.

Much closer than they’d been all night.

Shane had to tilt his head slightly.

Ilya looked down at him.

Neither moved.

Shane wondered if Ilya would kiss him.

He wanted him to.

God, he wanted him to.

Ilya’s eyes dropped briefly toward his mouth.

Shane saw it.

His pulse jumped.

Then Ilya leaned in.

Shane’s breath caught.

But Ilya turned his head at the last moment.

His mouth came near Shane’s ear instead.

“Happy birthday, Shane.”

A shiver went straight down Shane’s spine.

Ilya stepped back.

Shane stared at him.

“You did that on purpose.”

Ilya looked innocent.

“Did what?”

“You know exactly what.”

“I have no idea.”

“Asshole.”

Ilya smiled.

“Goodnight, Shane.”

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

He turned.

Shane watched him walk away.

Then looked down at the napkin.

A phone number.

No last name.

No business card.

No assistant’s contact.

Just a handwritten number.

Ilya’s personal number.

Rose appeared beside him.

Neither spoke.

They watched Ilya reach his family.

His mother immediately grabbed his arm.

His sister said something.

Ilya looked back.

Straight at Shane.

Their eyes met.

Ilya smiled once.

Then disappeared toward the exit.

Rose slowly turned toward Shane.

Shane continued staring at the door.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Don’t.”

Rose waited three seconds.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Shane covered his face.

-

The next morning, Shane woke up wishing someone would remove his skull.

“Water.”

A glass appeared.

Shane didn’t question it.

He drank.

Then collapsed backward onto his pillow.

His room was too bright.

The world was too loud.

Someone was sitting on his bed.

He opened one eye.

Rose.

“No.”

“Good morning.”

“Leave.”

“Happy day-after-your-birthday.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Shane pulled the blanket over his face.

Silence.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Then:

“Call him.”

Shane groaned.

“Rose.”

“Call him.”

“It is—”

He grabbed his phone.

9:14.

“—nine in the fucking morning.”

“So?”

“So normal people aren’t calling people at nine in the morning.”

“He’s thirty-eight. He’s probably been awake since five.”

Shane lowered the blanket.

“That’s ageist.”

“Call your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Potential boyfriend.”

“We talked for two hours.”

“You sang a song about wanting an older man while making bedroom eyes at a billionaire across a nightclub, and then he crossed the room to meet you.”

“I was not making bedroom eyes.”

Rose stared.

Shane pulled the blanket back over his head.

“Shut up.”

“You were dancing for him.”

“I was dancing.”

“For him.”

“I didn’t even know he was watching at first.”

“And after?”

Silence.

Rose screamed.

Shane threw a pillow from beneath the blanket.

“GET OUT!”

She caught it.

“Call him!”

“No!”

“Why?”

Because suddenly Shane was terrified.

He didn’t say that.

Instead he sat up.

His hair was everywhere.

His mouth tasted disgusting.

He probably looked like death.

“I don’t know.”

Rose’s expression softened.

Shane picked up his phone.

Then unlocked it.

He’d already put Ilya’s number into his contacts last night.

Ilya.

Just Ilya.

He stared at it.

“What if he changed his mind?”

Rose frowned.

“He gave you his number.”

“He was drinking too.”

“Barely.”

“What if he woke up and realized this is weird?”

“Do you think it’s weird?”

Shane hesitated.

“No.”

“Then let him decide what he thinks.”

Shane stared at the screen.

“He’s thirty-eight.”

“Yes.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Yes.”

“He’s one of the richest people in the world.”

“Yes.”

“I’m eating leftover birthday cake for breakfast.”

Rose looked toward the plate on his nightstand.

“You haven’t eaten it yet.”

“I intend to.”

“Very important distinction.”

Shane smiled weakly.

Then looked at the phone again.

Calling felt terrifying.

So he opened a message.

Typed.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Deleted.

Rose groaned.

“Give me that.”

“No!”

He turned away from her.

Finally, before he could think himself out of it, Shane typed:

Still interested now that the vodka wore off?

He stared.

Rose leaned over his shoulder.

“Send it.”

“Stop looking!”

“Send.”

“Rose—”

She reached.

Shane panicked and hit send.

Both froze.

The message delivered.

Shane’s eyes widened.

“Oh fuck.”

Rose screamed.

“Oh fuck!”

“WHY DID YOU MAKE ME DO THAT?”

“I DIDN’T TOUCH YOU!”

“You were going to!”

Shane threw himself backward.

“I hate you.”

“Check if he answered.”

“It has been four seconds!”

“Could be five.”

“Get out of my room!”

-

At 9:16 that morning, Ilya Rozanov was in a meeting.

At 9:16 and seven seconds, he stopped listening.

His phone vibrated.

His personal phone.

Not the one Aurelius used.

Not the device connected to half his executive team.

The personal one.

It sat facedown beside his notebook.

Ilya looked at it.

Svetlana, sitting three chairs away, noticed.

He didn’t touch it.

The presentation continued.

Revenue projections.

International expansion.

Infrastructure investment.

Ilya listened for another twenty seconds.

Then flipped the phone over.

A message.

Unknown number.

He opened it.

Still interested now that the vodka wore off?

Ilya stared.

Something warm spread through his chest.

He smiled.

Across the table, Svetlana stopped taking notes.

The executive speaking faltered for half a second.

Nobody commented.

Nobody except Svetlana would dare.

Ilya typed two words.

Read it.

Then sent it.

-

Shane’s phone buzzed.

He and Rose screamed.

“YOU LOOK!”

“Why me?!”

“Because I can’t!”

“Shane!”

“ROSE!”

“Oh my God, you’re pathetic.”

She grabbed his phone.

Shane immediately grabbed her wrist.

“Wait!”

“You just told me to look!”

“I changed my mind!”

“Then you look!”

“I can’t!”

Rose stared at him.

“Shane, you spent half the night flirting with him.”

“That was different!”

“How?”

“Because last night I could pretend I didn’t care what happened!”

Rose’s expression softened slightly.

Shane looked at the phone between them.

“This is different. If I open that and he changed his mind, then I actually know.”

That works better because Shane’s fear isn’t about being shy or embarrassed. It’s about rejection becoming real. Last night he could flirt, dance, hold eye contact, and enjoy the moment without knowing whether anything would come of it. Now there’s an actual answer sitting on his phone.

Shane inhaled.

Picked it up.

Unlocked it.

One message.

His stomach dropped.

Then Rose watched his entire face change.

“What?”

Shane didn’t answer.

“What did he say?”

Shane stared at the screen.

Two words.

Even more.

Rose shrieked.

Shane fell backward onto the bed.

His face disappeared into his hands.

“Oh my God.”

Rose was bouncing.

“OH MY GOD.”

“Stop!”

“He likes you!”

“Rose!”

“He likes you sober!”

“I hate you!”

“He WANTS you sober!”

Shane couldn’t stop smiling.

He tried.

He genuinely tried.

But his cheeks hurt.

Across the city, Ilya set his phone down.

He made it approximately twelve seconds before looking at it again.

Svetlana’s eyes narrowed.

Another minute.

Ilya checked it.

Nothing.

The presentation continued.

Three minutes.

Phone.

Nothing.

Five.

Phone.

Nothing.

When the meeting finally ended, the executives gathered their things.

Ilya remained seated.

He checked his phone again.

Svetlana didn’t move.

The room emptied.

The door closed.

Silence.

Ilya looked up.

Svetlana was staring at him.

“What?”

“If you check that phone one more time, I am throwing it out the window.”

“I am expecting a message.”

“Yes.”

“It could be important.”

“Is Aurelius being acquired?”

“No.”

“Has the board staged a coup?”

“No.”

“Has your mother been kidnapped?”

“Svetlana.”

“Then you are waiting for the birthday boy.”

Ilya stared at her.

Svetlana’s mouth dropped open.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“You are.”

“Svetlana.”

“You’re waiting for him to text you!”

“I gave him my number.”

“I know.”

“So naturally—”

“You gave someone your number.”

“Yes.”

“Your personal number.”

“Yes.”

“And then waited for him to contact you.”

Ilya stood.

“We have work.”

She followed him.

“You never do this.”

“Do what?”

“Any of this!”

Ilya picked up his tablet.

Svetlana stepped directly in front of him.

“You like him.”

“I spoke to him for two hours.”

“You like him.”

“I found him interesting.”

Svetlana gasped dramatically.

Ilya closed his eyes.

“Please don’t become my mother.”

“Your mother is going to be unbearable.”

“I am aware.”

“She called me this morning.”

Ilya’s eyes snapped open.

“What?”

“She wanted to know who Shane was.”

“And?”

“I told her I didn’t know.”

“Good.”

“Ilya.”

“What?”

Svetlana’s expression softened.

That made him pause.

She had known him for fifteen years.

She’d watched people flirt with him.

Watched relatives arrange introductions.

Watched some of the most beautiful people in the world attempt to catch his attention.

She’d never seen this.

Never seen him watch a door after someone left.

Never seen him check his phone waiting for a message.

Never seen him smile at a screen during a financial presentation.

“You really are interested.”

Ilya didn’t make a joke this time.

He looked toward the phone in his hand.

“Yes.”

Svetlana smiled.

A genuine one.

“Then ask him out.”

Ilya looked at her.

“Is that your professional advice, Ms. Vetrova?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Rozanov.”

She picked up her folder.

“My professional advice is that you have another meeting in eleven minutes.”

Ilya smiled.

“And your personal advice?”

Svetlana walked toward the door.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

“Svetlana.”

She disappeared.

Ilya shook his head.

Then his phone buzzed.

His attention dropped immediately.

Shane: More?

Ilya smiled.

Ilya: Much more.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Returned.

Shane: That’s a lot of confidence for someone who wouldn’t even kiss me last night.

Ilya stared at the message.

His smile slowly changed.

Ah.

So Shane wanted to play.

Fine.

Ilya: You had been drinking.

The answer came almost immediately.

Shane: I remember everything.

Ilya: Good.

Shane: That’s all you have to say?

Ilya leaned against his desk.

He considered several responses.

Then chose the truth.

Ilya: No.

Pause.

Ilya: I wanted to kiss you.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Stopped.

Appeared.

Stopped again.

Ilya laughed quietly.

Finally:

Shane: Then why didn’t you?

Ilya’s expression softened.

Ilya: Because wanting something does not mean I need to take it.

This time the typing bubble didn’t appear.

Not for nearly a minute.

Then:

Shane: You realize you’re proving the song right again.

Ilya laughed.

Ilya: I have been told.

Shane: By me.

Ilya: Repeatedly.

Another pause.

Then Ilya typed:

Ilya: Dinner.

Shane answered:

Shane: Is that a question?

Ilya: Would you like it to be?

Shane: I’d like you to ask me properly.

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

Twenty-one.

Interesting.

He typed again.

Ilya: Shane, would you like to have dinner with me?

The answer came ten seconds later.

Shane: Yes.

Ilya looked at the word.

Something inside his chest shifted again.

He had negotiated acquisitions worth billions.

He had walked into rooms with presidents, royalty, investors, competitors who would happily watch Aurelius collapse.

None of them had made him feel like this.

One word from a twenty-one-year-old university student had.

Ilya: Friday?

Shane: Friday.

Ilya: Seven?

Shane: Perfect.

Then Ilya stopped.

He almost selected a restaurant automatically.

Private dining room.

Security.

Michelin stars.

The usual.

Instead he remembered Shane last night.

The way he talked.

The way he wanted to be heard.

So Ilya typed something different.

Ilya: What do you like to eat?

Across the city, Shane stared at the question.

Rose was still beside him.

She read it.

Then looked at Shane.

Shane looked at her.

“What?”

Rose smiled.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The I-told-you-so face.”

Rose stood.

“I’m going home.”

“Good.”

She walked toward the door.

Then turned.

“Oh, Shane?”

“What?”

“Guys your age would’ve already sent you a dick pic.”

“GET OUT!”

Rose’s laughter followed her down the hallway.

Shane looked back at his phone.

What do you like to eat?

Such a normal question.

Ridiculously normal.

Yet it made him smile.

Because Ilya Rozanov could take him anywhere.

Shane knew that.

There were probably restaurants where the man didn’t even need reservations.

Places Shane couldn’t afford if he saved for six months.

And his first question wasn’t whether Shane owned something appropriate for an expensive restaurant.

It wasn’t even what restaurant Shane liked.

It was simpler.

What do you like?

Shane typed his answer.

And across the city, a thirty-eight-year-old billionaire read it with more attention than he’d given anything else that morning.

Friday couldn’t come quickly enough.

Which became a problem almost immediately, because apparently time moved significantly slower when Shane Hollander was waiting to go on a date with Ilya Rozanov.

They had five days.

Five.

That was it.

Shane had waited longer for packages.

He had waited longer for professors to grade assignments.

He had once waited eleven days for a guy he'd been seeing to decide whether they were "still hanging out Saturday.”

Five days should have been nothing.

And maybe it would have been, if Ilya had simply given Shane his number Saturday night, asked him to dinner Sunday morning, and then disappeared back into his very busy, very important billionaire life until it was time to pick Shane up.

Shane almost expected that.

Not because Ilya had given him any reason to think he would do it, but because that was what Shane was used to. Make plans, exchange a few texts, maybe send something the day before to make sure they were still on, and otherwise go about their lives.

Except Ilya hadn’t disappeared.

Quite the opposite.

Somehow, without Shane even realizing when it had happened, Ilya had become remarkably present in his days.

Not physically, of course. Shane hadn’t seen him since the club, and if everything went according to plan, he wouldn’t see him again until Friday.

But Ilya was there.

In Shane’s phone.

In the little vibrations against his desk during class.

In the messages he found waiting when he walked out of a lecture.

In conversations that started over something completely meaningless and somehow continued on and off for hours.

And, increasingly, in Shane’s thoughts.

He’d see something funny and immediately think about sending it to Ilya. Something would happen during class and he’d catch himself thinking about how he wanted to tell Ilya later. Sometimes his phone would vibrate and Shane would reach for it with the ridiculous hope that it was Ilya.

More often than not, it was.

That was probably what made Friday feel so far away.

They were talking constantly.

Not in an overwhelming way. Ilya wasn’t demanding Shane’s attention every second of the day, and Shane certainly wasn’t sitting around waiting for him to text.

They simply kept finding their way back to each other.

And the texting had started almost immediately.

Monday morning, at 6:42, Shane’s phone buzzed against his nightstand.

He didn’t hear it.

At 7:15, his alarm went off.

He silenced it.

At 7:20, it went off again.

He silenced that one too.

By the time his third alarm finally dragged him toward consciousness, there were three notifications waiting on his screen.

One from his university.

One from Rose.

And one from Ilya.

-

Shane became significantly more awake.

He opened it.

Ilya: Good morning.

Shane smiled into his pillow.

He’d been awake for maybe thirty seconds.

Shane: morning

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Ilya: Did you sleep well?

Shane: yeah

Shane: you?

Ilya: Very well.

Shane glanced at the time.

His eyebrows pulled together.

Shane: why are you awake this early

Ilya: I like to be at the office by 7.

Shane blinked.

He checked the time again.

Shane: voluntarily???

Ilya: Yes.

Shane: you’re the CEO

Ilya: I am aware.

Shane: can’t you just show up whenever you want 😭

Ilya: Technically.

Ilya: But I don’t expect my employees to be punctual if I am not.

Shane paused.

That was…

Actually a really good answer.

Shane: okay that’s annoyingly respectable

Ilya: Thank you.

Shane: wasn’t a compliment

Ilya: I have chosen to receive it as one.

Shane laughed softly into his pillow.

Then another message appeared.

Ilya: Do you have class today?

Shane: unfortunately

Ilya: What time?

Shane: 9

There was a pause.

Ilya: Have you eaten?

Shane stared at the message.

His eyes slowly moved toward the clock.

7:36.

Then toward the ceiling.

Then back to his phone.

Shane: define eaten

The response came instantly.

Ilya: Shane.

Something about seeing his name like that made him grin.

Shane: i’m getting up

Ilya: That wasn’t my question.

Shane: you are very demanding for someone i’ve known for two days

Ilya: Eat something before class.

Shane rolled his eyes.

But he got up.

And ate.

-

That should have been a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

By Tuesday, Shane had learned something dangerous.

Ilya Rozanov was very easy to talk to.

Which made absolutely no sense.

A thirty-eight-year-old billionaire CEO with a reputation for being cold, intimidating, and nearly impossible to read should not have been easy to talk to.

He should have been difficult.

Formal.

Busy.

Maybe a little detached.

Instead, somewhere between Sunday and Tuesday, talking to Ilya had simply become part of Shane’s day.

It always started in the mornings.

Ilya: Good morning.

Shane: Morning.

Ilya: Class today?

Shane answered with a picture taken from his bed—hair a mess, cheek still pressed into his pillow, one eye half-open.

Shane: Unfortunately.

The response came almost immediately.

Ilya: You look enthusiastic.

Shane: I’m dropping out.

Ilya: After one morning class?

Shane: I’ve had a difficult life.

Ilya: Clearly.

Shane smiled at his phone.

Shane: You’re supposed to be supportive.

Ilya: I support you attending the education you are paying for.

Shane: Blocked.

Ilya: Have a good class, Shane.

Shane stared at that one for a second.

Then smiled despite himself.

Shane: Have a good day at your billion dollar empire or whatever.

There was a longer pause before Ilya answered.

Ilya: Thank you. I will try.

-

Wednesday morning caught Shane off guard.

By then, he had already started expecting Ilya’s messages.

That realization alone probably should have concerned him.

They had known each other for four days.

Four days.

And somehow Shane had already developed a routine around a man he’d only physically been in the same room with once.

Wake up.

Turn off his alarm.

Check his phone.

See Ilya’s name.

Smile like an idiot.

It happened again Wednesday.

Except this time, when Shane finally reached for his phone at 9:30, there was more than the usual good morning waiting for him.

The first message had come at 7:02.

Ilya: Good morning, Shane.

Then:

Ilya: Eat something before you leave.

Shane smiled sleepily.

That part had become normal remarkably fast.

But beneath it was another message.

Ilya: It is supposed to get colder this afternoon. Bring a jacket.

Shane blinked.

He read it again.

Then glanced toward the window.

It looked perfectly fine outside.

Bright, even.

He opened the weather app.

The temperature was supposed to drop considerably by late afternoon.

Shane’s eyebrows rose.

He went back to their conversation.

Ilya: You said you walk between buildings. I don’t want you freezing later.

Shane stared at that one a little longer.

He had told Ilya that.

Yesterday.

Not as some important piece of information.

They’d been talking about classes and Shane had complained about having one lecture on practically the opposite side of campus from another. He’d mentioned that he usually walked instead of waiting for the campus bus.

That was it.

A passing comment.

Apparently Ilya remembered.

Shane pulled his blanket higher around himself and smiled.

God.

This man.

Then he noticed the final message.

It had been sent at 8:47.

Ilya: I have a meeting at nine. It may take a couple of hours, so I will probably be away from my phone. Have a good morning.

Shane stopped.

His smile slowly faded.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because nothing was.

He looked at the time.

9:31.

Ilya was in his meeting right now.

Probably sitting in some terrifying glass conference room surrounded by executives discussing numbers Shane couldn’t begin to comprehend.

And before he’d gone into it, he’d told Shane he wouldn’t be around.

Shane stared at the message.

Then read it again.

I will probably be away from my phone.

Why did that feel so strange?

It shouldn’t have.

It was a sentence.

A completely ordinary sentence.

Ilya had a meeting.

He wouldn’t have his phone.

He’d told Shane.

End of story.

Except Shane couldn’t remember the last time someone he’d been interested in had done that.

Not because Shane needed constant updates.

He didn’t.

He didn’t need to know where someone was every second of every day. He didn’t expect immediate responses. He had classes. His friends had lives. People worked. People got busy.

That wasn’t the point.

The point was that Ilya had thought about him.

At some point this morning, while getting ready to run one of the largest companies in the world, Ilya had looked at his schedule, seen that he had a meeting at nine, and thought:

I should tell Shane.

That was what got him.

Ilya hadn’t waited for Shane to text him during the meeting and wonder why he wasn’t answering.

He hadn’t disappeared for five hours and returned later with some vague sorry, busy.

He’d simply communicated.

Before Shane even had the opportunity to wonder.

Shane looked back through their messages.

6-something yesterday morning.

Good morning.

Monday morning.

Good morning.

Questions about his classes.

Reminders to eat.

A conversation Tuesday afternoon that Ilya had disappeared from for nearly an hour before returning with an apology because someone had unexpectedly come into his office.

At the time, Shane hadn’t thought anything of it.

Now he did.

Because Ilya wasn’t just attentive when they were actively talking.

He considered Shane when they weren’t.

That was different.

Very different.

Shane dropped his head back against his pillow.

“This is ridiculous.”

His room didn’t answer.

He looked at his phone again.

Thirty-eight.

Maybe Rose had cursed him with that stupid song.

Shane opened their conversation and started typing.

Shane: good morning

Then:

Shane: i ate before you ask

He hadn’t.

But he would.

Probably.

His eyes moved toward the message about the weather.

Shane: thank you for looking out for me, I will for sure bring a jacket. I appreciate the reminder.

Obviously there was no response.

Ilya was in his meeting.

Shane knew that.

And that was the entire fucking point.

He wasn’t going to spend the next hour wondering whether Ilya had lost interest halfway through their conversation.

He wasn’t going to check whether his message had been read.

He wasn’t going to stare at the typing bubble.

He knew exactly what Ilya was doing.

Not every detail.

Not where he was sitting or who he was meeting with or what they were discussing.

Just enough.

I’m busy. I’ll talk to you later.

Simple.

Shane threw his blankets back and climbed out of bed.

He showered.

Got dressed.

Ate, because apparently Ilya Rozanov had somehow become the voice in his head telling him not to leave the house on an empty stomach.

Then Shane was halfway to the door when he stopped.

He stared at the jacket hanging over the back of his desk chair.

The sun was shining.

It wasn’t even cold yet.

Shane sighed.

Then grabbed the jacket.

“Happy?”

His silent phone offered no response.

Shane shoved it into his pocket and left.

-

By eleven, Shane was sitting through a lecture.

At eleven-fifteen, his phone vibrated against his thigh.

He ignored it.

Mostly.

He lasted approximately thirty seconds before discreetly pulling it out beneath the desk.

Ilya: Finished.

That was it.

One word.

Shane stared.

A smile slowly spread across his face.

Of course.

He’d said he’d be gone for a couple of hours.

Now he was back.

So he told Shane.

Shane: congratulations on surviving

The response came quickly.

Ilya: Barely.

Shane’s eyebrows rose.

Shane: oh????

Ilya: Very long meeting.

Shane: did you terrify everyone

Ilya: No.

A second message followed.

Ilya: Only two people.

Shane covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

The professor glanced in his direction.

Shane immediately looked toward the front.

His phone vibrated again.

He refused to look.

Another vibration.

Shane narrowed his eyes at the screen facedown on his thigh.

The man was a menace.

He waited until the professor turned back toward the board.

Then checked.

Ilya: Did you bring your jacket?

Shane’s mouth fell open.

Of course that was what he’d asked.

Not Did you miss me?

Not What are you doing?

The fucking jacket.

Shane typed beneath the desk.

Shane: yes mother

Three dots.

Ilya: I am beginning to understand why you are single.

Shane nearly choked.

His head snapped down.

Shane: EXCUSE ME???

Ilya: Pay attention in class.

Shane stared at his phone in betrayal.

Shane: how do you know i’m in class

Ilya: You told me your schedule yesterday.

Oh.

Right.

He had.

Shane: stop remembering things

Ilya: No.

Shane bit the inside of his cheek.

His professor was still talking.

He should have put the phone away.

Instead:

Shane: you’re annoying

Ilya: And yet you continue speaking to me.

Shane: temporary lapse in judgment

Ilya: Friday is still available if you would like to reconsider.

Shane sat straighter.

Shane: DON’T YOU DARE

There was a pause.

Then:

Ilya: Pay attention, Shane.

Shane could practically hear the amusement in his voice.

He put the phone away.

This time, he actually listened.

Mostly.

-

By the time Shane left the building that afternoon, the temperature had dropped.

Significantly.

The wind hit him the second the doors opened.

Shane stopped.

“Oh, fuck.”

Students around him pulled sweaters tighter.

Someone beside him complained about not checking the weather.

Shane slowly looked down at the jacket tied around his waist.

He had forgotten he’d even brought it.

For a moment, he simply stared.

Then he laughed.

He put it on.

Pulled his phone from his pocket.

Took a picture of himself outside the building, jacket zipped nearly to his chin.

He sent it to Ilya.

Shane: don’t say anything

Ilya responded less than a minute later.

Ilya: You look warm.

Shane: ILYA

Ilya: I said nothing.

Shane: you’re smug through text somehow

Ilya: A useful skill.

Shane shook his head as he started walking.

Then another message appeared.

Ilya: I’m glad you brought it.

Shane’s steps slowed.

There it was.

That warmth again.

Not dramatic.

Not overwhelming.

Just—

Nice.

Really fucking nice.

Shane typed:

Shane: thanks for telling me

This time Ilya didn’t tease.

Ilya: Of course.

Shane looked at those two words longer than necessary.

Then shoved his phone into his pocket and continued toward his next building.

-

It happened again that afternoon.

They’d been texting intermittently for nearly an hour.

Nothing important.

Shane had sent Ilya a picture of something ridiculous Rose had bought.

Ilya had questioned Rose’s judgment.

Shane had defended her.

Poorly.

Then:

Ilya: I have a call with our London office in five minutes. It should take about an hour.

Shane stared at it.

Again.

He hadn’t asked.

Ilya simply told him.

