The mirror didn't lie. It never did. Anya stared at her reflection, at the black lace of the bra cutting high against her ribs, the way it pushed her breasts up like an offering, like armor. She turned sideways. The thong was a thin line of crimson against her hip, visible above the waistband of jeans that sat so low they were practically a suggestion. She'd chosen this outfit deliberately. Weaponized it. The hair, long and black, fell past her waist. The gold hoops swung when she moved. The lip gloss was fresh.
*You can do this. You are Anya Petrova. You own this hallway. You don't stutter unless you want to.*
The lie sat thin in her throat, but she swallowed it anyway. Yesterday had been a disaster. A beautiful, terrifying disaster. He'd seen her fall apart. He'd watched her hands tremble and her voice crack. And instead of looking away like everyone else would have, he'd leaned in. Called it interesting.
*I don't mind.*
The words had played on loop in her head all night, keeping her awake until the ceiling grew pale with dawn. She'd rolled them over and over, trying to find the catch, the hidden meaning. There wasn't one. He just didn't mind. He liked that she was a mess around him.
Which meant she had to stop being a mess. Today was a new day. A clean slate. No stuttering. No trembling. Just cool, casual Anya, being totally normal about the giant Russian who made her knees weak.
She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and took one last look in the mirror. The black lace stared back at her. *For courage*, she told herself. *Not for him. For me.*
---
The hallway was already loud when she got there. The usual circus of slammed lockers and shouted greetings, of cliques clustering in their designated corners. Anya moved through it on autopilot, her eyes scanning, searching, landing.
Dmitri was already there. Leaning against his locker like it had been built for him. He was wearing another loose tee—gray today—and his hair was still slightly damp, pushed back from his face. The eyebrow barbell caught the fluorescent light. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, showing the dark ink that crawled up his forearms.
He was stretching. One arm reaching up, the other bracing against the metal. The movement pulled the hem of his shirt up, just a few inches, and she saw it. The strip of skin. The hard muscle. The edge of a tattoo that disappeared under the fabric.
Her mouth went dry.
*Stop it. Stop looking. You're staring.*
She forced her feet to move. One step. Another. The distance between them shrank until she was close enough to see the slight shadow on his jaw, the way his hazel eyes caught the light when he turned and saw her.
He smiled.
Soft. Easy. Like he'd been waiting for her.
"Good morning, Anya."
The sound of her name in his voice did something to her chest. Something tight and warm and dangerous. She swallowed, clutched the strap of her bag, and smiled back.
"Morning."
Two syllables. Clean. No crack. She counted it as a victory.
He pushed off from the locker, the movement bringing him a step closer. She had to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact. The height difference was ridiculous. Made her feel small in a way that wasn't bad. Wrapped. Safe.
"You look..." He paused, and she watched his gaze drop, just for a fraction of a second, to the black lace, the exposed skin of her stomach, the thin strap of the thong riding high on her hip. "...good."
The word hit her like a shot of something warm. She felt heat crawl up her neck, fought it down.
"Thanks," she said. She turned slightly, making a show of spinning the combination lock on her own locker, which was conveniently two lockers down from his. A total coincidence she had definitely not orchestrated. "I was going for... you know. Effortlessly appetizing."
He let out a sound. A laugh. Low and rough, like he didn't use it often. It changed his whole face, softened the edges of that bad-boy jawline, made him look younger. Accessible.
"Effortlessly appetizing," he repeated, tasting the words. "I like that."
*He likes it. He likes my words. He likes what I said.*
Her heart was hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it. She busied her hands with the lock, the zipper of her bag, anything to keep them from reaching out and touching him.
"So," she said, her voice carefully bright. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous."
She shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. "About yesterday. I realized we never actually covered the fundamentals."
He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Fundamentals?"
She closed her locker, turned, and faced him fully. The noise of the hallway seemed to dim. There were people everywhere, Jessica watching from a cluster of cheerleaders, Marissa's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head from across the hall. Anya didn't care. Right now, there was only him.
