The movie was something about explosions and betrayal. Vlad's arm was a warm, heavy weight across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just above her shoulder. She'd stopped trying to follow the plot the second his hand had found its way to her hip.

His thumb traced lazy circles on the jut of her hipbone, a gesture so absent it made her chest ache. She was wearing his hoodie. It smelled like him. Sandalwood and something clean, like ice and cold air, and she wanted to drown in it.

He shifted, settling deeper into the cushions, and his hand moved with him. Slid down, over the curve of her waist, fingers grazing the waistband of her low-rise jeans. The movement was casual, unconscious, the way he touched everything in his space—confident and unworried.

Then his fingers stopped.

Her breath caught. She felt it the exact moment he did. The shift from bare skin to something else. Lace. The edge of her thong, riding above the denim the way it always did.

His brow furrowed. His thumb pressed down, not hard, just testing the texture. Feeling the difference between her skin and the fabric.

She went completely still.

"This is new," he said.

His voice was low, casual, genuinely curious. He tugged the elastic gently, the way someone might test the grain of a piece of wood or the weave of a shirt. Clinical. Observant.

She couldn't breathe.

"Or have you always worn these?" He looked at her then, gray eyes searching her face with the same focused attention he gave a hockey play. Like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. "I don't remember feeling them before."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I mean. Yeah. Usually."

He hummed, low in his chest, and looked back down at where his hand rested. His thumb traced the edge of the lace again, following the curve of her hip. "Huh."

The silence stretched. The movie kept playing. Someone was yelling on screen. She couldn't hear any of it.

"Doesn't seem comfortable," he said finally. "All that..." He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "String."

"You get used to it." The words came out breathless. She sounded like she'd just run a lap.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He nodded, accepting this, and let his hand settle back on her waist. But this time, it rested differently. Half on the lace. Half on her skin. His palm was warm, callused at the base of his fingers, and he left it there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She stared at the TV screen and prayed he couldn't feel the way her pulse hammered under his thumb.

He didn't move his hand. He just let it sit there, heavy and warm, his fingers occasionally flexing against the lace like he was still thinking about it. Weighing it. Filing it away as a new fact about her.

"It's not bad," he said after a long moment. "The way it feels."

Her heart stopped.

"Reminds me of the laces on my skates." He said it so matter-of-fact, so completely oblivious to the way the words hit her, that she almost laughed. Almost cried. "Tough. But flexible."

She managed a sound that might have been agreement.

He looked at her again, and something in his expression softened. "You okay, malyshka? You're quiet."

"Just tired," she whispered. It wasn't a lie. She was exhausted. Strung out on the tension of being this close to him, of wanting so badly it was a physical ache in her chest.

He pulled her closer. A possessive, protective squeeze. His arm tightened around her shoulders, and his hand—the hand that had just been tracing the edge of her thong—settled firmly on her bare waist, thumb stroking the soft skin just above her jeans.

"You should sleep," he said. "I can drive you back."

"No." The word came out too fast. She forced herself to calm down. "I mean. I'm fine. I want to finish the movie."

He studied her for a long moment. She felt seen, but not in the way she wanted. Seen the way a brother sees a sister. Checking for signs of fatigue. Of sadness. Of anything he could fix.

"Okay," he said. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

He accepted that, too. His attention drifted back to the screen, but his hand stayed where it was. Right on the edge. Right where she could feel every breath he took in the rise and fall of his chest against her shoulder.

She didn't sleep. She couldn't. She stayed awake for the rest of the movie, hyperaware of every point of contact between them. His thighs pressed against hers. His bicep curved around her shoulders. His fingers, still resting on the lace of her thong like it belonged there.

When the credits rolled, he stretched, his arm lifting from her shoulders, and the loss of contact was a physical blow.

"I should get you home," he said, his voice rough from the long quiet. "It's late."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up with an ease that made her feel weightless. For a second, they were close. Chest to chest. His hand still holding hers.

He looked down at her, and she couldn't read his expression. It was soft. Warm. Open.

"Thanks for coming over," he said. "I liked having you here."

Her throat closed. She managed a smile. "Me too."

He held her gaze for a beat longer, then let go of her hand and grabbed his keys from the counter. She followed him out, still wearing his hoodie, the memory of his fingers on her lace burning against her skin like a brand.

The drive was quiet. He played low music, something with a heavy bass line, and she watched the city lights smear past the window. Her reflection stared back at her. She looked wrecked. Soft. Hopeful.

He pulled up in front of her building and put the car in park.

"I'll walk you up."

"You don't have to."

"I know." He was already opening his door. "I want to."

She let him. Because she was weak. Because she wanted every last second she could steal.

They walked to her door in comfortable silence. The air was cold, and she pulled his hoodie tighter around herself. He noticed. He always noticed.

At her door, she turned to face him. He was so tall. So broad. He blocked out the hallway light, and she felt small and safe and terrified all at once.

"Goodnight, Vlad."

He didn't say it back. He just looked at her, gray eyes searching her face again, and then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. Full. Tight. His chin rested on top of her head, and she felt his chest expand as he breathed in.

"Goodnight, malyshka," he murmured into her hair.

She held on. Counted the seconds. Let herself have this.

When he pulled back, his hands lingered on her shoulders. He squeezed once, gently, then let go.

"Text me when you're inside."

"I will."

He waited until she unlocked the door. She stepped inside, turned, and saw him standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her.

She smiled. He nodded once. Then she closed the door.

Inside, she leaned against the wood, pressed her hands to her face, and let out a shaky breath.

His text came before she could send hers.

Daddy: Safe?

She smiled, fingers trembling as she typed.

Babygirl: Safe. Thank you. Goodnight.

Daddy: Goodnight, malyshka. Sleep well.

She stared at the screen. *Malyshka.* His little one. He called her that so easily, so naturally, never knowing what it did to her.

She hugged the phone to her chest, then pulled his hoodie up over her nose and breathed in. Sandalwood. Ice. Him.

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

She pushed off the door, walked to her room, and curled up on her bed still wearing the hoodie. The ache was still there. Bright. Sharp. Alive.

But it was hers. All of it was hers.

And she wasn't ready to let it go.