Shane: okay

Then, because he couldn’t resist:

Shane: have fun being important

Ilya: I will do my best.

Shane: talk later

Ilya: Yes.

And that was it.

Shane put his phone away.

No expectation.

No wondering.

Ilya would be gone for approximately an hour.

Shane knew.

So he went about his day.

An hour and twelve minutes later:

Ilya: I am not trying to be biased, but if a conversation about moving a launch date by three days takes more than an hour, London and I are no longer friends.

Shane stared at the message before laughing.

Shane: the entire city?

Ilya: Yes.

Shane: seems reasonable

Ilya: Thank you.

Shane: 9 million people just lost your friendship because of one meeting 😭

Ilya: They know what they did.

Shane laughed hard enough that the person walking beside him gave him a strange look.

Shane: you’re ridiculous

Ilya: And yet you agreed to dinner with me.

Shane’s smile immediately softened.

Shane: unfortunately

Ilya: Friday is still available if you would like to reconsider.

Shane: STOP TRYING TO CANCEL OUR DATE

Ilya: I offered.

Shane: offer denied

Ilya: Good.

-

And just like that, they simply continued where they’d left off.

No games.

No explanations demanded.

No awkward sorry I disappeared.

Because Ilya hadn’t disappeared.

He’d told Shane he was leaving.

Then he’d come back.

It was so painfully simple that Shane almost hated how much he noticed it.

But he did.

He noticed every single time.

That evening, Rose noticed too.

Mostly because Shane was smiling at his phone.

Again.

“You’re disgusting.”

Shane didn’t look up.

“Thank you.”

“How many times has he texted you today?”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t!”

Rose leaned over.

Shane immediately pulled his phone against his chest.

“Personal space.”

“You’ve known him for four days.”

“And?”

“And you’re guarding your phone like you’re exchanging state secrets.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

Rose watched him for a moment.

Then her expression changed.

“What?”

Shane looked up.

“What?”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The smile.”

“What smile?”

“That one.”

“I don’t have a smile.”

“You absolutely have a smile.”

Shane threw a pillow at her.

Rose caught it.

“Do you like him?”

Shane opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Rose’s eyebrows rose.

Shane looked down at his phone.

There was a message waiting.

Ilya: Home.

Another followed.

Ilya: Have you eaten dinner?

Shane smiled before he could stop himself.

Rose made a noise.

“Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“You do!”

“I obviously like him. I’m going on a date with him.”

“No.” Rose pointed. “This is different.”

Shane frowned.

“How?”

“You’re comfortable.”

That quieted him.

Rose lowered the pillow.

“Like…really comfortable.”

Shane looked back at the messages.

Maybe that was it.

Comfortable.

Which was strange considering everything about Ilya should have made Shane nervous.

The age difference.

The money.

The reputation.

The fact that Ilya had probably spent his day speaking to people who ran companies and governments while Shane had spent twenty minutes complaining because someone stole his seat in class.

Yet talking to him didn’t feel difficult.

Shane never felt like he had to perform.

Never wondered whether he’d texted too much.

Never intentionally waited before replying because he didn’t want to seem too eager.

He just—

Answered.

And Ilya did too.

When he could.

And when he couldn’t, he told Shane.

Shane looked at Rose.

“He tells me when he’s going to be busy.”

Rose blinked.

“What?”

“Ilya.”

“I know who we’re talking about.”

Shane ignored that.

“Like this morning. He had a meeting at nine, so before it started he told me he probably wouldn’t have his phone for a couple hours.”

Rose waited.

“And?”

“That’s it.”

She stared.

Shane frowned.

“No, you don’t understand.”

“Then explain.”

Shane looked down.

“He didn’t have to.”

Something in Rose’s expression softened.

“He just…thought to tell me.”

Shane picked absently at the edge of his phone case.

“And when the meeting ended, he texted me. Then this afternoon he had some call with London and told me before that too.”

Rose nodded slowly.

“I never have to wonder.”

There it was.

That was the part Shane hadn’t been able to put into words.

“I know he’s busy. Obviously he’s busy. He’s running a fucking company. I don’t expect him to be available all the time.”

“Of course.”

“But he doesn’t make me guess whether he’s busy.”

Rose stayed quiet.

Shane laughed softly, almost embarrassed by how much it mattered.

“That’s such a stupid thing to like.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Shane looked at her.

Rose shrugged.

“It’s considerate.”

Simple.

Exactly.

Considerate.

Shane’s phone vibrated.

Both looked down.

Ilya: Shane?

He hadn’t answered the dinner question.

Shane smiled.

Shane: sorry talking to rose

Shane: yes i ate

Ilya answered:

Ilya: Good.

Then:

Ilya: Tell Rose I said hello.

Shane showed her.

Rose grinned.

“Tell him I approve.”

“No.”

“Tell him.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shane.”

“No.”

He typed:

Shane: rose says hi

Rose gasped.

“Coward.”

Shane laughed.

His phone buzzed.

Ilya: I suspect that is not what Rose said.

Shane froze.

Rose leaned over.

Then screamed with laughter.

“He knows you already!”

Shane stared at the message.

And despite himself—

Despite the fact that Friday was still two days away.

Despite the fact that he’d only met Ilya once.

Despite the seventeen years between them and the completely different worlds they lived in.

Despite every reason this should have felt complicated—

Shane smiled.

Because somehow, impossibly, talking to Ilya was becoming the easiest part of his day.

-

The first FaceTime happened Wednesday night.

It wasn’t planned.

That was probably why Shane didn’t realize what he’d done until it was already ringing.

He had been working for the better part of two hours, laptop open in front of him, notes scattered across his desk, when an email notification appeared in the corner of his screen.

Shane almost ignored it.

He’d been waiting for feedback from one of his professors, but he’d already convinced himself it wouldn’t come until tomorrow.

Then he saw the professor’s name.

Shane clicked.

Read the first line.

Then the second.

Sat straighter.

“No fucking way.”

He read the email again.

His heart started pounding.

“No way.”

His professor had chosen his work.

His.

Out of everyone who had submitted, Shane’s was one of the projects selected to move forward.

He pushed away from his desk so quickly the chair rolled backward.

“Oh my God.”

He needed to tell someone.

Immediately.

Rose was his first thought.

He grabbed his phone.

Opened their messages.

Then remembered she’d told him earlier she was going to dinner with her sister.

Shane hesitated.

And then another name entered his head.

Ilya.

He didn’t think.

That was the problem.

If he’d thought for even three seconds, Shane probably would have sent a text.

Instead, he opened Ilya’s contact.

Pressed FaceTime.

And started pacing.

One ring.

Two—

Ilya answered.

His face filled the screen.

“Hello?”

“Ilya!”

Ilya’s expression changed immediately.

Whatever he’d been doing, whatever he’d been looking at before answering, his attention settled entirely on Shane.

“Hello, Shane.”

“You are not going to believe what just happened.”

Ilya smiled.

“What happened?”

“So remember yesterday when I was telling you about that project?”

“Yes.”

“And remember how I said my professor was submitting some of them?”

“Yes.”

“Well, apparently—wait.”

Shane stopped pacing.

“I have to explain the other part first because I don’t think I told you this.”

“All right.”

“So basically, everyone submitted, but he was only going to choose a few because there are way too many people in the class, obviously, and I didn’t think mine was going to get picked because there are people who’ve been working on theirs way longer than I have, and—”

Shane was moving again.

He couldn’t help it.

He paced around his bedroom, phone in one hand, the other gesturing animatedly even though there was absolutely no reason for it.

“And then he emailed me.”

Ilya’s smile grew.

“And?”

“He picked mine!”

There was a beat.

Then Ilya’s entire expression softened.

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Shane, that’s wonderful.”

“I know!”

Shane laughed.

He was practically vibrating.

“I mean, it’s not some huge thing. It’s just—”

“Don’t.”

Shane stopped.

“What?”

Ilya’s voice remained gentle.

“Don’t make it smaller.”

Shane stared at him.

“What?”

“You were excited thirty seconds ago.”

“I am.”

“Then be excited.”

Shane’s mouth closed.

Ilya continued.

“You don’t need to make something less important because you think someone else might not consider it important enough.”

Shane went quiet.

Ilya smiled.

“Your work was chosen.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re proud of it.”

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m proud of you too.”

That—

That did something.

Something Shane wasn’t prepared for.

His excitement remained, but now there was something warm beneath it.

He looked down for a second.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Shane smiled.

Then he was off again.

Because now he needed to explain exactly what happened next.

“And now I get to work with—”

Ilya listened.

That was what Shane would remember later.

Not simply that Ilya answered.

That he listened.

Shane talked for what had to be ten straight minutes.

He told Ilya about the project.

His professor.

The email.

What being selected meant.

What he got to do next.

Halfway through, he realized he’d already explained one part yesterday and apologized.

Ilya simply said:

“I remember.”

Of course he did.

Shane continued.

And Ilya sat there smiling at him.

He wasn’t checking something offscreen.

Wasn’t typing.

Wasn’t giving distracted little mhms while obviously doing something else.

He listened.

Occasionally he asked a question.

When Shane mentioned someone’s name from class, Ilya remembered who they were because Shane had apparently complained about them Tuesday.

That nearly derailed the entire conversation.

“You remember him?”

“You complained about him for fifteen minutes.”

“It was not fifteen minutes.”

“It was at least twelve.”

“He deserved it.”

“I gathered.”

Shane laughed.

He was so absorbed in the conversation that he didn’t pay attention to anything happening on Ilya’s side of the screen.

There were voices occasionally.

The clink of glass.

Someone laughing.

Shane assumed television.

Maybe Ilya had people working at his house.

Maybe—

Then suddenly a face appeared beside Ilya.

Shane startled.

“Hi!”

Ilya closed his eyes.

“Svetlana.”

Shane blinked.

Then recognition hit.

“Oh!”

It was the woman from the club.

The one who’d been sitting beside Ilya.

The one Shane vaguely remembered watching Ilya with the sort of expression only someone who knew him extremely well could get away with.

She smiled directly into the camera.

“So this is Shane.”

Ilya turned his head.

“Svet.”

“What?”

“Move.”

“No.”

Shane laughed.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Shane.”

“Svetlana.”

“Ilya.”

“You are in my personal space.”

“I’ve been in your personal space for fifteen years.”

“That does not grant you permanent access.”

“I disagree.”

Shane laughed harder.

Svetlana looked delighted.

“I like him.”

“You have spoken to him for eight seconds.”

“I work quickly.”

Ilya attempted to push her out of frame.

She refused to move.

“Congratulations,” Svetlana said.

Shane blinked.

“You heard?”

“You were shouting.”

“I wasn’t shouting.”

“You were shouting.”

Ilya nodded.

“You were shouting.”

“Okay, fuck both of you.”

Svetlana laughed.

Then another voice came from somewhere beyond the phone.

“Svet, leave him alone.”

Shane’s laughter faded.

He looked past Ilya.

For the first time since the call started, he actually looked at the background.

Warm lighting.

Not Ilya’s office.

A dining room.

And—

People.

Shane glanced toward the top of his screen.

8:14.

His stomach dropped.

“Oh my God.”

Ilya looked at him.

“What?”

“Are you at work?”

Ilya’s brows pulled together.

“No.”

Shane relaxed for exactly half a second.

Then Ilya said:

“Svet and I are having dinner with family.”

Shane’s mouth dropped open.

“That’s not better!”

Svetlana burst out laughing.

Ilya looked genuinely confused.

“What?”

“Oh my God.”

“Shane—”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I just FaceTimed you!”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even ask if you were busy!”

“You didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ilya’s eyebrow rose.

“When?”

“I don’t know! Ten minutes ago when I started talking and didn’t shut up?”

Svetlana was trying very hard not to laugh.

Shane’s face burned.

He checked the call time.

Thirteen minutes.

Thirteen fucking minutes.

“I’ve been talking for thirteen minutes while you’re at dinner with your family.”

“Twelve minutes and forty-six seconds,” Svetlana supplied.

“Svet.”

“What? He’s concerned about accuracy.”

Shane covered his face.

“I am so sorry.”

Ilya laughed softly.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No.”

“I interrupted dinner.”

“I answered the phone.”

Shane lowered his hand.

“What?”

Ilya’s expression softened.

“I saw your name.”

Shane stared.

“I answered.”

It took Shane a second to process that.

“But you were busy.”

“I was having dinner.”

“With your family.”

“Yes.”

“And you still answered?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ilya looked at him like the answer was obvious.

“Because you called.”

Shane’s heart did something profoundly unhelpful.

Svetlana slowly turned toward Ilya.

Her expression changed.

Not teasing exactly.

More like she had just learned something.

Something important.

Ilya noticed.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

Shane laughed.

That was when someone else spoke.

“Is that Shane?”

Shane’s eyes widened.

Ilya’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

Svetlana immediately said, “Yes.”

“Svetlana.”

“What?”

A woman’s face appeared over Ilya’s other shoulder.

Shane recognized her too.

The club.

Ilya’s mother.

“Oh my God.”

Her face lit up.

“Hello, Shane!”

Shane wanted the floor to swallow him.

“Hi.”

She smiled warmly.

“Happy belated birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“I enjoyed your singing.”

Ilya muttered something in Russian.

Shane’s mouth dropped open.

Svetlana lost it.

His mother smiled innocently.

“What?”

“You promised not to embarrass me.”

“I am not embarrassing you.”

“You absolutely are.”

Shane started laughing.

“Ilya, it’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It really is.”

“You say that because she isn’t your mother.”

His mother slapped his shoulder.

“Be nice.”

“I am always nice.”

Three separate voices from somewhere offscreen immediately disagreed.

Shane laughed harder.

And something happened then.

Something strange.

Because Shane knew Ilya’s reputation.

Everyone did.

Cold.

Controlled.

Intimidating.

One of the most powerful businessmen in the world.

Yet here he was.

At dinner.

Being shoved around by his best friend.

Arguing with his mother.

Getting heckled by family members Shane couldn’t even see.

And looking entirely—

Normal.

Not ordinary.

Ilya would probably never be ordinary.

But human.

Warm.

Loved.

Shane liked seeing it.

Maybe too much.

Then Ilya’s mother disappeared from the frame.

“I will leave you alone.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Shane.”

“Bye.”

“Hopefully I see you again.”

Ilya’s eyes closed.

“Mother.”

“What?”

She walked away.

Svetlana grinned.

“I’ll leave too.”

“Finally.”

Finally, it was just Ilya again.

Shane stared at him.

Ilya stared back.

Then Shane started laughing.

Ilya sighed.

“I’m glad my suffering amuses you.”

“Your family is funny.”

“They are monsters.”

“You love them.”

“Unfortunately.”

Shane smiled.

There was a small silence.

Then he remembered.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“I should let you go.”

Ilya frowned.

“Why?”

“Because you’re at dinner.”

“I am capable of returning to dinner later.”

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

“You’re not abandoning your family because I randomly FaceTimed you.”

“I am not abandoning anyone.”

“Go.”

“No.”

Shane laughed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I was enjoying listening to you.”

That stopped him.

Ilya’s voice softened.

“You were excited.”

“I was.”

“I liked seeing you excited.”

Shane’s cheeks warmed.

He looked away.

“You’re really good at saying things that make it difficult to argue with you.”

“Years of negotiation.”

Shane snorted.

“But seriously. Go eat.”

Ilya considered him.

Then finally nodded.

“All right.”

Shane smiled.

“I’ll text you later.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Neither hung up.

Shane waited.

Ilya waited.

Shane’s smile grew.

“You have to hang up.”

“Why me?”

“It’s your dinner.”

“You called.”

“Exactly. So you hang up.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

Ilya laughed.

Shane liked that sound far too much.

“Goodnight for now, Shane.”

“Bye, Ilya.”

Still neither moved.

Shane finally rolled his eyes.

“Oh my God.”

He ended the call.

Then immediately stared at his phone.

His own reflection stared back from the dark screen.

He was smiling.

A lot.

“Fuck.”

His phone buzzed.

Ilya.

Already.

Shane opened it.

Ilya: You did not disturb me.

Another appeared.

Ilya: And I meant what I said. I am glad you called.

Shane’s smile softened.

He typed back.

Shane: sorry anyway

Three dots.

Ilya: Stop apologizing.

Shane: bossy

Ilya: So I’ve been told.

Then:

Shane: i like svetlana

There was a longer pause.

Ilya: This is disappointing.

Shane laughed.

Shane: she seems fun

Ilya: She is a menace.

Shane: she said she likes me

Ilya: Her judgment is occasionally questionable.

Shane gasped.

Shane: wow

Shane: date cancelled

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Ilya: No.

Shane grinned.

Shane: no???

Ilya: Absolutely not.

Shane: demanding again

Ilya: Friday. Seven.

Shane: maybe

A pause.

Then:

Ilya: Shane.

There it was again.

Shane could practically hear him saying it.

He laughed.

Shane: yes friday at 7

Ilya: Good.

Shane looked at the conversation.

Then at the FaceTime icon.

Something had changed.

Not dramatically.

But texting suddenly felt slightly insufficient.

Because now Shane knew what Ilya looked like when he laughed in real time.

He knew how Ilya’s expression changed when Shane got excited.

He knew what his voice sounded like when he said I’m glad you called.

And apparently Ilya felt something similar.

Because less than an hour later:

Ilya: Are you free?

Shane blinked.

Shane: didn’t you just get rid of me

Ilya: You got rid of me.

Shane: fair

Another message.

Ilya: My family has gone home.

Then:

Ilya: FaceTime?

Shane stared at the word.

His smile returned.

Shane: yeah

This time, when his phone started ringing, Shane didn’t panic.

He answered.

“Miss me already?”

Ilya’s face appeared.

He was no longer at the table.

His shirt sleeves were rolled higher now, and he’d undone another button at his collar.

Ilya looked at him.

“Terribly.”

Shane laughed.

And that was how FaceTiming became theirs.

After that first accidental call, neither of them called without asking.

Not because the spontaneity had been unwelcome.

Quite the opposite.

But they both had lives.

Shane had classes and friends and assignments.

Ilya had work, meetings, dinners, calls across different time zones.

So it became another little piece of communication between them.

Free?

Can I call?

FaceTime?

Sometimes the answer was immediate.

Yes.

Sometimes:

Give me twenty minutes.

Sometimes Ilya would respond:

Still at work. Nine?

And at nine, Shane’s phone would ring.

Exactly when Ilya said it would.

Sometimes they talked for an hour.

Sometimes twenty minutes.

Sometimes there wasn’t even much to say.

And Shane discovered he liked those calls almost as much.

He could sit at his desk doing homework while Ilya worked from home.

Every now and then Shane would glance toward the phone and see Ilya reading something, brow furrowed in concentration.

Or Ilya would look up from his laptop and catch Shane staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“So were you.”

“I looked up because you were staring.”

“Can’t prove it.”

Ilya would shake his head and return to work.

Shane would smile and return to his notes.

It was strangely comfortable.

Almost absurdly so.

They had known each other less than a week.

Yet silence didn’t feel like something they needed to fill.

And Thursday night, that comfort became something else.

They’d FaceTimed after Shane finished studying.

He was already in bed.

Ilya was home.

It was supposed to be a short call.

Twenty minutes.

Maybe thirty.

Instead, an hour passed.

Then another.

Shane gradually stopped contributing very much.

Ilya noticed.

“You’re tired.”

“No.”

“You just yawned.”

“People yawn.”

“Usually when they’re tired.”

“Could be boredom.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

“Are you bored?”

Shane smiled sleepily.

“No.”

“Good.”

Shane shifted onto his side, pulling the blanket higher.

His phone was propped against the pillow beside him.

Ilya watched.

“You should sleep.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

Shane’s eyes drifted closed.

“Talking to you.”

Something tightened in Ilya’s chest.

“We can talk tomorrow.”

“You’re busy tomorrow.”

“I have meetings.”

“Mhm.”

“But not all day.”

Shane made a quiet sound.

Ilya smiled.

“Shane.”

Nothing.

“Are you asleep?”

“No.”

His eyes were still closed.

Ilya chuckled.

“Very convincing.”

Shane’s mouth curved slightly.

Then, after a few moments:

“Ilya?”

“Yes?”

“I’m excited for Friday.”

Ilya went still.

The date.

Their first actual date.

“So am I.”

“Good.”

Shane smiled.

Then silence.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

Ilya waited.

“Shane?”

No response.

His breathing had changed.

Slow.

Even.

Ilya stared at the screen.

Shane had fallen asleep.

For a moment, Ilya simply sat there.

Then he smiled.

He should hang up.

Obviously.

Shane was sleeping.

There was no conversation left to have.

Ilya had work tomorrow.

He had absolutely no reason to remain sitting there staring at a sleeping twenty-one-year-old through his phone.

Yet he didn’t move.

Shane’s hair was messy against the pillow.

One cheek pressed into it.

His face was completely relaxed.

No teasing smile.

No dramatic expressions.

No excitement.

No awareness that Ilya was watching him.

Just Shane.

Ilya’s smile slowly disappeared.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because suddenly the feeling inside his chest was almost uncomfortable in its intensity.

He had spent his entire adult life being surrounded by beautiful people.

Men.

Women.

Models.

Actors.

People whose faces appeared on magazine covers.

He could recognize beauty.

He had simply never understood what everyone else seemed to experience alongside it.

That pull.

That fascination.

The desire to keep looking.

Now he did.

Because Ilya couldn’t stop.

He looked at Shane and thought, with absolute simplicity:

Breathtaking.

Not because Shane was trying to be.

That was perhaps the most dangerous part.

Shane was asleep.

Completely unaware.

And Ilya thought he was breathtaking anyway.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Ilya eventually shook his head at himself.

“This is ridiculous,” he whispered.

Shane slept on.

Ilya smiled again.

He stayed a little longer.

Just looking.

And for a man who had spent thirty-eight years wondering why attraction seemed so easy for everyone except him, there was something almost frightening about realizing that perhaps he’d never been incapable of feeling it.

Perhaps he’d simply never met Shane Hollander before.

-

Friday morning, Shane woke up nervous.

Not excited.

Not happy.

Not even tired.

Nervous.

The kind of nervous that settled low in his stomach before his eyes were fully open.

For several seconds, he just stared at the ceiling.

Then he remembered.

Friday.

The date.

Tonight.

His first actual date with Ilya Rozanov.

“Oh, fuck.”

Shane dragged a hand over his face.

This was ridiculous.

He had wanted this.

He still wanted this.

He had spent the entire week waiting for Friday to get here.

And now that it had, he suddenly wished somebody would put another two days between him and seven o’clock.

His phone sat beside him on the mattress.

Shane looked at it.

Then looked away.

Then back.

He already knew what would probably be waiting.

Ilya had become painfully predictable in the mornings.

Not boring.

Never boring.

Just consistent.

A good morning.

A question about whether Shane had class.

Some variation of eat something.

Occasionally something about the weather.

And because Ilya was almost always awake before him, the messages were usually already there by the time Shane got up.

Shane reached for the phone.

7:18.

Three notifications.

One from Rose.

One from some group chat he was absolutely not opening.

And one from Ilya.

Shane’s stomach fluttered.

He opened it.

Ilya: Good morning, Shane.

A second message.

Ilya: Eat breakfast.

Shane smiled.

Of course.

Then:

Ilya: I am looking forward to seeing you tonight.

Shane stopped.

The nervousness in his stomach shifted.

Not gone.

Just warmer.

He read it again.

I am looking forward to seeing you tonight.

Shane had known that.

Obviously.

Ilya had asked him out.

They had spent all week talking.

They had FaceTimed for hours.

Ilya had made it very clear he was interested.

But there was something about seeing it written so simply that made Shane’s chest tighten.

He typed back.

Shane: morning

Then:

Shane: i’m excited too

He hesitated.

His fingers hovered.

Then honesty won.

Shane: also maybe a little nervous

The message sent.

Shane immediately regretted it.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because now it was sitting there.

Visible.

And Ilya was going to read it.

Shane stared at the typing bubble.

It appeared almost immediately.

Ilya: I assumed.

Shane frowned.

Shane: wow okay

Another message.

Ilya: That was not an insult.

Shane: sounded like one

Ilya: Shane.

There it was.

Shane smiled despite himself.

Then:

Ilya: I am nervous too.

Shane went still.

He sat up.

Read it again.

Then once more.

Ilya Rozanov.

Nervous.

The same man who ran Aurelius Industries.

The same man who sat across from executives and investors and apparently terrified people for a living.

The same man Shane had seen in interviews looking completely composed while being asked questions that would make most people sweat.

Nervous.

About tonight.

About him.

Shane stared at the message for so long another one appeared.

Ilya: Though I am sure you find that difficult to believe.

Shane typed quickly.

Shane: a little

Shane: you don’t seem like you get nervous

Ilya: I do.

Shane: about dates?

There was a pause.

Long enough that Shane became more interested.

Then:

Ilya: Apparently.

Shane laughed softly.

Shane: apparently???

Ilya: I do not have much recent data.

Shane’s eyebrows rose.

That caught him.

He knew Ilya had said he hadn’t wanted anyone in a long time.

But hearing it phrased like that made it real again.

Shane typed:

Shane: how recent are we talking

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Returned.

Ilya: Nice try.

Shane gasped.

Shane: coward

Ilya: Curious.

Shane: yes

Ilya: You will survive not knowing everything about me before dinner.

Shane: rude

Ilya: I have to leave you something to ask me tonight.

That made Shane smile.

Then:

Shane: so what are you nervous about

This time, Ilya took longer.

Shane watched the three dots appear, disappear, then return.

Finally:

Ilya: Whether you will enjoy yourself.

Shane’s expression softened.

Ilya: Whether I chose somewhere you will like.

Another message.

Ilya: Whether the fact that I am seventeen years older than you will feel different in person when we are actually sitting across from each other on a date.

