The bell had rung three minutes ago, but Anya wasn't moving. She leaned against her locker, one thumb hooked in the belt loop of her lowest-rise jeans, the waistband of her neon-green thong riding high above the denim like it was daring someone to look. She knew exactly what she was doing. The hallway traffic parted around her, the way it always did — freshmen skirting wide, jocks nodding as they passed, girls in her orbit lifting chins in greeting she returned with a lazy smile. She was Anya Petrova. She owned this hallway. She owned this school. Every inch of her body was curated, calculated, weaponized — the gold hoops catching the fluorescent light, the lip gloss she'd reapplied between second and third period making her mouth look like she'd just been kissed, the tiny bra-top doing barely any work containing the breasts that had made half the boys in school fail their freshman year exams.

She felt good. She felt powerful. She felt like the queen of a very small, very predictable kingdom.

And then she saw him.

He was at the far end of the hall, rounding the corner from the main office, and she felt her entire internal architecture shift. Like someone had pulled a rug she didn't know she was standing on. The boy — no, the man — was impossibly tall, shoulders so broad they seemed to dim the lights on either side of him. He wore a loose gray t-shirt that should have looked sloppy but instead looked like a crime, the fabric draping over a chest and arms that moved like they were barely contained, muscles shifting under the cotton with every step. Dark brown hair, short and rough. A silver barbell through one eyebrow catching the light. And the way he moved — slow, unhurried, like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove — said he knew exactly what he looked like and had never once needed to ask.

Oh God.

Her thumb slipped out of her belt loop. She didn't notice.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

He was walking toward her. Not because he'd seen her — he was just walking down the hall, a piece of paper in one hand, probably a schedule, probably trying to find his first class. The new transfer student. The Russian one. She'd heard whispers about him since Monday — the guys saying he looked like he could bench-press a car, the girls saying it in a different voice entirely, hushed and heated. She'd rolled her eyes at all of it. She was Anya Petrova. Boys didn't make her nervous. Boys made her bored.

This one was making her forget how words worked.

He was closer now. Twenty feet. Fifteen. She could see the ink curling up his forearms, dark and intricate, disappearing under his sleeves. Tattoos everywhere, the whispers had said. She hadn't believed that either. She believed it now. She wanted to see where they stopped. She wanted to follow the lines with her fingers.

Stop it. Stop it. He's just a guy. You talk to guys every day. You make guys cry every day. You literally made Mark Henderson cry last week because he used the wrong emoji.

Ten feet. His eyes were hazel, she realized. Warm. Not looking at her yet. Just reading the room number on a door as he passed it, frowning slightly.

Say something. Say literally anything. Say—

He looked up.

His eyes met hers.

And Anya's brain left her body and went on a solo vacation to somewhere she couldn't follow.

He was right in front of her now. Not stopped — he was going to walk right past, probably, because why wouldn't he, she was just some girl leaning against a locker — and she had maybe one second to do something before the moment evaporated and she spent the rest of the year watching him from across the cafeteria like a complete pathetic loser.

"H-hi."

The word came out cracked. Split down the middle like dry wood. She felt heat rush to her face, to her chest, to the roots of her hair. She was blushing. She never blushed. She didn't know how to blush. She was Anya Petrova and she made other people blush.

He stopped. Turned. Looked down at her.

God, he was tall. She had to tilt her head back to see his face. The fluorescent light caught the silver ring through his eyebrow, and the barbell in his tongue — she could just see it when his mouth parted slightly, a glint of metal — and she forgot what she was doing. Forgot her name. Forgot how lungs worked.

"Hi." His voice was low. A rumble. The accent curled around the word like smoke. "You okay?"

No. Yes. I'm dying. I'm fine. I'm whatever the opposite of fine is. I'm a disaster.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm—" She laughed. It came out wrong. High. Nerves. She sounded like a freshman who'd been asked to read aloud. "I'm good. I just—you're new. I saw you. I mean—duh, I saw you, you're right here."

Stop talking. Stop talking. Please, God, if you love me, strike me mute right now.

He didn't seem put off. If anything, his mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. A softening. "Yeah. First day. Still finding everything." He lifted the paper in his hand. "They gave me a map, but it's in English, so."

A shrug. Easy. Like he was used to being lost.

"Oh." She blinked. "Oh, you need—I can—" Help. Say help. It's a three-letter word, Anya, you have a 4.0 GPA, you can say the word help. "I can h-help you. If you want. I know where everything is."

She pushed off the locker. Her hand — she didn't plan this, it just happened, like her body had decided to act without consulting her brain — reached out and brushed his forearm.

The heat of his skin hit her like a wall.

She felt it in her fingertips, up her wrist, into her chest. Warm. Solid. Alive. The ink on his arm was warm too, like it was part of him, not just drawn on. She could feel the muscle underneath, the give and the resistance, and her fingers stayed there a beat too long before she yanked them back like she'd been burned.

Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. See it. The tiny bra-top wasn't hiding anything, least of all the way her breath had gone shallow, her chest rising and falling too fast.

He looked down at his arm where she'd touched him. Then back at her face.

Nothing in his expression said he'd noticed anything strange. Nothing in his eyes said he'd felt the spark that had nearly taken her legs out from under her. He just nodded, easy and friendly, and said, "That would be good. Thank you."

He doesn't know. He has no idea. He thinks I'm just being nice.

She should have been relieved. She was relieved. This was better. This was safe. She could be nice. She could be the helpful popular girl showing the new kid around. That was a role she knew how to play.

But underneath the relief, something else burned. Something that wanted him to see her. To understand that she wasn't just being nice. That she was falling apart because of him and she wanted him to know it.

"I'm Anya." The name came out steadier this time. She managed a smile. Not her usual one — not the sharp, knowing smirk she used on everyone else. A smaller one. Softer. "I'm—yeah. Anya."

You already said that. You just said your name twice. He thinks you have a brain injury.

"Dmitri." He held out his hand.

