THINK LATER
Ilya Rozanov x f!singer!reader
Series inspired by Tate McRae's album Think Later
THINK LATER masterlist
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au: english isn't my first language so forgive me some story errors or bad grammar. Hope you like it! <3 I also realized I find it so hard describing in words what I have in mind with this story, so some parts were really difficult D:
warnings: steamy, but no smut, angst?
Boston, 2020
I woke up to a massive headache with a constant heat pressing against my back. For a long, disorienting moment, I couldn't place where I was. This wasn't the familiar mattress of my apartment, nor were these the walls of my bedroom. The solid weight of an arm draped possessively over my waist confirmed my susspicions: I was in a bed with a man, in his apartment, for sure this wasn't a lucid dream either.
Squinting against the aggressive morning light reflecting off the white walls. I waited for my brain to catch up. Piece by piece, the fragments of the previous night began to reassemble. The club. The drinks. The black car. And him.
I heard a soft, low grunt behind me, and the arm around my middle tightened. Shit I though, my heart hammering aganist my chest. Do I face the consequences of my acting last night? or do I make a run?
I was too confused by the sudden change of waking up in a completly different place to realise, I wasn't wearing anything. The realisations of last night and the reality of today hit me at the same time. I instinctively tugged the covers higher over my chest, a small movement that must have disturbed him.
Ilya let out a low groan—a devastating mix of his thick Russian accent and the gravelly rasp of sleep. It was far more attractive than it had any right to be. Get a grip, I scolded myself. You don't even know this man.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice vibrationally deep against my skin.
He seemed barely conscious of his own actions as he nuzzled closer, burying his face into the crook of my neck like a man who had finally found home. I felt like a porcelain doll in his arms.
"Morning," I replied softly. His warm breath against my skin sent a traitorous shiver down my spine. A silent battle raged inside me: the urge to run versus the magnetic pull to stay.
"You smell… really nice," he mumbled, his words slurred with exhaustion.
A small, involuntary giggle escaped me. The silence that followed wasn't heavy or awkward, it was strangely comfortable, though the guilt over my worried friends was still eating me. "Can I borrow your charger?" I asked, turning my head slightly to look at him.
He let out a protesting groan. "Yeah, whatever. Just... five more minutes," he pleaded, his grip on my waist refusing to loosen.
"Okay," I whispered, surrendering to the moment. I rested my hand over his, tracing the stark contrast between his large, rough palm and my own.
The quiet was broken by a soft, feather-light peck on my neck, catching me off guard.
"Ilya," I warned, my voice trembling slightly. 'We don't even know each other', I wanted to say, but the words died in my throat as he spoke.
"I want you," he confessed. The words rolled off his tongue with the solemnity of a prayer, raw and unfiltered by daylight. He paused, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze heavy and unblinking. "Can’t you tell?"
I looked at him, caught between surprise and the undeniable electricity hummed between us. Despite the chaos in my head, a slow, knowing smile broke across my lips.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah." He nodded simply, his gaze burning into me.
I reached out, my fingers softly brushing his cheek. "Ilya… I don't think now is the right time," I said quietly, offering him an apologetic smile that I hoped conveyed more than my words could.
He held my gaze for a long moment, searching for something in my expression, before finally nodding. With one last, lingering peck on my neck, he slowly untangled himself from me. "Alright," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.
He slid out of bed, the cool air hitting the space he had occupied. I watched him pull on a pair of grey sweatpants, his movements fluid and unbothered by his partial nudity. "I'll go find that charger," was all he said before he vanished through the bedroom door.
"Ilya?" I called out after him, my voice echoing slightly in the large, minimalist space.
He reappeared in the doorway a second later, leaning against the frame. "Hm?"
"Do you... do you have any clothes I could borrow?" I asked shyly, clutching the silk sheets to my chest in a desperate attempt to keep myself covered.
A small, genuine laugh escaped him. "Of course." He made a beeline for his walk-in closet, rummaging through the rows of neatly hung clothes before emerging with a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. "Here." He tossed them onto the foot of the bed and turned to leave again, giving me the privacy I clearly craved.
"Thank you," I said, my voice filled with genuine relief.
