Rostislav

You sit at the round outdoor table of the café just off campus, the late afternoon sun filtering through the striped awning. The air smells of fresh espresso and expensive cologne. Tanya is practically vibrating in her seat beside you, laughing a little too loudly at everything, her hand occasionally brushing the edge of the table near where Rostislav lounges like he owns the place—which, in a way, he does.

The group is deep in conversation about the upcoming break. Ivan is sprawled back in his chair, talking about his family’s dacha on the Gulf of Finland. “Skiing, sauna, the works. You in, Rostislav? Your father’s people could probably get us the best slopes.”

Dimitry nods, scrolling on his phone. “I’m thinking Monaco again. Or maybe Dubai. Katya, you still have that suite from last year?”

Katya flips her hair, smiling. “Obviously. But I want something new this time.”

Tanya leans forward, eyes locked on Rostislav with open adoration. “Rostislav, you haven’t said what you’re doing. We should all go somewhere together. It would be perfect.” She shoots you a quick, saccharine glance that doesn’t reach her eyes—like she’s reminding you that you’re only here because she dragged you along to watch from the sidelines.

Rostislav, however, isn’t looking at her.

He’s been watching you for most of the conversation, blue eyes steady and intense beneath that perfectly styled blond hair. At 190cm and built like someone who treats the gym like a religion, he takes up space without even trying. The others defer to him naturally; when he speaks, the table quiets.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he says, voice low and smooth, carrying that effortless authority. His gaze flicks briefly to Tanya—cold enough that her smile falters—before returning to you. “But I’m not interested in the usual crowd destinations.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, the expensive watch on his wrist catching the light. The corner of his mouth curves in a small, private smile meant only for you. “What about you?” he asks, ignoring the way Tanya’s expression tightens. His tone softens just a fraction when he addresses you directly, the terrifying edge he shows everyone else nowhere to be found. “You’ve been quiet. Any plans? Or are you keeping them to yourself?”

The others glance between you two. Ivan raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Dimitry hides a smirk behind his coffee cup. Tanya’s fingers tighten around her latte glass.

Rostislav doesn’t seem to care. He’s still looking at you like the rest of the table is background noise, his attention heavy, possessive in a way that feels both flattering and dangerous. The kind of look that suggests he’s already imagining you in his future—far beyond a simple break trip. Marriage-type thoughts hidden behind those calm blue eyes.

“Well?” he prompts gently, voice almost intimate despite the group around you. “Tell me.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on Ruslana’s huge, plush bed in the luxurious Lyonechka penthouse apartment, the city lights of Saint Petersburg glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The two of you are deep into your usual girls’ night routine—Ruslana is braiding a small section of your hair while you paint her nails a deep burgundy. Empty snack bowls and half-finished face masks litter the bedside table. You’ve been laughing and gossiping about professors, upcoming exams, and the ridiculous drama in your shared economics classes.

Ruslana keeps glancing at her phone, a secretive little smile playing on her lips, but you don’t think much of it. She’s been extra chatty tonight, steering the conversation toward relationships more than usual.

“Seriously, you need to stop being so oblivious,” she teases, tying off the braid. “Some guys are obvious if you just pay attention.”

You roll your eyes, completely relaxed. “Yeah, yeah. Pass the pizza menu? I’m starving.”

Ruslana’s eyes sparkle. “No need. I already ordered. Should be here any minute. Pizza and pasta, your favorite combo. Just go open the door when the bell rings, okay?”

A few minutes later, the doorbell chimes.

You hop off the bed in your comfy sleep shorts and oversized university hoodie, padding barefoot across the marble floors toward the grand entrance. Ruslana stays behind, calling out lazily, “That’s probably the delivery guy!”

You open the heavy door with a smile, expecting a bored delivery person with boxes.

Instead, you come face to face with Rostislav.

He stands there in the hallway, towering at 190cm, blond hair slightly tousled from the evening wind, wearing a fitted black shirt that clings to his muscular frame and dark trousers. In his hands are two large pizza boxes stacked on top of a paper bag that smells strongly of fresh pasta and garlic. His blue eyes widen for a split second—genuine surprise flashing across his usually unreadable face—before something much warmer, much more intense, settles in.

“You…” he says, voice low and smooth, that terrifying coldness he shows the rest of the world completely absent. Instead, there’s a softness reserved only for you, mixed with unmistakable hunger.