She stared at it for a second too long. His hand. Big. Veins along the back, dark ink curling between his knuckles. A ring on his thumb, silver and worn. She thought about what that hand would feel like on her waist. On her neck. Wrapped around hers.

Stop. Shake his hand. It's a handshake. It's a normal thing people do.

She took it.

His palm was warm and rough, callused at the base of his fingers. He didn't squeeze too hard — gentle, actually, careful — but his hand swallowed hers completely, and when he let go, she felt the absence like a missing tooth.

"Dmitri," she repeated. His name in her mouth felt different than she expected. Heavier. Russian. "Where do you need to go?"

"First class." He glanced at the paper again. "Chemistry. Room 204."

"Oh." She almost laughed. "That's—that's mine too. Third period. I mean, I have third period in there. Not—I don't already have chemistry right now."

God, just kill me. Put me out of my misery.

But Dmitri just nodded, that almost-smile flickering again. "Good. Then you can show me the way."

He started walking, and she fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn't just made a complete fool of herself. Like her heart wasn't still hammering against her ribs, trying to break out and land at his feet.

The warmth of his body hit her like a radiator she hadn't known she was freezing next to. He walked with an easy, rolling gait, not quite a swagger but something close — loose-hipped, unhurried, his shoulder brushing against hers every few steps. Not on purpose. She knew it wasn't on purpose. He wasn't even looking at her, just scanning the hallway ahead, checking room numbers, the paper still dangling from his hand like he'd forgotten he was holding it.

Every few steps. His arm against mine. Every few steps.

She was going to combust. She was going to actually burst into flames right here in the middle of the hallway, and the fire department would find nothing but a pair of gold hoops and a neon-green thong, and Dmitri would probably just step over the ashes and keep looking for room 204.

"So," she said. The word came out breathy. She cleared her throat and tried again. "So, um. Where did you move from?"

"Chicago." He said it like it was obvious. Like everyone moved from Chicago. "My uncle lives here. I'm staying with him."

"Oh. That's—that's cool. Chicago. Big city. Lots of—" What did Chicago have? Buildings. Crime. Deep-dish pizza. Say pizza. Say pizza, you idiot. "Pizza."

He looked at her. One eyebrow lifted — the one with the silver barbell — and she wanted to die.

"Pizza," he repeated. Not a question. Just tasting the word, like it was strange in his mouth.

"Yeah. Deep-dish. I heard it's—it's a thing. There." She was nodding too much. She could feel herself nodding and couldn't stop. Like her neck had developed its own nervous tic. "I've never been. To Chicago. Obviously. I've lived here my whole life. In this town. Which is small. You probably noticed."

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

"It's different," he said. Quiet. Not unfriendly. "Quiet."

"Yeah. Quiet. That's one word for it." She laughed, and it came out too high again. "Boring is another word. Dead is another word. Like, nothing happens here. Ever. The most exciting thing that happened last year was when Mr. Patterson's car got towed from the faculty parking lot because he forgot to pay his registration. And that took, like, three hours. People watched from the windows."

She was rambling. She knew she was rambling. But he was looking at her now — not at the room numbers, not at the paper, at her — and his mouth was doing that thing again, that almost-smile, like she was entertaining without meaning to be.

"You talk a lot," he said.

She stopped. Blinked. "I—yeah. Sorry. I do that when I'm—" Nervous. Attracted. Dying. Pick one. "When I'm being friendly. Which I am. Being friendly. That's what this is."

He nodded slowly. "Okay."

Okay. What did okay mean. Was that good okay or bad okay or just okay okay.

They passed a group of juniors by the water fountain. Anya caught the girl in front — Marissa, she thought, a sophomore who wore too much eyeliner — staring. Not at her. At him. Eyes tracking down his body, up again, lips parted.

Anya felt something twist in her chest. Sharp. Hot. She didn't have a name for it, but she knew exactly what it was.

Look somewhere else. He's with me. I'm walking him to class. He's mine to walk, not yours to stare at.

Marissa's gaze shifted to Anya. Their eyes met. Marissa's eyebrows went up — a silent question, a since when — and Anya lifted her chin, let the old mask slide back into place for half a second. The sharp one. The one that said keep walking.

Marissa looked away first.

Good.

"You know everyone?" Dmitri asked.

She snapped her attention back to him. "What?"

"You looked at that girl. She looked at you. You made a face." He shrugged. "I figured you knew her."

"Oh. Yeah. Kind of. I mean, I know everyone. It's a small school." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers trembled. She hoped he didn't notice. "I'm—I've been here a while. People know me."

"I can tell."

She wasn't sure what that meant either. She didn't ask. She was afraid of the answer.

They passed the math wing. A cluster of boys by the vending machine went quiet as they walked by. Anya felt their eyes on her — on her stomach, bare between the hem of her bra-top and the waistband of her jeans, on the curve of her hips, on the neon-green thong riding high. She was used to that. She'd dressed for that. But today, under Dmitri's shadow, it felt different. Louder. Like she was wearing a sign she hadn't meant to hold up.

She crossed her arms over her stomach. Then uncrossed them. She didn't want him to think she was hiding. She wasn't hiding. She was—

What am I doing? Why am I suddenly self-conscious? I've walked through this hallway a thousand times in less clothing than this and never once cared.

Because no one had ever walked beside her like this. Like he belonged there. Like he didn't know he was rearranging every cell in her body just by existing.

"You're cold?" he asked.

"What?"

"You crossed your arms. Like you're cold."

"Oh. No. I'm not—" I'm burning. I'm on fire. I'm a walking bonfire and you're the match. "I'm fine. Just thinking."

He hummed. A low sound, barely there. "You think a lot too."

"Is that a problem?"

"No." He glanced at her. Sideways. Quick. "It's interesting."

Her heart stopped. Restarted. Stopped again.

Interesting. He said I was interesting. That's good. Interesting is good. Interesting means he's paying attention. Right?

"Interesting how?" she asked. She tried to sound casual. It came out breathless.

