She woke to the weight of him.

Not the heavy press of his arm across her waist—that had been there when she'd finally drifted off, a protective anchor she'd curled into like it was the only warm thing in a frozen world. No, this was different. This was his palm flat on her stomach, fingers splayed wide, the heat of it seeping through the thin cotton of the shirt she'd borrowed.

The shirt that belonged to him.

She stopped breathing. The room was gray with early morning light, the kind of blue-tinged stillness that came before the world remembered to be loud. The silk sheets had twisted around her legs, cool where his body hadn't been touching hers. But he was touching her now. His chest pressed against her back, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a rhythm she could feel in her own spine. His legs tangled with hers, the rough hair of his thighs catching against her smooth skin.

And his hand, on her stomach.

She lay frozen, her heart hammering so hard she was certain he would feel it through the mattress. But his breath never changed. Slow. Deep. The loose, heavy drape of a man still buried in sleep.

He shifted behind her, a small, unconscious adjustment, and his palm slid up. Skimming over her ribs. Settling over her heart.

She felt it stutter under his hand. Felt her pulse race against his skin like a trapped bird. Surely this would wake him. Surely he would feel the desperate, betraying thrum of her body and know. But he didn't. He made a low sound in his throat, barely a hum of satisfaction, and his fingers curled.

Under the hem of the shirt.

She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except lie there, suspended in the impossible, unbearable sweetness of his unconscious touch. His hand was on her bare stomach now, skin to skin, his palm a brand against the soft plane of her belly. His thumb traced a slow, blind arc, and she felt the muscles of her abdomen clench in response.

He hummed again, a sound she felt in his chest, pressed warm against her back.

Then his hand slid higher.

It moved like he was reaching for something in the dark, searching for the shape of her. His fingers found the lower swell of her breast, and he paused—a fraction of a second where even in sleep, he seemed to register the difference in texture. Then his palm cupped her, and his thumb found her nipple through the thin cotton of the shirt.

A sound caught in her throat. A tiny, bitten-off whimper she couldn't contain.

He answered with a sound of his own. A low, sleepy murmur, like he was satisfied with what he'd found. His thumb pressed down, rolling over the tight peak of her nipple in a slow, exploratory circle. The fabric was damp now, thin and useless, and she felt every ridge of his fingerprint as if he were touching her bare skin.

Her hips shifted. She couldn't help it. The heat of him, the weight of his hand, the impossible, devastating intimacy of being held like this—it pulled at something deep in her belly, a low, molten ache that spread through her thighs and pooled between her legs. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, and she stayed still.

She didn't stop him.

Behind her, his breath never changed. Slow. Deep. Still asleep. He was groping her in his sleep, his body reaching for a warmth it didn't know it craved, and he would never remember this. He would wake up and smile at her, and call her malyshka, and have no idea that his hands had traced the shape of her want in the dark.

The thought was devastating. And it was the hottest thing she had ever felt.

His thumb kept its slow, torturous rhythm, rolling her nipple between his fingers until it was a live wire of sensation, tight and aching and desperate for more. Her body arched into the touch before her mind could catch up, a helpless betrayal, and she heard herself make a sound—a small, broken gasp that hung in the gray air between them.

He stirred. Just a fraction. His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, and his other hand found her hip.

She felt it slide down. Palming the curve of her ass through the thin shorts she'd slept in. His fingers dug into the yielding flesh, squeezing, kneading, and a ragged breath finally escaped her, loud in the quiet room.

He pulled her tighter against him, and she felt it. The heavy, solid weight of him, thick and hard even in sleep, pressing into the cleft of her ass through the layers of fabric. He was hard for her. Oblivious, unconscious, and hard.

Her hand found his. The one splayed over her breast. Her fingers threaded through his, trembling, and she held on. She held his hand against her own body, letting him cup her, letting him thumb the taut peak of her nipple until she was drowning in sensation. Letting him knead her ass, spreading her open against the thick press of his thigh.

