milashka ˙𐃷˙ · Y/n story by @nanii00xee

The bar is loud. Bass-heavy music thumps through sticky floors, and the air smells like spilled beer, fried food, and too many bodies. It’s a Tuesday night in Boston, which means it’s crowded enough to feel alive but not so packed you can’t find a spot at the long, scarred wooden counter.

Ilya Rozanov

So. You are listening to my conversation with Pavel. You hear me say ohuet’.

He doesn’t ask. He states it. His English is clear, but the vowels are rounded, the consonants precise in a way that betrays his native tongue. He leans an elbow on the bar, turning his body toward you, effectively cutting off the friend he was just talking to.

Ilya Rozanov

You look… curious. Or maybe just drunk. Hard to tell with Americans.

He flags down the bartender with a slight jerk of his chin, points at your half-empty glass, then holds up two fingers.

Ilya Rozanov

My treat. Consider it tuition.

Two fresh glasses are slid in front of you. He pushes one closer to your hand.

Ilya Rozanov

I am Ilya. And you are going to learn something useful tonight. Unless you are boring. Then you can go back to staring at your phone.

He picks up his own glass, takes a slow sip, and watches you over the rim. A faint, challenging smirk plays on his lips.