The omelet was gone. The coffee was gone. And Mina was running out of reasons to stay in his kitchen, wearing his hoodie, pretending her heart didn't live in her throat every time he looked at her.

Vlad rinsed the pan and set it in the sink. "Class at ten?"

"Yeah." She pressed her palms flat against her thighs. "But I can—"

"I said I'd drive you." He turned, drying his hands on a towel, and the way he said it—quiet, final, like it wasn't even a question—made her stomach flip. "Get your things."

She grabbed her bag from where she'd dropped it by the door, and when she straightened, he was already there, holding his jacket, waiting. Not rushing. Not checking his phone. Just waiting, like her timing was the only timing that mattered.

"Ready, malyshka?"

She nodded. Didn't trust her voice. Followed him out into the cold.

The truck was parked at the curb, a black Ford that looked like it could take a hit and keep going. He unlocked the passenger door first—always the passenger door first, she'd noticed—and held it open while she climbed in. The seat was cold through her jeans. The cab smelled like him. Leather and something clean and the faint ghost of coffee.

He got in on his side, and the truck dipped with his weight. The engine turned over with a low rumble, and he reached for the heater dial, cranking it before he even put the truck in gear.

"You're shaking," he said, glancing at her.

She looked down at her hands. She was. But it wasn't the cold. It was the way he'd said malyshka in his kitchen like it was the most natural word in the world. It was the way he'd held the door. It was the way he was looking at her now, brow furrowed, like the fact that she was cold was a problem he needed to solve.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just—you know. Morning."

He didn't look convinced. He reached over and adjusted the vent, angling it so the heat hit her directly, and his knuckles brushed her knee through her jeans. Just a brush. Barely a second. But she felt it like a current, running up her thigh, settling somewhere deep in her chest.

He pulled away, hand back on the wheel, and she pressed her thighs together, hoping he couldn't see the effect he had on her. He couldn't. He never could. That was the whole problem.

The truck pulled away from the curb, and the first few blocks passed in silence. The heater hummed. The defroster fought the fog on the windshield. Mina kept her hands pressed between her thighs, not to warm them—to keep them from reaching across the console and doing something she couldn't take back.

He drove one-handed, his right hand on the wheel, his left arm resting along the door. Every time he reached for the gear shift, his sleeve pulled up, and she caught a glimpse of the ink on his forearm—black lines, sharp and deliberate, curling around muscle and tendon. She wanted to trace them. Wanted to ask what each one meant. Wanted to press her lips to the inside of his wrist and see if he'd let her.

She looked out the window instead. Breathed. Tried to be normal.

The campus wasn't far. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, depending on traffic. She'd made the walk a dozen times. But sitting here, in his truck, wearing his hoodie, the world outside the windshield felt distant. Unreal. Like they were suspended in their own pocket of warmth and quiet and the smell of him.

"You're quiet," he said.

She turned. He was looking at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his gray eyes catching the pale morning light.

"Am I?"

"Usually you're telling me about your classes. Or complaining about your professor. Or—" He paused, the smile widening. "Talking about coffee."

She laughed, a short, surprised sound. "I do not talk about coffee that much."

"You do. You told me the temperature it should be. And the exact ratio of cream to coffee. And that the machine at the rink is"— he made a gesture with his free hand— "committing crimes against caffeine."

She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh harder. "I said crimes?"

"You were very passionate."

She shook her head, looking down at her lap. "I can't believe you remember that."

He shrugged. One shoulder. Easy. "I remember things you tell me."

The words landed somewhere in her chest and stayed there. I remember things you tell me. It was such a simple thing. Such a small, casual admission. But it cracked something open in her, a door she'd been holding shut with both hands, and she had to look away before he saw too much.

The truck stopped at a red light, and he turned to her fully. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." She nodded. Forced herself to meet his eyes. "Just tired. Didn't sleep great."

His brow furrowed again, concern flickering across his face like a shadow. "Why not?"

Because I was lying in bed thinking about you. Because your hoodie smells like you and I couldn't stop pressing my face into it. Because every time I closed my eyes I saw your hands on the stove, your voice saying always, the way you looked at me like I was something worth protecting.

"Just thinking," she said. "Nothing important."

He studied her for a moment, and she held her breath, waiting for him to see through her. But he just nodded, the light turned green, and he put his hand back on the wheel.

"You should sleep more."

"I know."

"If you can't sleep, you can text me." He said it casually, like it was nothing. Like offering himself as a middle-of-the-night anchor was the most normal thing in the world. "I'm usually up."

Her throat tightened. "You are?"

"Late practice. Then I'm awake for a while. Watch videos. Stretch." He glanced at her. "You wouldn't be bothering me."

She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't trust herself to say anything. So she just nodded, small, and turned to look out the window again.

They were close to campus now. She recognized the strip of shops on her left—the coffee place she'd told him about, the bookstore with the cracked sign, the taqueria that stayed open until midnight. In a few minutes, he'd pull up to the student center, and she'd have to get out, and this bubble of warmth and closeness and his quiet presence would pop.

She didn't want it to pop.

"Vlad?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you. For breakfast. For—" She gestured vaguely at the truck, at him, at everything. "For all of it."

He glanced at her, and there it was again—that soft look, the one that made her feel like she was the only person in the world. "You don't have to thank me, malyshka."

"I know. But I want to."