She could wake him. She should wake him. A single word, a shift of her weight, and he would stop. He would be mortified. He would apologize. He would pull away, and this—this impossible, aching, beautiful dream—would end.

She didn't want it to end.

She wanted to melt into him. To surrender to the dream that made him want her with such casual, animal certainty. To let him take whatever he needed from her body while the night still held them. She wanted to be the thing his hands reached for in the dark, even if his waking mind never knew.

His fingers tightened on her hip, and he made another low sound, this one different. Hungrier. His hips pressed forward, grinding against her in a slow, instinctual roll, and she felt the hard length of him slide against the curve of her ass. Her breath caught. Her eyes fluttered closed.

He stilled.

His hand flattened against her breast, the pressure firm and complete. His fingers stopped their coaxing. His hips settled. His breath hitched once, a strange, small sound, and then resumed its steady rhythm.

He had satisfied something deep in his sleep. Some ache he didn't know he had.

She lay there, caught between agony and ecstasy, her body humming with unspent tension. Her nipple was damp from his thumb, tight and aching. The fabric of her shorts was twisted and damp between her thighs. She was a wreck of want, and the man who did it was buried so deep in sleep he would never know.

She held his hand against her heart and waited for the morning to come.

It came in a blade of cold light through the window, slicing across the bed, catching the dust motes floating in the humid air. She felt the exact moment the consciousness returned to his body. His hand on her breast twitched, then flexed. His arm around her tightened, pulling her closer in a slow, waking stretch.

He breathed in, a deep, full inhale, and she felt his chest expand against her back.

"Mina?" His voice was rough, gravelly with sleep. He shifted behind her, and she felt his hand slide from her breast to her shoulder, squeezing gently. The touch had changed. It was awake now. Conscious. Careful. Brotherly.

"Mm," she managed, keeping her eyes closed. Faking the slow surfacing herself.

"You're still here." He sounded pleased. Surprised. Warm. Like a boy who found a gift he'd left out, still waiting for him.

"Where else would I be?"

She turned in his arms, her face inches from his. His gray eyes were soft, blurry with sleep. There was no memory in them. No awareness of what his hands had done. He looked at her like she was something precious, something to be protected, and she felt the ache in her chest widen into something unbearable.

He smiled. A slow, sleepy thing that cracked his stern face into something unbearably tender. "Dunno. Thought maybe you'd run back to your place." He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "You sleep okay?"

She almost laughed. Almost cried. "Best sleep I've had in weeks," she said, and meant it in a way he would never understand.

"Good." He stretched, his body long and loose against hers, and she felt the hard press of him against her thigh before he pulled away. He didn't notice. He never noticed. "I'll make breakfast. You stay. Get warm."

He swung out of bed, bare-chested, his shorts riding low on his hips. The muscles of his back shifted as he scratched his stomach, yawned, and padded out of the room without a backward glance.

Completely oblivious.

The door clicked shut behind him. The space he'd occupied cooled instantly. The warmth of his body, the weight of his hands—it all evaporated, leaving her alone in the tangled sheets, her body still aching, her heart a tangle of hope and despair.

She pressed her thighs together, trying to calm the low, persistent throb between them. It didn't work. She reached for her phone, needing something to anchor her to the present, and saw the notification.

Dmitri: *"How was the sleepover? 👀"*

She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She had no idea what to say. Because how do you tell someone that the man you love just used your body like a dream, and woke up treating you like a little sister? How do you hold that contradiction in your hands without it tearing you apart?

She typed: *"Fine. He's making breakfast."*

Three dots appeared immediately. *"Just fine? He didn't try anything?"*

She almost laughed. He tried everything. And nothing. And everything in between.

*"He's oblivious,"* she wrote. *"You know that."*

*"True. But I also know he saved you as 'babygirl.' The math isn't mathing, Lopex."*

She didn't have an answer for that. She stared at the ceiling, the one without the crack, and thought about the weight of his hand on her breast. The slow, torturous circle of his thumb. The way he'd pulled her closer, grinding against her in his sleep, hard and wanting and completely unaware.

The math wasn't mathing. But she was too deep in the problem to see the solution.