He didn't answer right away. They turned the corner at the end of the hall, and the science wing opened up in front of them — linoleum that was slightly cleaner, air that smelled like bleach and old textbooks. Room 204 was halfway down on the left. She could see the door. A few students were already drifting in, backpacks slung over one shoulder, tired eyes, the usual third-period slump.

Dmitri stopped walking.

She stopped too. Turned to face him.

He was looking at her. Really looking. His hazel eyes moved over her face like he was reading something she hadn't meant to write there — the flush on her cheeks, the way she was biting her lower lip, the way her chest was rising and falling too fast under the thin fabric of her bra-top.

"Interesting like I'm trying to figure you out," he said. "And I can't."

The air left her lungs.

"What do you mean you can't?"

"You're popular. I can tell. People look at you like you're important. But you talk to me like you're nervous. Like I'm the important one." He tilted his head. "That doesn't make sense."

Oh God. He noticed. He actually noticed something.

"I'm not—" She swallowed. Tried to find the words. "I'm not nervous. I'm just—being friendly. Like I said."

"You said that already."

"Because it's true."

He looked at her for another long moment. Then he lifted the paper in his hand — his schedule, still crumpled — and tapped it against his thigh. "Okay. If you say so."

She wanted to grab his wrist. To make him stop being so calm. So easy. So completely unaware that he was the most dangerous thing that had ever happened to her composure.

"Room 204," she said instead. Pointed. "It's right there. Third door on the left."

He looked at the door. Then back at her. "You coming?"

"I—yeah. I have class in there third period remember" She moved forward before she could think about it, walking past him toward the door, her hip brushing his thigh as she went. The contact sent a jolt up her side, and she heard him inhale — just a fraction, just a catch — and she wondered if maybe he felt it too. Maybe he just didn't know what to call it.

She pushed open the door to room 204. The air inside was warm and stale, smelling of dry-erase markers and old paper. Mr. Patterson was already at his desk, hunched over a laptop, not looking up as students filtered in. The room was half full — maybe fifteen bodies scattered across the lab tables, some awake, some resting their heads on crossed arms.

She held the door open, pulling it wider than it needed to be, her body angled into the doorway like a gatekeeper. The metal edge pressed against her hip. The hallway light cut a sharp line across the linoleum. And Dmitri was right there, so close she could smell him — something clean and faintly smoky, like soap and the cold air outside and skin that had been in the sun.

He ducked his head to step through. Polite. Unhurried. Not looking where he was going, just trusting her to hold the door, his eyes on the room ahead, checking for an empty seat.

Her breasts grazed his chest.

It was barely a touch — a brush, a whisper of contact, the thin fabric of her bra-top doing nothing to buffer the sensation. She felt the heat of him through the cotton of his t-shirt, the solid wall of muscle pressing against her for half a heartbeat, the brief friction of his arm against her shoulder as he passed.

Her breath stopped.

Her lungs locked. Her nipples tightened against the inside of her bra-top, and she was suddenly, violently aware of every inch of her body — the curve of her stomach, the dip of her waist, the way her breasts still tingled where they'd touched him. She could still feel the pressure. The shape of him. The heat that had transferred through two thin layers of fabric and settled somewhere deep in her chest like a brand.

Oh my God. Oh my God, did he feel that? He had to feel that. There's no way he didn't feel that. My entire chest just—I'm not wearing anything, I'm wearing basically a bra, he felt everything—

She let go of the door too fast. It swung shut behind him with a soft click, and she stood there in the doorway, frozen, one hand still lifted where the metal had been, her face burning so hot she thought she might actually pass out.

Dmitri turned. He was already a few steps into the room, scanning the lab tables, but something made him look back — maybe the sound of the door closing too quickly, maybe the silence where her voice should have been. His hazel eyes found her.

"You coming in?"

"No." The word came out strangled. Pitched somewhere between a squeak and a gasp, like her throat had forgotten how to produce human sounds. "I—I can't. I mean—I don't—" She pressed her palm against the doorframe, steadying herself, feeling the cool metal bite into her skin. "I have this class third period. Not first. Third. So I—I can't come in right now. I was just—I was showing you where it was."

The admission landed like a stone dropped into still water. She watched his face, waiting for the confusion, the awkwardness, the well, that was weird look that would send her crawling into a hole for the rest of the semester. But all she saw was his eyebrow lift — the one with the silver barbell — and something flicker in his hazel eyes. Not confusion. Not dismissal. Something almost like a question he was still forming.

"You brought me here," he said slowly, "even though you don't have class?"

The way he said it made it sound kind. Like she'd done something nice. Not desperate. Not pathetic. Just nice.

Her face flushed hotter. She could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks like a space heater. "I—yeah. I mean, I was heading this way anyway. Kind of. I mean, I have history first period. It's in the other wing. The east wing. So I was going that way eventually." She was lying. She didn't know why she was lying. She had history first period, sure, but she hadn't been heading there. She'd been glued to her locker like a statue until he walked by. "So it wasn't—I wasn't going out of my way."

Shut up shut up shut up shut up —

Dmitri's mouth did that almost-smile thing again. Barely a curve. But she saw it. "Okay."

She watched him. He was still standing a few feet inside the classroom, his schedule crumpled in one hand, his shoulders taking up space she hadn't noticed was empty before. The room behind him was coming alive with the usual first-period energy — someone sharpened a pencil in quick, aggressive bursts; a girl laughed too loud near the back; Mr. Patterson's keyboard clicked from his desk. But all of it felt muffled, underwater, while Dmitri stood there looking at her like she was a puzzle he was still working on.

"So." He shifted his weight. "Third period. You'll be here."

"Yeah." Her voice came out small. She cleared her throat. "Yeah, third period. I sit at—" She pointed vaguely toward the middle of the room, where the lab tables were arranged in rows. "Somewhere in the middle. Usually. Depends on the day."

Why did you say depends on the day. You sit at the same table every day. It's assigned. There's a seating chart. You sound insane.

He nodded. "I'll look for you."