Once the door clicked shut, I finally let the sheets fall. I reached for the pile he’d left me—a pair of black shorts and a worn-in Boston Raiders t-shirt. A big fan, apparently, I thought with a small smile as I pulled the fabric over my head.
The shirt was massive on me, the hem reaching mid-thigh and the sleeves falling past my elbows, but the weight of it was grounding. It smelled like him—clean, masculine, and expensive. Compared to the restrictive, tiny black dress I’d been wearing the night before, this was heaven. I felt comfortable, shielded, and strangely at home in his clothes.
I stepped out of the bedroom, my lifeless phone clutched in my hand. The quiet, rhythmic tap of my bare feet on the hardwood floors was the only sound echoing through the expansive hallway as I made my way downstairs. I found Ilya waiting for me at the base of the staircase, a charger already in his hand as if he’d been anticipating my arrival. I offered him a small, grateful smile as I took it, following him into the kitchen.
The kitchen was a masterpiece of cold marble and high-end steel. I found a wall outlet near the counter and plugged in the cord, letting out a small sigh of relief as the charging icon finally flickered to life on the screen. Letting out a sigh of relief.
In the meantime, Ilya was already busy, his tall frame rummaged through the refrigerator.
"Do you want some tuna melt?" he asked without looking up.
I blinked, surprised by the domesticity of the offer. "Uhm, yeah. That sounds good," I nodded, leaning back against the cool edge of the kitchen counter.
As he began to gather the ingredients, I found myself watching him. There was a deliberate, effortless grace to his movements. He was undeniably handsome, his physique—sculpted by what was clearly a disciplined gym routine—filling out the space in a way that was hard to ignore. I lost myself in the rhythm of his actions, my gaze lingering a little too long on the line of his shoulders.
When he finally pushed the fridge door shut with his elbow, his hands full, he caught me staring. His eyes swept over me, traveling from the oversized hem of his own shirt down to my bare legs, and back up again. A slow, devastating smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You look pretty," he said softly, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the kitchen feel much smaller than it was.
I looked down immediately, the sudden weight of his gaze making my heart hammer against my ribs. A heat that had nothing to do with the morning sun crept up my neck, and I found myself tracing the marble pattern of the countertop with my fingernail.
"Thank you," I murmured, my voice barely audible.
The shyness felt foreign. Usually, I was the one with the quick comeback, the one who could hold a gaze until the other person blinked. But here, in his kitchen, wearing his oversized shirt that smelled like a forest after a storm, I felt stripped of my usual defenses.
I could hear the soft clink of a knife against a cutting board as he began to prep the food. He didn’t push the silence, he let it sit there, thick and charged between us.
"Are you a fan? Of the Boston Raiders?" I asked, finally finding my voice to fill the void. I gestured down at the oversized t-shirt clinging to my frame.
He spared me a glance, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Are you?"
"Well, I don't really watch hockey that much," I confessed, leaning back against the counter. "I’ve been to a game or two with friends, but that’s about it."
"Oh," was all he let out, his focus returning to the stove. He was quiet for a beat before he added, "Well, I suppose you could say I’m something of a fan, yeah." He gave a small nod to himself.
"Something of a fan?" I echoed, my brow furrowing in confusion. "That’s a bit of an understatement for someone who has their official merch lying around, isn't it?" I ask, tilting my head.
"Well, given we talked the whole night, I still don't know much about you. Why couldn't I have a secret of my own?" He cast a playful, knowing look in my direction, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mystery.
"Oh, wow," I breathed, caught off guard by his logic. I offered a small, surrendered nod, shaking my head with a light laugh. "Okay, alright. I get it. Fair enough."
I heard his low, melodic chuckle echo through the kitchen as he plated the tuna melt. The golden-brown bread was perfectly toasted, the scent of melted cheese filling the air. He handed me the plate with a graceful gesture, and I murmured a quiet thank you before moving to the kitchen island. I claimed a high stool, settling in opposite him.
He turned around, his own plate in front of him, but he didn't sit. Instead, he leaned heavily against the counter, his large, muscular arms on full display. In the harsh morning light, the definition of his biceps and the sheer breadth of his shoulders were impossible to ignore—a physical testament to a life of intense discipline.