"Are we friends?" she asked. The words came out steady, but she felt the weight of them. The risk. If he said no, this whole careful act would shatter. "Like, officially. Is that what this is?"
He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes scanned her face, and she wondered what he saw. The makeup. The gloss. The mask. Or whatever was underneath.
"What else would it be?" he asked. He wasn't teasing. He genuinely looked confused, like the answer was obvious.
"I don't know," she said. She shrugged, the movement making the lace strap shift on her shoulder. "I just wanted to make sure. Because I don't want to assume, and I really don't want to mess this up."
"Mess it up how?"
She bit her lip. The metallic taste of lip gloss mixed with the salt of her own anxiety. "You know. By being too much. Or not enough. Or..." She trailed off. *Or by wanting it to be something else.*
He took a step closer. Close enough that she could smell him. Soap. Something clean and masculine. No cologne. Just him.
"Anya." His voice dropped, the accent thickening just slightly on the vowels of her name. "Look at me."
She did. She forced her eyes up, past the line of his jaw, past the piercing in his brow, up into the hazel that was watching her with something that looked almost like concern.
"I don't know what you are thinking," he said. "But whatever it is, stop."
"Stop?"
"Stop worrying. We are friends. If you want that."
The words were simple. Quiet. And they settled in her chest with a weight that was equal parts relief and grief. The door clicked shut. Not slammed. Just closed. Settled into its frame.
"I want that," she said. And she meant it. Even as a part of her screamed that she wanted more, that she wanted him to look at her the way she looked at him, this was enough. This was something. "I definitely want that."
He smiled again. That soft, easy smile that made her stomach flip. "Good. Then it is settled."
She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. The tension in her shoulders eased.
"Okay," she said. "Good. Great. So, friend, what do you think of this top? Be honest. I can handle it."
She turned, a slow spin, arms out. She knew what she was doing. The black lace was cut high, showing the curve of her ribs, the underswell of her breasts. The jeans sat so low that the crimson thong was a slash of color against her pale skin, the waistband of the jeans dipping below the jut of her hip bones. It was a performance. A test.
His eyes traced the arc of her spin, and she watched his throat move as he swallowed.
"It is..." He paused, searching for the word. "Good. It is good."
"Just good?" She tilted her head, pouting slightly. "I spent like twenty minutes on this. Twenty minutes of my life I'll never get back."
He laughed again, and she filed the sound away, tucked it into the corner of her heart where she kept the things that mattered.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked. "It is nice. Black is my favorite color."
*Black is my favorite color.*
Her heart stuttered. A simple statement. Innocent. But it landed in her chest like a grenade. She'd chosen black. She'd worn it for him. And he'd just told her, without knowing, that it was the right choice.
"Good to know," she said, her voice coming out slightly breathless. She cleared her throat, recovering. "I'll file that away for future reference. Black is the move."
"What is the move?"
"Nothing." She waved a hand. "Just... girl stuff. Friend stuff. Strategic outfit planning."
He shook his head, but he was still smiling. The bell for homeroom was going to ring in a few minutes. The hallway was thinning out. Jessica was making her way over, eyes curious, a smirk already forming on her lips.
"Dmitri," Anya said, the name feeling bold on her tongue. "Walk me to class?"
He pushed off the locker, grabbed his bag, and fell into step beside her. His arm brushed hers. She felt the contact like a brand.
"Of course, malyshka."
The word slid under her skin. She had no idea what it meant. Russian. A nickname. She wanted to ask but was terrified of the answer.
"What did you just call me?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light.
"Nothing." He looked down at her, a hint of something in his eyes. Mischief? Tenderness? "Just a word."
"A word you won't translate?"
"Not yet."
She wanted to push. Wanted to demand an answer. But the way he said it—*not yet*—made her think there might be more. A door left open, just a crack.
They walked in silence for a few moments. The noise of the hallway was a distant hum. She was acutely aware of his presence beside her, the way he naturally adjusted his pace to match hers, the way his arm kept brushing hers.
