His thumbs hovered over the screen for a long moment, the cold biting at his bare fingers while he balanced a case of beer on his thigh. He'd been standing in his driveway for almost a minute now, phone in hand, the message drafted and ready to send. Simple. Casual. The kind of thing he sent to anyone.

Party at mine. 8. You should come.

He read it twice, then sent it before he could wonder why he was triple-checking a text to a friend. She was a friend. She'd probably bring some of her own people, mix with his teammates, have a good time. That was how parties worked. He pocketed the phone and hefted the case higher against his chest, the glass bottles clinking as he carried them inside.

Dmitri was already there, hauling a folding table into the living room to make space for cups and mixers. He looked up as Vlad came through the door, one eyebrow lifting.

"You invite her?"

Vlad set the beer down and started stacking it into a cooler. "Invite who?"

"Don't play dumb. It's ugly on you." Dmitri unfolded the table legs with a sharp snap. "Mina. Did you invite her?"

"Yeah." Vlad straightened, cracking his neck. "She's my friend. Friends come to parties."

Dmitri made a sound that was half laugh, half something Vlad couldn't name. "Sure. Friends."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Dmitri spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "Nothing at all. I'm just saying — you've never invited a friend to a party before. Not once. In four years."

Vlad frowned, the words settling wrong in his chest. He grabbed another case from the stack by the door, using the motion to buy himself a second. "She's different. She's shy. I don't want her standing around in some cold hallway waiting for me to be done."

"Different," Dmitri repeated, and the word hung there, heavy with something Vlad refused to name. "Yeah. She's definitely different."

Vlad didn't answer. He hauled the beer into the kitchen and started filling the second cooler, the thud of bottles against ice the only sound he needed. By the time he came back out, Dmitri had moved on to stacking cups, and the moment passed.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, and the corner of his mouth tugged up before he could stop it.

Babygirl: I'll be there.

Two words. That was all. He pocketed the phone and kept working, the reply settling somewhere warm in his chest.

---

The house filled fast. By eight thirty, the living room was packed shoulder to shoulder, music thudding through the floorboards in a bass-heavy pulse that vibrated up through his boots. He moved through the crowd like a ship through water, nodding at teammates, clapping shoulders, redirecting someone who was about to spill their drink on the carpet. It was his house. He kept it in order.

But he kept glancing at the door.

She said she'd be there. She'd texted back. She was coming. He wasn't watching for her, exactly — he was just aware of the door. Aware of the fact that it was eight forty-five and she hadn't walked through it yet. That wasn't watching. That was being a good host.

Dmitri appeared at his elbow, a red cup in each hand. He offered one to Vlad. "You look like you're expecting someone."

Vlad took the cup. "I'm expecting a lot of people. It's a party."

"You know exactly who I mean."

"Drink your beer, Dmitri."

Dmitri laughed, low and knowing, and disappeared back into the crowd. Vlad watched him go, a flicker of irritation moving through him. He didn't know why Dmitri kept making it into something. Mina was his friend. She was shy and she was sweet and she got nervous in crowds, and he wanted to make sure she was okay when she got here. That was all. That was just being a decent person.

The door opened.

He saw her before she saw him — small frame silhouetted against the porch light, one hand curled around the strap of her bag, the other pressing her phone to her chest like a shield. She was wearing a crop top, thin and white, and he could see the cold had tightened her skin, could see the way her nipples pressed against the fabric, but he didn't let his eyes linger. He looked at her face instead, at the wide blue eyes scanning the crowded room, at the way her teeth caught her lower lip, unsure and nervous and so terribly young in a house full of loud strangers.

He was moving before he decided to. The crowd parted around him, bodies giving way to his shoulders, and he wove through the living room until he was standing in front of her, close enough to see the relief that flooded her face when she recognized him.

"Mina." His voice came out softer than he meant it to, warmer. He let his eyes hold hers, never once dropping. "You came."