Shane’s smile faded.

Not badly.

He read that carefully.

Then:

Ilya: Whether I will say something stupid.

Shane laughed.

Shane: YOU?

Ilya: Yes, me.

Shane: impossible

Ilya: Very funny.

Then one more message.

Ilya: And I am nervous because I like you.

That one hit harder.

Shane stared at it.

His heartbeat changed.

Not dramatic.

Not some explosive rush.

Just a deep, steady thud.

Because Ilya didn’t hide behind jokes.

He didn’t say I think you’re cute.

He didn’t say tonight should be fun.

He said:

I like you.

Shane rubbed a hand over his mouth.

Then typed:

Shane: okay now i’m more nervous

The answer came instantly.

Ilya: That was not the goal.

Shane laughed.

Shane: i know

Then:

Shane: but i like you too

He sent it before he could overthink it.

The typing bubble appeared.

Stayed.

Then vanished.

Nothing came through.

Shane narrowed his eyes.

Shane: did i break you

Finally:

Ilya: No.

A pause.

Ilya: I am smiling.

Shane’s stomach flipped.

God.

He could picture it too easily now.

Because of FaceTime.

Ilya sitting somewhere in his house or office, phone in hand, that small smile slowly appearing.

Shane fell backward into his pillows.

Shane: good

Another message.

Ilya: Now eat.

Shane stared at the screen.

Then laughed loudly.

Of course.

Shane: you ruin everything

Ilya: Breakfast.

Shane: yes sir

There was an immediate pause.

Shane’s eyes widened.

“Oh, shit.”

He had typed that without thinking.

The typing bubble appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Shane covered his mouth.

Then:

Ilya: Be careful, Shane.

His face went hot.

Shane: I MEANT IT NORMALLY

Ilya: Of course.

Shane: shut up

Ilya: Eat.

Shane dropped the phone against his chest.

“This man is going to kill me.”

But he was smiling.

Still nervous.

Very nervous.

Just not alone in it anymore.

And that made a difference.

-

He did eat.

Mostly because at this point he could practically hear Ilya telling him to.

Toast.

Eggs.

Coffee.

Nothing impressive.

But enough that when Ilya inevitably asked later, Shane wouldn’t have to lie.

He was halfway through eating when Rose texted.

Rose: TODAYYYYY

Shane immediately put his phone facedown.

No.

He was not doing this with her at seven-thirty in the morning.

The phone buzzed again.

Rose: are you awake

Then:

Rose: are you panicking

Shane sighed.

Shane: no

The reply came immediately.

Rose: liar

Shane: i’m fine

Rose: what are you wearing

Shane stared.

It was not even eight.

Shane: rose

Rose: important question

Shane: i have class

Rose: after class

Then:

Rose: i’m coming over

Shane closed his eyes.

Of course she was.

-

The nervousness followed him through campus.

Not constantly.

For stretches, Shane forgot.

He sat through class.

Took notes.

Talked to people.

Answered a question.

Then something would remind him.

Someone would mention dinner.

His phone would vibrate.

He’d see Friday written at the top of a syllabus.

And suddenly:

Tonight.

Ilya.

Seven.

Shane found himself thinking about stupid things.

Would conversation feel different in person now?

They had talked all week.

Hours.

Texting.

FaceTime.

Silence even.

They’d already gotten comfortable enough to sit on camera while doing completely separate things.

But a date was different.

A date meant intention.

It meant both of them knew exactly why they were there.

Shane wondered whether that would change the way Ilya looked at him.

Then he wondered why that thought made his stomach turn over.

-

Around noon, his phone buzzed.

Ilya.

Ilya: Lunch.

Shane stared.

Shane: hello to you too

Ilya: Have you eaten?

Shane: yes

A pause.

Ilya: Truly?

Shane gasped.

Shane: why do you think i lie all the time

Ilya: Experience.

Shane: we’ve known each other SIX DAYS

Ilya: And yet.

Shane smiled.

Then another message.

Ilya: How is your morning?

Shane answered.

They talked for a few minutes.

Then Ilya sent:

Ilya: I have meetings from one until approximately four.

Shane paused.

There it was again.

He smiled without meaning to.

Ilya: I may be unavailable most of that time.

Shane typed:

Shane: okay

Then:

Shane: good luck

Ilya: Thank you.

A moment later:

Ilya: After that, I am going home.

Shane’s eyebrows rose.

Shane: early day?

Ilya: Deliberately.

Shane stared.

Shane: why

The typing bubble appeared.

Ilya: I have a date.

Shane’s entire face warmed.

He looked around automatically, as though someone nearby might somehow see the message.

Shane: oh

Ilya: With someone very handsome.

Shane bit his lip.

Shane: wow

Shane: hope it goes well

Ilya: So do I.

Then:

Ilya: I am told he is nervous.

Shane laughed.

Shane: fuck you

Ilya: Tonight, perhaps only dinner.

Shane froze.

His eyes widened.

Then:

Ilya: That was a joke.

Shane stared.

Another message.

Ilya: Shane?

He could practically feel Ilya panicking now.

And that made him laugh harder.

Shane: OH MY GOD

Shane: YOU ARE NERVOUS

Ilya: I already admitted this.

Shane: you made a joke and immediately regretted it

Ilya: Deeply.

Shane was grinning now.

Shane: i liked it

There was a pause.

Ilya: Good.

Shane leaned against the wall outside his next class.

He liked this.

The fact that Ilya could be nervous.

The fact that he could misjudge a joke and immediately worry.

The fact that none of it made him seem less attractive.

If anything, it did the opposite.

Because Shane wasn’t going to dinner with Ilya Rozanov, CEO of Aurelius Industries tonight.

Not really.

He was going to dinner with Ilya.

The man who checked the weather.

The man who reminded him to eat.

The man who listened when Shane rambled.

The man who let his family interrupt FaceTime.

The man who admitted, plainly, that he liked Shane enough to be nervous.

That distinction mattered.

A lot.

-

By four-thirty, Shane was home.

By four-thirty-five, Rose was there.

By four-forty, Shane regretted giving her a key.

She walked into his room carrying two drinks and took one look at him.

“Oh, you’re bad.”

Shane frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re nervous nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re reorganizing your closet.”

Shane looked down.

He was.

He had removed three shirts and hung them back up in a different order for absolutely no reason.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means I’m staying.”

“You were staying anyway.”

“Correct.”

Rose put the drink on his desk.

“So.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“So what?”

“How has future husband been today?”

Shane nearly threw a hanger at her.

“He’s not my future husband.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Rose.”

She grinned.

Shane took the drink.

Then, despite himself:

“He said he was nervous.”

Rose stopped.

Her expression changed immediately.

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

“About tonight?”

Shane nodded.

Rose blinked.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was a judgmental ‘huh.’”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

Rose sat on his bed.

“I just like that.”

Shane looked toward her.

“Why?”

“Because someone like him could very easily act like none of this matters.”

Shane went quiet.

Rose shrugged.

“He could act like he’s been on a thousand dates and this is nothing special.”

That hit Shane because—

Yes.

Exactly.

Ilya could have.

And Shane probably would have believed him.

Instead he had said:

I am nervous too.

Then:

I am nervous because I like you.

Shane looked down at his drink.

“Yeah.”

Rose smiled softly.

“You really like him.”

Shane sighed.

“Unfortunately.”

She laughed.

Then stood.

“Good. Now let’s figure out what you’re wearing before you make yourself insane.”

Shane groaned.

-

By 6pm, Shane had changed his outfit six times.

Rose knew because she had counted.

“You are aware,” she said from where she was lying across Shane’s bed, “that this man has already seen you half asleep, hungover, with your hair sticking in twelve directions.”

Shane ignored her.

He stood in front of the mirror in a dark pair of pants and a button-up shirt he had already put on once, discarded, reconsidered, and put back on.

“This looks like I’m trying too hard.”

Rose stared at him.

“You are trying too hard.”

“Helpful.”

“You asked me to come over.”

“You invited yourself.”

“True.”

“You have contributed nothing.”

“I told you not to wear the beige shirt.”

“It was a good shirt.”

“It made you look like someone’s youth pastor.”

Shane turned slowly.

Rose smiled.

He pointed toward the door.

“Leave.”

“No.”

Shane groaned and looked back at the mirror.

This was ridiculous.

He had gone on dates before.

Lots of them.

He knew how to get dressed for dinner.

He knew how to flirt.

He knew how to sit across from a man and make conversation.

But none of those men had been Ilya Rozanov.

That was the problem.

Shane still didn’t actually know what dinner with Ilya looked like.

Did Ilya mean a normal restaurant?

A private dining room?

Some place where Shane would walk in and immediately realize everyone else was wearing jackets that cost more than his car?

Ilya had asked what kind of food he liked.

Shane had answered honestly.

He had not asked where they were going.

At the time, that had felt fun.

Mysterious.

Now he was starting to regret it.

His phone buzzed on the dresser.

Shane lunged for it.

Rose snorted.

“It could be anyone.”

“It’s him.”

“You don’t know that.”

Shane looked.

It was him.

He did not acknowledge Rose’s smug expression.

Ilya: I will be there at seven.

Shane checked the clock.

6:11.

His stomach flipped.

Then another message appeared.

Ilya: And before you spend another forty minutes worrying about clothes—

Shane froze.

Rose saw his face.

“What?”

He kept reading.

Ilya: Wear what you are comfortable in.

Another message.

Ilya: I asked you to dinner, not a board meeting.

Rose leaned over his shoulder.

Then made a delighted noise.

“Oh, I like him.”

Shane stared at the phone.

“How does he know?”

“Because you’re transparent.”

“I am not transparent.”

Rose just looked at him.

Shane looked back.

Rose kept looking.

His shoulders slowly dropped.

“Okay, fine.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I’m transparent.”

“Painfully.”

“Shut up.”

Rose grinned.

Shane glanced down at Ilya’s messages again.

It was such a small thing, but Ilya had somehow managed to recognize that Shane was nervous without making a big deal out of it. He hadn’t told Shane what he should wear or given him some dress code to meet. He’d simply told him to come as himself.

Shane typed:

Shane: maybe i enjoy dressing for board meetings

Ilya: You complained about wearing a tie on FaceTime yesterday.

Shane smiled.

Shane: stop remembering things

Ilya: Still no.

Shane smiled.

Then:

Shane: dark pants and a shirt okay?

The answer came quickly.

Ilya: Shane.

He laughed.

Ilya: Wear what makes you feel good.

Shane read that twice.

Then set his phone down.

Rose watched him.

“Well?”

Shane looked at himself in the mirror again.

Dark pants.

Black shirt.

Sleeves he could roll if he got warm.

Clean.

Simple.

Him.

“Okay.”

Rose’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“No seventh outfit?”

“Shut up.”

She grinned.

Progress.

-

At 6:58, Shane was trying very hard not to look out the window.

At 6:59, he failed.

A black car pulled up.

Shane’s stomach immediately tightened.

Rose, naturally, was still there.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“That’s a very expensive car.”

“Rose.”

“I’m just observing.”

“Go home.”

“I want to see him.”

“You’ve already seen him.”

“At a club.”

“Same face.”

“Different context.”

Shane glared.

The car stopped.

The driver-side door opened.

And Ilya stepped out.

Rose went silent.

Shane did too.

Not because he had forgotten Ilya was attractive.

That would have been impossible.

But the club had been dark.

FaceTime flattened everything.

This was different.

Ilya was dressed simply enough.

Dark trousers.

Black coat.

No tie.

Nothing flashy.

Nothing that screamed billionaire unless someone knew how expensive the cut of that coat probably was.

He looked up toward the building.

Shane stepped back from the window immediately.

Rose stared at him.

“Did you just hide?”

“No.”

“You literally ducked.”

“I did not.”

The buzzer sounded.

Shane’s heart jumped.

Rose smiled wickedly.

“I’ll get it.”

“If you touch that door, I will end our friendship.”

She raised both hands.

“Fine.”

Shane took a breath.

Then another.

Opened the door.

Ilya stood there.

And smiled.

That was the first thing Shane noticed.

Not the coat.

Not the height.

Not the absurdly good face.

The smile.

Warm.

Immediate.

Like he was genuinely happy to see Shane.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

For one second, Shane forgot how conversations worked.

Ilya’s eyes moved over him.

Not crudely.

Not slowly enough to make Shane self-conscious.

Just one appreciative glance.

“You look very good.”

Shane’s cheeks warmed.

“Thanks.”

“You too.”

Ilya smiled.

From somewhere behind Shane:

“He changed six times.”

Shane closed his eyes.

Ilya looked over his shoulder.

Rose stood in the living room.

Waving.

“Hello, Rose.”

“Hi, Ilya.”

Shane turned.

“Leave.”

Rose ignored him.

“Have him home by midnight.”

“ROSE.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“I will do my best.”

Shane stared at him.

“You are not supposed to encourage her.”

“I like her.”

“Everybody likes her. It’s exhausting.”

Rose blew him a kiss.

“Have fun.”

She grabbed her bag and finally headed for the door.

As she passed Ilya, she lowered her voice just enough to make it obvious she was deliberately making Shane nervous.

“He’s been excited all day.”

“Rose.”

Ilya looked at Shane.

“I have too.”

Rose stopped.

Shane stopped.

Ilya looked perfectly calm.

Rose smiled.

Then left.

Traitor.

Shane grabbed his jacket.

“I’m never speaking to her again.”

“I suspect that will last several hours.”

“At least.”

Ilya stepped aside.

“Ready?”

Shane looked at him.

Then smiled.

“Yeah.”

-

The first surprise came when Ilya opened the passenger door.

Shane paused.

“You’re driving?”

Ilya looked confused.

“Yes.”

“I thought you’d have a driver.”

“I do.”

“But not tonight?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Ilya rested one hand on the door.

“Because I asked you on a date.”

Shane stared at him.

Ilya’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Is that strange?”

“No.”

It wasn’t.

Not really.

It was just another thing Shane hadn’t expected.

He got in.

Ilya closed the door behind him.

A few seconds later, he settled into the driver’s seat.

Shane looked around.

The car was immaculate.

Naturally.

He buckled in.

Then looked over.

“So where are we going?”

Ilya started the engine.

“You’ll see.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“I hate surprises.”

“You are lying.”

“I could hate this one.”

“You won’t.”

“That is an unreasonable amount of confidence.”

“I researched.”

Shane laughed.

“You researched our date?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“You told me what food you like.”

“I did.”

“So I found somewhere good.”

Shane stared at him.

Ilya glanced over.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

Shane shook his head.

“Drive.”

Ilya smiled and pulled away from the curb.

-

The second surprise came twenty minutes later.

Shane looked through the windshield.

Then at the restaurant.

Then at Ilya.

“This?”

Ilya immediately looked concerned.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I do.”

The restaurant was nice.

Warm.

Busy.

Stylish without looking like Shane would accidentally spend his rent money on an appetizer.

It specialized in exactly the kind of food Shane had told Ilya he liked.

Which was somehow more disarming than if Ilya had taken him somewhere impossibly expensive.

Shane looked back at the building.

“I just thought…”

Ilya turned off the engine.

“What?”

Shane gestured vaguely toward him.

“I don’t know. Something more…”

“Expensive?”

Shane winced.

“That sounds horrible.”

Ilya laughed.

“No. It sounds honest.”

“I thought maybe somewhere with like twelve forks.”

Ilya looked genuinely amused.

“Why would we need twelve forks?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

Ilya got out.

Shane followed.

As they walked toward the entrance, Ilya said:

“You told me you liked this.”

Shane looked at him.

“Yes.”

“So I thought we should eat it.”

Simple.

Again.

Shane shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

“You make things sound very obvious.”

“Some things are.”

Shane smiled.

“You’re weird.”

“So I’ve been told.”

-

The host recognized Ilya.

Shane saw it happen.

The tiny widening of the eyes.

The almost imperceptible straightening.

“Mr. Rozanov.”

“Good evening.”

“Your table is ready.”

Of course it was.

But there was no spectacle.

No manager running over.

No private room.

They were taken to a booth near the back where there was enough privacy to talk without being isolated from everyone else.

Ilya waited for Shane to sit before taking the opposite side.

Shane picked up the menu.

Looked at it.

Then looked over the top.

“What?”

Ilya asked.

“There are prices.”

Ilya blinked.

Shane smiled.

“I was expecting one of those places where they hide them so I don’t cry.”

Ilya laughed.

“Would that make you uncomfortable?”

“A little.”

“Then I am glad there are prices.”

Shane lowered the menu.

“You thought about that?”

“About whether you would be comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

There was that word again.

Of course.

Like caring about whether Shane was comfortable was the most natural thing in the world.

Shane looked down at the menu before Ilya could see too much on his face.

They ordered.

And then something surprising happened.

The date became normal.

Not boring.

Never boring.

But normal.

They talked.

Not about Aurelius.

Not immediately.

Not about money.

Not about the age gap.

Not even about the nightclub.

Ilya asked about Shane’s week.

Shane told him about the project again, now that he had more details.

Ilya remembered all of it.

Then Shane asked about Ilya’s day.

Ilya actually answered.

“Meetings.”

“Shocking.”

“Three of them.”

“Did you terrify anyone?”

“One person.”

“Only one?”

“I am losing my touch.”

Shane smiled.

“What was the meeting about?”

Ilya told him.

Not in some condescending, simplified way.

He explained the actual issue.

Aurelius was considering an expansion that involved a complicated infrastructure partnership.

Shane listened.

Then asked a question.

Ilya answered seriously.

Shane asked another.

At one point, he disagreed with something.

He realized it only after the words were already out.

Shane froze.

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You stopped.”

“I just told you your business strategy might be stupid.”

Ilya considered that.

“You said one part sounded unnecessarily risky.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

Shane waited.

Ilya leaned back.

“Explain.”

Shane blinked.

“You actually want me to?”

“Yes.”

So Shane did.

He talked through his thinking.

Ilya listened.

Asked questions.

Pushed back on one point.

Agreed with another.

And by the end, Shane realized they were debating.

Not fighting.

Not Ilya humoring him.

Debating.

When the food arrived, Ilya was still considering something Shane had said.

“You might be right about the timeline.”

Shane stared.

“Excuse me?”

“I said you might be right.”

“Can you repeat that?”

“No.”

“I need to record it.”

Ilya smiled.

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“Yes.”

The answer came softly enough that Shane looked up.

Ilya was watching him.

“And yet I am.”

The air shifted.

Only slightly.

But Shane felt it.

He looked down at his food.

So did Ilya.

And the moment passed.

For now.

-

Shane learned things.

Ilya hated overly sweet coffee.

He cooked.

Actually cooked.

Not “I can make eggs” cooked.

His mother had refused to let any of her children leave home without learning how to feed themselves.

Shane nearly laughed himself sick when Ilya admitted Svetlana routinely stole leftovers from his refrigerator.

“She has her own food.”

“Apparently mine is better.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Don’t encourage her.”

Shane learned Ilya spoke several languages.

“Say something in Russian.”

Ilya paused.

“What?”

“Anything.”

“Why?”

“I want to hear it.”

“You have heard me speak Russian.”

“When?”

“At the club.”

“You were swearing.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“Still Russian.”

“Say something nice.”

Ilya looked at him for a long moment.

Then said something.

Low.

Smooth.

Shane’s stomach flipped.

“What did that mean?”

“I said your food is getting cold.”

Shane stared.

Ilya smiled.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Sometimes.”

Shane pointed his fork at him.

“You’re saying something else before we leave.”

“We’ll see.”

Then Shane learned something else.

Ilya watched terrible television.

At first, Ilya denied it.

Then Shane pushed.

Then Ilya admitted there was one particular reality show Svetlana had forced him to watch once.

“And now?”

“I occasionally see episodes.”

“Occasionally?”

“When they are on.”

“At your house?”

Silence.

Shane’s eyes widened.

“You watch it voluntarily.”

“I did not say that.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I enjoy knowing how the story develops.”

“That’s called watching the show.”

Ilya sighed.

Shane laughed so loudly someone at the next table looked over.

For a man the world seemed to think was terrifying, Ilya was absurdly easy to tease.

At least with Shane.

Shane liked that.

A lot.

-

Dessert arrived because Ilya insisted birthday weeks counted.

“Birthday weeks are not a thing.”

“They are now.”

“You can’t just invent traditions.”

“I run a company.”

“That does not give you legislative authority.”

“Depends on the building.”

Shane laughed.

Then his eyes caught movement across the room.

Someone was holding up a phone.

Pointed toward them.

Shane’s smile faltered.

Ilya noticed immediately.

“What?”

Shane looked again.

The phone lowered.

“Nothing.”

Ilya followed his gaze.

His expression changed.

Barely.

The warmth remained, but something sharper settled underneath it.

He had seen it too.

“Does that happen a lot?” Shane asked.

“Yes.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes.”

Ilya looked back at him.

“Does it bother you?”

Shane hesitated.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Fair.”

That answer surprised him.

No lecture.

No reassurance that he’d get used to it.

Just—

Fair.

Shane glanced around.

Now that he was looking, he could see two other people occasionally glancing over.

“Do they know it’s you?”

“Yes.”

“That sounded arrogant.”

“It was factual.”

Shane snorted.

Ilya smiled.

Then his expression softened again.

“If you want to leave, we can.”

Shane looked at him.

“Why would I?”

“You looked uncomfortable.”

“I was surprised.”

“That isn’t the same thing?”

“No.”

Ilya studied him.

Then nodded.

“All right.”

So they stayed.

-

Dinner lasted nearly three hours.

Shane had not expected that.

He especially had not expected to be disappointed when Ilya finally glanced at the time.

“We should probably go.”

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

Neither sounded enthusiastic.

The check came.

Ilya reached for it.

Shane immediately said:

“No.”

Ilya looked up.

“What?”

“I can pay for mine.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane stared back.

There.

This was going to be the moment.

The awkward billionaire thing.

Ilya would laugh.

Or insist in some way that made Shane feel ridiculous.

Instead:

“I asked you.”

Shane frowned.

“And?”

“So I would like to pay.”

Shane waited.

Ilya added:

“But if you would rather split it, we can.”

Shane’s expression changed.

“You don’t care?”

“Why would I care?”

“I don’t know.”

“You clearly do.”

Shane glanced at the check.

“I don’t want this to become…”

He stopped.

Ilya waited.

“A thing.”

“What thing?”

“You paying for everything because you can.”

Ilya was quiet for a second.

Then nodded.

“All right.”

Shane looked at him.

“That’s it?”

“What else would you like me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ilya leaned back slightly.

“If this becomes something we continue doing, we can decide what makes both of us comfortable.”

That was—

Shane swallowed.

“And tonight?”

“I invited you tonight.”

Shane considered that.

Then smiled.

“Fine.”

Ilya picked up the check.

“Thank you.”

“But next time—”

Ilya’s eyes lifted.

Shane realized what he’d said.

Next time.

The corner of Ilya’s mouth curved.

“Next time?”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

-

Outside, the air was cold.

Shane was immediately grateful for the coat he’d brought.

Ilya noticed.

“You wore a jacket.”

Shane stared.

“Don’t start.”

“I am simply observing.”

“You’re smug.”

“I warned you.”

“Yesterday.”

“And yet weather remains predictable.”

Shane laughed.

Then he saw the cameras.

Only two people.

Maybe three.

Not some massive wall of paparazzi.

But enough.

One photographer raised his camera the second they stepped outside.

Shane stopped.

The first flash went off.

His body reacted before his brain did.

Not fear exactly.

Just surprise.

Ilya noticed.

He stepped closer.

Not touching.

Just close.

His voice lowered.

“There is a back exit.”

Shane looked at him.

“What?”

“If you don’t want this, we can go back inside.”

Another flash.

Ilya’s attention stayed on Shane.

“We can leave another way.”

Shane looked toward the photographers.

Then at Ilya.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want to go through the back?”

Ilya shook his head.

“I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“I have been photographed leaving restaurants before.”

Right.

Obviously.

Shane looked outside again.

Then something stubborn rose in him.

“No.”

Ilya waited.

Shane shoved his hands into his pockets.

“No back door.”

“Are you sure?”

“You asked me on a date.”

“Yes.”

“I went on the date.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sneaking through a kitchen because somebody has a camera.”

Something changed in Ilya’s face.

A small, slow smile.

Not amusement.

Something warmer.

“Okay.”

They walked out together.

Another flash.

Shane kept moving.

He expected Ilya to speed up.

He didn’t.

He walked beside Shane at a normal pace.

Close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

Someone called Ilya’s name.

He ignored it.

Another voice:

“Who’s your friend?”

Ilya kept walking.

Shane glanced at him.

He didn’t seem embarrassed.

Didn’t move away.

Didn’t pretend Shane wasn’t there.

That mattered more than Shane expected.

They reached the car.

Ilya opened Shane’s door.

Before getting in, Shane looked back.

The cameras flashed again.

Then he slid inside.

Ilya got behind the wheel a moment later.

The doors closed.

Silence.

Shane exhaled.

Ilya looked over.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

Shane smiled slightly.

“That was weird.”

“It can be.”

“You’re used to it.”

“Mostly.”

Shane looked out the window.

“I’m going to be online tomorrow, aren’t I?”

Ilya didn’t lie.

“Probably.”

Shane groaned.

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“Still glad you didn’t use the back door?”

Shane looked at him.

“Yes.”

Ilya smiled.

“Good.”

Then he started the car.

-

The drive back was quieter.

Not awkward.

Just softer.

The kind of quiet that came after hours of talking.

Shane watched the city pass outside.

Every now and then, he caught Ilya glancing over.

Eventually:

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep looking at me.”

“You have done the same thing all night.”

Shane smiled.

“Maybe I like looking at you.”

Ilya went quiet.

Shane immediately became aware of what he’d said.

He looked toward the window.

Smooth.