I took the first bite, and an involuntary sound of pure satisfaction escaped my throat. My eyes widened as the flavors hit me. "Oh, wow," I managed to say around the mouthful. "This is actually delicious."
Ilya looked up from his own plate, his jaw working as he chewed, a slow and deeply satisfied smile spreading across his lips. There was something disarming about seeing this powerful, mysterious man looking so proud of a simple sandwich. In that moment, the luxury of the villa and the unanswered questions about his "secret" felt miles away, replaced by the quiet, domestic warmth of a morning I wasn't quite ready to end.
After we finished eating, an easy, unspoken rhythm settled between us. I helped him clear the plates, the domesticity of the act feeling strangely natural given the circumstances. We migrated into the living room, sinking into a couch that felt like a cloud. I stood up to get my phone, that had reached a percentage I could actually work with and went back to sit down.
Ilya’s own phone began to vibrate on the coffee table. He offered a quick, apologetic look before excusing himself, his voice dropping into a rapid, rhythmic flow of Russian as he paced away.
I stayed on the couch, turning on my phone, my heart sinking as the floodgates finally opened. The notifications were relentless—a dizzying scroll of missed calls and frantic texts that seemed to go on forever. My stomach twisted with guilt. Hundreds of them.
I quickly tapped into our group chat, my thumbs flying across the glass.
'I’m okay! I’m so sorry. My phone died and I ended up staying over at his place. I’m heading out soon and I’ll tell you everything. I promise I’m safe. Please don't kill me.'
The response was instantaneous. Cole and Alysson began bombing me with a barrage of questions and scoldings that felt more like a lecture from my parents than a chat with my best friends.
'Where are you? Who is he? We almost called the police, Y/n!'
The frantic buzzing of the phone in my hand was suddenly drowned out by a sound from the kitchen. Ilya’s voice had risen, the low, melodic Russian from before now sharp and jagged with anger.
I looked up, my eyes catching his reflection on the darkened glass of the large TV screen across from me. He was pacing the length of the kitchen, one hand buried deep in his hair, the other white-knuckled around his phone. Even through the reflection, the change in his energy was terrifying. The calm, charming man who had just made me breakfast was gone, in his place stood someone who looked genuinely dangerous, his face contorted in a mask of cold, controlled fury.
Ilya returned to the living room only a moment later. He offered a small, weary smile—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sorry," he murmured, his voice softening as he reclaimed his spot on the couch beside me. But the change was undeniable, the relaxed ease of our breakfast replaced by a stiff, lingering agitation.
"Is everything alright?" I asked, my voice cautious, probing the sudden crack in his composure.
He looked at me, his gaze lingering in a heavy silence that stretched for a beat too long. "Yeah," he finally nodded, though the word lacked conviction. His eyes darted around the room, restlessly searching for a distraction to anchor himself.
He leaned forward, snatching the remote from the coffee table and clicking the TV to life. "Do you want to watch something?" he asked, his tone clipped, as if he were trying to force the morning back into a normal rhythm.
"You choose," I replied, sinking back into the plush cushions. I kept my eyes on him as he scrolled through the channels, his jaw set in a hard line. He finally settled on a some hockey game, the sounds of comentators filling the silence of the villa.
He let the game play in the background, but he wasn't really watching. I looked at him softly, noticing the way his fingers drummed a frantic beat against his knee.
I decided to take a risk. I reached out, my hand hovering for a fleeting second just an inch from his, debating whether to bridge the distance. Finally, I settled my palm over the back of his hand, my thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against his skin.
The tension in the room shifted instantly, the air thickening as the distance between us vanished. As my thumb traced slow, soothing circles against the back of his hand, I felt the rigid muscles in his arm finally begin to loosen. The ghost of the angry man from the kitchen faded, replaced by a gaze so heavy and focused it made my breath hitch.
Ilya shifted his gaze toward me, and our eyes locked. I offered him a small, tentative smile, which he surprisingly returned. The sharp tension in his shoulders finally dissolved, his expression softening as a genuine smile spread across his face. He reached out, sliding an arm around my shoulders and pulling me firmly against his side. His entire aura shifted in an instant, the storm from the kitchen replaced by a sudden, magnetic warmth.
