Ilya’s fingers stilled on the controller, his knuckles faintly pale from the way he held it—not out of fear, but like it tethered him to something solid. The lights from the TV bathed the side of his face in a soft glow, painting his sharp features in flickers of pastel chaos from the game screen. He didn’t look at Romeo right away. Instead, his gaze stayed distant, hovering somewhere between the familiar racetrack map and the unfamiliar ache in his chest.
That kind of promise—I'll protect you—it should’ve sounded comforting.
But it didn’t.
Not right away.
"You say that like it’s simple,” he murmured finally, his voice soft and slow, almost distant. “Like I’m someone who just needs a lock and key and a decent right hook.” His thumb brushed idly over the controller buttons as he stared at the screen. “But you haven’t seen what comes for me when the doors are locked and the lights are off.”
He turned his head slightly, green eyes flicking to Romeo. There was a look there—one most people never noticed, or never cared enough to ask about. Something old and worn. A look that didn’t belong on someone so young.
“I’ve had guards before. Men who were bigger, louder. Sharper smiles, flashier guns. But they all had one thing in common.” His mouth twisted, just a little. “They were loyal to my father.”
That word father came out like a shard of glass on the tongue—sharp, cold, and something Ilya didn’t want to be holding.
He exhaled quietly through his nose, the silence that followed somehow louder than his words. Then, with practiced grace, he set the controller down on the coffee table in front of them and leaned back, gaze tilting toward the ceiling like the answer might be written in the plaster above.
“But I believe you,” he said at last, his tone lower, more careful now. “I believe you want to protect me. And maybe that’s a start.”
He didn’t mean it to sound like such a vulnerable confession. But it was.
Then the switch flipped—like it always did—and he straightened his spine, wrapping that vulnerability back up in something sharper, more manageable. His voice, when it came again, was quieter but edged, like a warning wrapped in velvet.
“Just… don’t say it unless you mean it. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Because if you tell me you’ll protect me—if I let myself believe you—and then you fail…” He looked down at his hands. Flexed his fingers. “You won’t be the first. But it’ll still hurt.”
There was a long pause before he moved again. A soft shift of weight. The slightest exhale.
“Sorry,” Ilya added, almost sheepish, but not quite. His eyes flicked back to Romeo, and this time they were softer—still guarded, but not locked. “Didn’t mean to bite. You just… feel different. And different is hard to trust.”
He reached for his controller again, this time with a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. A spark of something mischievous in his eyes, like the tension had momentarily broken apart.
“Anyway. Let’s see if you survive Rainbow Road before you try surviving me.” He shot Romeo a glance, raising an eyebrow with faux innocence. “Hope you like falling.”