Very smooth.

Then Ilya said:

“I like looking at you too.”

Shane’s face warmed.

He could feel Ilya smiling.

Asshole.

-

When they reached Shane’s building, neither got out immediately.

The engine idled.

Shane looked toward the entrance.

Then at Ilya.

“So.”

“So.”

There it was again.

That strange moment at the end of a date.

Except this time Shane knew exactly what he wanted.

Ilya seemed less certain.

Or maybe not uncertain.

Careful.

Shane had seen that in him already.

At the club.

The number.

The refusal to kiss him when Shane had been drinking.

Ilya’s hands remained on the steering wheel.

Shane watched him.

“You’re doing it again.”

Ilya turned.

“Doing what?”

“Thinking too much.”

Ilya smiled slightly.

“That is an occupational hazard.”

Shane unbuckled his seat belt.

Then didn’t move toward the door.

“I had fun.”

“So did I.”

“Really?”

“Very much.”

Shane smiled.

“Good.”

Ilya’s eyes dropped briefly toward Shane’s mouth.

There.

Again.

Shane noticed.

His pulse jumped.

He waited.

Ilya looked back at his eyes.

Still nothing.

Shane sighed.

Ilya’s brow furrowed.

“What?”

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Ilya went completely still.

Shane tried not to smile.

“Well?”

“I am considering it.”

“You have been considering it since Saturday.”

“That is true.”

“And?”

Ilya looked at him.

Really looked.

“Shane.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to think—”

Shane groaned.

“Oh my God.”

Ilya stopped.

“Stop being responsible for thirty seconds.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

“I don’t think that is how responsibility works.”

Shane laughed.

Then softened.

“I know you’re thinking about the age difference.”

“Yes.”

“I know you’re trying to be careful.”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate it.”

Ilya waited.

Shane leaned slightly closer.

“But I went on the date.”

Ilya’s gaze dropped again.

“I know.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

“And I want you to kiss me.”

Silence.

Shane’s heartbeat pounded.

Ilya lifted one hand.

Slowly.

Giving Shane every opportunity to move.

He didn’t.

Ilya’s fingers touched Shane’s jaw.

Warm.

Gentle.

Shane inhaled.

Then Ilya leaned in.

The first kiss was soft.

Almost frustratingly so.

Just the press of Ilya’s mouth against his.

Warm.

Careful.

Shane’s eyes closed.

His hand caught lightly in the front of Ilya’s coat.

Ilya pulled back after barely a second.

Shane followed him without thinking.

Ilya froze.

Shane opened his eyes.

They were still close.

Very close.

“That was it?”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“You complained I wouldn’t kiss you.”

“That barely counted.”

“Greedy.”

“Yes.”

Something darker flickered in Ilya’s eyes.

Shane saw it.

Felt it.

Then Ilya kissed him again.

Still not rushed.

But different.

Deeper.

Shane leaned into it immediately.

His fingers tightened against Ilya’s coat.

Ilya’s thumb moved once along his jaw.

Shane’s stomach turned over.

This was what he’d been missing.

Not experience.

Not some mystical quality attached to being older.

Presence.

Ilya wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He wasn’t trying to rush the kiss into something else.

He was just there.

Completely.

When they finally pulled apart, Shane stayed close.

His forehead nearly touched Ilya’s.

“Okay.” Shane smiled to himself.

“Okay?” Ilya’s brows lifted.

“That definitely counted.”

Ilya laughed softly.

Shane’s smile widened. “Much better.”

-

Ilya looked at Shane with something he couldn’t quite read.

“Would you like to do this again?”

Shane’s eyebrows rose.

“The kissing?”

Ilya laughed.

“The date.”

“Oh.”

Shane pretended to consider it.

Ilya waited.

Shane let him wait three whole seconds.

“Yeah.”

Ilya’s smile appeared.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

Shane laughed.

“Look at you.”

“What?”

“You’re eager.”

“I am thirty-eight. I have learned not to waste time.”

Shane stared at him.

Then smiled slowly.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The entire reason I sang that song.”

Ilya groaned.

“I am never escaping this, am I?”

“Absolutely not.”

Shane opened the door.

Then paused.

He looked back.

“Text me when you get home.”

The words came out automatically.

Ilya’s expression softened.

“I will.”

Shane smiled.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

He started to step out.

Then leaned back in.

Kissed Ilya one more time.

Quick.

Unexpected.

Ilya blinked.

Shane grinned.

“That one counted.”

Then he shut the door.

Ilya sat there watching him walk toward the building.

Shane turned once.

Ilya was still there.

He lifted a hand.

Ilya did the same.

Shane disappeared inside.

Only then did Ilya drive away.

-

Twenty-eight minutes later, Shane’s phone buzzed.

He was already in bed.

Rose had received exactly three details and approximately zero of the information she wanted because Shane had told her he was tired and hung up.

He opened the message.

Ilya: Home.

Shane smiled.

Then another appeared.

Ilya: Thank you for tonight.

Shane typed:

Shane: thank you too

He hesitated.

Then:

Shane: also your kissing needs work

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Shane grinned.

Ilya: Interesting.

Shane: just giving constructive feedback

Ilya: I see.

Shane: i’m very helpful

There was a pause.

Then:

Ilya: I suppose I will need another opportunity to improve.

Shane stared.

His smile became ridiculous.

Shane: probably

Ilya: Tomorrow?

Shane laughed into his pillow.

Eager.

Definitely eager.

And somehow that knowledge made his chest feel warm.

Shane: wow

Shane: guys your age move fast

Ilya didn’t answer for several seconds.

Then:

Ilya: Goodnight, Shane.

Shane burst out laughing.

Shane: GOODNIGHT ILYA

He put the phone down.

Then picked it back up.

Read the messages again.

And smiled.

The date had not felt like Shane imagined dinner with Ilya Rozanov would feel.

It hadn’t felt like entering some billionaire’s world.

It hadn’t felt like Shane was being impressed.

Or evaluated.

Or indulged.

It had felt like dinner.

With a man who listened.

A man who remembered.

A man who asked what Shane thought and actually wanted the answer.

A man who offered him a back door instead of deciding whether he could handle cameras.

A man who asked before assuming.

A man who kissed him like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

Shane stared at the ceiling.

Maybe Rose had been right.

Maybe the issue had never really been guys his age.

Maybe the issue had been that Shane wanted something he hadn’t known how to name until Ilya started giving it to him.

Consideration.

Communication.

Intent.

And perhaps most dangerously—

Consistency.

His phone buzzed one final time.

Ilya: And for the record, I disagree with your assessment of my kissing.

Shane smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.

Shane: guess you’ll have to prove me wrong

The typing bubble appeared.

Then disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally:

Ilya: Gladly.

Shane dropped his phone onto the mattress.

“Oh, fuck.”

Friday had been worth the wait.

-

Saturday morning felt different.

Maybe because Shane didn’t have class.

Maybe because he had actually slept in.

Maybe because he’d gone to sleep thinking about Ilya and woke up to find that nothing had changed.

His phone was sitting on the pillow beside him when he opened his eyes at 9:03.

For a few seconds, Shane simply stared at the ceiling.

Then memory came back in pieces.

Dinner.

The restaurant.

Ilya laughing.

The cameras.

The car.

The kiss.

The second kiss.

Shane smiled before he even reached for his phone.

There was already a message waiting.

Of course there was.

Ilya: Good morning.

Sent at 7:05.

The message had come almost two hours earlier

Then, followed by:

Ilya: I hope you slept well.

And because apparently Ilya had decided Shane needed supervision in every basic aspect of human survival:

Ilya: Eat something when you wake up.

Shane smiled into his pillow.

He was getting dangerously used to this.

Shane: good morning

A response came less than a minute later.

Ilya: Good morning.

Shane rolled onto his back.

No classes.

No alarms he needed to race against.

No professor waiting for him.

Just a completely empty Saturday stretching out ahead of him.

And, potentially, Ilya.

He hesitated.

Then typed:

Shane: any meetings today?

Three dots appeared.

Ilya: One.

Ilya: At ten.

Another message followed.

Ilya: Then I am done for the day.

Shane stared at that.

Finished for the day.

He had absolutely no reason to feel pleased by it.

None.

They’d gone on one date.

One.

Yes, they had been texting constantly.

Yes, they’d kissed.

Yes, Ilya had asked to see him again immediately.

But Shane did not need to throw himself at the man less than twelve hours after saying goodnight.

He should be normal.

Casual.

Relaxed.

Shane opened the keyboard.

Typed:

Shane: do you want to come over after?

Deleted it.

Too eager.

He tried again.

Shane: if you don’t have plans maybe we could—

Deleted.

Worse.

He sighed.

“Why is this hard?”

There was absolutely no reason for this to be hard.

Ilya had literally asked to see him again last night.

Shane knew he wanted to.

Still, he spent another thirty seconds staring at the conversation before finally typing:

Shane: if you’re not busy after your meeting do you maybe want to come over for lunch?

He stared at it.

Then quickly added:

Shane: we could order something, I don’t really have much here lol

He immediately regretted that last part.

Why had he said that?

It sounded pathetic.

Like he didn’t have food.

He had food.

Technically.

There was probably half a carton of eggs.

Bread.

Maybe cheese.

Something frozen.

He wasn’t starving.

He simply hadn’t gone grocery shopping yet.

Shane was still considering whether he could somehow delete the message before Ilya saw it when the typing bubble appeared.

Too late.

Ilya: I would like that very much.

Shane smiled.

Immediately.

There was no hesitation.

No pretending he needed to check his schedule.

No waiting twenty minutes to look less interested.

Just yes.

Then:

Ilya: I will let you know when the meeting ends.

Shane smiled.

Shane: okay

Ilya: And Shane?

Shane: yeah

Ilya: I was hoping I would see you today.

His smile became impossible to hide.

Shane dropped backward onto his pillow.

“Jesus.”

He typed:

Shane: good because I was trying really hard not to sound too eager

There was a pause.

Ilya: Why?

Shane stared.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

Shane: because we literally had dinner last night

Ilya: Yes.

Shane: and now i’m asking to see you again already

Ilya: Yes.

Shane waited.

Then:

Ilya: I fail to see the problem.

Shane laughed.

Shane: obviously

Ilya: If I want to see you, I would rather tell you than pretend otherwise.

There it was again.

That directness.

No game.

No attempt to act less interested than he was.

Shane’s chest warmed.

Shane: okay then

Ilya: Okay.

Shane: I can’t to see you

This time, the typing bubble took longer.

Then:

Ilya: Good.

Another message.

Ilya: Because I can’t wait to see you either.

Shane grinned into his pillow like an idiot.

-

At 9:50, Shane was standing in his kitchen trying to determine whether coffee counted as breakfast when his phone buzzed.

Ilya: Going into the meeting now.

Shane smiled.

He already knew what came next.

Ilya: I will be away from my phone.

Then:

Ilya: I will text when we finish.

Shane leaned against the counter.

Shane: okay good luck

Shane: try not to fire anyone

The typing bubble appeared.

Ilya: No promises.

Shane laughed.

Then one final message.

Ilya: I will text you afterward.

Shane: okay :)

And that was it.

Ilya disappeared exactly when he said he would.

Shane put his phone down.

No wondering.

No staring at it.

No wondering whether Ilya had suddenly changed his mind about lunch.

He had a meeting.

He would text when it ended.

Shane knew that.

Simple.

He made toast.

Mostly because if Ilya arrived and discovered Shane had ignored his breakfast reminder, Shane suspected he would never hear the end of it.

Then he started cleaning.

Not cleaning-cleaning.

His place wasn’t dirty.

But there was a difference between an apartment being acceptable for normal human habitation and an apartment being acceptable when Ilya Rozanov was coming over.

Shane put away the sweatshirt hanging over a chair.

Moved some papers.

Picked up two glasses from the coffee table.

Looked inside his refrigerator.

Paused.

There was almost nothing in it.

Milk.

A bottle of water.

Three eggs.

Some cheese.

Butter.

A container of takeout he was no longer entirely sure was safe.

A bottle of ketchup.

One yogurt.

And a single apple.

Shane stared then closed the refrigerator.

“Okay.”

They were definitely ordering lunch.

He opened it again.

As though food might have appeared.

Nothing.

“That’s embarrassing.”

He shut it.

He’d go shopping tomorrow.

Maybe tonight.

Not a big deal.

He was turning toward the living room when there was a knock at the door.

Shane stopped.

He looked at the clock.

10:30.

That was weird.

Rose wouldn’t knock.

His friends usually texted first.

He walked toward the door and opened it.

A man stood in the hallway.

Professional-looking.

Dark uniform.

Tablet in one hand.

A cream-colored envelope in the other.

Behind him sat several large boxes.

Shane blinked.

“Hi?”

The man smiled politely.

“Shane Hollander?”

“Yes.”

The man smiled politely.

“Delivery for you from Mr. Rozanov.”

Shane stared.

“What?”

The man extended the envelope.

“Mr. Rozanov asked that you read this before accepting delivery.”

Shane stared at the envelope.

Then at the boxes.

Then back at him.

“Ilya sent this?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shane took the envelope.

His name was written neatly across the front.

Not printed.

Written.

Shane knew that handwriting.

He’d seen it on the napkin at the club.

His heart did something stupid.

He opened it.

Inside was a single folded sheet.

Shane unfolded it.

The note was short.

Very Ilya.

But not impersonal.

Shane read.

-

Shane,

I had a wonderful time with you last night, and I am very much looking forward to seeing you this afternoon.

Shane’s smile appeared immediately.

Then he continued.

I hope I am not overstepping. If you are uncomfortable accepting this, you can decline the delivery and the carrier will take everything back. I will not be offended.

Shane’s smile faded slightly.

His eyebrows pulled together.

You mentioned this morning that you did not have much food in the house.

Shane froze.

Oh.

He had.

He’d said it so casually.

We can order something. I don’t really have much here.

He hadn’t meant anything by it.

Certainly hadn’t expected Ilya to—

Shane continued reading.

I took it upon myself to have some things delivered. Nothing particularly exciting. Fruit, vegetables, proteins, breakfast items, and a few things you can keep around when you are busy.

Shane’s eyes moved lower.

There are also several sweet things I have noticed you eating during our calls. I am beginning to suspect you survive on sugar when no one reminds you otherwise.

Shane laughed softly.

“You asshole.”

The delivery man remained politely expressionless.

Shane kept reading.

Again, you are under no obligation to accept any of it. I do not want you to feel uncomfortable because I am able to do something for you.

I simply wanted to.

There was a small pause in Shane’s breathing.

Then the final line.

See you soon.

Ilya.

Shane stared at the page.

He read it again.

Then a third time.

Apparently, sometime between their morning messages and his ten o’clock meeting, Ilya had arranged an entire grocery delivery.

Shane’s chest tightened.

Not because of the money.

That wasn’t what got him.

Ilya could afford groceries.

Obviously.

He could probably buy the grocery store.

It was the attention.

The thought.

The fact that he’d heard one throwaway comment and quietly thought:

Shane needs food.

The courier shifted slightly.

Shane remembered he was standing there.

“Oh.”

He looked down at the letter again.

Then smiled.

A soft, helpless little thing.

“You can bring them in.”

The courier nodded.

“Of course.”

He wheeled the cart forward.

And that was when Shane realized these weren’t normal groceries.

Not because there was anything absurdly expensive.

No caviar.

No imported nonsense Shane couldn’t pronounce.

No champagne.

Nothing designed to flaunt money.

It was how everything had been packed.

Shane was used to grocery delivery coming in plastic bags.

Maybe paper if the store was feeling environmentally responsible.

These were in sturdy reusable boxes.

Everything carefully arranged.

Cold items separated and insulated.

Produce protected.

Glass containers secured so they wouldn’t break.

Nothing crushed.

Nothing leaking.

Nothing tossed together.

It looked less like someone had grabbed random groceries and more like someone had planned them.

The courier carried the first box into the kitchen.

Then another.

Shane opened one.

Fruit.

Strawberries.

Blueberries.

Bananas.

Apples.

Oranges.

Grapes.

Nothing wildly extravagant.

Just fresh.

Good quality.

Another box held vegetables.

Spinach.

Peppers.

Broccoli.

Tomatoes.

Carrots.

Avocados.

Potatoes.

Shane opened the refrigerated one.

Chicken.

Salmon.

Turkey.

Eggs.

Greek yogurt.

Cheese.

Milk.

A few prepared protein options for days Shane didn’t want to cook.

Then breakfast items.

Bread.

Oatmeal.

Granola.

Coffee.

Shane stared at the coffee.

It was the exact one he used.

He had made it on FaceTime twice.

Of course Ilya noticed.

Then the last box.

Shane opened it.

And laughed.

“Asshole.”

Chocolate.

His chocolate.

The fruit candies.

Crackers.

The little cookies he’d been eating Wednesday night.

A bag of chips Shane distinctly remembered holding up during FaceTime while explaining that they were objectively the best flavor and refusing to listen when Ilya said they were terrible.

The courier gave him a curious look.

“Sorry.”

Shane picked up the bag.

“He hates these.”

The man had absolutely no idea what Shane was talking about.

Shane laughed again.

“Never mind.”

It wasn’t the amount.

Though there was plenty.

It was that nothing felt random.

Nothing felt like Ilya had told an assistant:

Send groceries.

He had paid attention.

Shane could point to nearly everything and connect it to something he’d mentioned.

Something he’d eaten.

Something he’d said he liked.

Even the vegetables were mostly things Shane had talked about using in meals.

There were no foods he’d complained about.

No things he hated.

No assumptions.

Ilya had listened.

Again.

The courier brought in the final box.

“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Hollander?”

“No.”

Shane smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The man left.

Shane closed the door.

And stood there.

His kitchen was full.

He looked down at the letter still in his hand.

Please accept them only if you are comfortable.

That line mattered too.

Ilya knew the difference in money between them.

There was no pretending otherwise.

He knew something like this could feel like too much.

So he’d given Shane an out.

No pressure.

No guilt.

No expectation.

If you don’t want it, send it back.

Shane folded the letter carefully.

He did not throw it away.

He absolutely wasn’t going to acknowledge the fact that he had already decided to keep it.

Then he started putting everything away.

His refrigerator went from embarrassingly empty to full.

Not overflowing.

Not ridiculous.

Full.

Actual food.

Ingredients.

Things he could make.

Things he could grab between classes.

Shane put the strawberries away.

Then the yogurt.

Then the chicken.

When he reached the snacks, he laughed again.

He put the hated chips directly at the front of the cabinet.

Mostly because he planned to eat them in front of Ilya later.

By 10:47, everything was away.

Shane pulled out his phone.

Ilya wouldn’t see the message yet.

Shane knew that.

Meeting.

Away from phone.

Still, he typed.

Shane: I know you’re in your meeting so you won’t see this yet

He paused.

Then:

Shane: but thank you

That felt insufficient.

He tried again.

Shane: seriously. thank you. you didn’t have to do that

Then:

Shane: and you didn’t overste

Shane thought for a moment.

Shane: it was really sweet

His face warmed.

He considered deleting sweet.

Didn’t.

Then added:

Shane: also i noticed you bought the chips you said were disgusting so clearly you’re admitting i’m right

That made him feel slightly less emotionally exposed.

He sent one last message.

Shane: i’m keeping the letter btw

Shane stared.

Too much?

Maybe.

Fuck it.

Sent.

He knew Ilya wouldn’t answer.

Not yet.

But Shane knew he’d see it when he came out.

That was enough.

He stared at the conversation for another few seconds.

Then thought of Rose.

Oh, Rose was going to lose her mind.

He opened their messages.

Shane: you awake

Rose answered in approximately four seconds.

Rose: It is 11 in the morning.

Rose: Yes???

Shane laughed.

Shane: you’re not gonna believe what ilya did

Three dots.

Rose: DID YOU SEE HIM AGAIN

Shane: no

Rose: DID HE SEND FLOWERS

Shane: no

Rose: JEWELRY???

Shane rolled his eyes.

Shane: why would he send me jewelry after one date

Rose: HE IS A BILLIONAIRE I DON’T KNOW THEIR CUSTOMS

Shane laughed.

Then sent her the picture of his refrigerator.

There was a long pause.

Rose: what am I looking at

Shane: my fridge

Rose: WHY DOES YOUR FRIDGE HAVE FOOD IN IT

Shane: fuck you 😭

Rose: SHANE

Rose: DID HE BUY YOU GROCERIES

Shane’s smile softened.

Shane: yeah

The response came almost immediately.

Rose: WHAT THE FUCK

Shane grinned.

Rose: IS THAT SALMON

Shane: yes 😭

Rose: He bought you a fridge

Shane: NO

Rose: Basically

Shane: that’s not even the best part

Rose: THERE IS MORE???

Shane sent a picture of the snack cabinet.

Shane: he remembered what snacks i eat on facetime

Nothing.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Then:

Rose: Oh

Shane stared.

That was unexpectedly calm.

Shane: yeah

Rose started typing.

Stopped.

Started again.

Rose: Okay that’s actually really fucking sweet

Shane smiled.

Shane: i know

And then, because Rose was Rose:

Rose: Still rich-person behavior though

Shane laughed.

Shane: obviously

Rose: Normal people bring flowers

Shane: he brought broccoli

Rose: Romance is alive

Shane leaned against the counter.

His eyes moved around the kitchen.

Shane: I mentioned this morning that I didn’t really have much here because I asked him if he wanted to come for lunch

Shane: I didn’t even mean anything by it

Shane: he was going into a meeting at 10 and this showed up at 10:30

Another pause.

Then Rose replied.

Rose: Shane.

Shane smiled.

Shane: what

Rose: He ordered that before your conversation was even over.

Shane blinked.

He looked at the clock.

His smile slowly disappeared.

Wait.

She was right.

He had invited Ilya around nine-something.

Ilya had gone into the meeting at 9:50.

The delivery arrived at 10:30.

Which meant—

Shane stared toward the refrigerator.

Ilya had organized all of this almost immediately.

Not after hours of thought.

Not after Shane complained.

He’d simply heard:

I don’t have much here.

And done something.

Shane’s phone buzzed.

Rose: He is so into you.

Shane laughed softly.

Shane: I know

Then he stared at those words.

He knew.

That was strange too.

He didn’t have to guess.

Ilya made it obvious.

Not through grand declarations.

Through presence.

Through remembering.

Through warnings about cold weather.

Through good morning messages.

Through telling Shane when he’d be unavailable.

Through a fridge full of food because Shane had mentioned, absentmindedly, that there wasn’t much at home.

Shane typed again.

Shane: rose

Rose: Yes

Shane hesitated.

Then:

Shane: he’s really good to me

The response took longer this time.

When it came, there was no teasing.

Rose: Yeah.

Then:

Rose: He really is.

Shane smiled.

Rose: how does it feel

Shane frowned.

Shane: what

Rose: being right about guys your age

Shane rolled his eyes.

Shane: shut up

Rose: YOU SANG THE SONG AND SUMMONED HIM

Shane laughed loudly.

Shane: i hate you

Rose: Love you too

Shane put the phone down.

-

The problem with suddenly having a fully stocked kitchen was that Shane could no longer use his empty refrigerator as an excuse not to cook.

He realized this approximately seven minutes after he’d finished texting Rose.

Shane was still standing in the kitchen.

The boxes had been broken down and stacked beside the door. The counters were cleared. The refrigerator was full for what might have been the first time since Shane moved into the apartment.

And somewhere across the city, Ilya was still in his meeting.

They were supposed to order lunch.

That had been the plan.

A very good plan.

A simple plan.

Ilya would come over whenever his meeting finished, they’d pull up some delivery app, argue about what they wanted, order too much food, and Shane wouldn’t have to worry about cooking for a thirty-eight-year-old billionaire who could probably have lunch prepared by professional chefs whenever he wanted.

Shane opened the refrigerator.

Stared.

Closed it.

Then opened it again.

There was so much food.

It seemed almost insulting to order something now.

“Okay.”

Shane pulled out his phone.

10:59.

Still no message from Ilya.

Meeting must still be going.

He had time.

Shane opened the refrigerator again.

“What can I make?”

Chicken.

Salmon.

Eggs.

Vegetables.

He could make pasta.

Maybe something with the chicken.

Sandwiches?

No.

Sandwiches felt strangely pathetic after Ilya had apparently coordinated an entire grocery delivery between nine and ten in the morning.

Shane wanted to make something.

Actually make something.

Not because he felt like he owed Ilya.

That wasn’t it.

In fact, Ilya had gone out of his way to make sure Shane didn’t feel that way.

Shane just—

Wanted to.

Ilya had done something nice for him.

Shane wanted to do something nice for Ilya.

He opened the refrigerator again and started pulling things out.

He could make a decent pasta.

Chicken.

Tacos.

A few soups.

He had a couple dishes his mother had taught him.

But—

Shane frowned.

That didn’t feel right.

He wanted to make something Ilya liked.

His fingers curled around the refrigerator handle as he thought.

What did Ilya like?

He knew Ilya drank coffee black.

He knew he hated overly sweet coffee.

He knew he liked—

Shane froze.

Wait.

Russian food.

They’d talked about it.

Wednesday night.

Or maybe Thursday.

One of their FaceTimes gotten onto the subject of food.

Shane had asked Ilya what he missed most about Russia.

Ilya had given him the annoying answer of people, which Shane had informed him did not count because they were specifically talking about food.

Then Ilya had mentioned—

“Syrniki.”

Shane’s eyes widened.

That was it.

Syrniki.

Eastern European Cheese Pancakes.

Ilya had talked about his mother’s homemade Syrniki.

Not for long.

Maybe two minutes.

But Shane remembered the way his expression had changed.

That little nostalgic smile.

He’d said his mother used to make enormous batches when he was younger. The family would sit around the kitchen helping mix the batter, although according to Ilya, his sister had been terrible at it and mostly thrown flour at him.

