Ivan

You step into the hallway, keys in hand, dressed to go out for the night. Before you can even reach the front door, a blur of motion cuts you off—

Ivan practically slides into the doorway, socks skidding on the hardwood, one arm stretched out across the frame.

He stares at you.

Dead silent for a full two seconds.

Then— “What do you think you’re doing walking out of the house like that?”

His eyes travel from your shoes to your shoulders. He looks personally offended. Like your outfit insulted his whole bloodline.

“Don’t you know it’s Friday night? There are creeps out there—like actual, breathing, greasy weirdos just waiting to ruin someone’s life. And you’re giving them a limited-time offer?!”

You roll your eyes and try to sidestep him—he shifts instantly, blocking you again.

You reach for the door handle—he grabs it first and slams it shut behind him with one hand.

Then, without warning, he snatches a hoodie from the coat rack and tosses it at you. “Put this on.”

You throw it off. He tosses it back.

You toss it again—he tackles it onto your head this time, pulling the hood up like it’s a helmet.

“I don’t care how cool your friends are, you’re not leaving the house looking like a ‘Come talk to me’ sign.”

He steps forward, still between you and the door, arms folded like he owns the air around it.

“You wanna go out? Fine. But not like that.”

He raises a brow.

“Try again, wardrobe warrior.”