She nodded, her fingers tightening on her strap. "I said I would."

"I know." He smiled, the expression pulling at his mouth without permission. "I'm glad."

His hand found her shoulder — a light touch, guiding, brotherly. Except his fingers lingered a beat longer than they should have, her skin warm under his palm, before he pulled away and gestured toward the kitchen. "Come on. I'll get you a drink. Something warm — you look cold."

"I walked," she said, falling into step beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his. "It's not far."

"Still cold." He glanced down at her, frowning. "You should have texted me. I'd have picked you up."

"You're hosting a party."

"I'd have picked you up." He said it like the fact was obvious, like there was no version of this night where he wouldn't have dropped everything to go get her. She didn't argue. She just ducked her head, a small smile playing at her lips, and followed him into the kitchen.

The kitchen was quieter, the music softened by the wall between rooms. A few people were clustered around the counter, but they gave Vlad space when he came in, stepping aside without being asked. He moved to the stove, where a kettle was still warm from earlier, and poured hot water into a clean mug. He found a box of tea in the cabinet — the herbal kind he'd bought last week, the kind she'd mentioned liking once, in passing, months ago — and dropped a bag into the cup.

She was watching him. He could feel her gaze on his back, warm and steady, and when he turned to hand her the mug, her eyes were wide, soft, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

"Here." He pressed the mug into her hands. "Warm yourself up."

Her fingers brushed his. She looked down at the tea, then back up at him. "You bought this."

He blinked. "Bought what?"

"This tea." She lifted the mug slightly. "This is the chamomile I like. From that cafe. I mentioned it once."

He felt something shift in his chest — a small, uncomfortable hitch that he didn't know what to do with. He shrugged, reaching past her to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. "I saw it. Figured you might want it sometime."

She was quiet for a long moment, the steam curling between them. Then she lifted the mug to her lips and took a sip, and when she lowered it, her smile was small and private, like something she was keeping just for herself.

"Thank you," she said.

"It's just tea." He twisted the cap off his water, taking a long drink to cover the way her voice had gone soft, almost reverent. "Don't make it a thing."

She laughed — a bright, surprised sound that cut through the bass thrumming from the other room. "Okay. I won't make it a thing."

He nodded, satisfied, and leaned against the counter beside her, close enough that his arm nearly touched hers. "You hungry? There's food in the living room. Pizza, I think. Dmitri ordered it."

"Maybe later." She took another sip of her tea, then tilted her head to look up at him. "This is your house."

"It is."

"It's nice."

He looked around the kitchen — the dented cabinets, the worn linoleum, the sink full of bottles he hadn't gotten to yet. "It's a rental."

"It's yours." She said it simply, like the fact mattered, and he didn't know how to answer that, so he didn't try.

Someone called his name from the living room — a teammate, probably, wanting something about the music or the beer or a fight that was about to break out. He straightened, his body already turning toward the sound, but he paused, his hand finding her arm.

"Stay here," he said. "It's quieter. I'll be back."

She nodded, her fingers wrapped around the warm mug, and he held her gaze for a second longer than necessary before letting go and pushing through the door into the noise.

---

The crisis was minor. Someone had knocked over a lamp, and the teammate who'd called him just wanted him to see it wasn't his fault. Vlad righted the lamp, brushed off the apology, and scanned the room out of habit. Bodies moving. Cups raised. Laughter over the bass. Normal. Good.

Then he looked toward the kitchen door and saw that she'd come out.

She was standing near the edge of the crowd, her tea still in her hands, her eyes tracking the room like she was trying to find a familiar face. She looked small. Out of place. Her crop top had ridden up when she'd shifted her weight, revealing a strip of her flat stomach, the lace of her thong visible above her low-rise jeans, and he saw a guy near her glance down, then look again.

Vlad moved.

He didn't think about it — didn't have to. He crossed the room in six long strides, sliding up beside her, his hand settling on her lower back, a claim so casual it barely registered as one.