From the kitchen, she heard the clatter of pans. "Mina!" His voice carried through the apartment, warm and casual. "Eggs. Scrambled or fried?"

The same question. The same circles.

She closed her eyes, let the memory of his hands wash over her one last time, and called back, "Surprise me."

She heard him hum in acknowledgment, followed by the crack of an egg against a bowl. She pressed her phone to her chest, where his hand had been, and let the feeling wash over her—the impossible, unbearable sweetness of wanting someone who had no idea they were already hers.

And for the first time, she wondered if maybe she should show him.

The phone was warm in her hand. Not from use—from sitting on the nightstand all night, catching the ambient heat of the room. Her own reflection stared back from the dark screen, cheeks still flushed, hair a wild tangle from sleep.

She looked like someone who'd been touched. Already remembered. Already ruined.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, and the light caught the movement—the screen lit up, a notification sliding down from the top.

Dmitri: Dude. You and Mina. Spill. 👀

Her breath caught. She stared at the words, her heart hammering a new rhythm. Someone else saw it. Someone who knew Vlad, who watched them, who had been asking questions since the party. The math Dmitri said wasn't mathing—here he was, pressing Vlad for answers.

She should put it down. This was private. This was his phone, his life, his conversations with his friend that she had no right to see.

But her thumb was already swiping. The notification opened into the message thread.

Her eyes devoured the screen.

Dmitri: Dude. You and Mina. Spill. 👀

Sent two minutes ago.

The message above was from last night. She scrolled up without thinking, her pulse a roar in her ears.

Vlad: She's not like the others.

Dmitri: Not like the others how?

Vlad: Don't know. Just different.

Dmitri: Different good? Or different bad?

Vlad: Good. She's good.

She stopped breathing. The words blurred, then sharpened. He'd said that about her. She's good. Not hot. Not beautiful. Good. Like she mattered. Like she was something more than the short skirts and the visible thong and the way her body reacted to him. He saw something else.

Her fingers trembled. She scrolled one more message up.

Dmitri: You saved her as babygirl, man. That's not nothing.

Vlad: She's like a little sister. Gotta protect her.

The warmth in her chest cracked. Little sister. The words settled into her ribs like ice, cold and sharp. He'd said it. Out loud. To someone else. He saw her as something to protect, not something to want. The hand that had cupped her breast in the dark—that was sleep. Instinct. Not him.

She set the phone down on the nightstand, face-up, the screen still glowing with the damning words.

The bathroom door creaked. She heard footsteps, the rustle of fabric.

"Mina? I said scrambled or fried?"

His voice floated in from the kitchen, warm and completely unaware.

She hadn't answered. He was waiting. She had to say something.

"Scrambled," she called back, her voice steadier than she felt. "With cheese if you have it."

"I have it."

She heard the fridge open, the clatter of a cheese grater. He was making her breakfast. He called her malyshka and saved her as babygirl and told Dmitri she was good. And then he called her a little sister, and she didn't know which version was real.

She stood, her legs unsteady. The borrowed shirt hung to her thighs, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. She tugged it down self-consciously, though no one was watching, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

The kitchen was bright, morning light flooding through the window over the sink. He stood at the stove, his broad back to her, wearing only his low-slung shorts. The muscles of his shoulders shifted as he stirred the eggs, the tattoos on his arms flexing with each movement. Dark hair fell across his forehead, tousled from sleep.

He was beautiful. He was oblivious. And she was drowning in the contradiction.

"Smells good," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

He glanced over his shoulder, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You sound surprised."

"You always surprise me."

He turned back to the stove, and she watched him crack another egg into the bowl, his motions efficient and practiced. He was comfortable here. In his space. With her. She wanted to be part of his every morning. Wanted to wake up to the sound of him cracking eggs and calling out questions.

But he saw her as a little sister. The words still stung, sharp and persistent.

"Hey," she said, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward him. She stopped beside him at the stove, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Can I ask you something?"

He glanced at her, then back at the pan. "Sure."