Her breath caught. Actually caught, like a snag in her chest that wouldn't release. I'll look for you. Four words. Simple. Casual. He probably meant it the way anyone said see you later — automatic, polite, forgettable. But in her ears, it sounded like a promise. Like a thread connecting this moment to whatever came next.

"You should—" She gestured toward the room. "You should probably find a seat. Before Mr. Patterson starts taking attendance. He's weird about that. He'll make you stand at the front and introduce yourself if you're late."

Dmitri glanced at the teacher, who was still hunched over his laptop, oblivious. "Good to know."

Neither of them moved.

The moment stretched. A second. Two. Three. Anya's hand was still pressed against the doorframe. Dmitri's eyes hadn't left her face. She could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing, warm and steady, making her skin prickle under the fluorescent light.

"I should go," she said. The words came out in a rush. "To history. I should go to history. Before the bell rings again. Or—I mean, the bell already rang, so—before I'm late. More late. To history."

He nodded again. "Alright."

But his feet didn't move. And neither did hers.

The second bell rang. Sharp. Loud. It cut through the air like a blade, and Anya felt herself jolt, the spell breaking, the world rushing back in. Students were settling into their seats around them. Mr. Patterson looked up from his laptop and scanned the room, his eyes landing on Dmitri.

"New student?" Patterson's voice was flat, tired.

Dmitri turned. "Yes."

"Find a seat. We'll sort out the paperwork later."

Dmitri gave a short nod. Then he looked back at Anya — one last glance, quick but not careless — and said, "Third period."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a reminder. It was a mark, a line drawn in the air between them, and she felt it settle into her ribs before she could answer.

"Third period," she repeated.

He walked toward the back of the room. She watched him go — watched the way his shoulders moved under the gray t-shirt, the loose swing of his arms, the dark ink peeking at his wrists. He slid into an empty seat near the window, sprawling into it like he'd been there forever, and pulled out a notebook that looked like it had been through a war.

She was still standing in the doorway.

"Miss Petrova." Mr. Patterson's voice cut through again. "Do you have a reason for loitering, or are you planning to attend a class you're not enrolled in?"

She yanked her hand off the doorframe. "No. Sorry. I'm—leaving. Right now. Bye."

The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, and she was alone in the hallway.

The corridor stretched out in both directions, empty, the harsh lights buzzing overhead. The air was warm and stale, carrying the distant echo of a classroom door slamming somewhere on the second floor. She leaned her back against the wall beside the door — room 204, where he was sitting right now, three feet away behind that thin wooden barrier — and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Her legs felt weak. Her hands were trembling. She looked down at her fingers and watched them shake, watched the slight tremble ripple through her gold rings, and she laughed — a short, broken sound that echoed off the lockers.

What just happened. What actually just happened to me.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to ground herself. Her skin was hot. Her whole body was hot. She could still feel the ghost of his chest against hers, that brief electric contact, and her nipples tightened again at the memory. She dropped her hands and looked down at herself — at the tiny bra-top doing so little work, at the thin stretch of bare stomach between its hem and her jeans, at the neon-green thong riding high above the denim, bright and unashamed.

She'd dressed for attention. She knew she had. Every morning, she stood in front of her mirror and curated every inch — the gloss, the hoops, the low rise, the barely-there top. She knew exactly what she was doing when she walked through these hallways. She'd spent years building this armor, this weapon, this body that made people look and then look away.

And one conversation with Dmitri Volkov had turned it all into tissue paper.

I'll look for you.

She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammer against her ribs. Calm down. Calm down. It's one class. One class you share with him. It's not a date. It's not anything. He's just being friendly.

But the way he said it. The way his eyes stayed on her face. The way he didn't move until she did.

She was in trouble. The kind of trouble she'd never been in before, the kind with no exit plan and no social ladder to climb out of. The kind that made her want to run back into that classroom and sit down next to him and pretend she'd been enrolled in first-period chemistry all along.

She pushed off the wall. Forced her feet to move. First-period history was in the east wing, and she was going to be late — properly late, the kind of late that earned her a detention and a disappointed look from Mr. Han — and she didn't care. She couldn't care. Her head was still in room 204, still caught in that doorway, still feeling the brush of his chest across hers.

She walked down the hallway. Past the water fountain. Past the bulletin board covered in club sign-ups. Past the window that overlooked the parking lot, where a cluster of birds was pecking at something on the asphalt. Everything looked normal. Everything sounded normal. But she felt unmoored, like someone had loosened the screws that held her in place.

She was halfway to the east wing when a familiar voice called out behind her.

"Anya! Yo, Anya, wait up!"

She turned. Jessica — one of her friends, long blonde hair, a smile that was always half a smirk — was trotting toward her, backpack bouncing against her shoulder. "I saw you," Jessica said, slightly out of breath. "I saw you with the new guy. The Russian transfer." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Spill."

Anya's stomach dropped. "There's nothing to spill. I was just showing him where his first class was."

"Uh-huh." Jessica fell into step beside her, her voice dripping with amusement. "And that's why you were standing in the doorway like a statue for, like, five minutes? I saw you from the math wing window. You literally didn't move. He was inside and you were just—standing there. Touching the doorframe like it was a holy artifact."

Great. There were witnesses.

"I was making sure he found a seat," Anya said. The lie came out flatter than she meant. "He's new. I was being nice."

"You were being something," Jessica said. "I don't think 'nice' is the word for that look on your face."

Anya felt her cheeks heat again. She looked away, fixing her eyes on the door to Mr. Han's classroom at the end of the hall. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Jessica laughed. "Sure you don't. But for the record — he's hot. Like, unfairly hot. Like, you can't just move to a small town looking like that and expect everyone to act normal."

Anya said nothing. Her fingers were cold. Her heart was still racing.

"He's got that whole bad-boy thing," Jessica continued. "The tattoos, the piercings. And he's Russian? That accent is going to destroy half the girls in this school by the end of the week. Mark my words."

"He's not a threat," Anya said quietly. "He's just a guy."