Shane had laughed.

Then Ilya had said something quieter.

I miss that sometimes.

Shane hadn’t forgotten.

Apparently they were both doing that now.

Remembering things.

Shane looked toward the clock.

11:02.

He had time.

Probably.

How hard could Syrniki be?

He pulled out his phone.

Opened Google.

Typed.

syrniki recipe

Then immediately frowned.

Recipes appeared.

Some used farmer’s cheese.

Some used tvorog.

Egg.

Flour.

Sugar.

Vanilla.

Sour cream.

Fruit.

Shane looked toward his refrigerator.

Then slowly back at his phone.

He had almost everything.

Actually—

He had everything.

Flour.

Eggs.

Sugar.

Vanilla.

Farmer’s cheese.

Sour cream.

Fresh berries.

Shane smiled.

Decision made.

He was making syrniki.

Then he looked at the recipe again.

His smile disappeared.

“Oh, this could go horribly.”

Because there was one rather significant issue.

Shane had never made syrniki.

He’d never eaten syrniki.

He had no idea what properly made syrniki were supposed to taste like.

And he was about to serve his first attempt to a Russian man who had grown up eating them.

Shane stared at the screen.

“This is stupid.”

He should make pasta.

He knew pasta.

Pasta was safe.

Shane put the farmer’s cheese back.

Closed the refrigerator.

Walked three steps.

Stopped.

Turned around.

Opened it again.

“No.”

He took the cheese back out.

“We’re doing it.”

Worst-case scenario, they were terrible.

Ilya could make fun of him.

Shane could order pizza.

Nobody died.

Probably.

-

At 11:07, Shane was watching a Russian grandmother on his phone make syrniki.

He understood none of what she was saying.

But she seemed extremely confident.

“Okay.”

Shane paused the video.

Looked at his bowl.

Then hers.

His looked—

Similar?

Maybe?

He pressed play.

The woman added something.

Shane paused again.

“What was that?”

He backed up.

Watched.

Backed up again.

“Flour?”

Maybe.

He checked another recipe.

“Yes. Flour.”

Good.

He could do this.

His phone buzzed.

Shane grabbed it immediately.

Ilya.

Ilya: Finished.

Shane smiled.

11:24.

Earlier than expected.

Shane: nobody fired?

Ilya: Everyone remains employed.

Shane: proud of you

Ilya: Thank you.

Then:

Ilya: I saw your messages.

Shane glanced toward the refrigerator.

Ilya: I am glad you accepted everything.

Another appeared before Shane could respond.

Ilya: And I am glad I did not overstep.

Shane smiled softened at Ilyas sincerity.

Shane: you didn’t, it was actually very sweet

Ilya: sweet?

Shane rolled his eyes.

Shane: yes

Ilya: I have a reputation to maintain.

Shane: sorry

Shane: very cold and terrifying of you to buy me strawberries

Ilya took several seconds to answer.

Ilya: Better.

Shane laughed.

Then:

Ilya: Would you still like me to come over?

Shane blinked.

Still?

As though there were any chance the answer had changed.

Shane: yes

He quickly added:

Shane: obviously

Ilya: Good.

Then:

Ilya: I will leave in about ten minutes. Is that all right?

Shane looked at the bowl.

Then at the video.

Then at the frying pan he hadn’t even heated yet.

“No.”

He typed quickly.

Shane: actually

Shane: give me like 30?

There was a pause.

Ilya: Of course.

Then:

Ilya: Everything okay?

Shane smiled.

Of course he asked.

Shane: yes

Shane: just doing something

Ilya: Should I be concerned?

Shane: probably

Ilya: Shane.

He laughed.

Shane: 30 minutes old man

Ilya: You are abusing the privilege of my affection.

Shane froze.

His thumb stopped over the screen.

My affection.

Not attraction.

Not patience.

Affection.

His stomach did that stupid warm flip again.

Before Shane could decide how to respond, another message appeared.

Ilya: I will see you soon.

Shane smiled.

Shane: see you soon

Then he put the phone facedown.

“Okay.”

Thirty minutes.

He could absolutely make edible Russian cheese pancakes in thirty minutes.

Probably.

-

The first one was a disaster.

Shane stared down at the pan.

The syrnik stared back.

Or what was supposed to be a syrnik.

It had collapsed.

Badly.

“Oh, fuck you.”

He poked it with the spatula.

It split.

“No.”

He checked the recipe.

Then the mixture.

Too wet.

Okay.

More flour.

But not too much flour, because apparently too much flour made them dense and terrible.

“This is stressful.”

The second one held together.

Mostly.

Shane flipped it.

Too dark.

“Fuck.”

Third.

Better.

Fourth.

Actually—

Shane leaned closer.

“Oh.”

That looked right.

Golden outside.

Thick.

Round.

He transferred it onto a plate.

Shane looked at it proudly.

“Look at you.”

By the sixth, he’d figured it out.

By the tenth, he was feeling dangerously confident.

He arranged them on a plate with berries.

Sour cream on the side.

A little honey because one recipe suggested it.

He stepped back.

That—

That actually looked good.

Really good.

Shane took a picture.

Almost sent it to Rose.

Then stopped.

No.

He wanted Ilya to see it first.

His phone buzzed.

Ilya: Leaving now.

Shane’s heart jumped.

He looked around.

The kitchen was a disaster.

“Oh shit.”

He moved.

Bowl into the sink.

Flour wiped from the counter.

Cheese container away.

Pan rinsed.

The failed first attempt—

Shane looked at it.

Then ate it over the sink.

It tasted good.

Ugly.

But good.

“Okay.”

He cleaned faster.

-

Ilya arrived twenty minutes later.

Shane knew because Ilya texted from downstairs instead of simply assuming Shane wanted him coming up.

Ilya: I’m here.

Shane looked at the table.

Syrniki.

Fruit.

Sour cream.

Coffee.

Juice.

He suddenly became nervous.

This had seemed adorable thirty minutes ago.

Now it seemed insane.

What if they were wrong?

Could syrniki be wrong?

Obviously they could.

What if Shane had made the Russian equivalent of putting ketchup on pasta in front of an Italian grandmother?

His phone buzzed.

Ilya: Shane?

Right.

He was leaving the man downstairs.

Shane: sorry come up

Shane buzzed him in.

Then stood in the middle of his kitchen.

He considered hiding the food.

Too late.

There was a knock.

Shane took a breath.

Opened the door.

Ilya stood there.

He’d changed since the meeting.

No suit jacket.

Dark sweater.

Coat.

Hair slightly less perfect than it had been last night.

And somehow Shane liked him even more like this.

“Hi.”

Ilya smiled.

“Hello.”

Ilya’s eyes moved over Shane.

Paused.

His smile widened.

Shane frowned.

“What?”

“You have flour in your hair.”

Shane’s hand immediately flew upward.

“What?”

Ilya laughed.

Shane tried brushing it out.

“Where?”

“Here.”

Ilya reached forward.

Then stopped.

A tiny hesitation.

Permission.

Shane noticed.

He stepped closer.

Ilya’s fingers moved gently through the front of Shane’s hair, brushing away a small streak of flour.

“There.”

Shane looked up at him.

They were close.

Very close.

Ilya’s hand lingered for half a second.

Shane smiled.

“Hi.”

Ilya’s expression softened.

“Hello.”

Shane leaned forward and kissed him.

Just once.

Quick.

A greeting.

Apparently that was something they did now.

Ilya looked pleasantly surprised when Shane pulled away.

“Come in.”

Shane stepped back.

Ilya entered.

He removed his coat.

Then stopped.

His eyes moved around the apartment.

It was his first time inside.

Shane suddenly saw everything through Ilya’s eyes.

The secondhand coffee table.

The textbooks stacked near the couch.

Rose’s stupid mug she’d left three weeks ago.

A blanket tossed over the armchair.

Nothing matched.

Nothing probably cost more than a few hundred dollars.

Ilya looked around.

Then smiled.

“I like it.”

Shane blinked.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“It’s tiny.”

“It is.”

Shane stared.

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“You brought it up.”

“Asshole.”

Ilya laughed.

Then his gaze shifted toward the kitchen.

He stopped.

Shane immediately became nervous again.

“So.”

Ilya looked at the table.

Then at Shane.

“You cooked?”

“Maybe.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

“I thought we were ordering.”

“We were.”

“What happened?”

Shane shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You bought me enough food to survive the apocalypse.”

“I did not.”

“I have six kinds of fruit.”

“That is not apocalyptic preparation.”

“I had one apple this morning.”

Ilya frowned.

“Yes. I gathered that.”

Shane smiled.

Then rocked slightly on his heels.

“Anyway, I thought I could make something instead.”

Ilya looked back toward the table.

And then he saw them.

Really saw them.

His expression changed.

Shane’s nervousness increased instantly.

“I know they probably aren’t right.”

Ilya didn’t answer.

“I’ve never made them before.”

Still nothing.

“I’ve never actually eaten them either, so that’s probably not helping.”

Ilya slowly turned toward him.

“You made syrniki.”

Shane swallowed.

“Attempted.”

There was something strange on Ilya’s face.

Not displeasure.

Not amusement.

Something much softer.

“You remembered.”

Shane blinked.

“What?”

“I mentioned them once.”

“Well…”

Shane shrugged.

“You remembered I walk between buildings.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane suddenly felt shy.

Which was ridiculous.

He’d kissed this man last night.

Twice.

And just seconds ago.

Yet somehow this felt more intimate.

“You said you missed them.”

Ilya’s gaze moved back to the plate.

“My grandmother used to make them.”

“I remember.”

Ilya looked at him again.

“And your mom.”

“Yes.”

“But apparently your grandmother’s were better.”

Ilya laughed suddenly.

Shane smiled.

“You said it.”

“I was hoping you forgot that part.”

“Nope.”

“My mother would be offended.”

“I won’t tell her.”

“You absolutely will.”

“Probably.”

Ilya shook his head.

Then looked at the food again.

“Shane.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

The sincerity in his voice made Shane’s smile soften.

“You haven’t tasted them yet.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will if they’re terrible.”

“They won’t be.”

“You have way too much faith in me.”

“I am sure they are good.”

“You haven’t tried them.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Yes, you do.”

Shane grabbed his hand without thinking.

Ilya looked down.

So did Shane.

Their hands.

Shane nearly let go.

For half a second, instinct told him to—to pretend it had only been to get Ilya’s attention, to release him before the gesture became something they had to acknowledge.

Then Ilya’s fingers shifted against his.

Not pulling away.

Just settling.

Shane’s heart gave an annoyingly hard thump.

Okay.

He could handle holding a man’s hand.

Probably.

Instead of letting go, Shane tightened his fingers slightly and tugged Ilya toward the table.

“Come on. You need to try them while they’re still warm.”

Ilya let himself be pulled along, a small smile appearing on his face.

“You are very demanding in your own home.”

“You bought half the grocery store. I cooked. We’re even.”

“We are absolutely not keeping score.”

“Then stop complaining and sit.”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say I find it charming.”

Shane glanced over his shoulder.

Ilya looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Sit down, Rozanov.”

“Yes, Hollander.”

Shane released his hand only when they reached the table, immediately busying himself with pulling out a chair and adjusting things that absolutely did not need adjusting.

The plates were already set. The syrniki sat warm between them, golden around the edges, fresh berries piled beside them with sour cream and honey within reach.

For something Shane had thrown together in a burst of inspiration and mild panic, it looked surprisingly good.

He sat across from Ilya.

And then made the mistake of looking at the food.

Because now that Ilya was actually sitting there, Shane’s earlier confidence disappeared.

This wasn’t just lunch anymore.

He had made Russian food.

For a Russian man.

A Russian man who had grown up eating this exact dish made by his mother and grandmother.

Shane slowly looked up.

Ilya was already reaching for his fork.

Suddenly, Shane regretted every decision he’d made in the last forty-five minutes.

“Wait.”

Ilya stopped.

His fork hovered over the plate.

“What?”

Shane stared at the syrniki.

Then at Ilya.

“I need to establish something before you eat those.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

“That sounds concerning.”

“It’s not concerning.”

“You stopped me with food halfway to my mouth.”

“Because I need you to understand that I’ve never made these before.”

“I know.”

“I’ve also never eaten them before.”

“I know that too.”

“So I have absolutely no frame of reference for whether they’re right.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“Shane.”

“And you’re Russian.”

“I am aware.”

“Your grandmother made these.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother makes these.”

“Yes.”

“And apparently your grandmother’s were better, which is a secret I will absolutely be using against you when I meet your mother.”

Ilya pointed his fork at him.

“You will do no such thing.”

The nerves cracked just enough for Shane to laugh.

“Just eat.”

“That was what I was attempting to do.”

“Okay, now you’re allowed.”

“Thank you.”

Ilya cut into the first syrnik.

And Shane, despite all his claims that this was casual and no big deal, immediately leaned forward to watch.

Ilya noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes flicked up.

Shane immediately sat back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are staring.”

“I am not.”

“You are watching my fork.”

“I worked hard on those.”

“You worked on them for thirty minutes.”

“It was a very intense thirty minutes.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

Then he lifted the bite to his mouth.

Shane watched.

Again.

He couldn’t help it.

This was stupid.

He had cooked for people before. Rose had eaten at his place plenty of times. Friends had come over. Shane knew he was at least competent in a kitchen.

But none of those people had grown up eating the exact thing Shane had decided to make after watching three videos, reading four recipes, and placing an unreasonable amount of faith in a Russian grandmother he couldn’t understand.

Ilya chewed.

His face gave nothing away.

Shane waited.

And waited.

Ilya swallowed.

Shane’s eyebrows rose.

“Well?”

Ilya calmly cut another piece.

Shane stared.

“Ilya.”

“Yes?”

“Are they good?”

Ilya ate the second bite.

“You are impatient.”

“Oh my God.”

Shane reached across the table.

“Give me your plate.”

Ilya immediately moved it farther away.

“No.”

“They’re bad.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything!”

“I was eating.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

A smile finally broke across Ilya’s face.

Shane pointed accusingly.

“You are!”

Ilya laughed.

Actually laughed.

His shoulders shook once as he lowered his fork.

“They’re very good.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“Seriously.”

“Seriously.”

“Don’t be nice because I made them.”

“I am not known for lying to spare people’s feelings.”

“That’s at work.”

“Would you prefer I become cruel at lunch?”

“I would prefer an accurate assessment.”

Ilya looked down at the plate again.

Then, apparently realizing Shane genuinely wanted one, his teasing faded.

“They’re a little softer than my grandmother made them.”

Shane immediately leaned forward.

“Okay.”

“And she used less sugar.”

“I knew it.”

“But my mother makes hers sweeter.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Ilya cut through another.

“The outside is good. You got enough color without burning them.”

Shane chose not to mention casualties one through three.

“The cheese is right.”

“I wasn’t sure about that because everything online kept saying tvorog, and then half the recipes were like farmer’s cheese is fine, and then another one said ricotta but you have to drain it overnight, and—”

“Farmer’s cheese works.”

“Okay.”

“And these are good.”

Ilya met his eyes.

“Very good.”

Shane relaxed.

“Okay.”

Ilya smiled.

“You were nervous.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was concerned.”

“That is another word for nervous.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“In this context?”

Shane picked up a strawberry.

“Eat your food.”

Ilya chuckled.

But he did.

And after that, the tension disappeared.

Shane finally started eating too.

His first bite made him pause.

“Oh.”

Ilya looked up.

“What?”

“These are good.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane took another bite.

“Like, actually good.”

“I told you.”

“I thought you were being nice.”

“You accused me of being incapable of that approximately two minutes ago.”

“Not incapable. Selective.”

Ilya shook his head.

Shane dipped another piece into sour cream.

“So this is actually what they’re supposed to taste like?”

“Approximately.”

“Approximately?”

Ilya smiled.

“No two families make them exactly the same.”

“That would’ve been helpful information before I had a crisis.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You were in a meeting.”

“You could have waited until I arrived.”

“And ruined the surprise?”

Ilya stopped.

It was subtle.

Just the slightest pause.

But Shane caught it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. What?”

Ilya looked down at his plate for a moment.

Then back at Shane.

“I like that you wanted to surprise me.”

The words were quiet.

Shane’s expression softened.

“Well.”

He shrugged, suddenly much more interested in arranging the berries on his plate.

“You surprised me this morning.”

“With groceries.”

“With ridiculously organized groceries.”

“I did not pack them.”

“You’re still responsible.”

“I accept responsibility.”

“And you remembered everything I like.”

Ilya reached for his coffee.

“Not everything.”

“Enough.”

Shane looked up.

“The pretzels were creepy.”

Ilya nearly choked.

Shane laughed.

“I mean it! I ate those one time on FaceTime.”

“Three times.”

Shane stopped.

Ilya took a drink.

“You’ve been counting?”

“No.”

“You just knew exactly how many times.”

“I have a good memory.”

“Creepy.”

“You made me my grandmother’s food based on one conversation.”

Shane opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

“Excellent argument.”

“Thank you.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane smiled back.

And for a little while, they simply ate.

It shouldn’t have felt significant.

Two people at a kitchen table.

Saturday morning bleeding into afternoon.

Coffee cooling between them.

A plate of syrniki slowly disappearing.

The occasional scrape of a fork against ceramic.

It was ordinary.

Painfully ordinary.

And maybe that was why Shane liked it so much.

Last night had been a date.

A restaurant.

Getting dressed up.

Ilya picking him up.

People recognizing him.

Cameras outside.

A kiss in an expensive car.

This wasn’t that.

Ilya was sitting at Shane’s little table with his sleeves pushed up, eating something Shane had made while morning sunlight came through cheap blinds Shane had been meaning to replace for months.

There was no audience.

No photographers.

No Aurelius Industries.

No billionaire CEO.

Just Ilya.

Shane found himself watching him again.

Not because he was waiting for a reaction to the food this time.

Just—

Looking.

Ilya eventually noticed.

“What?”

Shane shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“You do this often.”

“So do you.”

“I know why I do it.”

Shane’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

Ilya looked directly at him.

“Because I find you very attractive.”

Shane almost dropped his fork.

Ilya’s expression remained perfectly calm.

Shane stared.

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because normal people have some warning.”

“Would you like me to announce it first?”

Shane laughed.

“No.”

“Then I see no solution.”

“You enjoy making me uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think you’re uncomfortable.”

That caught him.

Shane looked at him.

Ilya’s expression softened.

“Flustered, perhaps.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

There was that confidence again.

Not arrogance.

Not Ilya assuming he knew Shane better than Shane knew himself.

Just observation.

“You smile when you’re flustered,” Ilya said.

Shane immediately tried to stop smiling.

Which only made Ilya’s grow.

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually, perhaps.”

Shane froze.

Silence.

Ilya froze too.

For the first time since Shane had met him, Ilya Rozanov looked like he genuinely wished he could grab words out of the air and put them back in his mouth.

Shane’s jaw dropped.

“Ilya.”

Ilya cleared his throat.

“That was—”

“Did you just—”

“It was a joke.”

Shane started laughing.

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face.

“Oh my God.”

“Please stop.”

“No!”

Shane laughed harder.

“You’re blushing!”

“I am not.”

“You are!”

“I do not blush.”

“Your ears are red!”

“Shane.”

Shane nearly folded over the table.

This was incredible.

The terrifying Ilya Rozanov.

The man who apparently stared down executives for a living.

The man newspapers described as impossible to rattle.

Blushing at Shane’s kitchen table because he’d accidentally made a sex joke.

“I wish Rose was here.”

“I don’t.”

“I need photographic evidence.”

“You will take no photographs.”

Shane reached toward his phone.

Ilya caught his wrist.

It happened quickly.

Playfully.

No force behind it.

Just Ilya stopping him before he could grab the phone.

But Shane stopped laughing.

Because Ilya’s hand was wrapped around his wrist.

Warm.

Large.

His thumb resting against Shane’s pulse.

Their eyes met.

The laughter faded from Ilya’s face too.

Neither moved.

Shane could feel his heartbeat beneath Ilya’s thumb.

Which meant Ilya probably could too.

And judging by the way his eyes changed—

He did.

Shane swallowed.

“You caught me.”

Ilya’s voice dropped.

“Yes.”

“You gonna let go?”

Ilya immediately loosened his hand.

Shane turned his wrist before he could.

Caught Ilya’s fingers.

Held them.

Ilya went still.

Shane looked down at their hands.

Then back at him.

“I didn’t say you had to.”

Something warm settled into Ilya’s expression.

He shifted his hand until their fingers fit together properly.

Shane smiled.

There was something almost ridiculous about how much he liked holding Ilya’s hand.

They had kissed.

Twice last night.

Again today.

Holding hands should not have felt more intimate than kissing.

Somehow it did.

Maybe because there was no rush attached to it.

No heat to hide behind.

They were just sitting there.

Holding hands across Shane’s kitchen table.

Ilya’s thumb brushed once over his knuckles.

Shane looked at him.

“So.”

“So?”

“You said your grandmother’s were less sweet.”

“Yes.”

“And your mom’s are sweeter.”

“Yes.”

“Which are better?”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed.

“That is a dangerous question.”

Shane grinned.

“You already betrayed your mother once.”

“I was speaking privately.”

“To the man you’re dating.”

Ilya stopped.

Shane did too.

Oh.

He hadn’t meant—

Not exactly.

The man you’re dating.

Not boyfriend.

Not relationship.

Just—

Dating.

Which was objectively what they were doing.

Still, saying it out loud changed something.

Ilya’s eyes stayed on him.

Shane’s smile became slightly nervous.

“I mean…”

“Yes.”

Shane blinked.

“What?”

“You are.”

“I am what?”

“The man I am dating.”

Shane stared.

Ilya squeezed his hand gently.

“Unless I have misunderstood.”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Shane cleared his throat.

“No. You haven’t.”

“Good.”

There it was again.

That simple certainty.

No weirdness.

No games.

No sudden retreat because acknowledging they were dating somehow meant Shane was asking for a wedding ring.

They were dating.

Ilya liked him.

Shane liked Ilya.

Good.

Shane smiled.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then Ilya picked up his fork with his free hand.

Shane looked at him.

“You’re going to keep holding my hand while you eat?”

“Yes.”

“That seems inconvenient.”

“It is.”

Shane laughed.

“Then let go.”

“No.”

Something warm bloomed in Shane’s chest.

He looked down before Ilya could see just how much that stupid little answer affected him.

They finished lunch like that.

Not the entire time.

Eventually Ilya needed both hands and Shane needed to reach for his coffee.

But their hands kept finding each other again.

Across the table.

Beside their plates.

Once, Ilya simply rested his palm open between them.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t reach.

Just left the invitation there.

Shane looked at it.

Then placed his hand in Ilya’s.

Ilya’s fingers closed around his.

Easy.

Natural.

And Shane thought, not for the first time since meeting him, that maybe this was what he’d been trying to explain that night at the club.

It wasn’t really about wanting someone older.

Not exactly.

It was wanting someone who didn’t make affection feel like a negotiation.

Someone who could tell Shane he liked him without acting as though honesty gave away some kind of power.

Someone who could sit at a cheap kitchen table holding Shane’s hand and not seem embarrassed by wanting to.

Someone who remembered.

Someone who listened.

Someone who showed up.

And, apparently, someone who ate six syrniki before finally leaning back in his chair with a quiet sigh.

Shane looked at the nearly empty plate.

Then at him.

“Holy shit.”

Ilya frowned.

“What?”

“You ate almost all of them.”

Ilya glanced at the plate.

“You made them for me.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to destroy the entire batch.”

“They were good.”

A ridiculous amount of pride warmed Shane’s chest.

He tried to hide it.

Failed.

Ilya noticed.

Of course.

“You’re pleased.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Maybe.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane squeezed his hand.

“I’m glad you liked them.”

“I did.”

Then Ilya’s expression changed.

Softer.

More serious.

“And I am glad you remembered.”

Shane’s teasing disappeared.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

A beat passed.

Ilya looked down at their joined hands.

“When I mentioned them, I wasn’t expecting you to remember.”

Shane thought about that.

About all the tiny details Ilya had remembered this week.

His schedule.

His walks between buildings.

His project.

The snacks he ate while studying.

Whether he’d eaten breakfast.

The weather where Shane was going to be hours later.

Shane rubbed his thumb across Ilya’s knuckles.

“People say things all the time.”

Ilya looked up.

Shane smiled.

“But when it’s someone you’re interested in…”

He shrugged.

“You remember.”

For once, Ilya had no immediate response.

He just looked at Shane.

And Shane knew he’d gotten him.

Not intentionally.

But he’d managed to turn Ilya’s own words back on him.

Shane grinned.

“See?”

Ilya shook his head.

“What?”

“I listen too.”

That finally earned him a smile.

“Yes,” Ilya said quietly.

“You do.”

-

By the time they finished eating, there wasn’t much left.

A few berries.

One lonely syrnik Shane was already planning to eat later.

A smear of sour cream.

Two coffee cups that had gone cold because neither of them had remembered to finish them.

Shane looked over the table and smiled.

“Okay. You definitely liked them.”

“I told you I liked them.”

“You could’ve been lying.”

Ilya stood and began gathering the plates.

“I ate six.”

“Exactly. That’s compelling evidence.”

Shane reached for Ilya’s plate.

Ilya moved it away.

“I’ve got it.”

“You’re a guest.”

“You cooked.”

“And?”

“And I can carry a plate.”

Shane followed him toward the kitchen.

“Are you sure? It looks heavy.”

Ilya glanced back.

“Careful.”

Shane grinned.

“What are you going to do?”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Shane’s grin widened.

That was becoming one of his favorite things.

Pushing just enough to see that look.

He grabbed the remaining dishes and followed Ilya to the kitchen.

