Mina sat cross-legged in the center of her dorm bed, her phone a dead weight in her hands. The screen was dark, but she could still see the shape of the words she'd been typing and deleting for the last fifteen minutes: Can I hug you from now on?

She bit her lip. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly, and she typed it again. Stared at it. The letters looked too big, too loud, too desperate. She deleted them with a sweep of her thumb and let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in her chest since last night.

The party had ended—when? Two hours ago? Three? She'd walked home with his jacket still around her shoulders, the scent of him clinging to the fabric like a second skin. She hadn't been able to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the weight of his arm along the back of the couch, the warmth of his body against her side, the low rumble of his voice when he'd said malyshka like it meant something only they understood.

She tugged the collar of the hoodie up to her nose. It smelled like him. Like laundry detergent and something deeper, something unmistakably Vlad. The word sat on her tongue, sweet and dangerous, and she pressed her thighs together without meaning to.

Her phone buzzed with a notification—a group chat she didn't care about—and she almost threw it across the room. She needed to say something. She needed to do something. Because last night she'd leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, and he hadn't pulled away. He'd stayed. His arm had found its way around her, and he'd let the party roar around them while she counted the beats of his heart through his chest.

But he'd called her his friend. In front of Dmitri. In front of everyone.

Her stomach twisted. She set the phone down on the bedspread, facedown, as if that would make the words easier to say. It didn't.

She picked it up again. Unlocked it. Opened the thread with Vlad.

The last message she'd sent was a simple Thank you for tonight. I had fun. He'd replied with a single ❤️ and a Sleep well, malyshka that had kept her awake for another hour.

Now the cursor blinked at her, patient and merciless, and she typed the question for the fourth time.

Can I hug you from now on?

Her throat went dry. She read it again. The words were simple. Innocent. A friend asking for a friend thing. That was how he'd take it. Of course he'd say. You don't have to ask. And then he'd hug her next time they met, and she'd feel the hard planes of his chest against hers, and she'd smell his skin, and she'd remember that he was oblivious. That she was just his shy little friend who needed protecting.

It wasn't enough. But it was all she had.

She pressed send before she could delete it again.

The message whooshed into the digital void, and she dropped the phone like it had burned her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she pressed both hands to her cheeks. They were hot. Of course they were hot.

She stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks in the paint. Counted the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. The phone stayed silent.

She picked it up again, just to see the message sitting there, delivered. Read. The two blue check marks stared back at her, and her stomach dropped.

He'd seen it.

Across campus, in the kitchen of his off-campus apartment, Vlad set his phone down on the counter and stared at the screen.

His coffee steamed in his other hand, forgotten.

Can I hug you from now on?

The words were so simple. So honest. He read them twice, three times, and a slow warmth spread through his chest. She was so shy. So nervous around him. He'd noticed it from the beginning—the way she'd flush and stammer, the way her hands would tremble when he got too close. He'd assumed it was just her nature. That she was gentle and soft and needed someone to look out for her.

And now she was asking for something. Him. She wanted to hug him. From now on.

He smiled, a quiet thing that pulled at the corner of his mouth, and set the coffee down to pick up his phone. His thumbs moved before he could second-guess the feeling in his chest—the one he still refused to name.

Of course, malyshka. Always.

He paused. Read it. Then added another message before he could think:

You don't ever have to ask.

He sent both before he could wonder why that felt so right.

The phone buzzed almost immediately. A single word:

Okay.

Then a second message:

Thank you.

Vlad's chest tightened. He could picture her sitting somewhere, probably in that tiny dorm room, biting her lip and staring at the screen, her blue eyes wide and nervous. The image made him want to be there. To wrap an arm around her and tell her she didn't need to be scared of him. That he'd never let anything hurt her.

He picked up his coffee and took a long drink, letting the heat settle him. The kitchen was quiet. The party mess had been cleaned up hours ago, and the sun was just starting to bleed through the blinds, pale and cold. He should eat something. He should stretch. He had practice in a few hours.

But his phone was still in his hand, and the thread was still open, and he didn't want to close it.

He typed instead:

Did you sleep okay?

The reply came fast:

Not really. Too much energy.

He smiled again. He could relate. The party had left him wired, too, though he couldn't say exactly why. It wasn't the beer. It wasn't the noise. It was the way she'd leaned into him, the way she'd smelled like flowers and warmth, the way she'd looked up at him with those big blue eyes and made him feel like he was the only person in the room.

He didn't think about that. He put it in a box and closed the lid.

Me neither, he wrote. Wanted to make sure you got home safe.

Another pause. Then:

You walked me all the way to my door. I think I was safe.

He laughed under his breath. That was true. He'd watched her go inside, waited until her light came on, then jogged back to his car like a teenager. It was ridiculous. He'd felt like a teenager. Protective and warm and something he wasn't allowed to name.

He typed:

Can't be too careful. You're important.

The word sat there, important, and he stared at it. It was true. She was important. She was his malyshka. His little one. The one who made him want to wrap her in a blanket and keep her safe from the whole cold world.