"You got lonely?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes fixed on hers.

She looked up at him, startled, then relaxed. "Just wanted to see the party."

"Not much to see." He angled his body, blocking her view of the guy who'd been looking, and she didn't seem to notice. "Drunk hockey players and bad music."

She laughed, leaning into his side without thinking. "You're a drunk hockey player."

"I'm sober, actually." He guided her toward the couch, clearing a space with his presence alone, and sat down, pulling her down beside him. "And my music taste is excellent."

"Is that what we're calling this?" She tilted her head, listening to the beat thumping through the floor. "I thought it was noise pollution."

He snorted, a laugh escaping before he could stop it. "Rude."

"Honest."

She was smiling now, her tea balanced on her knee, and she looked more comfortable than she had by the door. He watched her for a moment — the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes swept down when she blinked — then looked away, focusing on the room, on the crowd, on anything that wasn't the sudden, inexplicable urge to keep looking.

Dmitri appeared in front of them, a fresh beer in hand. He looked from Vlad to Mina, his eyebrows rising. "Cozy."

"She was standing alone," Vlad said, the words coming out flatter than he meant them to.

"So you rescued her." Dmitri's smile was insufferable. "Very noble."

Mina laughed, the sound easy and warm. "He got me tea."

"Tea." Dmitri's smile widened. "At a party. How romantic."

"It's chamomile," Mina said, and she said it like it meant something, like the specific flavor mattered, and Vlad felt that strange hitch in his chest again, the one he didn't have a name for.

"Leave her alone, Dmitri." He didn't raise his voice, but something in it must have shifted, because Dmitri held up his hands, still smiling, and melted back into the crowd.

Mina looked at him, her eyes curious. "You didn't have to do that."

"He was bothering you."

"He was teasing." She took a sip of her tea, watching him over the rim. "I don't mind."

Vlad grunted, settling deeper into the couch. His arm was stretched across the back, close enough that her hair brushed his skin when she moved. She was warm against his side, small and solid and present, and he found himself noticing the scent of her — something floral, something sweet, something that made him want to lean closer.

He didn't. He stayed still, his eyes on the room, his body a shield between her and the noise.

"Vlad?"

He looked down at her. "Yeah?"

She was looking at him with an expression he couldn't read — soft and searching, like she was trying to find something in his face. "I'm glad you invited me."

The words hit him somewhere unexpected, low in his chest. He held her gaze for a beat, two, the noise of the party fading to a distant hum.

"I'm glad you came," he said, and the words came out rougher than he meant them to, honest in a way he hadn't planned.

Her smile bloomed, slow and bright, and she looked down at her tea like she needed a moment to collect herself. He gave it to her, his arm still stretched across the couch behind her, his body still angled toward hers, and somewhere in the room, Dmitri was watching, a knowing look on his face.

Vlad didn't see it. He was too busy noticing the way Mina's thumb traced the rim of her mug, the way her shoulder pressed against his, the way the party had gone from a loud, crowded obligation to something he didn't want to leave.

He didn't think about what that meant.

He just sat there, warm and steady, and let her lean into his side.

Dmitri materialized at the arm of the couch, dropping onto the cushioned edge with the casual weight of someone who'd been circling for exactly this moment. The cushion dipped under him, shifting Vlad's balance just slightly, and Mina's shoulder pressed a little harder into his side in response.

"So." Dmitri stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. "You going to introduce her to the rest of us, or are you keeping her for yourself?"

Vlad frowned at him, the question landing wrong somehow. "She's met you."

"She's met me." Dmitri gestured broadly at the crowded room. "There are twenty other guys here. Teammates. People who are going to see her at every game, every team dinner, every time you drag her along to something." He smiled, easy and knowing. "Figured you'd want them to know who she is. Before they start making assumptions."

Vlad's jaw tightened. He didn't like the way Dmitri said assumptions — like there was something to assume. Mina was his friend. She was sitting close because she was cold, because she was shy, because the couch was crowded and she'd gravitated toward the one familiar face in the room. That was all.