Jessica gave her a long, thoughtful look. "Uh-huh. And that's why you're blushing right now?"

Anya touched her cheek. It was warm under her fingers. "I'm not blushing."

"You're literally the color of a fire truck."

Anya walked faster. Jessica kept pace, unbothered, clearly enjoying herself.

"So what's his name?" Jessica asked.

"Dmitri."

"Dmitri." Jessica rolled the name on her tongue like she was tasting it. "Dmitri. That's a good name. Strong. Very intimidating. I bet his parents were spies."

"His uncle lives here. He moved from Chicago."

"Chicago? So he's from the city and now he's here. That must be a culture shock." Jessica nudged her. "Good thing he has a friendly local to show him around, huh?"

Anya stopped walking. She turned to face Jessica fully. "What are you trying to say?"

Jessica's smirk softened into something more knowing. "I'm saying you looked at him like he was the first interesting thing to happen to you in years. And I've known you long enough to know when you're pretending not to care."

The words hit harder than Anya expected. She opened her mouth to deny it, to deflect, to say something sharp and dismissive — but nothing came out.

Because Jessica was right.

She was terrifyingly right.

"I'm not pretending," Anya said finally. Her voice came out small. Honest. "I just don't know what to do with it."

Jessica's expression shifted. The smirk faded, replaced by something softer. "Maybe you don't have to do anything. Maybe just let it happen."

Anya stared at her. "Let it happen?"

"Yeah. You're Anya Petrova. You don't have to chase anyone. If he's interested, he'll figure it out." Jessica shrugged. "And if he's not — well, then you're still Anya Petrova. Nothing changes."

But everything had already changed, and Jessica didn't even know it.

The bell for first period rang — the late bell, the one that meant they were officially late. Anya swore under her breath and pushed open the door to Mr. Han's classroom, Jessica slipping in behind her.

Mr. Han looked up from his roll sheet. "Nice of you both to join us."

"Sorry, Mr. Han," Anya said. She slid into her usual seat near the window, Jessica two rows behind her. The room was full of familiar faces, the same tired expressions she saw every morning, the same stale air, the same droning voice about European history.

But all she could think about was room 204. And a pair of hazel eyes. And four words that were still ringing in her ears like a song she couldn't stop humming.

I'll look for you.

She pulled out her notebook, uncapped her pen, and wrote his name in the margin.

Dmitri Volkov.

She stared at it. The letters looked foreign in her handwriting — too heavy, too significant. She ripped the page out before she could think about it, crumpled it into a ball, and shoved it into her pocket.

Third period.

She all but ran out as the bell rang for the lunch. She just finished third period.

The bell was still ringing in her ears, vibrating through her skull like a tuning fork, when she burst through the door of room 204 and slammed into something solid.

Something warm. Something that smelled like soap and skin and the faintest trace of something smoky.

Her face hit chest. Her hands flew out, palms flat against fabric stretched over muscle, and she felt the impact reverberate through her palms, up her wrists, into her shoulders. Her books slipped. Her balance tilted. The world swung sideways—

And then hands caught her waist.

Big hands. Warm. Fingers spanning the bare strip of skin above her jeans, thumb pressing into the curve of her hip, palm flat against her stomach. The touch was steady, sure, like whoever it was had been expecting her to fall. Like they'd been ready.

She looked up.

Hazel eyes. Dark brown hair. A silver barbell through one eyebrow, glinting in the fluorescent light.

Oh no.

Dmitri Volkov was holding her. His hands were on her waist. His chest was still warm against her palms, and she could feel his heartbeat under her fingers—steady, slow, nothing like the frantic mess inside her own ribs.

"You okay?" His voice was low. A rumble. The accent curled around the words like smoke.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

A sound came out. It was not a word. It was something between a squeak and a gasp, the noise a small animal makes when it's caught in headlights.

His eyebrows drew together. Just slightly. Concern, maybe. Or confusion. His hands were still on her waist, and she could feel the heat of them through the thin fabric of her bra-top, feel the press of his fingers against her bare skin, and her brain had officially vacated the premises.

"Anya?"

He said her name. Her name. She hadn't told him her last name—just Anya—and he remembered it, and he said it like it was a normal thing to say, like he hadn't just short-circuited every nerve ending in her body.

"I—" She swallowed. Tried again. "I'm—yeah. I'm fine. I'm—"Standing here. In your hands. Dying. Being reborn. Pick one.

She realized she was still gripping his chest. Her fingers were curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing the muscle underneath, and she had no memory of putting them there. Her body had apparently decided to anchor itself to him without consulting her brain.

She let go. Her hands dropped to her sides like dead weights.

"Sorry," she said. The word came out breathless. "I didn't—I wasn't looking where I was going. I just—the bell rang, and I was—" she took a breath "—in a hurry."

Dmitri's mouth did that almost-smile thing. Just a curve at the corner. "It's okay."

His hands were still on her waist.

She should say something. She should move. She should step back, create distance, let him release her like a normal person who hadn't just face-planted into the chest of the most dangerous man in the building.

She didn't move.

His thumbs pressed gently into her hip bones. Not hard. Just... there. Like he was steadying her. Like he wasn't in a rush to let go.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You look—" He paused, searching for the word. "Flustered."

Flustered. He noticed. He noticed I'm flustered. That means he's looking at me. That means he's paying attention.

"I'm fine," she said. Too fast. Too high. "I'm fine. I just—third period was"—long. Long class. Chemistry is long."

Her heart was going to explode. It was going to actually, physically detonate inside her chest, and the mess would be someone else's problem.

"I take good notes," she said. "I have a 4.0."

"I don't doubt it."

His hands finally—finally—left her waist. But not before his thumbs brushed across her hip bones one last time, like a farewell, like he was saying goodbye to the warmth of her skin. He stepped back, and the absence of his body heat hit her like a cold wind.

"You heading to lunch?" he asked.

The question was casual. Easy. Like he was just making conversation. But it opened a door in her chest, and she could feel herself stepping through it before her brain caught up.