"Why do you call me malyshka?"

His hand paused mid-stir. He turned to look at her fully, his gray eyes searching her face. "You don't like it?"

"No, I like it. I just…" She bit her lip, her heart pounding. "I want to know what it means to you."

He studied her for a long moment. The only sound was the sizzle of eggs in the pan. Then he set down the spatula and turned to face her fully, his body blocking the stove, his height making her feel small and protected.

"It means my little one," he said softly. "It's what my father called my mother."

Her heart stopped. Then started again, hammering against her ribs. "Your mother?"

He nodded, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "It's a family thing. I don't throw it around. But you—" He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "You're different, Mina. I told you that."

She wanted to ask. Different how? Different like a sister? Different like something more? But the words stuck in her throat, tangled with fear and hope.

"You call me babygirl in your phone," she said instead, her voice barely a whisper.

His flush deepened. "You saw that?"

"Dmitri told me."

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish. "It was a joke. I mean—not a joke. I don't know what it is. You're just… you." He gestured vaguely. "You're soft. And small. And you need someone to look out for you. Dmitri said I should save you as 'Mina,' but I typed 'babygirl' without thinking, and now it's stuck."

She felt the air leave her lungs. He'd typed it without thinking. Like it was instinct. Like the word belonged to her the way his hands had reached for her in the dark.

"I don't mind," she said. "I like it."

He smiled, that slow, tender thing that made her knees weak. "Good. Now let me finish your breakfast before it burns."

He turned back to the stove, and she stayed beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm as she watched him cook. The eggs turned golden, the cheese melting in ribbons. He added a pinch of salt, a crack of pepper, and slid the finished plate onto the counter.

"Eat," he said, nudging the plate toward her. "You need energy."

"For what?"

"Today. Your classes. All the things you do." He shrugged. "You're always running, malyshka. Gotta keep your engine running too."

She laughed, a small, surprised sound. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

He ducked his head, a grin tugging at his lips. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation."

"Your secret's safe with me."

She picked up the fork and took a bite. The eggs were perfect—fluffy, cheesy, exactly the way she liked them. He remembered. He always remembered.

He watched her eat, leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand. The silence between them was easy, filled with the sounds of his apartment waking up—the hum of the fridge, the distant chirp of birds outside the window.

She wanted to say something. To break through the wall he didn't know he'd built. To show him that she wasn't just a friend, not just a little sister, not just someone to protect. But the words wouldn't come. They never did around him.

Instead, she set down her fork, turned to face him fully, and before she could think, she closed the space between them.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his bare chest. He tensed for a fraction of a second, then relaxed, his arms coming around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.

"What's this for?" he asked, his voice rumbling through his chest.

"Just wanted to." She breathed him in—cedar and soap and something warm and distinctly Vlad. "You're warm."

His arms tightened, pulling her closer. "You're always cold."

"Keep me warm, then."

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against her cheek. "I got you, malyshka."

She stayed there, wrapped in his arms, her cheek pressed to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. He didn't pull away. He held her like she was something precious, something worth holding onto.

And for a moment, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—he was starting to see her the way she saw him.

The phone buzzed on the counter. He pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing. "That's probably Dmitri. He's been blowing up my phone all morning."

She felt a flicker of guilt. She'd seen those messages. She knew exactly what he was asking about.

"You should check it," she said, keeping her voice light. "He might need you."

Vlad scoffed. "He's fine. He just wants to gossip."

"Gossip?"

He shot her a look, half amused, half embarrassed. "He thinks we're—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Never mind. It's stupid."

Her heart hammered. "Thinks we're what?"

He rubbed the back of his neck again, a tell she was starting to recognize. "He thinks I like you. Like, like-like you." He laughed, a short, awkward sound. "Can you imagine?"

The words hit her like a punch to the chest. Can you imagine? Like it was absurd. Like the thought of him wanting her was laughable.

She forced a smile. "Yeah. Crazy."

He nodded, oblivious to the crack he'd just opened in her chest. "Exactly. We're friends. Good friends. That's all."