They carried everything into the kitchen together.

Shane rinsed.

Ilya loaded.

Or attempted to.

“You’re putting that in wrong.”

Ilya stopped with a plate halfway into the dishwasher.

“Excuse me?”

“It goes there.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where plates go.”

“There are plates here.”

“Those are smaller.”

Ilya looked between the two sections.

“They are both plates.”

“Move.”

Shane bumped him aside with his hip.

Ilya allowed it.

Barely.

“You’re very controlling in the kitchen.”

“I’m efficient.”

“I run a multinational corporation.”

“And apparently can’t load a dishwasher.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane smiled sweetly.

“You can leave.”

The words left his mouth casually.

A joke.

Except the second Shane heard them, something inside him dropped.

Leave.

Right.

Ilya would leave.

Of course he would.

That was how this worked.

Ilya had agreed to lunch.

They’d had lunch.

Lunch was over.

Shane turned back toward the sink.

The easy smile he’d been wearing faded.

He rinsed another plate.

Then another.

There weren’t many.

That suddenly bothered him.

Maybe he could make coffee.

They’d already had coffee.

Watch something?

He could ask.

Except Ilya had a life.

It was Saturday. Maybe he had plans.

He’d said he was done with work after his meeting, but done with work didn’t mean free.

Shane shouldn’t assume.

And he definitely shouldn’t be weird about this.

They had seen each other last night.

Ilya had come over again today.

Wanting him to stay longer was—

Well.

Shane didn’t know what it was.

Too much?

Too eager?

That old instinct crawled up before he could stop it.

Don’t make yourself too available.

Don’t be clingy.

Don’t ask someone to stay when they’d only agreed to lunch.

If Ilya wanted to stay, he’d say something.

If he didn’t—

“Shane.”

“Hm?”

Shane kept rinsing.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding the same plate under the water for nearly thirty seconds.

“Shane.”

“What?”

The water shut off.

Shane blinked.

Ilya had reached around him and turned the faucet off.

“Hey.”

“You were attempting to drown the plate.”

Shane looked down.

“Oh.”

Ilya was watching him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You disappeared.”

“I am standing right here.”

“Physically.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“I was thinking.”

“Yes. I noticed.”

Ilya took the plate from his hands and set it aside.

Shane reached for another.

There wasn’t one.

Damn it.

He grabbed a dish towel instead.

Ilya took that too.

“Would you stop?”

“No.”

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

Shane finally looked at him.

Ilya studied his face.

Then stepped closer.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“You were laughing at me thirty seconds ago. Now you’re trying to find imaginary dishes to wash.”

Shane’s mouth twitched.

“Maybe I really like cleaning.”

“You left three mugs on your coffee table.”

Shane gasped.

“You’ve been here for an hour and you’re already judging me?”

“I am observant.”

“You’re rude.”

“And you’re avoiding my question.”

Shane looked down.

Damn him.

Ilya waited.

He didn’t push.

That somehow made it worse.

Shane started playing absently with his fingers.

“I was just wondering something.”

“What?”

Shane hesitated.

And Ilya apparently decided the sink was not where they were having this conversation.

His hands settled at Shane’s waist.

Then, with a movement so easy Shane barely had time to process it, lifted him onto the counter.

Shane’s eyes widened.

“Oh!”

His hands instinctively grabbed Ilya’s shoulders.

Ilya stepped between his knees.

Shane stared.

Well.

Okay.

This was—

New.

Very new.

His heart immediately started hammering.

“You can’t just pick people up!”

“I just did.”

“You—”

Shane looked down.

Ilya was standing between his legs.

Very close.

Shane became abruptly aware of his hands on Ilya’s shoulders.

Of Ilya’s hands resting lightly at his waist.

Of exactly how close their faces were.

His cheeks heated.

Ilya’s smile grew.

“Oh, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I am curious.”

“About?”

Ilya tilted his head slightly.

“What is going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

Shane’s brain stopped for the second time in under a minute.

He stared.

Ilya waited.

Shane’s mouth slowly curved upward.

“You think my head is pretty?”

Ilya laughed softly.

“I think considerably more than your head is pretty.”

Shane’s face got hotter.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“Making me forget what I was thinking about.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Shane laughed.

For a few seconds, he simply looked at him.

Then the original thought returned.

His smile faded slightly.

Ilya noticed immediately.

“There.”

“What?”

“That.”

His thumb moved once against Shane’s side.

“What were you thinking about?”

Shane looked down.

His hands slipped from Ilya’s shoulders and settled between them.

He picked at one of his fingernails.

Ilya didn’t rush him.

That somehow made it harder.

Shane swallowed.

“Do you have other plans today?”

Ilya’s eyebrows pulled together slightly.

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

“I have dinner with my family.”

Shane nodded.

“Oh.”

“At seven.”

Another nod.

“Okay.”

Ilya watched him.

Shane looked down at his hands.

He hated how transparent he apparently was around this man.

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“Shane.”

“I was just asking.”

Ilya’s expression slowly changed.

Understanding.

Then amusement.

Then something unbearably soft.

“Oh.”

Shane immediately looked up.

“What?”

Ilya smiled.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The face.”

“I have many faces.”

“The one where you figured something out and now you’re being smug about it.”

“I am not smug.”

“You absolutely are.”

Ilya stepped a fraction closer.

Shane’s hands automatically found the front of his sweater.

Ilya looked down at them.

Then back at Shane.

“Dinners at seven.”

Shane started to say something.

Ilya beat him to it.

“But.”

Shane looked up slightly.

Ilya smiled.

“I am yours until then.”

Shane’s head snapped up.

Ilya’s smile grew.

Shane stared at him.

“Mine?”

“If you’ll have me.”

Shane’s entire face lit up.

He couldn’t stop it.

“Until seven?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have anything else?”

“Nothing I would rather do.”

That smile.

Again.

Shane was going to develop permanent facial pain because of this man.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Shane’s fingers curled slightly into Ilya’s sweater.

“I’ll have you.”

“Good.”

Shane glanced toward the clock.

It wasn’t even one.

He looked back.

“So you’re staying?”

“Yes.”

“All afternoon?”

“If you want.”

“I do.”

That answer came too fast.

Shane didn’t care.

Ilya clearly didn’t either.

His thumb traced lightly along Shane’s side.

“Then I’m staying.”

Shane smiled.

“Good.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted.

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“That is all?”

Shane’s smile faltered.

“What else do you want?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya tilted his head, studying him. “Perhaps a little more enthusiasm.”

Shane stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“You were standing at the sink looking like someone had cancelled Christmas because you thought I might leave.”

“I was not.”

“No?”

“No.”

Ilya nodded slowly, entirely unconvinced.

“My mistake.”

“It was.”

“Clearly.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

There was something in Ilya’s expression.

That tiny curve at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I am agreeing with you.”

“No, you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That smug little—” Shane gestured toward his face. “That.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

“My face?”

“Yes.”

“What is wrong with my face?”

“So much.”

“Interesting. You seemed very fond of it last night.”

Shane’s mouth dropped open.

Ilya smiled.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Again, considerably more enthusiasm.”

Shane laughed despite himself.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“And yet you wanted me to stay.”

“I was reconsidering.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

Ilya made the smallest movement backward.

“All right.”

Shane’s hands immediately tightened where they rested against him.

Ilya stopped.

Silence.

Shane looked down at his own hands.

Then slowly back up.

Ilya’s expression was unbearable.

Shane glared.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to move.”

“You said you were reconsidering.”

“I was joking.”

“So was I.”

Shane stared at him.

Then lightly smacked his shoulder.

“Asshole.”

Ilya caught his hand before Shane could pull it away.

“Violent.”

“That was barely a tap.”

“I may never recover.”

“You’re six-foot-whatever and built like a wall. You’ll survive.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

Shane tried to pull his hand back.

Ilya didn’t exactly stop him.

Instead, almost absently, he shifted his grip and threaded their fingers together.

Shane stilled.

His eyes dropped.

Their hands again.

Ilya’s fingers comfortably fitted between his.

God.

He liked that.

Way too much for something so simple.

Shane’s thumb moved once over the side of Ilya’s hand before he even realized he was doing it.

When he looked up, Ilya was watching him.

The teasing had softened around the edges.

Shane looked up.

“What?”

“I could stay longer.”

Shane’s eyebrows pulled together.

“You just said you have dinner.”

“I do.”

“At seven.”

“Yes.”

“So how would you—”

Ilya’s expression turned amused.

Shane stopped.

“What?”

“You could come with me.”

Silence.

Shane blinked.

“To…”

“Dinner.”

“With…”

“My family.”

Shane’s eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Ilya laughed.

“What?”

“That’s—”

Shane suddenly became very aware that he’d met this man a week ago.

Not even a week.

They had gone on their first date yesterday.

And now—

“Your family?”

“Yes.”

“Like your mom?”

“Yes.”

“Your dad?”

“Yes.”

“Sister?”

“Yes.”

“Svetlana?”

“Probably.”

Shane stared.

“That isn’t family dinner. That’s an ambush.”

Ilya laughed.

“It is not an ambush.”

“Your mother already knows who I am!”

“She met you at the club.”

“And FaceTime.”

“She likes you.”

“That makes it worse.”

“How?”

“Because now there are expectations.”

“There are no expectations.”

“Easy for you to say. They’re your family.”

Ilya’s hands settled more securely around Shane’s waist.

Not trapping.

Just grounding.

“You don’t have to come.”

Shane looked at him.

“I mean that.”

The teasing disappeared from Ilya’s expression.

“I would like you there. But if it feels too soon, say no.”

Shane chewed the inside of his cheek.

It did feel soon.

A little.

But—

He’d already met some of them.

Sort of.

And Ilya wanted him there.

That part mattered.

Shane hesitated.

“Can I?”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted.

“Can you what?”

“Come.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if you couldn’t.”

Shane’s nerves softened.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Then Ilya’s expression became dangerously amused.

“Mother is very excited to see you again.”

Shane groaned.

“Oh no.”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t need to. She saw the photographs this morning.”

Shane froze.

“The photographs.”

Ilya winced slightly.

“Ah.”

“What photographs?”

“The ones from last night.”

“Oh my God.”

Shane’s hands went to his face.

“I forgot.”

“How?”

“I was distracted by the grocery store that appeared in my kitchen!”

Ilya laughed.

Shane peeked through his fingers.

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“Are people talking?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.”

“We don’t have to discuss that now.”

“We absolutely do.”

“We can.”

“Later.”

“Later,” Ilya agreed.

Shane lowered his hands.

Dinner.

Family.

Seven.

He was nervous just thinking about it.

But beneath the nerves was something else.

Excitement.

He wanted to see that side of Ilya again.

The version from FaceTime.

The man whose mother interrupted his calls and whose best friend shoved herself into frame and whose family apparently delighted in embarrassing him.

Shane wanted to know them.

Maybe that was fast.

But Shane was getting increasingly tired of pretending he didn’t want things simply because wanting them quickly might look embarrassing.

So he looked at Ilya.

“I’d like that.”

Ilya’s smile softened.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Shane smiled.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other.

“But if your mother interrogates me, I’m leaving.”

“She will interrogate me instead.”

“Perfect.”

“My sister may interrogate you.”

“Less perfect.”

“My aunt definitely will.”

Shane groaned.

“I’m changing my answer.”

Ilya laughed.

Shane couldn’t help smiling with him.

Then the laughter faded.

For a long moment they stared at one another, till Shane broke into a laughter.

“What?”

Ilya asked.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“I’m sitting on my kitchen counter.”

“Yes.”

“You put me here.”

“Yes.”

“And now we’re discussing meeting your family.”

“Also yes.”

“This is weird.”

Ilya stepped closer.

“Do you want down?”

Shane’s legs tightened slightly around him before his brain had the opportunity to approve the movement.

Ilya noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His eyes darkened just a little.

Shane swallowed.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

They were close.

Very close.

Ilya still stood between Shane’s legs.

Shane’s hands were still curled in his sweater.

And now that the nervousness was gone, Shane became intensely aware of all of it again.

His gaze dropped.

Ilya’s mouth.

Then back up.

Ilya noticed.

Of course.

“You’re staring.”

“So are you.”

“I know.”

Shane’s stomach flipped.

“You always admit it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ilya’s voice lowered.

“Because I’m not ashamed of wanting to kiss you.”

Shane stopped breathing for approximately one second.

Then he tugged on Ilya’s sweater.

“So do it.”

Ilya did.

The kiss was soft.

It always seemed to start that way with Ilya.

A gentle press.

A moment to let Shane meet him.

Then Shane’s hands slid higher, one curling around the back of Ilya’s neck.

The kiss deepened.

Not dramatically.

Naturally.

Like neither of them quite intended it to and neither had any interest in stopping it.

Ilya made a quiet sound against his mouth.

And something shifted.

The next kiss wasn’t quite so careful.

Shane’s arms slid around Ilya’s shoulders.

Ilya stepped fully between his legs, one hand moving from Shane’s waist to the small of his back.

Shane leaned into him.

Their mouths met again.

And again.

Slower at first.

Then deeper.

Shane’s fingers slid into the hair at the back of Ilya’s head.

That got a reaction.

A quiet breath against Shane’s mouth.

Shane smiled into the kiss.

“There you are.”

Ilya pulled back barely enough to speak.

“You are very pleased with yourself.”

“A little.”

Ilya kissed him again.

Shane’s smile disappeared.

Oh.

Okay.

His legs tightened around Ilya instinctively.

Ilya’s hand pressed more securely against his back, keeping him steady on the counter as Shane pulled him closer.

The kiss grew heated, but never rushed.

Never out of control.

Just enough to make Shane’s thoughts blur pleasantly around the edges.

He liked the contrast.

Ilya was so controlled everywhere else.

So measured.

And Shane was starting to learn exactly how to make that control slip.

His fingers tightened in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya exhaled sharply.

Shane smiled against his mouth.

“Definitely learning things.”

“Shane.”

The warning in his voice only made Shane grin.

“What?”

“You know what.”

“No idea.”

Ilya kissed him again before Shane could continue.

Shane laughed softly into it—

And then—

A sound came from the doorway.

A very high-pitched sound.

A squeal.

“EEEEEE!”

Both men froze.

Completely.

Shane’s eyes flew open.

Ilya pulled back.

Slowly.

Neither moved otherwise.

Shane turned his head.

Rose stood just inside the apartment.

Keys in one hand.

A drink carrier in the other.

Mouth hanging open.

Eyes enormous.

Silence.

Then—

“Oh.”

Shane stared at her.

Rose stared at Shane sitting on the counter.

Then at Ilya standing between his legs.

Then at Shane’s arms around Ilya’s shoulders.

Then at Ilya’s hand still very much at Shane’s waist.

Her face transformed.

“Oh my GOD.”

Shane’s eyes widened.

“Rose—”

“I KNEW IT.”

“Rose!”

She squealed again.

Actually squealed.

Ilya slowly closed his eyes.

Shane dropped his forehead onto Ilya’s shoulder.

“No.”

“This is the best day of my life.”

“Get out.”

“I brought coffee!”

“I don’t care!”

“I thought we were hanging out!”

“You didn’t text!”

“I have a key!”

“That is a privilege I am revoking!”

Rose set the drinks down before she dropped them because she was laughing too hard.

Shane refused to lift his face from Ilya’s shoulder.

Maybe if he stayed there long enough, Rose would disappear.

Unlikely.

Ilya’s chest moved.

Shane lifted his head suspiciously.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“You think this is funny?”

“A little.”

“You’re both horrible.”

Rose pointed at them.

“Do not move.”

Shane’s eyes widened.

“Why?”

“I need to take a picture.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

Rose reached for her phone.

Shane scrambled to get off the counter.

Ilya caught him automatically so he didn’t fall.

Which only made Rose make another delighted noise.

“STOP MAKING IT WORSE!”

“I am preventing you from falling,” Ilya said.

“I wasn’t going to fall!”

“You absolutely were.”

Rose was laughing so hard she had to brace herself against the wall.

Shane finally got his feet underneath him.

His hair was a mess.

His lips felt swollen.

His face was burning.

Ilya, infuriatingly, looked mostly composed again.

Mostly.

Except his hair was also slightly disordered.

Shane noticed.

So did Rose.

Her eyes widened.

Shane pointed at her.

“Don’t.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Don’t say it.”

She nodded rapidly.

“Rose.”

She broke.

“You messed up Ilya Rozanov’s hair!”

Shane covered his face.

Ilya laughed.

Actually laughed.

Rose stared at him.

Then at Shane.

Then back at Ilya.

“Oh, you’re fucked.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

Shane peeked through his fingers.

Rose pointed at Ilya.

“You like him.”

Ilya didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

Rose stopped.

Shane did too.

The teasing answer they’d both apparently expected never came.

Just that.

Yes.

Rose slowly lowered her hand.

Her expression softened.

Shane looked at Ilya.

Ilya was already looking at him.

“Yes,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I do.”

Shane’s embarrassment disappeared.

Not completely.

Rose had still walked in on him making out with a billionaire on his kitchen counter.

That humiliation would require recovery time.

But it faded beneath something warmer.

Shane smiled.

Rose looked between them.

Then sighed dramatically.

“Fine.”

Shane looked at her.

“Fine what?”

“I’ll stop making fun of you.”

Shane stared.

“For how long?”

Rose checked an imaginary watch.

“Maybe four minutes.”

“Get out.”

She laughed.

Then reached for one of the coffees.

“So, what are we doing today?”

Shane blinked.

“We?”

Rose took a drink.

“Yes. We.”

“There is no we.”

“There absolutely is. I brought three coffees.”

Shane looked at the carrier.

There were, in fact, three.

He frowned.

“How did you know Ilya was here?”

Rose smiled.

Shane’s eyes narrowed.

“Rose.”

“You told me he was coming for lunch.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, genius.”

Ilya picked up one of the coffees.

“Which is mine?”

Rose pointed.

“Black.”

Ilya looked at her.

Then at Shane.

Shane immediately raised his hands.

“I didn’t tell her.”

“You drink black coffee,” Rose said. “You look like you drink black coffee.”

Ilya considered this.

“Fair.”

Shane stared between them.

“No.”

Both looked at him.

“Absolutely not.”

Rose frowned.

“What?”

“You two are not becoming friends.”

Rose grinned.

Ilya took a drink.

“I think it may be too late.”

Shane groaned.

He was doomed.

Completely doomed.

And somehow, standing there with Ilya beside him, Rose invading his apartment, his refrigerator full, and plans unexpectedly stretching all the way to dinner with Ilya’s family.

Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d been happier about it.

-

Shane recovered from the humiliation surprisingly quickly.

Mostly because standing there dwelling on the fact that Rose had just walked in on him sitting on the kitchen counter with Ilya between his legs was only going to give her more ammunition.

And Shane refused.

Absolutely refused.

So he straightened his shirt, ran a hand through his already hopeless hair, and pointed at Rose.

“Actually, since you’re here, I need your help.”

Rose stopped mid-sip.

The transformation was immediate.

Her laughter vanished.

Her eyes sharpened.

She lowered her coffee.

“With what?”

Ilya glanced between them.

Shane almost laughed.

Rose could spend five straight minutes tormenting him and then switch into crisis-management mode the second Shane said he needed her.

“I have dinner tonight.”

Rose blinked.

“Okay.”

“With Ilya.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Okay…”

“And his family.”

Silence.

Rose slowly lowered her coffee completely.

“His family.”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“At dinner?”

“That is generally what having dinner means, Rose.”

“Shut up.”

Ilya leaned against the counter, clearly entertained already.

Rose’s attention snapped toward him.

“Your family?”

“Yes.”

“Like your actual family?”

Ilya nodded.

“My mother, father, sister, probably my aunt. Svetlana will likely be there as well.”

Rose looked back at Shane.

Shane watched the horror dawn on her face.

“Exactly.”

“Oh my God.”

“Exactly!”

“What are you going to wear?”

“EXACTLY!”

Ilya looked between them.

“I feel I am missing something.”

Both Shane and Rose turned toward him.

“I have nothing to wear,” Shane said.

Ilya frowned.

“You have an entire bedroom that presumably contains clothing.”

Rose made a disgusted noise.

Shane pointed at her.

“See? This is why I need you.”

“I am sure you have plenty of things you could wear.”

“No,” Rose said immediately.

Ilya looked at her.

“No?”

“No.”

Shane nodded firmly.

“Thank you.”

Rose shook her head.

“He has nothing.”

“Exactly.”

“Nothing that should step into a Rozanov household.”

Shane’s mouth fell open.

There was a beat.

Then he slowly turned toward her.

“Thank you, Rose. Really.”

The sarcasm dripped from every word.

Rose waved him off.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, actually, I’d love for you to elaborate on why my clothes apparently aren’t worthy of crossing the sacred threshold of the Rozanov estate.”

Ilya’s lips twitched.

“It is not an estate.”

Shane whipped toward him.

“Not helping.”

“It is a house.”

Rose looked at Ilya.

“How many bedrooms?”

Ilya paused.

“That is irrelevant.”

Rose’s eyes widened.

Shane pointed accusingly.

“See? Estate.”

“It is not an estate.”

“Do you have a gate?”

Ilya said nothing.

Shane gasped.

“You have a gate.”

“For security.”

“Estate.”

“Shane.”

Rose cut between them.

“Can we focus?”

“You just insulted my entire wardrobe!”

“You asked for my help.”

“With an outfit. Not for you to publicly announce that I’m too poor to enter his house.”

“I didn’t say poor.”

“You heavily implied poor.”

“I implied underdressed.”

“That’s worse!”

Ilya was watching the two of them with obvious amusement.

Rose pointed toward Shane’s bedroom.

“The nicest thing you own is that navy blazer you bought for your internship interview.”

Shane frowned.

“That’s a nice blazer.”

“You bought it on clearance.”

“So?”

“Three years ago.”

“It still fits!”

“Barely.”

“It fits perfectly!”

“You can’t button it.”

“Because I don’t button it!”

“Because you can’t!”

“I can!”

“Prove it.”

“I’m not putting on a blazer to prove something to you!”

“Because it doesn’t fit.”

Shane threw his hands up.

“Oh my God!”

Ilya was openly smiling now.

Shane caught him.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It is a little funny.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You both appear very passionate about the blazer.”

“The blazer is fine.”

“The blazer is a crime,” Rose said.

“Fuck you.”

Rose ignored him.

“And your nice shoes are those brown ones.”

Shane’s indignation increased.

“My brown shoes are nice!”

“You wore them to graduation.”

“So?”

“High school graduation.”

Ilya made a sound suspiciously like a cough.

Shane turned.

“Did you just laugh?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“He did,” Rose said.

“Traitor.”

Rose shrugged.

“You asked for my help.”

“I asked for help, not character assassination.”

“You need honesty.”

“I need an outfit!”

“Exactly!”

Shane dragged both hands down his face.

“I hate this.”

Rose took another sip of coffee.

“You’ll thank me.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You always do.”

“Name one time.”

“Your twenty-first birthday.”

Shane opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Rose smiled smugly.

“That’s what I thought.”

Shane muttered something under his breath.

Ilya was still watching them like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.

Shane caught his expression.

“And you can stop looking so pleased.”

“I like seeing you with your friends.”

That took some of the wind out of Shane’s irritation.

He stared at him for a second.

Rose’s eyes moved between them.

Her expression immediately softened into something unbearably knowing.

Shane saw it.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“You had the face.”

“What face?”

“The same face he has!”

Ilya looked at Rose.

“I apparently have many problematic facial expressions.”

“You do,” Shane said.

Rose nodded solemnly.

“It’s the burden of being pretty.”

Ilya’s eyebrow rose.

Shane stared at her.

“Don’t compliment him. His ego is already unbearable.”

“I haven’t noticed.”

“Because you’ve known him twelve minutes!”

“Long enough to see why you—”

“CLOTHES!”

Rose grinned.

“Right. Clothes.”

Shane sighed.

“I don’t need anything crazy. I just need help with an outfit.”

“I agree,” Ilya said.

Shane blinked.

Rose frowned.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Ilya set his coffee down.

“Shane could arrive tonight wearing exactly what he’s wearing now and nobody in my family would care.”

Shane looked down at himself.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

His expression softened.

“My mother wants to see you. She isn’t interested in your clothes.”

That helped.

It really did.

For approximately two seconds.

Then Rose spoke.

“Okay, but he’s not wearing that.”

Shane threw his hands up.

“Why?!”

“Because you have flour on your shirt!”

Shane looked down.

There was, in fact, flour on his shirt.

“That washes out!”

“Not the point.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re panicking because you know I’m right.”

Shane opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Rose leaned back smugly.

Ilya’s attention sharpened.

Shane noticed.

He looked away.

“I am not panicking.”

Rose’s expression softened slightly.

“Shane.”

“I just want to look nice.”

“You will.”

“I don’t want to walk in there and look like…”

He stopped.

Rose waited.

Ilya did too.

Shane shrugged.

“Like I don’t belong.”

The room got quieter.

There it was.

The actual problem.

Not the blazer.

Not the shirt.

Not whether his nicest shoes were nice enough.

Shane looked down at his hands.

“I know that’s stupid.”

“It isn’t,” Ilya said.

Shane glanced at him.

Ilya had lost all traces of amusement.

“You’re going into a new environment with people you don’t know well. Wanting to feel comfortable isn’t stupid.”

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

Rose stood.

“Which is why we need options.”

“Options?”

“Yes.”

“I asked you to help me pick an outfit.”

“And I am informing you that your options are bad.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I love you.”

“You have a horrible way of showing it.”

Rose smiled sweetly.

Then she looked toward Shane’s bedroom.

“You need a better button-down.”

“No.”

“A properly fitted blazer.”

“I have one.”

“Debatable.”

“Rose.”

