The living room was warm, lamplight soft against the dark windows. Three empty wine bottles stand like trophies on the coffee table, and the fourth was well on its way. Rose lounges against one arm of the couch, legs tucked under her, while Svetlana is sprawled across the other end, barefoot and grinning like she’d just won a bet.
“Ten years,” Svetlana says, pointing her glass at the two men on the floor between them. “Ten fucking years of tension, and now you sit there like innocent puppies. Kiss already.”
Shane laughs, too loud and too quick, cheeks already flushed from the alcohol. “You’re both menaces.”
Rose tilts her head, smiling slow. “We’re just asking for a demonstration. For science.”
Ilya hadn’t said much in the last twenty minutes. He’d been watching Shane the way he always did when the room felt safe: quiet, focused, like Shane was the only thing worth looking at. Now he shifts, knee brushing Shane’s, and set his own glass down with deliberate care.
“Want to give them what they want, Hollander?” His voice was low, rough around the edges from the wine and something darker.
Shane swallows hesitantly before meeting his eyes, he sees the heat in them and something clicks inside him, he gives a small fast nod, “…yeah.”
It wasn’t a performance, not really. Ilya reaches out, fingers curling into the front of Shane’s thirt, a gentle tug, but an unmistakable command. Shane leans in without hesitation, breath catching as Ilya mets him halfway.
The kiss starts slow. Ilya’s hand slides up, palm cupping the back of Shane’s neck, thumb brushing the soft skin just under his ear. Shane makes a small, involuntary sound, barely audible, and melts forward, hands finding Ilya’s shoulders like they belong there.
Ilya deepens it then. Tilts Shane’s head exactly how he wants, lips parting, tongue sliding in with lazy possession. Shane gives in completely, body going pliant, fingers tightening in Ilya’s hoodie. A shiver runs through him when Ilya growls something soft and Russian against his mouth, too quiet for the women to catch, but loud enough to make Shane flush darker.
Rose lets out a breathy laugh. “Jesus. That’s not PG.”
Svetlana whistles low. “Show off, Rozanov.”
Ilya breaks the kiss just enough to speak again, lips still brushing Shane’s. “He is my favourite thing to show off.” Then he kisses him again, harder this time, hand firm at Shane’s nape, keeping him right where he wants him.
Shane whimpers softly, the sound swallowed by Ilya’s mouth. His hands slide up into Ilya’s hair, tugging just enough to earn a pleased rumble.
They finally part, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Ilya holds Shane close, thumb stroking lazy circles on his jaw like he was staking a claim in front of witnesses.
Svetlana claps once, delighted. “Okay, I’m sold. You two are disgusting and perfect.”
Rose raises her glass. “To finally getting the show we deserved.”
Shane buries his face in Ilya’s shoulder, his laughing muffled against the fabric. Ilya just smirks, arm sliding around Shane’s waist to pull him fully into his lap.
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