But Dmitri was watching him with that look, the one that said he was waiting for Vlad to realize something Vlad wasn't sure he was supposed to realize.

He looked down at Mina. She was holding her tea with both hands, the mug nearly empty now, her eyes tracking the conversation like she was trying to decide if she was being put on the spot.

"You want to meet them?" he asked, and his voice came out softer than he'd intended, a private thing in the middle of a crowded room.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. "If you want me to."

"I asked if you want to."

She considered it, her teeth catching her lower lip in that nervous habit he'd noticed a hundred times before. Then she nodded, small and quick. "Okay."

He stood, and his hand found hers before he thought about it — a reflexive offer, the kind of thing he'd do for any friend who needed help navigating a crowd. Her fingers were warm from the mug, small in his, and she let him pull her to her feet without hesitation. He let go as soon as she was standing, shoving his hands into his pockets to give them somewhere to be.

Dmitri's eyebrows had climbed toward his hairline. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

Vlad ignored him and started walking, angling his body so Mina fell into step beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his. He led her toward the cluster of teammates near the far wall — Petro, Sasha, Markov, a few others whose names he'd learned over years of shared ice time. They were deep in conversation, cups in hand, but they looked up as he approached, the talk dying as they registered the small woman at his side.

Petro spoke first, his grin widening. "Vlad. You brought someone."

"This is Mina." Vlad's voice came out flatter than he meant it to, more territorial. He corrected it, softening. "She's a friend."

Mina stepped forward, her free hand lifting in a small wave. "Hi."

Sasha — tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar through his left eyebrow — leaned forward, curious. "You're the one from the rink. The one who comes to watch practice."

Mina's cheeks flushed, a pink that spread across her cheekbones. "Yeah. I mean — sometimes. When I have time."

"She's a student," Vlad said, filling the space before she could get nervous. "She's got early classes, so she comes by after."

Markov grunted. "That's dedication. Sitting in those bleachers for two hours? They're freezing."

Mina shrugged, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Vlad lets me borrow his jacket."

Something shifted in the air. Vlad felt it — a subtle change in the way the guys were looking at him, at her, at him again. Petro's grin widened. Sasha's eyebrows rose. Markov just nodded, like that explained everything.

"His jacket," Petro repeated, savoring the words. "His jacket."

"She was cold." Vlad's voice was flat, final. "I wasn't going to let her freeze."

"Of course not." Petro's smile was insufferable. "Very gentlemanly."

Vlad felt the urge to say something, to shut down whatever joke was forming behind Petro's eyes. But Mina spoke first, her voice light and easy.

"He's nice to me," she said, like it was simple. "He brought me tea tonight. Chamomile. Because I mentioned it once."

The silence that followed was loaded in a way Vlad couldn't parse. The guys exchanged looks — quick, knowing, the kind of communication that happened without words. He didn't like it. He didn't know why, but he didn't like it.

"Chamomile," Sasha said slowly, as if tasting the word. "At a party."

"She doesn't drink." Vlad said it before he could stop himself, defensive. "I wasn't going to hand her a beer."

Mina looked up at him, and there was something in her eyes — soft, unreadable — that made him look away.

Petro cleared his throat. "Well. Mina. Any friend of Vlad's is a friend of ours." He extended his hand, and she shook it, her fingers disappearing into his palm. "I'm Petro. That's Sasha, that's Markov. The rest of these idiots will introduce themselves eventually, but they're not important."

"Hey," someone protested from the back.

Mina laughed, and the sound cut through the room, bright and genuine. Vlad felt something in his chest ease — the tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding, the coil of protectiveness that had wound tight when he'd walked her into a room full of men he knew too well.