He didn't answer. But his hand left the wheel, reached across the console, and settled on her knee. Just rested there. Warm. Heavy. His thumb traced a slow, absent circle against the denim, and she forgot how to breathe.

"You're still shaking," he said, frowning. "Maybe you're getting sick."

I'm not sick. I'm not cold. I'm desperately in love with you and you have no idea.

"I'm fine," she managed. "Really."

He didn't look convinced. But he left his hand where it was, thumb still moving, and she let herself sink into the feeling. Let herself memorize the weight of his palm, the warmth seeping through her jeans, the way his thumb caught on the seam of her knee and smoothed over it like he was trying to soothe her without knowing what needed soothing.

The truck slowed as they approached the campus entrance. He pulled into the drop-off lane outside the student center, put the truck in park, and finally—finally—took his hand off her knee.

She felt the absence like a missing limb.

"Text me when you're done," he said. "I'll pick you up."

"You don't have to—"

"I know." He cut her off, gently. "I want to."

She looked at him. At his gray eyes, steady and warm. At the small, quiet smile that lived at the corner of his mouth. At the hands that had held her, fed her, touched her knee like she was something precious.

"Okay," she said. "I'll text you."

She reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped her.

"Mina."

She turned back. "Yeah?"

He was looking at her with that furrowed brow again, like he was working something out. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"

The question caught her off guard. She blinked, her hand still on the door handle. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, but it wasn't casual. "You're quiet today. You're shaking. You said you didn't sleep." He paused. "I just want to make sure you're okay. Really okay."

She felt something crack in her chest, warm and painful and so full she thought she might drown in it. He wasn't oblivious to her—he was oblivious to how she felt about him, but he saw her. He noticed when she was off. He cared when she was quiet. He wanted to make sure she was okay.

And he had no idea that the thing wrong with her was him. Or that she didn't want it fixed.

"I'm okay," she said, and this time, it was almost true. "I promise."

He held her gaze for a long moment, searching, and she let him look. Let him see whatever he needed to see. Finally, he nodded—a small, satisfied dip of his chin—and the tension in his shoulders relaxed.

"Good." He reached out, and his hand found hers on the door handle. He squeezed, just once, his fingers wrapping around hers, warm and sure. "Go. Don't be late."

She wanted to stay. Wanted to climb across the console and press her face into his chest and let him hold her until the world outside stopped mattering. But she opened the door instead. Slid out into the cold. Turned back to look at him through the open door.

"Thank you. For the ride. For breakfast. For—" She gestured again, helpless. "For being you."

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that started in his eyes first, crinkling the corners, before it reached his mouth. "Always, malyshka."

She closed the door. Walked toward the student center. Didn't look back, because if she looked back, she would go back, and she couldn't. Not yet.

She was halfway to the entrance when she heard the truck door open.

"Mina."

She turned. He was standing by the driver's side door, his hand on the roof of the truck, the cold air already cutting through his thin long-sleeve shirt.

"You forgot something."

She frowned, patting her bag. "I don't think I—"

He walked around the truck, closing the distance between them in three long strides, and before she could ask what he was doing, he pulled her into a hug.

His arms wrapped around her low on her waist, his hands settling just above the curve of her hips, and he pulled her against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. She stumbled forward, her hands coming up to his chest, her face pressing into the hollow of his shoulder.

He was warm. So warm. And he smelled like soap and coffee and something that was just him, and she felt her knees go weak, her body melting into his without her permission.

"You forgot your hug," he said, his voice rumbling against her ear. "Can't send you to class without one."

She laughed, a breathless, broken sound, and pressed her face harder into his shoulder so he couldn't see her eyes. "Right. Can't forget that."

His hands moved on her waist—a small, absent gesture, like he was adjusting his grip. His fingers found the edge of her thong, the thin elastic band riding above her jeans, and he brushed against it absently, the way someone might fiddle with a loose thread. Not sexual. Just familiar. Just him, touching her like she was his to touch, like this was normal.

She held her breath, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he could feel it through his chest.

"Better?" he asked.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His gray eyes were soft, his mouth curved in that small, quiet smile, and he had no idea. No idea that her heart was racing. No idea that her knees were liquid. No idea that every cell in her body was screaming at her to close the distance and kiss him.

"Better," she said. "Much better."

He nodded, satisfied, and let his hands fall from her waist. "Good. Now go. Don't fail your class because your Russian wouldn't let you leave."

She laughed, and it felt real. Felt free. "I'll text you when I'm done."

"You better."

She turned and walked toward the entrance, and this time, she let herself look back. He was still standing there, watching her, his hands in his pockets, his breath fogging in the cold air. He raised a hand in a small wave, and she waved back, and then she pushed through the doors and let the warmth of the student center swallow her.

She leaned against the wall just inside, pressed a hand to her chest, and tried to remember how to breathe.

He'd followed her. He'd gotten out of his truck and crossed the cold pavement just to hug her. He'd touched her thong like it was nothing, like she was his, and he had no idea what it did to her.

She pulled out her phone. Stared at his contact—the one she'd saved as daddy in a moment of desperate, private irony—and typed out a message before she could overthink it.

Babygirl: you forgot your hoodie. i'm keeping it

His reply came within seconds.

Daddy: I know. Looks better on you anyway, malyshka. Don't study too hard.

She stared at the screen, her heart a wreck in her chest, and smiled.

He had no idea. And she didn't know if that made it better or worse.