Mina's boots felt heavy as she crossed the quad toward the student lounge. The late afternoon sun was already failing, the chill biting through the thin fabric of her crop top, and she pulled Vlad's jacket tighter around herself. His scent was still there—something clean and masculine, soap and ice and the faint edge of sweat from practice. She'd been wearing it for three hours now. Sleeping in it tonight was already a foregone conclusion.

The lounge doors loomed ahead, glass panels showing the warm amber light inside, and she could see the team clustered around the pushed-together tables near the fireplace. She'd known this was coming. Dmitri had texted her forty-five minutes ago: team's grabbing food at the lounge. vlad asked if you're coming.

Not if you want to come. If she was coming. Like it was already assumed.

Her stomach flipped. She pushed through the door.

The noise hit her first—laughter, the scrape of chairs, someone telling a story in rapid Russian. Three tables had been shoved together, chairs pulled up at awkward angles, and the team sprawled across them in various states of exhaustion. Most were still in their practice gear, hoodies and track pants, water bottles scattered across the surface like evidence.

And Vlad was at the center of it.

He sat on the far end of a worn couch that had been dragged over to the table cluster, one arm draped along the back, his gray eyes lifting mid-sentence as she walked in. The words died in his throat. His gaze caught on his own jacket first—the familiar dark fabric, the way it hung past her hips, the sleeves rolled twice to free her hands.

Then his eyes found her face.

Something shifted in his expression. A warmth that made her knees weak.

"Malyshka," he said, and the word cut through the noise like a blade through silk. "You came."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Nodded.

He shifted sideways on the couch, his hand patting the cushion beside him in a gesture so casual it felt practiced. "Come. Sit."

Every eye at the table seemed to track her movement. Dmitri, across from Vlad, lifted his water bottle with a slow, deliberate motion, his eyebrow arched just slightly. The other guys barely glanced—they were deep in conversation about some play from practice, voices overlapping in a mix of English and Russian—but Dmitri saw everything. He always did.

Mina crossed the room on legs that didn't feel like her own. She stopped at the edge of the couch, her fingers gripping the strap of her bag, and Vlad looked up at her with that patient, easy expression that made her chest ache.

"You want something to eat?" He gestured at the spread on the table—pizza boxes, a basket of fries, someone's half-eaten salad. "They ordered too much. Always do."

"I—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine. I ate."

She hadn't. She'd been too nervous to eat since his text.

He nodded, accepting it without question, and turned back to whatever conversation he'd been having with the guy beside him. His arm stayed along the back of the couch. The invitation was still open.

She sat.

The cushion dipped under her weight, and she settled closer to him than she'd meant to—or exactly as close as she'd meant to, depending on how honest she was being with herself. Her thigh brushed his. His arm, still draped behind her, came to rest against her shoulders, his fingers grazing her arm through the jacket sleeve.

Casual. Absent. Like he didn't even notice he was touching her.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She pulled her textbook from her bag with trembling fingers, setting it in her lap. A shield. Something to look at that wasn't his face, his hands, the way his jaw tightened when he laughed.

Beside her, Vlad continued his conversation, his voice low and accented, the Russian words spilling out in an easy rhythm. He wasn't paying attention to her. Not really. His hand rested on the back of the couch, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, and every time he shifted, his fingers brushed her shoulder.

She pressed her thumb into the spine of her textbook. Hard. The pressure grounded her.

"You warm enough?"

The question came out of nowhere, cutting through her spiral. She looked up. Vlad had turned his head, his gray eyes studying her with that soft focus he got when he was checking on her.

"What?"

"You're shivering." He said it like it was obvious. Like he'd noticed before he spoke.

She looked down at her hands. They were trembling. But not from cold.

"I'm fine," she managed. "The jacket helps."

His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Looks better on you than me anyway."

Dmitri snorted into his water bottle. Mina shot him a look that promised violence, but he was already looking away, his expression carefully blank.

"You want a drink?" Vlad's hand lifted from the back of the couch, gesturing toward the counter where someone had set up a coffee station. "They have tea. Hot chocolate. Whatever you want."

Whatever you want. Three words that shouldn't have meant anything. Three words that lodged in her chest like a hook.

"I can get it myself," she said.