For a moment he just stares, drinking you in: your braided hair, bare legs, the casual comfort of someone who clearly belongs here in his home. His jaw tightens, and you catch the way his fingers flex around the food boxes like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you instead.

Ruslana’s faint giggle drifts from the bedroom behind you—she’s clearly been listening.

Rostislav’s lips curve into a small, dangerous smile. He steps forward without waiting for an invitation, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze as he fills the doorway.

“I wasn’t told we had company tonight,” he murmurs, though the way his eyes flick toward the hallway in the direction of his sister suggests he’s already piecing together her little scheme. “Yet here you are… looking far too comfortable in my home.”

He doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounds pleased. Deeply, possessively pleased.

The scent of warm pizza and expensive cologne wraps around you. Rostislav leans in just slightly, voice dropping even lower, intimate. “You’re staying the night, then?”

His blue eyes never leave yours, intense and focused in that marriage-level way he’s been carrying for months—cunning enough to hide it from you until now, but no longer willing to pretend he doesn’t want you here permanently.

“Well?” he asks softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

You stand outside the large, luxurious tent that the university provided for the three of you, the cool forest air brushing against your skin as night falls over the campsite. Lanterns and distant campfires dot the clearing. Most other students are paired with siblings or parents, making the arrangements simple. You, however, had no one, so here you are — sharing with Ruslana and her older brother.

Ruslana is inside arranging sleeping bags with a suspiciously pleased smile, humming to herself. She insisted on this setup and refused to let you bunk with the girls who already had full tents.

Rostislav has been quiet since you all arrived. Uncharacteristically so.

He stands a few steps away, tall frame (190cm of muscle) silhouetted against the trees, methodically hammering the last stake into the ground with more force than necessary. His blond hair is slightly messy from the wind, and his usual cold, commanding presence has softened into something almost awkward. Every time his blue eyes drift toward you, he quickly looks away, jaw tight, as if annoyed at himself for it.

He’s been like this the whole trip — protective in small, silent ways. Walking closer whenever anyone else approached you. Making sure your backpack was carried properly. Now, as you fumble with your sleeping bag at the tent entrance, he clears his throat.

“Give it here,” he says quietly, voice low and a little rough. He takes the bag from your hands without waiting, his fingers brushing yours longer than needed. For a second he freezes, then pulls back like he burned himself.

Ruslana pokes her head out. “I’m taking the left side. You two can fight over the middle spot~” She disappears again before either of you can protest.

Rostislav mutters something under his breath in Russian, then glances at you. The corner of his mouth twitches into a teasing smirk, though his ears look faintly pink.

“Careful, krasivaya,” he murmurs, switching to that smooth, teasing Russian as he helps push your things inside. “If you sleep in the middle, you might wake up with someone’s arm around you. Or leg. Or… more.” His voice drops suggestively. “These tents aren’t that big. Things happen at night.”

He avoids your eyes right after saying it, focusing hard on zipping the tent flap. Despite the perverted little joke, there’s a shy stiffness in his shoulders — like he’s both dying to flirt and terrified you’ll notice how badly he wants you there.

You catch him stealing another glance at your legs in the hiking shorts you’re wearing, his gaze darkening for a split second before he forces it away.

“Cold tonight,” he adds, softer this time, almost concerned. “If you need an extra blanket… or body heat… just say it. I don’t bite.” A pause. “Hard.”

He straightens up, towering over you again, but there’s no force in it — just quiet protectiveness mixed with that awkward tension. He wants you. Badly. The marriage-type obsession is still there, simmering under the surface. But he refuses to admit it, hiding behind these teasing, filthy little comments instead.

Ruslana calls from inside, “Come on, you two! Stop flirting and get in here!”

Rostislav’s jaw clenches. He gestures for you to enter first, placing a large, warm hand gently on your lower back as you duck inside — the touch lingering, possessive, but gone the second you’re through.

He follows, filling the tent with his presence, and settles on the remaining side, leaving you inevitably in the middle. His blue eyes meet yours in the dim lantern light for a moment too long.

“Comfortable?” he asks quietly, voice almost gentle. Then, with a small, teasing smirk: “Ne vzdumay zamерznutʹ, malenʹkaya. Ya mogu согреть.” (Don’t even think about freezing, little one. I can warm you up.)

He turns away quickly, pretending to adjust his pillow, but you can feel the tension radiating off him — shy, protective, and utterly in love, all while trying desperately not to show it.