“Maybe trousers.”

“I own pants!”

“Not those pants.”

“What the hell is wrong with my pants?”

“Nothing if you’re going to class.”

“I hate you.”

“Some decent sweaters would be useful.”

Shane stared.

“How did we get from help me pick something for tonight to replacing my wardrobe?”

Rose shrugged.

“Natural progression.”

“No, it isn’t!”

Ilya, who had been quietly watching the argument bounce back and forth, glanced at the clock.

Then he spoke.

“We have the afternoon.”

Both of them stopped.

Shane looked over.

Ilya’s gaze moved between Shane and Rose.

“Shall we go shopping?”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Rose’s eyes widened.

Shane’s narrowed.

Then—

“Yes!”

Rose’s squeal was loud enough that Shane flinched.

“No.”

She turned toward him.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Shane.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

Shane pointed at Ilya.

“Because I know what shopping means to him!”

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve never gone shopping with me.”

“Exactly, and I’d like to preserve my financial innocence.”

Rose grabbed Shane’s arm.

“Do you understand the opportunity you’re throwing away?”

“To become a kept man?”

“To own pants that fit!”

“My pants fit!”

Ilya laughed.

Shane glared at him.

“This is your fault.”

“I suggested shopping.”

“Dangerous suggestion.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re rich.”

Ilya paused.

Rose went quiet.

Shane realized how that had sounded.

He sighed.

“I don’t mean—”

“I know what you mean.”

“No, Ilya, I—”

“I know.”

Ilya stepped away from the counter.

Shane watched him approach.

There was no offense in his expression.

No embarrassment either.

He stopped in front of Shane.

“I am rich.”

Rose suddenly found her coffee fascinating.

Shane sighed.

“I know.”

“It isn’t an insult.”

“I wasn’t trying to make it one.”

“I know.”

Shane looked away.

Ilya waited until Shane looked back.

“And if we go shopping, I would like to buy whatever you want.”

Shane immediately shook his head.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even let me finish.”

“Because I know where this is going.”

“Do you?”

“You’ll take me somewhere where socks cost four hundred dollars.”

Ilya frowned.

“I would never pay four hundred dollars for socks.”

Rose looked up.

“What’s your limit?”

“Rose!”

“What? I’m curious.”

Ilya considered it.

Shane pointed at him.

“Do not answer that.”

His mouth twitched.

“Very well.”

Shane crossed his arms.

“I can buy my own clothes.”

“I know.”

“I have money.”

“I know.”

“I work.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“I know, Shane.”

The words were gentle enough to stop him.

Ilya stepped closer.

“I know you can buy your own clothes.”

Shane looked at him.

“I know you support yourself. I know you work. I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself.”

“Then—”

“I want to.”

Shane stopped.

Ilya’s expression softened.

“That is different.”

Shane swallowed.

“Ilya…”

“I would like to buy you something.”

“Something?”

“Several somethings, preferably.”

Rose covered a laugh with her coffee.

Shane shot her a look.

Ilya continued.

“I would like to spoil you.”

That word made Shane’s stomach flip strangely.

“Spoil me.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve known me for a week.”

“And?”

“And normal people don’t buy someone a new wardrobe after one date.”

“I didn’t say an entire wardrobe.”

Rose muttered, “Yet.”

Shane pointed at her without looking.

“Stay out of this.”

She mimed zipping her lips.

Ilya smiled.

Then he reached for Shane’s hand.

Shane let him take it.

“I am not asking because I think you need me to buy things for you.”

“Okay.”

“I am asking because I would enjoy doing it.”

Shane looked at their hands.

That made it harder.

Because Ilya wasn’t talking about rescuing him.

Wasn’t acting as though Shane’s clothes were beneath him.

He genuinely looked excited by the idea.

“I don’t want you thinking I’m with you because you can buy me things.”

“I don’t.”

“You say that now.”

“I will say it tomorrow too.”

Shane glanced up.

“And next week.”

Ilya squeezed his hand.

“And unless you give me a reason to believe otherwise, I will continue saying it.”

Shane didn’t answer.

Ilya studied him.

Then, quietly, “You think there is something embarrassing about me spending money on you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Shane frowned.

“Ilya.”

“You do.”

Ilya wasn’t accusing him.

That was what made Shane listen.

“You think because we come from very different circumstances, accepting something from me means you’ve taken something you haven’t earned.”

Shane’s jaw tightened.

That was uncomfortably close.

“I don’t want people looking at me and thinking—”

“That you’re using me?”

Shane looked down.

“Yeah.”

Ilya was quiet for a moment.

Then his fingers tightened gently around Shane’s.

“People may think that.”

Shane looked up sharply.

Ilya didn’t soften it with a lie.

“They may.”

“Great.”

“But people will think many things about us, Shane.”

The age difference.

The money.

Ilya’s name.

Shane’s relative anonymity.

There would always be something.

“We are from different economic classes,” Ilya said simply. “Pretending otherwise would be ridiculous.”

Shane blinked.

Ilya continued before he could respond.

“You’re a university student who works. I’m thirty-eight years old and have spent nearly two decades building a company. Of course our finances are different.”

Rose was completely silent now.

Shane watched Ilya.

“There is nothing shameful about that.”

Ilya’s thumb moved over Shane’s hand.

“Not for you. Not for me.”

Shane swallowed.

“And if I buy you a shirt, you have not stolen from me.”

“I know.”

“If I buy you ten shirts, you have still not stolen from me.”

Shane’s lips twitched.

“Ten?”

“I am negotiating.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“I usually negotiate acquisitions. This is different.”

Rose snorted.

Shane smiled despite himself.

Then Ilya became serious again.

“You are not taking my money.”

Shane’s smile faded.

“I am choosing to spend it.”

That landed differently.

Ilya stepped closer.

“I have more money than I could reasonably spend on myself in a lifetime. If something makes me happy, I can afford it, and I choose to pay for it, why should either of us be ashamed?”

Shane didn’t know.

He genuinely didn’t.

Ilya smiled slightly.

“And the idea of seeing you in something you feel beautiful in makes me very happy.”

Shane’s cheeks warmed.

Rose made a tiny noise.

Shane looked over.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“It was internal.”

“It was very external.”

Ilya laughed.

Shane looked back at him.

“But I don’t want…”

He hesitated.

“I don’t want this to become normal.”

Ilya tilted his head.

“What?”

“You paying for everything.”

“Ah.”

“Dinner last night. Groceries this morning. Now clothes. I don’t want to start expecting that.”

Ilya nodded.

“That is fair.”

Shane seemed surprised.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Ilya squeezed his hand.

“Then don’t expect it.”

Shane blinked.

Ilya smiled.

“Let me surprise you when I want to. Tell me no when you don’t want something. Buy me things when you want to. Cook me syrniki.”

Shane’s smile returned.

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not allowed to secretly replace everything I own.”

“I make no promises about your toaster.”

Shane gasped.

“My toaster is fine.”

“Your toaster burns bread.”

“User error.”

“You were the user.”

“Exactly.”

Ilya laughed.

Rose stepped closer.

“Can I say something now?”

Shane eyed her.

“Depends.”

“I think you should let him.”

Shane groaned.

“Of course you do.”

“No, listen.”

She softened.

“Not because you need him to buy you clothes. You don’t.”

Shane looked at her.

“And not because there’s anything wrong with what you already own.”

She paused.

“Except the blazer.”

“Rose.”

“Sorry.”

Ilya smiled.

Rose continued.

“He wants to do something nice for you. You can let people do nice things for you without it meaning something bad about you.”

Shane looked between them.

“This feels like an intervention.”

“It is.”

“I hate both of you.”

“I’ve known you too long to believe that,” Rose said.

Ilya’s mouth curved.

“I haven’t, but I’m optimistic.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

He looked down at his hand still wrapped in Ilya’s.

Then back up.

“You really want to do this?”

Ilya didn’t hesitate.

“Very much.”

“And if I say something is too much, we’re done.”

“Immediately.”

“If I don’t like something—”

“We don’t buy it.”

“I pick what I wear.”

“Obviously.”

“Rose doesn’t.”

“Hey!”

Shane ignored her.

“And we’re not going somewhere insane.”

Ilya was silent.

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“Ilya.”

“We may have different definitions of insane.”

“No.”

“I can work within reasonable parameters.”

“Whose reasonable?”

“Mine.”

“No.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

Ilya sighed dramatically.

“Fine.”

Shane stared at him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much.”

“Asshole.”

Ilya smiled.

“So?”

Shane hesitated one final second.

Then sighed.

“Fine.”

Rose screamed.

Shane flinched.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Yes!”

She grabbed his shoulders.

“We’re going shopping!”

“We are buying an outfit.”

“And some basics.”

“An outfit.”

“Maybe shoes.”

“Rose.”

“A coat?”

“I have a coat!”

Ilya’s eyes dropped over Shane thoughtfully.

Shane immediately pointed at him.

“Don’t you start.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were assessing.”

“I was looking.”

“At my clothes.”

“At you.”

Shane’s face warmed.

Ilya smiled.

Rose groaned.

“Oh my God. You two are going to be unbearable.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come,” Shane reminded her.

“Obviously I’m coming. Someone needs to make sure he doesn’t dress you like a thirty-eight-year-old CEO.”

Ilya looked offended.

“I dress very well.”

“You do,” Shane admitted.

Ilya turned toward him with a victorious smile.

Shane immediately regretted it.

“Don’t look so pleased.”

“You think I dress well.”

“You know you dress well.”

“I wanted to hear you say it.”

“God, you’re needy.”

“And yet.”

Ilya raised their joined hands and pressed a soft kiss against Shane’s knuckles.

Shane went quiet.

Rose stared.

Ilya lowered their hands again as though he’d done nothing.

Shane’s cheeks were burning.

“That’s cheating.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

Ilya smiled.

“So. Shopping?”

Shane sighed.

He looked at Rose, who appeared approximately three seconds away from vibrating through the floor.

Then at Ilya, who was watching him with that warm, patient expression that somehow made the entire idea feel less frightening.

Shane still wasn’t completely comfortable with it.

Maybe he wouldn’t be for a while.

There was a difference between knowing intellectually that Ilya could spend money without thinking about it and actually standing beside him while he did it.

But Ilya wasn’t trying to erase where Shane came from.

He wasn’t embarrassed by it.

He wasn’t asking Shane to pretend they lived the same life.

He was simply offering Shane access to something Ilya had plenty of because giving it made him happy.

And Shane could say no.

That mattered.

He could also say yes.

Maybe that mattered too.

Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand.

“One outfit.”

Ilya nodded solemnly.

“One outfit.”

“And maybe a shirt.”

“Of course.”

Rose coughed.

“Blazer.”

Shane glared.

“Don’t push it.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

Shane caught it immediately.

“You too.”

“I said nothing.”

“You’re both plotting.”

Rose smiled.

Ilya looked innocent.

Shane groaned.

He had made a terrible mistake.

-

The mall had been Shane’s choice.

That was important.

Extremely important.

Because when Ilya had asked where Shane wanted to shop, Shane had immediately named the mall fifteen minutes from his apartment.

Safe.

Normal.

Familiar.

Most importantly, reasonably priced.

Shane had been shopping there since his freshman year. He knew exactly which stores had decent sales, which stores Rose liked, which food-court place gave you enough food to survive for two meals, and which entrance to use if you didn’t want to spend twenty minutes searching for parking.

It was perfect.

Ilya had agreed immediately.

With one condition.

Since Shane was choosing where they went, they would look everywhere.

Every store Shane wanted.

Every store Rose wanted.

And every store Ilya wanted.

Shane had agreed.

Confidently.

Because this was his mall.

There weren’t any ridiculous billionaire stores here.

They’d parked, walked inside, and Shane had been feeling incredibly pleased with himself for approximately seven minutes.

Then they turned the corner.

Shane stopped.

Ilya nearly walked into him.

Rose did walk into him.

“Why did you stop?”

Shane didn’t answer.

He was staring.

Gucci.

Bright.

Polished.

Expensive.

Existing right there in the mall Shane had visited approximately a thousand times.

Shane slowly turned his head.

Farther down—

Louis Vuitton.

Beyond that—

Burberry.

Shane stared.

Rose followed his gaze.

“Oh.”

Shane looked at her.

“You knew?”

“No!”

“You’ve been here as many times as I have!”

“I don’t shop down here!”

“Neither do I!”

Ilya was silent.

That was suspicious.

Shane slowly turned toward him.

Ilya’s mouth was twitching.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“We’re not going in there.”

One eyebrow lifted.

“That wasn’t our agreement.”

Shane’s mouth fell open.

“You tricked me.”

“How?”

“You knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That there were expensive stores here!”

“I assumed.”

“You assumed?”

“Most large malls have several luxury retailers.”

“Well, I didn’t know that!”

“You chose the mall.”

“Because I thought it was safe!”

Ilya laughed.

Actually laughed.

Rose joined him.

Shane pointed between them.

“Neither of you is funny.”

“We had a deal,” Ilya reminded him.

Shane folded his arms.

“No.”

Ilya immediately nodded.

“All right.”

That stopped Shane.

He blinked.

Ilya’s expression was still amused, but there was no challenge in it.

No attempt to convince him.

No come on.

No just look.

No don’t be ridiculous.

Just—

All right.

Shane looked toward Gucci.

Then back at Ilya.

“We really don’t have to go in.”

Ilya’s amusement disappeared immediately.

“No.”

Shane paused.

Ilya looked at him.

“That was the agreement.”

Right.

If Shane said no, it was no.

No arguing.

No pouting.

No but you promised.

Shane glanced toward the luxury wing again.

It still made something in his stomach tighten.

Not because the stores themselves scared him.

But because they represented a world Shane had always known existed without ever considering it his.

He’d walked past those storefronts before.

He’d seen the bags.

The displays.

The security.

The perfectly dressed employees.

He’d simply never imagined himself walking inside.

And now there was a man beside him who probably owned clothes from all of them.

Shane looked at Ilya.

Ilya waited.

No pressure.

Shane sighed.

“We made a deal.”

“We did.”

“And I did technically choose this mall.”

“You did.”

“So…”

Shane pointed a warning finger.

“We can look.”

Ilya smiled.

“Look.”

“Looking does not mean buying.”

“Of course.”

“And no means no.”

“Always.”

Shane narrowed his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Rose grinned.

“What?”

Shane pointed at Ilya.

“He keeps doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Being reasonable.”

Rose looked between them, then smirked.

“You like that, don’t you?”

Shane gave her a flat look.

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane groaned.

“I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Rose said.

Ilya’s smile only widened.

Shane looked at him for one long second, then reached out and grabbed Ilya’s hand.

Ilya looked down at their joined fingers, then back up at Shane.

Shane tugged him forward.

“Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Rose brightened immediately.

“Shopping!”

“Do not make me regret bringing you.”

“You already do.”

“Deeply.”

Ilya laughed as Shane pulled him toward the next store, their hands still linked between them.

And just like that, they were off.

-

It turned out shopping with Ilya was fun.

Actually fun.

Not because Ilya bought things.

Though he did.

A lot of things.

Far more than Shane would have bought for himself.

But he’d kept every promise.

If Shane didn’t like something, it went back.

If Shane thought something was uncomfortable, nobody tried convincing him otherwise.

If Shane looked at a price tag and nearly had a cardiac event, Ilya would calmly remind him that Shane was allowed to say no.

Sometimes Shane did.

And that was it.

No sulking.

No persuasion.

No making Shane feel guilty for refusing a gift.

That made saying yes easier when Shane actually wanted something.

They spent twenty minutes in the first store and Ilya didn’t buy a single thing because Shane didn’t genuinely love anything.

The second store Shane found a sweater.

Rose found him three.

At the third , Shane found trousers that Rose declared made his ass look “offensively good.”

Shane nearly walked back into the fitting room.

Ilya bought them.

“Traitor.”

“I agree with Rose.”

“You didn’t have to say it.”

“I thought honesty was important to you.”

“Not anymore.”

Rose laughed so hard she had to sit down.

They wandered.

They tried things on.

They stopped for coffee.

At one point Shane emerged from a fitting room in a shirt he absolutely hated.

Rose made a face.

Ilya looked at him for approximately two seconds.

“No.”

“Thank you.”

Shane immediately turned around.

The salesperson blinked.

Rose laughed.

“What?”

Ilya asked.

“You didn’t even pretend.”

“He hated it.”

“How did you know?”

Ilya looked toward the closed fitting-room door.

“He pulled at the collar four times in ten seconds.”

Rose’s smile softened.

Shane, listening from inside, stopped.

Of course he’d noticed.

By the sixth store Rose had started giving increasingly dramatic reviews of Shane’s outfits.

The first pair of trousers got—

“Divorced father attending his daughter’s piano recital.”

Shane stepped out of the dressing room.

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. But it’s what I’m getting.”

Ilya studied him.

“I agree.”

“Fuck both of you.”

The next shirt—

“Hot professor.”

Ilya immediately said, “We’re buying it.”

Shane turned bright red.

Rose nearly fell out of her chair.

“Ilya!”

“What?”

“You can’t just—”

“I like the shirt.”

“You said that because she said hot professor.”

“Yes.”

“At least lie!”

“Why?”

Shane went back into the dressing room muttering.

They bought the shirt.

Then jeans.

A sweater Shane genuinely loved.

A pair of trousers that made Rose whistle when Shane walked out.

Shane immediately looked at Ilya.

Ilya was staring.

Not subtly.

Shane’s confidence rose approximately three hundred percent.

“Well?”

Ilya leaned back in his chair.

“Yes.”

Shane laughed.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only answer I have at the moment.”

Rose made a strangled noise.

Shane looked at himself in the mirror again.

“Okay. Maybe these.”

“Definitely those,” Ilya said.

Shane smiled.

Those went into the yes pile.

There were plenty of no piles too.

And every time Shane said no, that was it.

No argument.

Sometimes Ilya asked why—not to change Shane’s mind, but because he seemed genuinely curious.

Too tight.

Wrong color.

Didn’t like the collar.

Didn’t feel like himself.

Ilya accepted every answer.

Once, Shane came out wearing a jacket that Rose loved.

Ilya loved it too.

Shane looked at himself.

Turned.

Turned again.

“No.”

Ilya nodded.

“No.”

Rose stared at him.

“Really?”

“He doesn’t like it.”

“But it looks incredible.”

Ilya shrugged.

“He isn’t wearing it for us.”

Shane looked at him through the mirror.

And smiled.

That was when he started relaxing.

Really relaxing.

-

The luxury stores were less terrifying once Shane actually entered them.

Still ridiculous.

But less terrifying.

Mostly because Ilya didn’t behave any differently inside them.

He didn’t suddenly become someone else.

He greeted employees politely.

Waited his turn.

Said please.

Said thank you.

Asked Shane what he thought.

Asked Rose what she thought.

Didn’t flash his name or money around like a weapon.

And somehow, somewhere during the afternoon, Rose ended up with a new handbag.

It wasn’t planned.

At least Shane didn’t think it was.

She’d picked one up.

Looked at it.

Turned toward the mirror.

“Oh, that’s cute.”

She’d checked the price.

Her eyes had widened.

Then she’d immediately put it back.

“Nope.”

That had been the end of it.

Or Shane thought it had.

Twenty minutes later, Ilya handed her a bag.

Rose stared.

“What is this?”

“The bag.”

“What bag?”

“The one you liked.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“No.”

Ilya frowned.

“No?”

“No, you don’t have to buy me things.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Rose looked at Shane in panic.

Shane looked at Ilya.

Ilya simply shrugged.

“You liked it.”

Rose stared.

“And?”

“And I wanted to buy it for you.”

“You barely know me.”

“You’re important to Shane.”

Shane went still.

Ilya continued casually.

“And I like you.”

Rose’s expression changed.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Even after I walked in on you making out?”

“No. That damaged our relationship considerably.”

Rose burst out laughing.

Ilya smiled.

Then held the bag out again.

“You can say no.”

Rose hesitated.

Then took it.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And that—

More than the clothes Ilya bought Shane—

More than the prices he barely glanced at—

More than the way employees seemed to recognize him—

That got Shane.

Because Ilya didn’t treat Rose like Shane’s annoying friend he had to tolerate to get access to Shane.

He talked to her.

Included her.

Asked her opinion.

Teased her.

Listened when she spoke.

At another store she mentioned liking a pair of earrings.

She walked away.

Ilya quietly bought those too.

Rose called him insane.

Ilya told her she was welcome.

And Shane watched them bicker while something warm settled in his chest.

He liked this.

He liked that Ilya understood loving—liking, caring about—someone meant respecting the people who mattered to them too.

-

Somewhere around store eight, shopping for Shane became shopping for Ilya.

It happened accidentally.

Ilya was looking through a rack while Shane waited nearby.

Shane spotted a dark green shirt.

He pulled it out.

Looked at it.

Then looked at Ilya.

“Hm.”

Ilya glanced over.

“What?”

“Come here.”

Ilya approached.

Shane held the shirt against his chest.

Ilya looked down.

Then at Shane.

“What are you doing?”

“Visualizing.”

“Am I allowed to participate?”

“No.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane stepped back.

Tilted his head.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“This would look good on you.”

“Would it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

Shane blinked.

“You haven’t tried it on.”

“You said it would look good.”

“You trust me that much?”

“With a shirt?”

“Still.”

Ilya’s eyes softened.

“Yes.”

Shane put it over his arm.

Ten minutes later he found another.

Then a sweater.

Then a jacket.

Each time, Shane would hold it against Ilya’s chest.

Each time, Ilya barely looked at the clothes.

He looked at Shane.

Eventually Shane noticed.

“Why do you keep staring at me?”

“I like watching you choose things for me.”

Shane’s hands slowed.

“Oh.”

Ilya smiled.

“So continue.”

Shane did.

-

By late afternoon, Rose had disappeared into another section of the store.

Shane had lost track of how many bags they had.

Not an obscene amount.

At least that’s what he was telling himself.

But more than he’d ever bought in one day.

Definitely.

They had finally found what Rose considered an acceptable outfit for dinner.

Dark trousers.

A beautifully fitted shirt.

A lightweight sweater that could go over it depending on how casual dinner actually was.

And a jacket Shane had initially refused to try because he’d looked at the price.

Ilya hadn’t argued.

He’d simply put it back.

Then Shane had stared at it for another thirty seconds.

Ilya noticed.

“You want to try it.”

“No.”

“You’re staring at it.”

“Because it’s nice.”

“Try it.”

“No.”

“We don’t have to buy it.”

Shane hesitated.

That was how he ended up in the fitting room.

And that was how he ended up stuck.

“Ilya.”

Nothing.

Shane frowned.

“Ilya?”

A voice came through the door.

“Yes?”

“Can you come in?”

Pause.

Then, “Are you decent?”

Shane laughed.

“Yes.”

The door opened.

Ilya stepped inside.

The fitting room suddenly became approximately eighty percent smaller.

Shane looked at him through the mirror.

“It’s sitting weird.”

Ilya looked.

The shirt underneath had bunched beneath the jacket, and the back of the collar had folded awkwardly.

“May I?”

Shane nodded.

Ilya stepped behind him.

His fingers went to the collar.

Shane watched through the mirror.

Ilya smoothed the fabric.

Adjusted the shirt underneath.

Then settled both hands briefly on Shane’s shoulders.

“There.”

Shane looked at himself.

Oh.

Damn.

The jacket really was nice.

It fit his shoulders perfectly.

Narrowed neatly at his waist.

The dark color worked with the trousers.

Ilya’s eyes moved over him through the mirror.

Slowly.

Shane caught the look.

“What?”

Ilya’s hands remained on his shoulders.

“You should wear this tonight.”

Shane looked at himself again.

“You think?”

“Yes.”

Ilya’s voice was softer now.

“You look beautiful.”

Shane’s eyes lifted.

They met Ilya’s in the mirror.

For a few seconds, neither moved.

The noise of the store seemed far away.

People talking.

Hangers moving.

Music playing somewhere overhead.

None of it mattered inside this little room.

Shane smiled.

Ilya smiled back.

And suddenly Shane wasn’t looking at the clothes anymore.

He was looking at Ilya.

At the man standing behind him.

At the man who had spent the entire afternoon making sure Shane never felt pressured.

Who had bought Rose a bag because she’d liked it.

Who’d listened to her opinions like they mattered.

Who had carried bags without complaint.

Who had let Shane hold shirts against his chest and smiled every single time.

Who had sent groceries because Shane once mentioned his refrigerator was empty.

Who remembered his favorite snacks.

Who told him when meetings started and when they ended.

Who listened when Shane talked.

Who never made him wonder where he stood.

Shane turned around.

Ilya’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

Shane stepped closer.

Then wrapped his arms around Ilya.

Ilya caught him immediately.

“What—”

Shane kissed him.

Not heated.

Not like the kitchen earlier.

Just soft.

Ilya relaxed into it.

One hand settled at Shane’s waist.

The other came up against his back.

Shane kissed him again.

Slowly.

Then rested his forehead against Ilya’s.

Neither spoke.

For once, Shane didn’t have a joke.

Didn’t have anything clever.

He just stood there with his arms around Ilya, breathing the same air.

Ilya’s thumb moved slowly against his back.

Shane closed his eyes.

“Ilya?”

“Yes?”

“I’m really glad I found you.”

The hand on his back stilled.

Shane opened his eyes.

Ilya was looking at him.

Shane smiled nervously.

“That sounded cheesy.”

“A little.”

“Shut up.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane didn’t move away.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Not because of…”

Shane glanced toward the bags outside.

“All this.”

“I know.”

“And not because you’re rich.”

“I know.”

“Or because you’re ridiculously hot.”

Ilya’s mouth curved.

“Though that’s definitely an advantage.”

“I am glad.”

Shane laughed softly.

Then his expression became serious again.

