Ari pulls back just enough to press a slow, filthy kiss to my lips. “I fucking love you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with satisfaction.
I can’t even form a proper response. My body is still trembling, my arse aching, my mind lost in the haze of post-orgasm. All I can do is cling to him, my forehead resting against his as I try to remember how to breathe. “Love— you—” I manage, making him laugh softly against my lips.
He finally slides out and sets me carefully on my feet. My legs nearly give out, but his arm wraps around my waist, holding me up. “Easy,” he chuckles, his lips brushing my temple. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”
I glare at him, but there’s definitely no anger behind it. Not when I can still feel him inside me and not when my own release is drying on his skin. He smirks, his fingerstracing idle patterns on my hip as he leans in to steal another kiss.
The bathroom door creaks open somewhere down the line, the sound of people stumbling in and out barely registering over the roar of blood in my ears. There’s no way we weren’t heard, but I'm finding it very hard to care right now.
The warehouse spits us back out into the night. The cold air slams into my face, and I suck in a breath that feels like the first real one I’ve taken in an hour. The door thuds shut behind us, and the bass drops away slowly the further away we get.
Ari adjusts his jacket, his movements already calmer and more controlled, as if he slid the soldier back into place over whatever just happened.
We start walking. The streets are slick with reflected light, and the canals are black and still beside us. The high is fading in layers, leaving exhaustion behind. I bump my shoulder into his, but he doesn’t budge. After a few steps, he speaks again. “What do British men usually eat,” he asks, his tone thoughtful, “after fucking their boyfriends in rave bathrooms?”
I stop dead. “My what?”
He keeps walking, completely unbothered. “It seems like a cultural moment. I’m trying to understand.”
I hurry to catch up. “Firstly, that’s rude. Secondly, kebabs,” I say automatically.
He nods once. “We find kebabs, then,” he decides.
“Wait.”
He slows down and glances at me. “Yes?”
“You said... boyfriend.”
“Yes.”
“That’s... what I am?”
He stops walking this time, his eyes fixed on mine. “You flew from the UK to Russia for me,” he says calmly. “I flew to Amsterdam for you. I went to a rave I did not want to attend. I tolerated British music. And you let me fuck you in a bathroom that definitely violated several health regulations.” I stare at him. “I believe that is boyfriend behaviour, yes?”
“That’s your criteria? You make it sound like a checklist.”
“It was,” he says. “You passed.” I open my mouth again, then close it. He studies me for a second, then his expression softens. “Your stoned British brain is very cute, detka,” he adds, almost absent-mindedly. I blink at him, then he reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing once. I look down at our connected hands and stare, too scared to blink in case his hand disappears. “Would you prefer a different title?”
“No,” I say quickly, dragging my gaze back up to his face. “No, that’s — that’s good.”
“Good.” He starts walking again, tugging me along. “Now. Kebabs.”
The canal slips past beside us, the lights trembling on the surface, and somewhere behind us, the bass fades into memory. We stop at a little place that looks questionable at best. The window’s fogged, the menu is half worn off the board, and there's a rotating column of meat that I decide not to think about too hard because I’m tired and starving.
I step up to the counter and order the food while Ari watches the meat turn. “What is that?”
“It’s a donner kebab.”
“What’s in it?”
“Just eat it.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue with me either.
We eat most of it standing outside the shop. Because apparently I don’t have the coordination to walk and chew at the same time. By the time we start back toward the hotel, my mouth is on fire, and I regret nothing.
“You’re sweating,” Ari observes.
“That’s commitment.”