That's all.

She stepped back, needing space to breathe. "I should shower. Before my first class."

"You can use my bathroom. Towels are in the cabinet." He paused. "I can drive you, if you want."

"I'd like that."

She walked toward the bathroom, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. At the doorway, she paused, her hand on the frame. She turned back to look at him—still standing by the stove, still holding his coffee, still completely unaware of the war she was fighting inside.

"Hey, Vlad?"

"Yeah?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Shook her head. "Nothing. The eggs were perfect."

He smiled, warm and easy. "Figured they would be."

She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The mirror reflected her flushed face, the borrowed shirt, the wild tangle of her hair. She looked like someone who'd been touched, wanted, held. But the words echoed in her skull: That's all. That's all. That's all.

She turned on the water, hot and steaming, and stepped under the spray. The heat did nothing to warm the cold settling in her chest.

She was going to show him. She had to. Because she couldn't keep carrying this weight alone—the wanting, the hoping, the crashing disappointment every time he called her friend. She was going to show him.

She just needed to figure out how.

The water sluiced over her, steaming and relentless, but the cold in her chest didn't budge. She pressed her palms against the tile, letting the heat beat against her shoulders, and tried to find the right shape for what she was about to do.

Show him.

The words felt like a cliff she was standing at the edge of. One step and she'd be falling—falling into the kind of vulnerability that couldn't be taken back. He'd see the way she saved him in her phone, and maybe, just maybe, it would crack that oblivious shell of his. Maybe he'd start asking questions. Maybe the math Dmitri talked about would finally add up.

Or maybe he'd laugh. Call her crazy. Treat it like a joke and move on, leaving her even more wrecked than before.

She turned off the water and stood in the silence, dripping, the borrowed shirt she'd worn to sleep crumpled on the floor. She had nothing else to wear. Her clothes from yesterday were folded on the armchair in his living room—she'd seen them when she came in. Low-rise jeans. The thin black crop top with the lace edge. The same thong she'd worn to the movie night, the one his hands had already explored in his sleep.

She dried off with one of his towels, thick and white and smelling like him—that clean cedar-and-soap scent that had seeped into every corner of her existence. She wrapped it around herself and padded back into the bedroom, the cold air raising goosebumps on her bare arms.

His phone was still on the nightstand. She didn't touch it. She'd already seen enough.

Her own phone was in her bag, where she'd left it last night. She fished it out, unlocked it, and stared at the contact list. The name stared back at her, bold and damning and electric.

Daddy.

Her thumb hovered over it. He'd saved her as babygirl without thinking. She'd saved him as daddy without a second thought, because that was what he was. The way he took care of her, the way his presence made her feel owned and protected and achingly safe—there was no other word that fit.

She typed a quick message to herself, just to check the time, and pocketed the phone. Then she pulled on her jeans—low-rise, the button resting just above the curve of her hips—and the thin black crop top. The fabric clung to her still-damp skin, and when she looked in the mirror, her nipples were already tight and visible through the lace of her bralette. She didn't bother trying to hide them. He'd seen them a hundred times. He'd never noticed.

She ran her fingers through her wet hair, shook it out, and decided that was good enough. She stepped out of the bedroom and followed the smell of coffee and eggs into the kitchen.

He was at the stove, sliding the scrambled eggs onto two plates. He'd put on a shirt—a thin, gray henley that stretched across his shoulders—and his hair was still damp from a quick splash of water. He looked up when she walked in, and his eyes caught on her for a beat longer than usual.

"You changed," he said, a note of surprise in his voice.

"I didn't bring anything else," she said, gesturing at her outfit. "This is what I wore yesterday."

"Right." He blinked, then shook his head. "You look good. I mean—you always look good. You know what I mean."

She smiled, a small, tight thing. "Thanks."

He set the plates on the counter—one for her, one for him—and grabbed two forks from the drawer. "Eat up. I'll drive you to campus in twenty."

She slid onto the stool, the leather cool against her bare thighs. The eggs were perfect, still steaming, the cheese melted into golden ribbons. She took a bite and closed her eyes. "You're going to spoil me."