“I mean you.”

Ilya’s smile faded into something softer.

“The way you treat me.”

Shane swallowed.

“The way you listen to me. The way you remember things. The way you don’t make me guess whether you want me around.”

Ilya’s arms tightened slightly around him.

“And Rose.”

“What about Rose?”

“You’re nice to her.”

Ilya looked confused.

“Of course.”

“See?”

Shane laughed.

“That’s what I mean.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t treat her like she’s just someone you have to tolerate because she’s my friend. You actually talk to her. You include her. You listen to her.”

“She matters to you.”

“Exactly.”

Ilya still looked as though this should be obvious.

And somehow that made Shane’s chest ache more.

“You’re just…”

Shane searched for the words.

“Good to me.”

Ilya’s expression changed.

“Shane.”

“You are.”

Shane’s fingers played absently with the fabric at the back of Ilya’s shirt.

“And I know it’s fast.”

Ilya watched him carefully.

“Really fast.”

“Yes.”

“We met a week ago.”

“Less.”

“Don’t make it worse.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane laughed nervously.

“But somehow it doesn’t feel like that.”

“No.”

“It feels…”

He stopped.

What did it feel like?

Easy?

Safe?

Exciting?

Terrifying?

All of it.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Shane looked at him.

“I just really like how you love me.”

Silence.

Shane froze.

His eyes widened.

Ilya didn’t move.

Shane’s heart stopped.

“I—”

Oh fuck.

“I mean—”

His face went hot.

“Not love.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

“Not—not that you don’t—”

Shane closed his eyes.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Shane.”

“I meant like.”

He opened his eyes.

“I meant the way you like me. Obviously. Because love would be insane. We’ve known each other for like five seconds and—”

“Shane.”

“—and I’m not saying you’re in love with me because that would be incredibly presumptuous and—”

“Shane.”

“What?”

Ilya was smiling.

Not laughing.

Not teasing.

Smiling.

Softly.

“Love?”

Shane groaned.

“I didn’t mean to say that.”

“But you did.”

“I know.”

Ilya studied him.

Then his hand came up.

His fingertips brushed Shane’s cheek.

“What if you were right?”

Shane stopped breathing.

“What?”

Ilya’s thumb moved slowly beneath his eye.

“What if I do love you?”

Shane stared.

“Ilya.”

“I think…”

For once, Ilya hesitated.

Actually hesitated.

Not because he was afraid of the words.

Because he seemed to be examining them.

Testing whether they were true before allowing himself to say them.

“I think I am beginning to love you.”

Shane’s lips parted.

Ilya’s gaze didn’t leave his.

“I adore you.”

Shane’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“I want to be around you constantly.”

A tiny smile.

“I wait for your messages.”

Shane remembered Svetlana catching him checking his phone during that meeting.

“I want to hear everything you have to say, even when you are complaining for twelve minutes about someone from class.”

“It wasn’t twelve.”

“It was.”

Shane laughed, but his eyes suddenly burned.

Ilya’s expression softened even further.

“I think about you when you aren’t there.”

His thumb brushed Shane’s cheek again.

“I see something and wonder if you would like it.”

Shane swallowed.

“I finish a meeting and want to tell you about it.”

Another breath.

“I wake up and want to speak to you.”

Shane’s arms tightened around him.

“I don’t know what else I am supposed to call that.”

“That’s…”

Shane laughed nervously.

“That’s terrifying.”

“A little.”

“And fast.”

“Extremely.”

Shane searched his face.

“But you mean it?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Shane’s heart did something painful and wonderful at once.

“Ilya…”

“I have never been particularly interested in romantic declarations.”

Shane’s lips twitched.

“Shocking.”

“I find most of them excessive.”

“Very on brand.”

“Shane.”

“Sorry.”

Ilya smiled.

Then his expression turned thoughtful.

“But I think…”

He paused.

“I think perhaps I loved you from the moment I saw you.”

Shane went completely still.

Ilya gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh.

“That sounds ridiculous when I say it aloud.”

“No.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I saw you across a club.”

“While I was drunk doing karaoke.”

“Yes.”

“Very romantic.”

“You were terrible.”

Shane gasped.

“I was not!”

Ilya laughed.

“You were not.”

“You asshole.”

“But I remember looking at you.”

His laughter faded.

“And wanting to continue looking.”

Shane quieted.

“That had never happened to me before.”

Ilya’s fingers slipped gently into the hair at Shane’s temple.

“There have been beautiful people around me my entire adult life. Men. Women. People who wanted me. People my family desperately wanted me to want.”

Shane listened.

“And nothing.”

Ilya shrugged slightly.

“Then you walked into that club.”

Shane’s throat tightened.

“You laughed with your entire body.”

A tiny smile.

“You made faces after every shot.”

Shane groaned.

“You saw that?”

“Every one.”

“Oh God.”

“You checked on your friends constantly. You thanked the bartender every time he handed you something. You politely rejected that boy even though he wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Shane stared at him.

Ilya remembered all of it.

“I watched you for hours.”

“I noticed.”

“Yes. Eventually.”

Shane smiled.

“And when you looked at me…”

Ilya exhaled.

“I wanted you to do it again.”

His forehead returned to Shane’s.

“I didn’t know you.”

“No.”

“So perhaps saying I loved you is too much.”

Shane waited.

“But whatever this is…”

Ilya’s hand pressed gently against Shane’s back.

“It began then.”

Shane couldn’t explain what happened inside him.

Couldn’t organize it into anything sensible.

He just knew he needed to be closer.

So he kissed Ilya.

Ilya immediately kissed him back.

Still soft.

Still slow.

Shane’s hands slid into his hair.

Ilya’s arms wrapped completely around him.

No desperation.

No frantic heat.

Just closeness.

When they separated, Shane didn’t go far.

His nose brushed Ilya’s.

“You know what’s really annoying?”

“What?”

“I think I’m beginning to love you too.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane immediately pointed a finger between them.

“Beginning.”

“Of course.”

“Very early stages.”

“Naturally.”

“Could still go either way.”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“There it is.”

Shane laughed.

Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth.

Then his cheek.

Shane’s smile grew.

“I adore you too,” he whispered.

Ilya stopped.

Shane’s face heated again.

“That one was intentional.”

“Good.”

Ilya kissed him once more.

And Shane realized something.

He’d spent years thinking love was supposed to come after a certain number of dates.

After enough months.

After the appropriate sequence of milestones that somehow made the word permissible.

Maybe they weren’t there yet.

Maybe six months from now they’d laugh at themselves for saying it this early.

Maybe they wouldn’t.

But Shane knew what he felt standing in that dressing room.

He knew what it felt like when Ilya looked at him.

He knew what it felt like to be listened to.

Chosen.

Considered.

Wanted without being consumed.

Cared for without being controlled.

Maybe neither of them needed to define it any further than that.

Ilya looked over Shane’s shoulder toward the mirror.

Then smiled.

“What?”

Shane asked.

“You’re wearing that tonight.”

Shane laughed.

“You just confessed your love to me and you’re thinking about the jacket?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You look beautiful.”

Shane looked at their reflection.

Ilya behind him.

His own face flushed and smiling.

Ilya’s arms still around his waist.

The jacket really did look good.

Shane leaned back against him.

“Fine.”

Ilya kissed his temple.

“We’ll take it.”

Shane looked at the price tag again.

His eyes widened.

“Ilya—”

“We were having a moment.”

“This jacket costs—”

Ilya kissed him again.

Shane laughed against his mouth.

“That is manipulation.”

“Is it working?”

Shane looked at him.

Then at the jacket.

Then back at him.

“No.”

Ilya sighed.

“Worth trying.”

Shane grinned.

“Asshole.”

“Adored asshole.”

Shane’s face warmed.

He tried very hard not to smile.

He failed spectacularly.

-

By the time they finally left the last store, it was after five.

Shane didn’t know how that had happened.

They’d entered the mall with one goal.

Find Shane something appropriate to wear to dinner.

Somehow, several hours later, Ilya was carrying enough bags that Shane had stopped counting, Rose had acquired things she absolutely hadn’t planned on buying, and Shane had discovered that shopping could apparently become an entire afternoon activity when you were doing it with people you actually enjoyed.

They had a plan now.

Drop Rose off.

Go back to Shane’s apartment.

Shane would shower and change.

Then they’d leave around six, stop at Ilya’s so he could change, and head to his parents’ house for dinner at seven.

Simple.

Except the second they stepped through the mall doors, Rose slowed.

“Oh.”

Shane looked up.

Cameras.

Not dozens.

But enough.

Several photographers were waiting near the entrance, clearly having figured out where Ilya was.

The second they saw him, cameras lifted.

Shane heard his name.

Then Ilya’s.

Questions immediately followed.

“Mr. Rozanov!”

“Shane!”

“Are you two together?”

“Is this your second date?”

“Ilya, are you confirming the relationship?”

Shane blinked against the flashes.

Beside him, Ilya went subtly rigid.

Not frightened.

Prepared.

His body shifted automatically closer to Shane’s.

Rose leaned toward Shane.

“Isn’t this scary?”

Ilya immediately looked at him.

Shane noticed.

Of course he did.

He looked up at Ilya.

And smiled.

“Not really.”

Ilya searched his face.

Shane shrugged.

“I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That this would happen.”

Another camera flashed.

Shane kept walking.

Ilya stayed beside him.

“The second I agreed to go out with you, I knew people would wonder.”

His shoulder bumped Ilya’s.

“You’re Ilya Rozanov.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Shane laughed.

“I knew people would take pictures. I knew they’d talk about the age difference. Your money. Me being a student. Whatever else they can come up with.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Shane thought about it.

The honest answer.

“I’m probably not going to like everything people say.”

Ilya nodded.

“But I don’t care enough to walk away from something I want.”

Ilya’s expression softened.

Shane smiled.

“If it comes with the man, I’m willing to face it.”

Ilya stopped walking.

Shane got two steps ahead before realizing.

He turned.

“What?”

Ilya caught him around the waist.

Shane laughed in surprise as he was pulled back.

“Ilya—”

Ilya kissed him.

Right there.

Outside the mall.

Cameras immediately went wild.

Shane could hear Rose make a delighted sound somewhere behind them.

He didn’t care.

His hands landed against Ilya’s chest.

He kissed him back.

Not for the cameras.

Not as some grand announcement.

Because Ilya had looked at him like that.

And Shane wanted to.

When they separated, Shane was smiling.

“You know they’re going to lose their minds now.”

Ilya’s hand remained at his waist.

“I don’t care.”

Shane’s smile widened.

“Yeah.”

He kissed him quickly once more.

“Me neither.”

-

They finally made it to the car.

Rose climbed into the back with the shopping bags while Shane took the passenger seat.

Ilya started the engine.

“Rose.”

“Yes?”

“What is your address?”

She gave it to him.

Ilya entered it into the navigation.

Then paused.

“Actually.”

Rose looked up.

“Since Shane and I are eating dinner with my family.”

Shane smiled at the casual Shane and I.

Ilya glanced at the clock.

“Would you like us to get you something for dinner before we drop you off?”

Rose blinked.

“Oh.”

Shane looked at Ilya.

There it was again.

That thing.

The thing Shane had been trying to explain in the fitting room.

Ilya noticed people.

Included them.

Rose smiled.

“That would actually be great.”

“What would you like?”

“There is a restaurant a few minutes from here. You don’t have to buy. If you just drive by, I can run in and grab something.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Ilya nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

Shane stared out the window.

He was smiling again.

God.

He was so fucked.

-

The restaurant was only about ten minutes away.

Rose had apparently already ordered from her phone because the moment Ilya pulled up, she unbuckled.

“I’ll be two minutes.”

“Take your time,” Ilya said.

Rose climbed out.

The door closed.

Shane watched her disappear inside.

One second.

Two.

Then he unbuckled.

Ilya looked over.

“What are—”

Shane leaned across the console and kissed him.

Ilya made a surprised sound.

Then immediately kissed him back.

Shane’s hand slid against his jaw.

Ilya turned toward him as much as the center console allowed, one hand settling behind Shane’s neck.

This wasn’t the soft kiss from the fitting room.

It wasn’t the playful kiss from the kitchen.

Shane kissed him with everything buzzing around inside him.

Everything he’d been trying to understand all afternoon.

When they finally separated, both were breathing harder.

Ilya’s forehead rested against his.

“Hello.”

Shane laughed breathlessly.

“Hi.”

“What was that?”

Shane looked at him.

Really looked.

At this ridiculous man who had appeared in his life less than a week ago and somehow made himself feel familiar.

Shane smiled.

“Scratch that.”

Ilya frowned.

“Scratch what?”

“Beginning.”

A pause.

Then understanding flickered across Ilya’s face.

Shane’s heart pounded.

“I love you.”

Ilya went completely still.

Shane didn’t.

He was done being afraid of the words.

“I do.”

His thumb brushed Ilya’s cheek.

“I love you.”

The smile that spread across Ilya’s face was unlike anything Shane had seen from him.

Open.

Bright.

Happy.

“I love you too.”

Shane kissed him again.

Ilya laughed softly against his mouth.

When they separated, Ilya looked almost dazed.

“What brought this on?”

Shane glanced toward the restaurant.

Then back.

“You.”

“Very informative.”

“Shut up.”

Ilya smiled.

Shane’s fingers slipped down until they found Ilya’s hand.

“The way you treat me.”

Ilya listened.

“The way you treated Rose today.”

Something shifted in Ilya’s expression.

“You bought her things, yeah, but that’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

“You actually care about her.”

“She matters to you.”

“Exactly.”

Shane squeezed his hand.

“You don’t treat people like they’re accessories to your life. You don’t treat me like that either.”

His voice softened.

“You care.”

Ilya lifted Shane’s hand and kissed his knuckles.

“So do you.”

“I know.”

Ilya laughed.

Shane grinned.

“I’m very emotionally mature.”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you like me.”

“One of many reasons.”

Shane leaned closer.

“I love you.”

Ilya kissed him.

“I love you too.”

A knock sounded against the window.

They jumped apart.

Rose stood outside holding a takeout bag.

Her mouth was open.

Shane closed his eyes.

“Oh my God.”

Ilya started laughing.

Rose climbed into the back.

“I leave for three minutes.”

“You took six,” Ilya said.

“That is not the point!”

Shane turned around.

“Put your seat belt on.”

Rose stared.

“Were you making out?”

“Seat belt.”

“You were!”

“Rose.”

She buckled herself in.

“I can’t take you anywhere.”

Ilya pulled away from the curb.

Shane reached over.

Found his hand.

Ilya immediately threaded their fingers together.

Rose saw.

For once, she didn’t tease.

She just smiled.

-

They dropped Rose off fifteen minutes later.

She collected her food.

Then her bags.

Then another bag she’d forgotten.

Before closing the door, she leaned down.

“Have fun tonight.”

Shane smiled.

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Then she looked at Ilya.

“Take care of him.”

Ilya didn’t joke.

“I will.”

Rose looked at Shane again.

Her expression said plenty.

Shane knew.

He smiled.

“Bye, Rose.”

“Bye.”

Then she was gone.

-

Back at Shane’s apartment, everything became strangely normal.

That was the part Shane would remember later.

Not the expensive clothes.

Not the photographers.

Not even the fact that he’d told Ilya he loved him in a parked car after knowing him less than a week.

It was Ilya sitting on Shane’s couch while Shane showered.

That was what got him.

Shane had grabbed his clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

“I will.”

When Shane came out twenty minutes later, hair damp and towel draped around his neck, Ilya was exactly where he’d left him.

Shoes off.

One ankle resting over his knee.

Remote in hand.

Watching television.

Shane stopped in the hallway.

Ilya looked over.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re watching my TV.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ilya looked at the screen.

“Because you told me to make myself comfortable.”

Shane laughed.

“No, I mean…”

He didn’t know what he meant.

This should have been awkward.

Having someone he’d only just started dating sitting alone in his apartment while he showered.

Instead—

It wasn’t.

Ilya looked like he belonged there.

Shane liked that thought far too much.

“What are you watching?”

“I don’t know.”

“You picked it.”

“It was already on.”

Shane sat beside him.

Ilya looked at his wet hair.

“You’re dripping.”

“I know.”

“On me.”

“Tragic.”

Ilya grabbed the towel from around Shane’s neck and started drying his hair.

Shane laughed.

“Hey!”

“Hold still.”

“I’m not five.”

“You’re getting water on my sweater.”

“You own other sweaters.”

“That is not the point.”

Shane let him do it anyway.

When Ilya finished, Shane’s hair was a disaster.

Shane checked his reflection in his phone.

“I hate you.”

“You told me you loved me twenty minutes ago.”

“Feelings change.”

Ilya kissed his temple.

“Get dressed.”

Shane smiled.

-

The outfit from the mall fit perfectly.

Of course it did.

Shane stood in front of his mirror and adjusted the jacket.

Ilya appeared behind him.

Their eyes met in the reflection.

Just like the fitting room.

Shane smiled.

Ilya smiled back.

“Beautiful.”

Shane’s cheeks warmed.

“You’re biased.”

“Very.”

Shane turned.

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go make you beautiful too.”

Ilya stared.

Shane laughed.

“I’m kidding.”

“I was about to leave you here.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“No.”

Ilya took his hand.

“I wasn’t.”

-

Ilya’s home was exactly what Shane expected and somehow not at all.

Large.

Beautiful.

Immaculate.

The kind of place Shane couldn’t imagine himself living in.

But it wasn’t cold.

There were photographs.

Books.

A coat draped over the back of a chair.

Mail on a table.

Shoes near the door.

Signs that someone actually lived there.

“Wow.”

Ilya glanced over.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Shane looked around.

“Just very you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Expensive but secretly cozy.”

Ilya laughed.

“Sit.”

“You have to get dressed.”

“I know.”

Ilya disappeared upstairs.

Shane wandered into the living room.

Five minutes later he found himself looking at photographs.

Ilya younger.

Ilya with his parents.

Ilya and Svetlana.

Ilya with his sister.

Different countries.

Different years.

A whole life Shane hadn’t known existed a week ago.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Shane turned.

And forgot whatever he’d been thinking.

Ilya stood there dressed for dinner.

Dark trousers.

Beautifully fitted shirt.

And—

Shane’s mouth opened.

“You’re wearing it.”

Ilya looked down.

The shirt Shane had chosen at the mall.

Dark green.

The one Shane had held against his chest.

“You picked it.”

Shane stared.

Ilya smiled.

“So I wore it.”

Shane crossed the room.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Do you like it?”

Shane grabbed the front of the shirt.

“I love it.”

Ilya’s eyebrows rose.

“The shirt?”

Shane smiled.

“You too.”

Ilya kissed him.

-

They arrived at the Rozanov home just before seven.

Shane barely made it through the door.

“Shane!”

Ilya sighed.

“Mother.”

She appeared almost immediately.

Her entire face lit up.

“You came!”

Shane laughed.

“I did.”

She hugged him.

Shane had approximately half a second to be surprised before he hugged her back.

“I am so happy to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

Ilya’s sister appeared.

Then his aunt.

Then Grigori.

Then Svetlana.

“Oh God,” Ilya muttered.

Svetlana grinned.

“Birthday boy.”

Shane pointed at her.

“Menace.”

Her mouth dropped open.

Then she looked at Ilya.

“You’ve been talking about me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I knew I liked him.”

Grigori approached more calmly.

“Shane.”

Shane smiled.

“Mr. Rozanov.”

“Grigori.”

“Grigori.”

They shook hands.

Then Grigori looked at his son.

At Shane.

At their joined hands.

His smile grew.

“Good.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Everyone keeps saying nothing while clearly meaning something.”

His sister laughed.

Their mother touched Shane’s arm.

“Come. Dinner is ready.”

And just like that—

Shane was brought into the family.

-

Dinner was loud.

That surprised him.

He’d imagined something formal.

Controlled.

Maybe terrifying.

Instead, everyone talked over everyone.

Ilya’s mother kept offering Shane food.

His sister told embarrassing stories about Ilya.

Svetlana corrected them when she felt they weren’t embarrassing enough.

Grigori mostly watched the chaos with the exhausted patience of a man who had survived this family for decades.

Shane laughed until his face hurt.

“No,” Ilya said at one point. “That did not happen.”

“It absolutely happened,” his sister insisted.

“I was fourteen.”

“You cried.”

“I did not cry.”

“You cried.”

“I had something in my eye.”

“For forty minutes?”

Shane covered his mouth.

Ilya looked at him.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re laughing.”

“I have something in my eye.”

The table exploded.

Ilya stared at Shane.

Then slowly smiled.

“You think you’re very funny.”

“I do.”

Under the table, Ilya found his hand.

Shane looked over.

Nobody else noticed.

Or perhaps they did and were polite enough not to say anything.

Ilya’s thumb moved over Shane’s knuckles.

Shane squeezed back.

His mother was telling another story.

Rose had texted him three times asking if he was alive.

Svetlana was arguing with Grigori.

Ilya’s sister was reaching across the table for more bread.

And Shane—

Shane felt comfortable.

Not like he belonged to their world.

That distinction mattered.

He didn’t suddenly become wealthy because he was dating Ilya.

His apartment was still small.

He still had classes Monday.

He still worked.

He still had student responsibilities and a life that looked completely different from Ilya’s.

But he belonged at this table because Ilya wanted him there.

Maybe that was enough.

-

Later, when dinner was finished and everyone migrated toward the living room, Ilya caught Shane alone near the hallway.

“You okay?”

Shane smiled.

“Yeah.”

“Too much?”

“A little.”

Ilya laughed.

“I warned you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I implied it.”

“Your mother hugged me before I got both feet through the door.”

“She likes you.”

“I noticed.”

Ilya stepped closer.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Do you regret coming?”

Shane looked past him.

At the family.

His mother laughing.

Svetlana stealing something from his sister’s plate.

Grigori shaking his head.

Then back at Ilya.

“No.”

He reached up and adjusted the collar of the shirt he’d picked for him.

“I could get used to this.”

Something softened in Ilya’s eyes.

“This?”

Shane shrugged.

“You.”

Ilya smiled.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Because I could get very used to you.”

Shane’s hands settled against his chest.

“You already are.”

“Probably.”

Shane laughed.

Ilya kissed him softly.

And this time, when someone behind them made an exaggerated gagging noise, neither even bothered pulling apart.

-

Maybe they’d done everything backward.

Shane had spent months deciding the problem was men his age.

Ilya had spent years deciding perhaps romantic love simply wasn’t something he needed.

Shane had been looking for maturity.

Ilya hadn’t been looking at all.

Then one night, Shane sang karaoke badly enough to catch the attention of a man seventeen years older than him.

A man he probably never should have met.

Their lives were different.

Their ages were different.

Their bank accounts were laughably different.

There would be people who reduced Shane to Ilya’s younger boyfriend.

People who reduced Ilya to the older billionaire.

People who assumed money had to be the explanation.

People who would see seventeen years before they saw anything else.

Maybe those differences would matter sometimes.

They probably should.

Love didn’t erase them.

It simply meant they would have to talk about them.

Respect them.

Make choices together instead of pretending the differences weren’t there.

Because Shane had learned that he hadn’t really been searching for an older man.

He’d been searching for someone who listened.

Someone who communicated.

Someone who remembered.

Someone who respected a no and treasured a yes.

Someone who didn’t make affection feel embarrassing.

Someone who made him feel wanted without making him feel owned.

And Ilya hadn’t needed someone younger.

He’d needed someone who finally made him want.

Want another phone call.

Another dinner.

Another morning.

Another argument.

Another ridiculous text.

Another kiss.

Another ordinary afternoon.

Shane happened to be twenty-one.

Ilya happened to be thirty-eight.

Shane happened to be a working university student.

Ilya happened to be one of the richest men in the world.

They were both men.

None of those facts made their feelings less real.

The things that mattered were simpler.

They were adults who chose each other freely.

They respected each other.

They listened.

They laughed.

They challenged each other.

They made room for the other’s life instead of demanding that one disappear into the other.

And they loved each other.

Maybe sooner than expected.

Maybe faster than sensible.

But genuinely.

Shane looked across the living room later that night.

Ilya was listening to his father speak.

Then, as though he felt Shane watching, he looked over.

Their eyes met.

Ilya smiled.

That same smile.

The one Shane had somehow begun recognizing as his.

Shane smiled back.

Then Ilya held out his hand.

No words.

Just an open palm.

An invitation.

Shane crossed the room.

He placed his hand in Ilya’s.

Their fingers threaded together.

Easy.

Familiar already.

“You ready?” Ilya asked quietly.

Shane looked around.

At Ilya’s family.

At this strange new piece of his life.

Then at the man beside him.

“Yeah.”

Ilya squeezed his hand.

Shane squeezed back.

A week ago, Shane had been standing in a nightclub complaining that guys his age didn’t know how to love him the way he wanted to be loved.

Across the room had been a thirty-eight-year-old man who had spent his entire life wondering why everyone else seemed so desperate to find something he’d never felt.

Neither had known the answer was standing twenty feet away.

Maybe love wasn’t about finding the right age.

The right gender.

The right social circle.

The right bank account.

The right version of a life that looked sensible to everyone watching.

Maybe it was about finding someone whose differences could be met with honesty, whose boundaries could be respected, whose life could stand beside yours without being swallowed by it.

Someone you could choose.

And who, knowing exactly who you were, chose you too.

Ilya lifted Shane’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

Shane smiled.

“You know,” he murmured, “Rose is never going to let me live this down.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

“Why?”

Shane leaned into his side.

“Because apparently she was right.”

“About?”

Shane looked up at him.

“Maybe I did need to try a guy your age.”

Ilya stared at him for one beat.

Then laughed.

Shane laughed with him.

And hand in hand, surrounded by the noise of the people who loved them, they walked back toward the family together.