"Yeah. I mean—yes. I was. I am." She gestured vaguely down the hall. "The cafeteria is that way. Through the commons. Past the gym." She was babbling again. She could hear herself babbling. "It's not hard to find. There are signs. Usually. Unless someone took them down. Which happens sometimes. Pranks."

Stop talking. Stop talking. Let him speak. Give him room to say something.

"I haven't seen it yet," he said. "The cafeteria."

She blinked. "You haven't?"

"First day. I had to find my classes first. I didn't have time to explore."

That made sense. That was reasonable. That didn't mean anything other than what he'd said, which was that he hadn't found the cafeteria yet.

But her mouth was already moving ahead of her brain, forming words she hadn't authorized.

"I can show you."

He looked at her. His hazel eyes moved over her face, reading something she couldn't name. "You don't have to."

"I know." She shrugged. Tried to look casual. Failed. "But I'm heading that way anyway. And it's confusing if you don't know the layout. The commons connects to three different wings, and there's a shortcut through the art building that no one tells you about unless you've been here a while." She was doing it again. Rambling. "So. Yeah. I can show you. If you want."

He was quiet for a moment. The hallway was emptying around them, students streaming toward the cafeteria in clusters, their voices echoing off the lockers. A few people glanced their way—she caught a familiar face, a girl from her English class, who raised her eyebrows and kept walking.

Then Dmitri said, "Okay."

Just that. One word. Simple. Casual. Like it was nothing.

But it felt like everything.

She turned and started walking before she could think about it, her feet carrying her down the hall at a pace that was probably too fast. She heard his footsteps behind her—heavy, steady, matching her rhythm without effort—and she felt him fall into step beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his arm.

The hallway opened into the commons, a wide space with tall windows and a skylight that let in the pale afternoon sun. A few students were lounging on the benches, scrolling through phones, eating snacks smuggled out of the cafeteria. The air smelled like floor wax and the faint, sad aroma of whatever was being reheated in the kitchen.

Anya took a left past the water fountain, then a right through the double doors that led to the main corridor. She could feel Dmitri's presence beside her like a second sun—warm, constant, impossible to ignore.

"So," she said, because the silence was making her nervous. "How was first period? Chemistry?"

"It was fine." He said it like he meant it. "Mr. Patterson seems like he knows what he's talking about. Most of the time."

"He does. He's just—" She searched for the right word. "Intense. About the periodic table. Don't ever question his opinions on the noble gases. It's a whole thing."

Dmitri made a sound. Not quite a laugh, but close. A low rumble in his chest that she felt in her own ribs. "I'll keep that in mind."

They passed the trophy case. A cluster of freshmen parted around them, their eyes flickering to Dmitri, then to her, then away. She caught one of them whispering to another—is that the new guy—and felt a flash of something hot and possessive in her chest.

He's walking with me. Not you. Me.

"What about your other classes?" she asked. "Did you find them all okay?"

"Mostly. I got lost once. Ended up in the basement."

"There's a basement?"

"Apparently. It's just storage. And a lot of boxes." He shrugged. "I figured it out."

She laughed. It came out lighter than she expected, more natural. "I've been here four years and I didn't know there was a basement."

"I'll show you sometime."

The words hung in the air between them. I'll show you sometime. Like there would be a sometime. Like he was already planning for there to be more moments, more conversations, more walking through hallways together.

She felt her heart skip. Actually skip, like a record catching on a groove.

"Yeah," she said. Her voice came out softer than she meant. "I'd like that."

They rounded the corner, and the cafeteria came into view—a wide, low-ceilinged room filled with long tables and the dull roar of a hundred conversations. The lunch line was already forming, a snaking queue of students holding trays and looking at their phones. The air smelled like pizza and something vaguely vegetable-based that no one was going to eat.

Anya stopped at the entrance. Dmitri stopped beside her.

"This is it," she said. "Cafeteria. Not as exciting as the basement, but it has food."

He looked around. His eyes moved slowly across the room, taking in the tables, the windows, the line, the cluster of teachers at the far end drinking coffee. Then he looked at her.

"Where do you sit?"

The question was simple. Direct. And every nerve in her body lit up like a fuse.

"I usually sit—" She pointed toward a table near the windows, where Jessica and a few other girls were already settled, their heads bent together, probably talking about her. "Over there. With my friends."

He followed her gaze. Looked at the table. Then back at her.

"Can I sit with you?"

Her mouth opened. No sound came out.

Did he just—did he actually just ask to sit with me? At my table? With my friends? In front of everyone?

"I—" She swallowed. Tried to find her voice. "Yeah. I mean—if you want. You don't have to. If you'd rather sit somewhere else. I don't want to—"

"I want to."

Three words. That was all. Three words, and she was done.

She nodded. Couldn't speak. Nodded again, like a bobblehead, her neck moving on its own.

He nodded back. And then he started walking toward her table, and she followed, because apparently her legs had also stopped taking orders from her brain.

Jessica saw them coming about halfway across the room. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth formed a perfect O. She nudged the girl next to her—Marissa, the one from the hallway earlier—and they both turned to stare.

Anya felt every pair of eyes in the cafeteria land on her. On them. On the impossibly tall Russian transfer student walking toward the popular girls' table like he owned the place.

She wanted to disappear. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab his hand and hold on and never let go.

He reached the table first. Pulled out the chair across from Jessica—the one that was usually empty because no one had the nerve to sit there. He looked at Anya, waiting for her to catch up.

"Here?" he asked.

She nodded. Still couldn't speak.

He sat down.

The chair groaned under his weight. He settled into it like he belonged there, his shoulders taking up space, his legs stretching out under the table. He looked up at her, waiting for her to sit too.

She realized she was still standing. Still staring. Still frozen in the middle of the aisle like a complete idiot.

She sat down in the chair next to him. Maybe too fast. The legs scraped against the floor, and she winced, but no one seemed to notice.

Jessica was looking at her with an expression that said we are going to talk about this later and you are going to tell me everything.