"That's the plan."

He sat down across from her, his own plate in front of him, and started eating with the same efficient, focused energy he brought to everything. She watched him between bites—the way his jaw worked, the way his hand cradled the fork, the small furrow between his brows as he chewed.

He glanced up. Caught her staring. "What?"

She looked away. "Nothing."

He studied her for a moment, then set down his fork. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at me like you're trying to figure out a puzzle." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "What's going on in that head of yours, malyshka?"

Her heart slammed against her ribs. This was it. The opening. She could tell him. She could show him right now, let the words fall out of her mouth like stones—I saved you as daddy, and I think you know what that means, and I need you to see me, really see me, before I fall apart.

Instead, she picked up her phone from the counter beside her plate. Unlocked it. Tapped the contacts.

"I was thinking," she said, her voice careful, "about what you said. About saving me as 'babygirl.'" She turned the screen toward him, pride and terror warring in her chest. "Figured it was only fair to show you what I saved you as."

He leaned forward, squinting at the screen. His expression shifted from curiosity to confusion, then to something that looked almost like a laugh he was trying to swallow.

"Daddy?" he read aloud, and the word came out flat, disbelieving. He looked up at her, his gray eyes wide. "You saved me as daddy?"

She shrugged, forcing her shoulders to stay loose. "You called me babygirl. I needed something that matched the energy."

He stared at her. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—crooked, disbelieving, genuinely amused. "Mina. That's—" He rubbed the back of his neck, a flush creeping up his ears. "That's something."

"Is it too much?" she asked, her voice small. Vulnerable. "I can change it."

"No." The word came out fast, almost before she finished. He cleared his throat. "No, don't change it. It's—" He laughed, a short, surprised sound. "It's funny. I like it."

Funny. The word landed in her chest like a stone. He thought it was funny. A joke. A matching bit of extended banter between friends. Not a confession. Not a crack in the door.

She smiled, and it felt like a mask. "Good. Wouldn't want you to think I was weird."

"You're a little weird." His grin softened. "But it's a good weird. You're my good weird."

He said it so easily. My good weird. Like she belonged to him in a way that was comfortable, familial, entirely without heat. He had no idea what the word daddy meant to her. No idea that when she'd typed it into her phone, she'd been thinking of the way his voice dropped when he called her malyshka, the way his hands had felt on her body in the dark, the way she wanted to curl up in his lap and let him decide everything.

He picked up his fork and went back to his eggs, the conversation already filed away as a funny anecdote. She watched him, the ache in her chest widening into a canyon.

"Vlad?"

"Mm?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. The words she wanted to say were too big, too sharp, too impossible to shape. "Do you ever think about—" She stopped. Shook her head. "Never mind."

He looked up, his fork halfway to his mouth. "About what?"

"Nothing. It's stupid."

He set down the fork, his focus shifting entirely to her. The intensity of his attention made her stomach flip. "It's not stupid if you were going to say it."

She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. "Do you ever think about why I'm always around? Why I show up at your practices and your parties and your apartment at"—she gestured vaguely—"ungodly hours wearing your clothes?"

He tilted his head, studying her like she'd said something in a language he almost understood. "Because we're friends?"

"Right." She laughed, a hollow, breathless sound. "Friends."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows on the counter, his voice dropping to something gentler. "Mina. Talk to me. What's going on?"

She looked at him—at his gray eyes, soft with concern, completely free of suspicion. He had no idea. He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he cared about, but he wasn't even looking for the right pieces. He didn't know there was a different picture to find.

She couldn't do it. Not today. Not with those eyes on her, full of brotherly warmth and nothing else.

"I'm just tired," she said. "Didn't sleep great."

His brow furrowed. "You said you slept great."

"I lied."

He stared at her for a beat. Then he reached across the counter and took her hand—his palm warm and rough, engulfing hers completely. His thumb traced a slow line across her knuckles, and she felt the touch everywhere, a current that ran from her fingers straight to the molten ache between her thighs.

