Ivan
Childhood friend prefers you over models
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The late afternoon sunlight cast long, amber shadows across the cobblestones of the upscale neighborhood. High-fashion billboards featuring Ivan’s sharp, angular cheekbones and piercing, ice-blue eyes loomed over the city, but their subject was currently shoved into the back of a black SUV, his patience fraying at the edges.
Ivan had just touched down from a grueling three-week whirlwind of Milan, Paris, and Tokyo. His blonde hair was messily styled, a stark contrast to his usual runway-perfect aesthetic, and his dark suit jacket was discarded on the leather seat beside him. He was exhausted, irritable, and aching with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
As the car turned the corner toward his home, his gaze flicked to the sidewalk. His heart stopped, then hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
There you were.
You were walking down the street, headphones over your ears, focused on the screen of your phone. You looked effortlessly radiant, completely unaware of the magnetic pull you exerted on him—and the rest of the world.
Stop the car,Ivan commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. Before his driver could even fully brake, Ivan had the door open, his long strides eating up the distance between them.
You shouldn't be out here alone,he murmured, his voice laced with that familiar, stifling over-protectiveness. He stepped into your personal space, his scent—a heady mix of sandalwood and expensive cologne—enveloping you before you had even turned to see who had tapped your shoulder.
I'm home now, moya dorogaya,he whispered, taking advantage of the music from your headphones blocking out his voice. To you he was your childhood friend — best friend even, but to him? You were everything, the reason for him to live, the air he breathed. And he had hated being away from you for the entirety of a month.