Anya ignored her. She couldn't look at Jessica. She couldn't look at anyone except the man beside her, who was now pulling a crumpled granola bar out of his pocket and examining it like it had personally offended him.

"I should have brought lunch," he said.

The absurdity of the statement—the casualness of it, the normalcy, the way he said it like he'd been sitting at this table for years—broke something in her chest. A laugh escaped. Real. Surprised. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

Dmitri looked at her. One eyebrow lifted. "What?"

"Nothing." She was still laughing, muffled behind her hand. "Nothing. I just—" She lowered her hand. Shook her head. "You're sitting at my lunch table eating a granola bar like it's the most normal thing in the world."

He looked down at the granola bar. Then back at her. "It's not?"

"It is," she said. "That's what's so weird about it. It feels normal."

He held her gaze for a moment. Then he unwrapped the granola bar and took a bite.

Anya watched him chew. Watched the muscles in his jaw move. Watched his throat work as he swallowed.

She was in so much trouble.

Jessica cleared her throat loudly. "So. Dmitri, right?"

He looked up. "Yeah."

"I'm Jessica." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her smile sharp and friendly. "Anya's told me nothing about you, so I'm forced to ask my own questions."

Anya kicked her under the table. Jessica didn't flinch.

Dmitri's mouth quirked. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." Jessica's smile widened. "But let's start with the basics. Where are you from? Do you have a girlfriend? What's your favorite color?"

"Jessica," Anya hissed.

But Dmitri just chuckled. Actually chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through the table. "Chicago. No. And black."

"Black. Edgy. I like it." Jessica shot Anya a look that said he's single.

Anya wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Instead, she sat there, her heart hammering, her hands trembling in her lap, while the boy beside her ate a granola bar and answered questions like he didn't know he was rearranging her entire universe.

Anya's fingers found the edge of the table and held on. The plastic laminate was warm and slightly tacky under her nails, and she focused on that sensation—the realness of it, the solidness—while Jessica kept talking and Dmitri kept answering and the whole cafeteria kept spinning around her like a carousel she couldn't step off.

Then a shadow fell across the table.

Anya looked up. Marissa was standing at her elbow, a tray in her hands, her smile painted on with the same precision as her eyeliner—careful, deliberate, sharp at the edges. She wasn't looking at Anya. She was looking at Dmitri, her head tilted slightly, her lashes lowered in a way that was probably supposed to look casual and instead looked like she'd practiced it in the mirror.

"Hey," Marissa said. Her voice was light. Friendly. The kind of voice that pretended it was just passing by. "Sorry to interrupt."

She wasn't sorry. Anya could feel it in her ribs, the way her body tensed before she even understood why. Marissa had been staring at Dmitri in the hallway. Marissa had watched them walk past. And now Marissa was here, at her table, with her tray, looking at him like he was a piece of meat she'd decided to order.

"You're the new guy, right?" Marissa continued, shifting her weight so her hip jutted out, the movement drawing attention to the curve of her waist under her fitted top. "I'm Marissa. I'm in your English class. Fourth period."

Dmitri looked up from his granola bar. His eyes moved over Marissa's face, polite and neutral, like he was cataloging a face he'd seen before. "Yeah. I remember."

"I thought so." Marissa's smile widened. "I was going to say hi earlier, but you were with—" She gestured vaguely at Anya, a flick of her wrist that dismissed her existence. "Anyway. I was wondering if you wanted to sit at a better table tomorrow."

The words landed like a slap.

Anya felt them hit her chest, sharp and cold. A better table. Marissa hadn't even looked at her when she said it. Hadn't acknowledged that she was sitting right there, that this was her table, that Marissa was standing at her elbow trying to steal the boy who'd asked to sit with her.

Her jaw tightened. Her fingers dug into the edge of the table.

Say something. Say something sharp. Tell her to get lost. You're Anya Petrova. You don't let people talk to you like this.

But the words wouldn't come. They stuck in her throat, caught behind the stutter that only ever showed up when she was falling apart, and she sat there, frozen, watching Marissa smile at Dmitri like she'd already won.

Jessica's voice cut through the air. "Wow. Rude."

Marissa's smile flickered. She turned to Jessica, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"You heard me." Jessica leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her expression flat and unimpressed. "You just walked up to our table and called it not good enough. That's rude. Even for you."

"I wasn't talking to you," Marissa said. Her voice had cooled, the friendliness bleeding out of it. "I was talking to him."

"And he's sitting at our table. Which means you're talking to all of us." Jessica's smile was sharp. "So maybe next time, don't insult the people whose table you're interrupting."

Anya felt a rush of gratitude so intense it almost hurt. Jessica. Her rock. Her shield. The person who said the things she couldn't say when her brain had abandoned her.

Marissa's jaw tightened. She looked back at Dmitri, her composure slipping just slightly. "I was just trying to be friendly. New kid should know his options."

"He knows his options," Jessica said. "He chose this table."

Marissa's eyes flicked to Anya for the first time. Just a glance, quick and dismissive, but Anya caught it—the calculation in it, the assessment. What does he see in her?

The question burned. Anya felt it settle into her chest like a coal, hot and smoldering, and she opened her mouth to say something—anything—to reclaim the ground she was losing.

But Dmitri spoke first.

"This table is fine." His voice was low, unhurried. He was still holding the granola bar, still halfway through it, and he said it like he was commenting on the weather. Like there was nothing to discuss. "I'll sit here."

Marissa blinked. "You haven't seen the other table."

"I don't need to." He took another bite of the granola bar. Chewed. Swallowed. "I'm good."

The simplicity of it. The finality. Marissa stood there for a moment, her tray still in her hands, her smile hovering somewhere between frozen and abandoned, like she wasn't sure what to do with a no she hadn't expected.

Anya watched her. Watched the realization settle into her features—that she'd been turned down, that he'd chosen this table without even looking at the alternative, that whatever was happening here was solid enough to resist a pry bar.

Marissa's smile tightened. "Suit yourself."