I looked up at him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My hand wandered upward, my fingers grazing the sharp line of his jaw before settling against his cheek. Ilya didn't look away; his eyes, dark and unreadable, dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before returning to mine. The sounds of the hockey game on the TV—the muffled screams of the comentators—felt miles away, reduced to mere white noise in the face of the electricity crackling between us.
"You are dangerous, Y/n," he whispered, his voice a low, rough vibration that I felt deep in my chest.
"Why is that?" I breathed, my thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
"Because you make me forget everything," he murmured. He leaned in, closing the space until our foreheads rested against each other. I could feel the erratic beat of his pulse where my hand touched the nape of his neck.
The tension was a living thing now, thick and suffocatingly sweet. He tilted his head, his nose brushing mine, his breath ghosting over my lips. He was waiting, testing the air to see if I would pull back. Instead, I leaned into him, my fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head.
When our lips finally met, it wasn't the tentative, alcohol-fueled kiss from the club. It was slow, deliberate, and tasted of the quiet intimacy of the morning. Ilya let out a low groan deep in his throat, his hand moving to the back of my head, deepening the kiss with an intensity that suggested he was trying to memorize the very soul of me.
In that moment, the world outside simply ceased to exist. The dead phone, the frantic friends, everything melted away. There was only the heat of him.
I pulled myself off the cushions, moving with a newfound boldness as I straddled his lap. The friction of the movement sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I leaned into him, deepening the kiss with a hunger that matched his own. Ilya’s breath hitched, a low, guttural sound vibrating in his chest as his hands found a new purpose. One remained tangled in my hair, while the other slid down the arch of my back, tracing my spine with a searing heat until it settled firmly against me.
The weight of his touch was grounding, his fingers pressing into my skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. He pulled me closer, erasing every last millimeter of space between us, until I could feel the frantic, synchronized thrum of our hearts.
The hockey game continued to play on the screen, a distant blur of motion and sound, but the only reality that mattered was the scent of him and the way his grip tightened, as if he were afraid I might vanish if he let go for even a second.
The sharp, insistent vibration of my phone on the coffee table acted like a bucket of ice water, jolting me back to a reality that felt miles away from this couch. I broke the kiss, my breath hitching as I pulled back just enough to see the screen lit up with another barrage of texts.
Ilya didn’t move. His hand remained firm against me, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles that made it agonizingly difficult to think straight. I could feel his gaze, heavy, dark, and expectant, boring into me.
I looked at him, my chest heaving, a wave of genuine apology washing over me. The bubble hadn't just burst, it had evaporated.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words tasting like lead. "I... I really should go."
His hand stilled. The warmth didn't leave, but the rhythm did. Ilya’s expression shifted, that brief glimpse of raw vulnerability from the kiss retreating behind a mask of cool, professional detachment.
"Now?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble. It wasn't a plea, but there was a sharp edge of disappointment cutting through the gravelly tone.
"My friends... they’re spiraling. And I have a rehearsal I can't miss," I lied slightly, or perhaps I was just reminding myself that I had a life outside this glass fortress. I slowly untangled myself from his lap, the loss of his heat feeling like a physical bruise.
Ilya sat back, his arms draped over the back of the couch, watching me with an unreadable intensity as I gathered my things. He didn't try to stop me, and he didn't offer to help. There was a sudden distance between us.
"The shirt," I started, gesturing to the Raiders t-shirt I was still wearing. "I should—"
"Keep it," he cut in, his voice flat. He didn't look at the shirt, he was looking at my eyes, searching for a sign that I’d change my mind. "It looks better on you anyway."
I offered a small, sad smile, clutching my phone like a shield. "Thank you. For everything, Ilya."
He gave a sharp, single nod. "No problem, Y/n."
I turned away, the silence of the villa echoing my footsteps as I headed for the door put on my heels. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire way, a heavy weight that didn't lift until the heavy front door clicked shut behind me, leaving me alone in the crisp Boston air with nothing but his scent on my skin.
Back in the safety of my own space, the air smelled of coffee and familiar laundry detergent. I was buried under a mountain of blankets on my bed, wearing an oversized hoodie. My friends sat cross-legged around me, their faces a mix of lingering terror and frantic curiosity.
