"You want what…?"
The words left Ivanov's lips in a slow, deliberate whisper. His voice wasn't loud—there was no need for volume when every syllable carried the weight of unspoken danger. It was the kind of tone that made weaker men tremble.
But Sam, heavy with intoxication, simply slumped further against him. His head lolled slightly, his breath warm against Ivanov's chest. Oblivious. Unaware. His body was too loose, too pliant in the arms of the very man he had just unknowingly challenged.
"Resign…" Sam mumbled again, softer this time, like a thought slipping free before he could catch it.
Ivanov's jaw tensed.
He had heard the word correctly. It rang sharp in his ears, over and over, an unwelcome echo that clawed at something deep within him. But Sam was drunk. His words were sluggish, lacking the usual sharp defiance he always carried.
He doesn't mean it, Ivanov told himself.
But then, his gaze drifted downward.
A sliver of white peeked out from Sam's pocket. The edge of a neatly folded piece of paper.
Something cold settled in Ivanov's stomach.
His fingers moved on instinct, slipping into the fabric with practiced ease. He plucked the paper free and unfolded it with measured patience. His sharp eyes scanned the text, absorbing every word in an instant.
Resignation Letter.
For a moment, the world stilled.
Ivanov's lips curled into a smile—humorless, sharp, dangerous.
He took his time, carefully folding the letter back as if it hadn't just struck a nerve deep within him. Then, without hesitation, he slid it into his own pocket.
It belonged to him now.
Sam shifted slightly in his arms, mumbling something incoherent.
Ivanov let out a slow breath, shaking his head.
"Better get you sobered up first." His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, a restrained tension coiling beneath his skin. His arms tightened around Sam, holding him close, possessive even in the guise of care.
His lips barely brushed against Sam's temple as he murmured, "Sleep."
And just like that, the night ended.
---
The Morning After
The office corridors felt longer than usual.
Sam barely noticed. His fingers curled tightly around the envelope in his hands, gripping it like a lifeline. The paper crinkled under the pressure of his hold, but he didn't care.
I'm doing it today.
His thoughts were relentless, hammering against his skull. No more backing out. No more second-guessing. I need to end this.
He exhaled sharply and pushed the door open.
The office was bathed in soft morning light, the golden glow filtering through the large windows. Ivanov sat at his desk, looking entirely at ease, as if the previous night had never happened.
The moment their eyes met, a slow smirk spread across Ivanov's lips.
"Ah, sweets," he murmured, standing up, his movements fluid and unhurried. "Glad to see you're up and moving. Feeling good now?"
Sam's grip tightened around the envelope, but he didn't answer. He didn't trust his own voice.
Instead, he took another step forward and extended the envelope toward Ivanov.
The smirk faltered.
Ivanov stilled, his gaze dropping to the envelope before lifting back to Sam's face. His expression didn't shift, but something in the air changed—an almost imperceptible shift, like the calm before a storm.
A long, tense silence stretched between them.
Then—
"This again…?"
The words were quiet. Too quiet.
Sam looked away.
A mistake.
Because the moment he did, a low chuckle slipped from Ivanov's lips.
Not a warm laugh.
No.
It was something sharper, something edged with amusement and restrained frustration.
"Do you really want to leave me that much?"
Sam swallowed, but before he could answer, Ivanov took a slow step forward.
"You think I don't know?" His voice was soft—mocking, almost. "That you're falling for me?"
Sam's breath hitched.
His heart lurched in his chest, panic flashing in his eyes.
"That's not—!"
"You're doing this because of that little misunderstanding you created in your head," Ivanov continued smoothly, his smirk deepening. "After seeing that woman with me."
Sam's face burned.
He hated how easily Ivanov could read him, how effortlessly he tore through the walls Sam had tried so hard to build.
"I don't want to see your face!" he snapped, his voice too loud, too unsteady. "You hear me!?"
Ivanov exhaled slowly through his nose, his expression unreadable.
Then, with an almost exaggerated slowness, he reached out.
His fingers curled under Sam's chin, tilting it up until their eyes locked.
"Oh, sweets…"
Sam froze.
"Just so you know," Ivanov murmured, his voice lower now, laced with something dangerous, something possessive, "I've had my eyes on you for a long time."
Sam's breath caught in his throat.
His thoughts scrambled, searching for an escape, a retort—anything.
"See the difference?"
A sharp inhale.
A beat of silence.
Sam shoved at Ivanov's chest. "Stop… stop messing with me!"
Ivanov didn't move.
He watched him carefully, his eyes unreadable.
Then—
His smirk returned.
"Mess with you?"
A pause.
A heartbeat.
Then—
"Let me show you how much I want to mess with you."
And before Sam could react, Ivanov's lips crashed against his.
The world tilted.
Sam's mind blanked.
Heat. Pressure. A collision of warmth and dominance, of frustration and something deeper—something raw and unspoken.
His gasp was swallowed whole.
Ivanov's grip tightened, fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer, demanding a response.
Sam's hands pressed against his chest, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, he couldn't tell. His body betrayed him, his fingers trembling as they clutched at the fabric between them.
The kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't careful.
It was a battle.
A war waged between lips and tongues, between two people too stubborn, too foolish, too tangled in each other to know where they stood anymore.
And when Ivanov finally pulled away, his breath warm against Sam's lips, his smirk was back—satisfied, knowing.
"Du-dun."
Sam's heartbeat.
His breath.
Everything.
Overwhelmed.
Speechless.
This wasn't happening.
It couldn't be happening.
But the worst part?
He wasn't sure if he wanted it to stop.