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“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his legs are still shaky, and when I guide him toward the bathroom, he leans into me even more.

I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat, then step in and pull him after me. He hisses at the temperature, then sighs and tilts his head back, letting the spray hit his face and chest.

I reach for the soap, but before I can lather it, he turns and presses me back against the tile.

“Ilya—”

“Shut up,” he says, and kisses me.

It’s demanding, his hands already moving down my chest, my stomach, lower. I catch his wrist. “You’re sore.”

“I don’t care.”

“Prince—”

“I said I don’t care.” He bites my lower lip and looks up at me through wet lashes. “Fuck me again.”

I groan and pull him closer, one hand sliding down to grip his ass. He’s still open, and when I press two fingers inside, he gasps and rocks back into it.

“Greedy,” I murmur against his mouth.

“Your fault,” he shoots back, breathless. “You made me like this.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.” He kisses me again, harder, and wraps his hand around my cock, stroking slowly. “So take responsibility.”

I laugh and spin him around so his palms hit the tile. He braces himself, arching his back, and I line myself up and push in.

I fuck him, one hand braced on the tile beside his, the other gripping his hip. Water streams over us, and he takes every thrust with little gasps and whimpers that echo off the tile. When I reach around and wrap my hand around his cock, he sobs and clenches around me. I kiss the back of his neck, and after a while he comes with a broken cry, spilling over my hand. I follow a moment later, burying myself deep and holding him through it.

We stay like that for a long moment, then I ease out carefully and turn him around. “Now I’m actually going to clean you,” I say.

He huffs but doesn’t argue.

When we’re both clean, I turn off the water and wrap him in a towel, then grab one for myself. He stands there, dripping and scowling, and I dry him off piece by piece. He watches me the whole time.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says quietly. “Just..thank you.”

I pause and look at him. He’s not meeting my eyes, his ears pink, and I realize how shy he is.

I cup his face and kiss him. “Don’t thank me, prince.”

***

I lend him one of my shirts and a pair of sweatpants that he has to roll at the waist. He complains the entire time, muttering about how everything is too big and smells like me, but he doesn’t take them off. He has his own clothes here, but he still refuses to wear them and always reaches for mine.

“Stay here,” I say, guiding him to the couch. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“Could’ve fooled me with how obedient you were in the shower.”

He throws a pillow at my head. I catch it and grin.

I pull out eggs, rice, miso paste, and a few vegetables, then get to work. Behind me, I hear Ilya moving around. “What are you doing?” I ask without turning around.