"I know." He said it simply. Like it was obvious. "But I'm getting up anyway. You want something or not?"

She blinked. He was already rising, his body unfolding from the couch with that easy grace that made her forget how to breathe. He towered over her, blocking the light, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

"Hot chocolate," she said. "Please."

He nodded once, a small, satisfied thing, and walked toward the counter.

She watched him go. Couldn't help it. The broad line of his shoulders, the way his practice jersey stretched across his back, the tattoos that crept up the sides of his neck. He moved through the room like he owned it, and maybe he did—the team's attention tracked him, conversations adjusted around him, and when he reached the coffee station, someone handed him a cup without being asked.

"You're staring."

Dmitri's voice cut through the fog. She turned. He was leaned forward now, his elbows on the table, his dark eyes sharp with amusement.

"I'm people-watching," she said.

"You're watching one person."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dmitri smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly where all the bodies were buried and was enjoying the view.

"He saved you as 'babygirl' in his phone," he said, low enough that only she could hear. "He calls you malyshka. He gave you his jacket. And now he's getting you hot chocolate because you shivered once."

She pressed her thumb into the textbook spine again. Harder this time. "He treats everyone like that."

"He doesn't." Dmitri's voice softened, just a fraction. "He really doesn't."

She wanted to ask what that meant. She wanted to grab his collar and shake the answer out of him. But Vlad was already coming back, two cups in his hands, and the moment shattered like glass.

He set the hot chocolate in front of her—steam curling up, a dollop of whipped cream on top—and lowered himself back onto the couch. This time, when his arm settled along the backrest, his hand came to rest on her far shoulder. A casual anchor. A claim she wasn't sure he knew he was making.

"Thank you," she managed.

"Of course." He picked up his own cup—black coffee, no sugar, she'd seen him drink it a hundred times—and took a long sip. "You need to eat something. You're too thin."

"I'm not—"

"When did you eat last?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. The answer was this morning, a granola bar, before my stomach decided it was too nervous to hold food, but she couldn't say that.

Vlad's eyes narrowed. He didn't push—that wasn't his way—but he reached for the pizza box, flipped it open, and slid it toward her. "Eat one slice. For me."

For me.

She picked up a slice. It was cheese and pepperoni, still warm. She took a bite, and the grease hit her tongue, and she realized she was hungry. Starving, actually.

Vlad watched her for a beat longer, something satisfied in his expression, then turned back to the conversation beside him.

She ate the whole slice. Then another. And when Vlad's hand drifted down to her shoulder again, his fingers brushing the exposed skin of her collarbone through the jacket's open collar, she didn't flinch. She leaned into it.

Dmitri's eyebrows lifted again. She ignored him.

The next hour passed in a blur of noise and warmth. The team cycled through topics—practice, some upcoming game, a guy named Anton who'd done something stupid at a party. Mina kept her eyes on her textbook, turning pages she wasn't reading, her whole body tuned to the man beside her. Every time he laughed, she felt the vibration through the couch. Every time he shifted, his hand found a new place on her shoulder, her arm, the curve of her neck.

He didn't notice. He was oblivious, the way Dmitri had warned her he was. But that didn't stop her from drowning in the attention.

At one point, someone mentioned a film coming out next weekend, and the conversation turned to whether the team should go see it together. Vlad grunted something noncommittal, but his hand tightened on her shoulder, a small, unconscious gesture.

"You should come," he said, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. "If you want."

She looked up. His gray eyes were on her, that soft focus back, and for a moment—just a moment—she let herself imagine he meant it differently.

"I'll think about it," she said.

He nodded. Turned back to the conversation. And his hand stayed.

She stared at her textbook, the words blurring, and she knew—with a certainty that settled in her bones like ice—that she was in so much trouble.

Because she wanted more than his jacket. More than his casual touches and his pet names and his protective warmth.

She wanted him. All of him. And he had no idea.

Dmitri caught her eye from across the table. He raised his water bottle in a small, knowing toast, and she saw the warning in his gaze: He doesn't know. And when he finds out, it's going to break everything.

She looked away.

The clock on the wall read 7:23. She had to survive at least another hour before she could make an excuse to leave.

Her thumb pressed into the textbook spine. She held on.