Sam's mind short-circuits.
One second, he's standing there, barely keeping it together, and the next—warm lips crush against his own. His body stiffens, every nerve snapping to attention. His breath catches, stolen by the sheer force of it. It isn't a soft kiss. It isn't hesitant. It's raw, unrelenting, and far too possessive.
A jolt of heat crawls up his spine, and for the briefest moment, something in him falters. But then—
No. No, no, no.
His hands shoot up, shoving against Ivanov's chest. He's desperate to break free, to put some distance between them, but Ivanov barely budges. The man's grip tightens around his waist, keeping him locked in place.
Sam jerks his head back, gasping for air. "L–Let me go," he snaps, voice shaking more than he'd like.
Ivanov doesn't obey. Instead, his lips graze the corner of Sam's mouth as he exhales, his breath warm against Sam's flushed skin. "Hmm… why should I?" "When you're reacting so adorably?"" His tone is silky smooth, almost playful.
Sam grits his teeth. His pulse is hammering, every fiber of his being screaming at him to fight harder. "Because I said so, you bastard—"
Ivanov chuckles—soft, dark, amused. The sound ignites something dangerous in Sam's chest.
"You're always so feisty," Ivanov murmurs, his grip loosening just enough to make Sam think he has a chance. "Yet here you are, coming to me. Thinking about me."
"I don't think about you!" Sam bites out, feeling his face burn with heat.
He hates this. Hates how Ivanov sees right through him, how he turns everything into a twisted game. Hates how his body betrays him, heat curling under his skin even as his mind screams at him to hate, hate, hate.
He raises his hand to shove Ivanov again—harder this time—but before he can, Ivanov moves.
There's a flash of movement, and suddenly, Sam watches in horror as Ivanov pulls something from his pocket. His resignation letter.
No.
Sam's breath catches, eyes locking onto the crisp white envelope, still neatly folded. His stomach twists.
Ivanov studies it, turning it between his fingers. Then—before Sam can even react—he grips both ends of the envelope and tears it in half.
Rip.
The sound is deafening.
Sam stares. Disbelief slams into him like a freight train. His brain refuses to process what just happened. The torn pieces flutter to the floor like lifeless petals, and a hollow feeling spreads in his chest.
"You—" His voice catches, strangled between rage and something dangerously close to helplessness.
Ivanov, however, doesn't seem remotely fazed. In fact, he looks pleased. As if tearing apart Sam's one escape plan is nothing but a minor inconvenience.
Then, to Sam's utter confusion, Ivanov reaches up and cups his cheek.
The touch is slow. Gentle. The same hand that just destroyed his resignation letter now brushes against his skin as if he's something fragile, something precious.
Sam's breath hitches. He doesn't understand.
And then—
"Why do you think I'm letting you and your family live in my gifted apartment?"
His world tilts.
His heart stops in his chest.
That question—it's unexpected, sharp as a dagger. A thought he's buried deep, one he's never dared to address. But now, with Ivanov bringing it up so casually, the unease he's always ignored coils tight in his stomach.
He swallows hard. "I…" His voice is barely a whisper. His lips part, but the words won't come.
Because the truth is—he doesn't know.
He's never asked. Never wanted to ask.
Ivanov watches him, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze, as if reading every thought running through his head. Then, that damn smirk returns, slow and knowing.
"Don't think too hard, sweets," he murmurs, almost teasing.
Then, before Sam can move, Ivanov pulls him in again.
Sam tenses. His fingers twitch at his sides, his whole body wound so tight he feels like he might snap.
Ivanov's grip is firm, but not forceful. As if he's offering something rather than taking it. As if he's waiting.
"If you really hate me, my smell." Ivanov whispers, voice dangerously low, "then push me away."
The words settle between them like an unspoken challenge.
Sam's breath comes in short, uneven gasps.
He should push him away.
He wants to push him away.
So why—
Why does he hesitate?
Ivanov leans in, slower this time, lips hovering near his own. He isn't forcing anything now—he's waiting. Waiting for Sam to react, to shove him away, to do something.
But Sam doesn't.
His mind is screaming at him to move, to reject this, to end it before it spirals out of control.
But his body remains still.
And as Ivanov's lips inch closer, the only thing Sam can hear is the wild pounding of his own heart.