"You can tell me anything, you know that." His voice was low, serious. "I'm not going anywhere."

She squeezed his hand, hard. "I know."

He held her gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—there and gone, too fast for her to name. Then he let go, stood up, and carried his plate to the sink. "Finish up. I need to get dressed, then I'll take you."

She watched him walk out of the kitchen, his shoulders broad under the henley, his steps unhurried. The spot where his hand had touched hers was still warm, still tingling, a phantom weight she didn't want to fade.

She looked down at her phone, still unlocked on the counter. The contact screen glowed, Daddy bold across the top. He'd called it funny. He'd laughed.

She picked up the phone and typed a new message to Dmitri.

He saw it. He thinks it's a joke.

The response came fast. Whoa. You showed him? How'd that go?

He laughed. Said he liked it. Then went back to eating his eggs.

Bruh. He's hopeless.

She almost laughed. Almost cried. Tell me about it.

But look—he didn't get mad. He didn't tell you to change it. That's something.

She stared at the message. He was right. Vlad had seen the word daddy in her phone, and instead of recoiling or demanding an explanation, he'd grinned and said he liked it. He had no idea what it meant to her, but he'd accepted it anyway. Claimed it.

Babygirl and daddy. Two words, saved in two phones, bridging a gap neither of them was ready to cross.

The bedroom door opened. Vlad emerged in jeans and a clean black long-sleeved shirt, his hair still damp but combed back from his face. He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and jerked his head toward the hallway. "Ready?"

She pocketed her phone and stood. "Ready."

The walk to his truck was quiet, the morning air crisp and cold against her damp hair. He opened the passenger door for her—always—and she climbed in, the familiar scent of his truck wrapping around her like a blanket.

He slid into the driver's seat and started the engine without a word. The heat kicked on, warming the cab, and he pulled out of the parking lot with the same easy confidence he brought to everything.

They drove in comfortable silence for a few blocks. Then, without looking at her, he said, "Hey, Mina?"

She turned. "Yeah?"

His jaw tightened. He kept his eyes on the road. "Don't ever think you can't tell me something. Even if it's stupid. Even if you think I'll laugh. I'd rather hear it than have you carry it alone."

She felt the words land somewhere deep, a warmth that spread through her chest like a slow tide. He meant it. He wasn't just saying it to fill space. He was looking at her now, a quick glance that held more weight than a hundred conversations.

"Okay," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll remember that."

He nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention back to the road.

She watched the buildings slide past—the campus growing closer, the clock ticking down. She had twenty minutes to her first class. Twenty minutes to sit beside him and feel the electric charge of everything unsaid.

She reached over, her fingers brushing his forearm. He didn't flinch. He let her hand settle there, warm against his skin, and when he looked at her, there was nothing in his eyes but affection—deep, steady, uncomplicated.

Friends, the look said. Best friends. I'll always be here for you.

She smiled, and it hurt.

He pulled up to the curb outside the student center, the same spot he always dropped her. His fingers tapped the steering wheel, hesitating for a moment before he turned to her.

"Text me when you're done with classes, okay? I'll pick you up."

She blinked. "You don't have to do that."

"I know." He shrugged, the gesture casual, almost sheepish. "I want to."

Her heart did a slow, painful somersault. "Okay."

She stepped out of the truck, and the cold air hit her, sharp and bracing. She turned back, leaning through the open door. "Hey, Vlad?"

He looked up, his gray eyes bright in the morning light.

"Thanks. For everything." She paused, the word rising in her throat, tasting like copper and hope. "Daddy."

He blinked. Then a slow, crooked grin spread across his face. "Anytime, babygirl."

She closed the door, her legs unsteady. He drove off, and she stood on the curb, watching the taillights disappear around a corner, the word still hanging in the cold air between them.

He'd said it back. Babygirl. He'd said it like it was a joke, like it was a punchline to a bit they'd started together.

But it wasn't a joke to her. And for the first time, she wondered if maybe—deep down, beneath all that oblivious warmth—it wasn't entirely a joke to him either.