She fit. She was fitting. Talking to Petro like she'd known him for years, smiling at something Sasha said, nodding along as Markov told a story about a game Vlad barely remembered. She was good at this — better than he was. He'd always been the quiet one, the one who let his body do the talking on the ice. She filled spaces with her presence, with the easy warmth of her voice, with the way she tilted her head when someone was speaking, like every word mattered.

He stood at the edge of the group, watching, his hands still in his pockets.

Dmitri appeared beside him, a fresh beer in hand. He offered it to Vlad without looking.

"She's good," Dmitri said, not quite a question.

"She's shy." Vlad took the beer, twisting off the cap. "She's just — she's good at hiding it."

"Mm." Dmitri took a long drink from his own cup. "She's looking at you."

Vlad looked up. Mina was mid-conversation with Sasha, but her gaze flicked toward him — quick, checking, like she was making sure he was still there. When their eyes met, she smiled, small and private, then turned back to Sasha.

Vlad looked away, his thumb tracing the neck of the bottle. "She's nervous. She does that. Checks where I am."

"Does she."

"It's a shy thing." He said it firmly, like saying it harder would make it true. "She's not comfortable in crowds. She looks for familiar faces."

Dmitri was quiet for a long moment. Then: "She looks for your face."

Vlad didn't answer. He took a drink of his beer, the bitter cold spreading through his chest, and watched as Mina laughed at something Petro said, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

She was beautiful.

The thought slid in unbidden, and he pushed it away before it could settle. She was his friend. She was young and shy and she trusted him, and he wasn't going to be the kind of guy who looked at a friend and saw anything else. She deserved better than that.

He finished his beer in two long swallows.

---

The party swelled around them — more people filtering in, the music getting louder, the air thick with heat and smell of spilled beer. Mina had moved to sit on the arm of the couch near the group, her tea long empty, her hands gesturing as she traded stories with Markov about the worst injury he'd ever seen on the ice.

Vlad watched from the kitchen doorway, a fresh water in his hand, telling himself he was just keeping an eye on things. It was his house. He was hosting. That was what hosts did.

But he kept coming back to her. The way her crop top had ridden up again, the pale strip of her stomach visible above the waistband of her jeans. The way the lace of her thong peeked out whenever she shifted. The way Petro's gaze had dropped to her stomach once, twice — and the way Vlad's hands had curled into fists before he'd even known they were moving.

He walked over, threading through the crowd, and settled onto the couch beside her, close enough that his knee brushed hers. She glanced at him, smiled, and kept talking.

Petro's eyes met his. Vlad held them, steady, unblinking, until Petro looked away.

Petro cleared his throat. "So, Mina. You doing anything after the season ends? We usually do a team barbecue — end-of-year thing. You should come."

Mina's smile flickered, uncertain. She looked at Vlad — quick, checking — and he nodded, the movement small but clear.

"Yeah," she said, her voice warming. "I'd like that."

"Good." Petro clapped his hands together. "It's settled. Vlad, you're bringing her."

"I was planning to." The words came out before he could think about them, and he felt the weight of them settle in his chest — a promise, unexamined but solid. Mina's hand brushed his arm, a feather-light thank-you, and he let it stay there, let her fingers curl against his sleeve.

Dmitri appeared again, a knowing glint in his eye. "You two are cozy tonight."

Vlad shot him a look. "She's my friend."

"I know." Dmitri's voice was mild, almost innocent. "I'm just saying — you're very attentive tonight. Protective. Like she's something precious."

Vlad's jaw tightened. "She's a guest in my house. I'm making sure she's okay."

"Mm." Dmitri took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Vlad's face. "And how's that working out for you?"

Vlad didn't answer. He didn't know how. Because Mina was still leaning against his side, warm and small and smelling like flowers, and he didn't want to move. Didn't want the night to end. Didn't want to name the feeling that was sitting low in his chest, persistent and unnamed, like a word on the tip of his tongue that he refused to speak.

He stayed where he was, his arm finding the back of the couch, his body angled toward hers, and let the party roar around them.