"Girl," Allyson breathed, pulling me into a crushing embrace that smelled of vanilla perfume. "You are seriously, certifiably crazy."
I let out a soft, jagged giggle, melting into her. Cole joined the huddle a second later, his large frame providing a grounded weight that finally made my heart stop racing. "Babe, I honestly thought you were dead," he whispered into my hair, his voice thick with relief. "Don't ever do that again."
The next morning, the domestic softness was replaced by the smell of pine cleaner and the squeak of sneakers on hardwood. There was a transformative power in the dance studio, the moment I stepped onto that floor, the shy girl vanished.
We spent the first hour stretching in a circle, the room humming with the low chatter of twenty other dancers. But when the speakers finally crackled to life, the atmosphere shifted. We were learning a new piece, something sharp, aggressive, and unapologetically feminine.
As the final run-through began, I caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I wasn't just following the counts, I was living them. My body moved with a predatory grace, every pop of my hips and snap of my head synchronized with the heavy thrum of the bass. Confidence radiated off me in waves, a physical heat that felt even more intense than the fever of the night before. I couldn't help the smirk that played on my lips.
My next stop that way was my music studio. By the time I got there, my head was spinning with visions of a song. I sat at the mixing desk, the neon blue lights of the equipment reflecting in my eyes as I described the vision to my producer.
The creative process was electric, a blur of neon lights and vibrating speakers as we spent hours chasing the sound that lived in my head. Every time I closed my eyes, I wasn't just hearing the beat, I was back at the party, on the bar and balcony, in that villa, feeling the phantom weight of his gaze, the way Ilya had looked at me as if I were a prize he had almost caught, only for me to slip through his fingers.
As we hit play, on the rough version of it I couldn't help the wide, triumphant grin spread across my face. "OMG! Yes! That’s it!" I cheered.
The next thing I had to do, was write the lyrics and do the vocals. Honestly, it was the easiest part of the whole process, it’s rare to have a muse that vivid and a dose of adrenaline that fresh.
The months that followed were a blur of late nights and creative friction. We tore the song apart and put it back together a dozen times, experimenting with different basslines and vocal layers until we finally found the one that felt like it. I was vibrating with excitement to finally let the world hear it.
When it came time for the music video, I didn't want a typical pop star set. I wanted something that felt like home, yet entirely out of reach. I gave my producer the vision, and he brought it to life with a cinematic sharpness. We hired a crew of dancers, and before I knew it, the production was pulling up to the very place I had in mind for the video, or maybe becouse that was the place I started to connect with him: the Boston Raiders' home arena.
The arena was cavernous and freezing, the air smelling of chilled ozone and residues of sweat. But as the industrial lights hummed to life, reflecting off the untouched sheet of ice, I felt that familiar rush of predatory confidence. But before we could film the first scene I had to learn how to drive the Zamboni.
Ilya's POV:
I finished packing my gear, checking my bag with practiced movements before grabbing my keys. My father’s voice crackled through the phone, dense with the usual family politics.
"Khorosho, papa. U menya trenirovka, pozvoni Alexei. Poka." I said, cutting him off before he could start on a second lecture. Okay, Dad. I have practice, call Alexei. Bye.
I shouldered my bag and headed for the garage. The morning air was crisp, the kind of weather that made me itch to be on the ice. I hit the remote, and the door slid upward to reveal my favorite distraction.
"Privet, krasavitsa" I murmured with a smirk, tapping the hood as I walked past. Hi, beatiful
The engine let out a throaty roar that echoed against the concrete, a sound that never failed to settle my nerves. I pulled out onto the road, the rhythmic pulse of Russian techno filling the cabin, songs that tasted like home and the cold streets of Moscow.
When I pulled into the players' lot at the arena, I frowned. My usual spot was open, but the surrounding stalls were filled with massive production trucks and blacked-out SUVs I didn't recognize.
Did I miss something?
I headed in through the back entrance anyway, my skates clinking in my bag. I was making a beeline for the locker rooms when I stopped dead in my tracks. The hallway was crawling with people. Techs with headsets, stylists carrying racks of shimmering clothes, and camera crews.
"What the hell…" I muttered. Was it a media day? I hadn't seen anything on the schedule.