He took another sip of coffee, waiting for her reply.

It came three seconds later:

You're important to me too.

His breath caught. He read it twice. The words were simple, but they landed somewhere deep in his chest, warm and unfamiliar. He didn't know what to do with them. So he did what he always did—he deflected with action.

Come over for breakfast. I'll make you something.

He hit send before he could think about what he was doing. He was supposed to have a quiet morning. He was supposed to stretch, eat a real meal, prep for practice. But none of that mattered as much as the thought of her sitting in his kitchen, wrapped in her hoodie—his hoodie—with her tiny waist and her shy smile and her eyes that made him want to protect her from everything.

Mina stared at the screen, her heart a wild drum against her ribs.

Come over for breakfast. I'll make you something.

She pressed the phone to her mouth and let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan. He wanted to see her. He'd asked her to come over. Not for a party. Not for a group thing. Just her.

Her thumbs danced over the keyboard:

Give me 20 minutes.

She scrambled off the bed before she could second-guess herself—before she could text him again and say actually, no, I'm fine, I'll just stay here, you don't have to feed me. She was already in his hoodie. She pulled on a pair of low-rise jeans under it, laced up her chucks, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. The hoodie hung off her shoulder just enough to show the strap of her bralette, and the lace edge of her thong peeked over the waistband of her jeans. She looked like a mess. She looked like she was trying too hard. She pulled the hoodie down, but it didn't help.

She grabbed her keys anyway. She didn't have time to overthink.

The walk across campus was cold. The November wind bit at her exposed skin, and she pulled the hoodie tight around herself, letting the familiar scent of him settle her nerves. She held her phone in her hand, ready to text him that she was close, but she didn't. She wanted to surprise him.

His apartment was on the second floor of a converted house, the stairs creaking under her feet. She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before her knuckles made contact.

Vlad stood in the doorway, barefoot, in a faded gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up over his tattooed forearms. His hair was still damp, like he'd just showered, and the warmth of his kitchen spilled out around him, carrying the smell of eggs and butter.

He looked at her, and something in his face softened.

"You came."

She smiled, nervous. "You asked."

He stepped back, holding the door open, and she walked past him into his apartment. The party debris was gone. The living room smelled like lemon cleaner, and the kitchen counters were spotless. A pan sizzled on the stove, and there was a plate of toast already buttered on the counter.

She turned to face him, and he was already watching her, his gray eyes warm and curious.

"So," he said, the word drawing out. "You want to hug me from now on?"

Her face went hot. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He stepped closer, and her breath caught. He smelled like soap and coffee, and he was so big up close, broad and solid and warm. He didn't stop until he was right in front of her, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his irises.

"You don't have to ask," he said, his voice low and gentle. "Ever. You understand?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

And then he opened his arms.

She stepped into them as if she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment.

His arms closed around her, one hand settling on the small of her back, the other cradling the back of her head. She pressed her face into his chest, let herself sink into his heat, and felt his heartbeat under her cheek—steady, strong, real.

He held her for a long moment, not letting go, and she felt something loosen in her chest. Something that had been wound tight since the first time she'd seen him on the rink, skating like he owned the world.

"See?" he murmured against her hair. "Not so hard."

She laughed, the sound muffled against his sweater. "You're warm."

"I know." He squeezed her once, gently, then pulled back, his hands sliding to her shoulders. "Now sit. Breakfast is almost ready."

She nodded, still dazed, and let him guide her to a stool at the counter. He turned back to the stove, flipping an omelet with easy skill, and she watched the muscles shift under his tattoos as he moved.

She picked up a piece of toast and bit into it, the butter melting on her tongue. The kitchen was warm. His back was to her. And for a moment, she let herself imagine that this was normal. That she could have this every morning.

But she knew better. He was generous. He was protective. He was oblivious.

And she was sitting in his kitchen, watching him cook her breakfast, wearing his hoodie, with the ghost of his arms still wrapped around her.

It was enough. It had to be.

He slid the omelet onto a plate and set it in front of her, along with a fork. "Eat."

"Bossy."

"You like it."

She did. She didn't say it.

She took a bite, and it was perfect—fluffy and warm and exactly what she needed. He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and leaned against the counter opposite her, watching her eat with a quiet satisfaction that made her stomach flutter.

"Thank you," she said between bites. "For this. For everything."

He shrugged. "You're my—" He paused, the word catching. "You're important to me."

She looked up at him, and for a second, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes. Something that wasn't just friendly warmth. But it was gone before she could name it, and he looked away, reaching for his coffee.

"Eat," he said again. "You have class later?"

She nodded, taking another bite.

"I'll drive you."

"You don't have to—"

"I know." He met her eyes. "I want to."

She smiled, small and grateful, and let the warmth of his kitchen and his presence settle around her. She didn't know what this was. She didn't know if it would ever be more than this.

But he'd said always. And you don't have to ask.

For now, that was enough.