She turned and walked away, her tray balanced in one hand, her back straight. Anya watched her go, watched her slide into a table on the other side of the cafeteria surrounded by girls who looked up with eager curiosity, watched her say something that made them all glance over at Anya's table with expressions that ranged from pity to amusement.

Her face burned.

But underneath the heat, something else was blooming. Something warm and fragile and dangerous.

He chose this table. He chose me.

She looked at him. He was still eating his granola bar, oblivious to the social earthquake he'd just caused. His eyes were on the table, his jaw moving steadily, his shoulders relaxed in that way they had—like he didn't know he was carrying the weight of her entire world on them.

"Thank you," she said. The words came out before she could stop them, soft and honest.

He looked up. "For what?"

She gestured vaguely in the direction Marissa had gone. "For that. For not—" She shook her head, searching for the words. "For not making it weird."

His brow furrowed. Just slightly. "It was weird that she showed up and said that. I just said no."

"Yeah, but—" She laughed, a short, breathless sound. "You don't understand. That's not how it works here. People don't just say no to Marissa. She's—" She's popular. She's mean. She's the kind of girl who makes other girls' lives miserable for fun. "She's not used to being turned down."

Dmitri shrugged. "Then she should get used to it."

The words were so simple. So matter-of-fact. Like it was obvious, like the world worked that way for everyone, like he hadn't just drawn a line in the sand that would echo through the gossip mill for weeks.

Anya felt something crack open in her chest. A small thing, a seam she hadn't known was sealed, and through it poured a warmth that spread through her ribs like honey.

"You're dangerous," she said quietly.

He looked at her. His hazel eyes held hers, steady and unreadable. "Why?"

Because you make me forget how to talk. Because you make me want things I don't know how to name. Because you just chose me over someone who could make my life hell, and you did it like it was nothing, and now I don't know how to look at you without feeling like I'm on fire.

"Because you're new," she said instead. "And you don't know the rules yet."

"I know the rules." He said it quietly, his voice dropping into something lower, something that felt like it was meant only for her. "I just don't care about them."

Her breath caught.

He held her gaze for a beat longer. Then he looked down at his granola bar, turned it over in his fingers, and said, "Besides. She wasn't interesting."

"What?"

"Marissa." He said the name like it was neutral, like it was just a collection of syllables. "She wasn't interesting. You are."

Anya's heart stopped. Actually stopped, seized in her chest, and she was sure she was about to die right here at the lunch table with a half-eaten granola bar between them and Jessica's sharp eyes boring into the side of her head.

"I'm interesting?" Her voice came out as a whisper.

He nodded. "Yeah."

He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The word hung in the air between them, heavy and warm, and Anya felt it settle into her bones like a brand.

Jessica cleared her throat. Loudly. "Okay. I'm going to pretend I'm not here for a second, but also—" She looked at Anya, her eyebrows raised, her voice dropped to a stage whisper. "He just said you're interesting. That's basically a love confession in guy language."

"Jessica!" Anya's face exploded with heat. She wanted to crawl under the table. She wanted to hug her. She wanted to do both at the same time.

Dmitri's mouth quirked. That almost-smile again, the one that made her stomach flip. "Is that what it means?"

"In my experience, yes," Jessica said. "Guys don't call girls interesting unless they're already thinking about them in a non-platonic way."

"That's not—he didn't—" Anya was sputtering, her face on fire, her hands waving in front of her like she could physically bat the words away. "He just meant—he's being nice. He's new. He doesn't know anyone yet. I'm just the first person who talked to him."

She looked at Dmitri, desperate for him to confirm. To say yes, that's it, that's all it is. But he was just looking at her, his expression unreadable, the granola bar forgotten in his hand.

"She was the first person who talked to me," he said slowly, his eyes still on hers. "But that's not why she's interesting."

Anya forgot how to breathe.

The cafeteria noise faded. The clatter of trays, the hum of conversations, the distant sound of someone dropping a plate in the kitchen—all of it receded, leaving only the space between them, the air thick with something she didn't have a name for.

"Then why?" she heard herself ask. The words came out small, vulnerable, stripped of all the armor she'd spent years building. "Why am I interesting?"

He considered the question. Actually considered it, his head tilted slightly, his eyes moving over her face like he was reading a book he didn't want to put down.

"Because you stutter," he said finally. "When you talk to me."

Her heart stopped.

"And I don't think you stutter with anyone else."

The world tilted. The floor shifted under her feet even though she was sitting down, even though her shoes were flat against the linoleum, even though nothing in the physical universe had changed. But everything had. Everything had changed, because he'd noticed. He'd noticed the thing she thought she'd been hiding, the crack in her armor, the tell that gave her away, and he hadn't used it as a weapon. He'd just... seen it. And stayed.

"You noticed that," she whispered.

"Hard not to." His voice was low. Gentle, almost. "You talk fine to your friend. You talked fine to me when I first walked up. But when you got nervous—" He paused. "Your voice changed."

She was shaking. Actually, physically trembling, her hands vibrating against the tabletop, her knees bouncing under the plastic. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs to steady them, but the tremor ran through her whole body, a live wire humming with the force of being seen.

"I don't—" She swallowed. Tried again. "I don't know why that happens. With you. It just—" She laughed, a broken sound. "It just does."

He nodded. Like that made sense. Like he understood something she hadn't said.

"It's okay," he said. "I don't mind."

I don't mind. Three words. Simple. Quiet. And they meant more to her than any grand gesture, any romantic confession, any line she'd ever heard in a movie or read in a book. Because he didn't mind. He didn't mind the cracked voice, the fumbled words, the way she fell apart in front of him. He didn't mind that she wasn't polished and perfect when he was around. He liked it. He'd called it interesting.

She was going to cry. She could feel it building, the pressure behind her eyes, the tightness in her throat. She blinked rapidly, staring at the table, at the crumb of granola near his hand, at anything that wasn't his face.

"Okay," she said. Her voice came out thick. "Okay. That's—that's good. That's—" She took a breath. Let it out. "Thank you. For not minding."