I pushed further in, my curiosity getting the better of my annoyance. I rounded the corner toward the tunnel that led to the ice, and that’s when I saw her.
Y/n?
She was standing with her back to me, but I’d know that silhouette anywhere. I hadn't seen her since she’d walked out of my villa in my t-shirt, leaving nothing but a lingering scent and a restless ache in my chest. I blinked, half-expecting the vision to dissolve, but she remained vibrant and real in the center of the chaos.
I stayed in the shadows of the tunnel, my heart doing a strange, heavy thud. I pulled out my phone, finally scrolling past Alexei’s missed calls to my email. Sure enough, there it was: Practice canceled. Arena booked for private commercial filming.
"Ups," I whispered to the empty hallway, shrugging. I wasn't going anywhere, now that I saw her.
I found a spot in the darkened stands, obscured by the glass, and sat back to watch. She looked… incredible. Her hair was a masterpiece, her makeup makinging look unreal. She looked even better than I remembered, radiating a kind of polished power that made it hard to breathe.
Then, a Zamboni rolled out onto the ice. I let out a soft, incredulous chuckle. What the fuck? Watching her try to climb up and navigate the massive machine was the highlight of my month. She struggled with the controls at first, failing with a frustrated pout that made me want to jump down there and show her myself. When she finally got the hang of it, a grin broke across her face, the same one she’d given me over that tuna melt. My own smile was so wide it actually started to ache.
The beat was infectious, heavy, driving, and dangerously catchy. I found myself nodding along as she began to move. God, she was good. She was commanding the entire sheet of ice. Every sharp movement, every smirk she threw at the camera was a provocation.
I sat there for hours, a total ghost in the stands. Call it stalking if you want, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. She's beautifull, talented in dance and sings? I won't even start about the parts she shows in secret. She was beautiful, and surely she is talented.
As the lunch break rolled around, I walked outside for a quick cig, to clear my mind off of her. I’d been out there for five minutes, trying to freeze the image of her out of my brain. It wasn’t working. For the last few months my stats had been a mess. My trainer, had spent his free time screaming at me about "distractions," and threatening to bench me. He wasn't wrong. How was I supposed to focus on a puck when my mind was busy playing back the way she looked in my kitchen, maybe some other places, or wondering what she’d look like on my arm at the NHL Awards?
I couldn't concentrate on hockey, that was visible on my score board and I took a lot of shit from my trainer for it. I often though how life would look like with her in my life. Would I take her to Russia? What she would look like in my jersey on a game day? Or what she would look like, dressed up on awards giving days as my date.
Blyat, Rozanov. Fuck, Rozanov
The heavy thud of the metal exit door cut through the silence. I exhaled a cloud of smoke, turning my head.
"Ilya?"
Her voice hit me like a physical weight. She stayed by the door, her brows furrowed in a look of pure confusion.
"You smoke?" she asked immediately. No 'What are you doing here?' No 'Are you stalking me?' Just a blunt question about my habit.
"How can you tell?" I countered, a slow smirk tugging at my mouth despite my best efforts to stay cool. I leaned back against the brick wall. "So… you are a singer, huh?"
I let my eyes wander over her new outfit, something tight, black, and probably designed to drive people insane in high-definition. "You look nice," I added, the words slipping out before I could filter them.
The confidence she’d displayed on the ice vanished in a heartbeat. She looked down, that familiar shyness creeping back into her posture.
Cute.
It was ridiculous. Ten minutes ago, she was a queen on a throne of ice now, she was just the girl who’d stolen my heart along with my t-shirt.
"Thanks," she whispered, her smile small and private.
"I saw the Zamboni," I said, unable to help the quiet laugh that escaped me. "It was painful to watch."
She looked up then, her eyes snapping with a spark of that fire I remembered. "Hey! It's harder than it looks. Besides, what are you even doing here, Ilya? Don't tell me you're a backup dancer now."
I shrugged, a slow smirk tugging at my lips as I flicked the ash from my cigarette and took another long, steady puff.
"You free after?" I asked, my eyes never leaving her, as I watched her every move,
She looked at me, clearly weighing her options. Silence stretched between us for a few long seconds before she finally nodded.
"Yeah."
Taglist: @tsukikyo