They walked in silence for a few moments. The noise of the hallway was a distant hum. She was acutely aware of his presence beside her, the way he naturally adjusted his pace to match hers, the way his arm kept brushing hers. Each contact sent a shiver through her skin, a current that made her hyperaware of every inch of space between them. She cleared her throat, trying to think of something to say, but her brain had gone static.
Her eyes scanned the floor ahead, looking for an opportunity. A crack in the tile. A stray backpack. Anything. Her heart was already racing, anticipation coiling in her stomach. *Just do it. You've touched him before. This is just... more intentional.* She spotted a slight unevenness in the linoleum near the water fountain, a ridge where the tile had lifted over years of use. It was barely noticeable, but it was enough.
She timed her step carefully, let her foot catch on the ridge. Not too dramatic—just enough to break her rhythm, to send her pitching forward with a sharp gasp. Her arms flailed, a genuine reflex mixed with calculated theater. Her body tipped toward him, her free hand reaching out, grasping, finding.
Her fingers closed around his forearm. The fabric of his gray tee was soft, worn, but underneath it was steel. Hard muscle, dense and warm, the kind of solid that didn't come from a gym machine but from something more primal. Labor? Fighting? She didn't know, but her fingers dug in instinctively, gripping him like a lifeline.
His reaction was immediate. His other hand shot out, wrapping around her waist, steadying her. The pressure was firm, his palm flat against the bare skin of her side, just above the waistband of her jeans. She felt the heat of his hand like a brand, spreading through her, making her breath catch for real this time.
"Whoa." His voice was low, close to her ear. "Are you okay?"
She looked up, her face inches from his chest. She could see the line of his jaw, the slight stubble, the way his brow was furrowed with concern. His hand was still on her waist, anchoring her. The fabric of his shirt had ridden up from the movement, and she could see a strip of his abdomen, the edge of a tattoo, dark ink against tan skin.
"I'm fine," she breathed. Her voice came out thinner than she wanted. "Just clumsy. The tile—I didn't see it."
She didn't let go of his arm. Her fingers were still wrapped around his forearm, and she could feel every ridge of muscle, the tendons shifting as he held her steady. She squeezed slightly, a deliberate test, and felt the hardness yield just enough to be real. *God, he's solid.* The thought made her stomach flip.
He didn't pull away. Instead, his grip on her waist tightened, just a fraction, as if making sure she wouldn't fall again. "You should be more careful. These hallways are dangerous."
"Tell me about it." She laughed, a nervous, breathless sound. "I'm a walking hazard."
He looked down at her, his eyes scanning her face, checking for injury. She held his gaze, letting him see her. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could feel it through his hand. *Don't look away. Don't stutter. Just be normal.*
"You're shaking," he said. It wasn't an accusation. It was observation, concern.
"I'm fine," she repeated. "Really. Just... adrenaline." She let out a shaky breath, still gripping his arm. *You need to let go. You're being obvious.* But her fingers wouldn't obey. They stayed curled around his forearm, feeling the heat, the strength, the reality of him.
He didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't mind. He just stood there, his hand on her waist, his eyes on her face, waiting until she was ready to move again.
"You're strong," she said. The words slipped out before she could stop them. She felt heat creep up her neck. *Smooth, Anya. Really smooth.* "I mean—you caught me really fast. Like, I barely even started falling."
He shrugged, the movement making his bicep flex under her fingers. "I have fast reflexes."
"Clearly." She finally let go of his arm, but her hand lingered for a second too long, brushing down his forearm before falling away. She stepped back, putting a few inches of space between them, and smoothed her shirt. The black lace shifted against her skin, a reminder of what she was wearing underneath. *For courage.*
"You sure you're okay?" he asked again. His hand was still on her waist, his thumb tracing a small, absent-minded circle on her hip. She felt the movement like a question she didn't know how to answer.
"I'm sure." She smiled, trying to look reassuring. "Just embarrassed. I'm usually more graceful than this." *Lie. You're always a mess around him.*
He studied her for a moment, his hazel eyes searching her face. Then his hand dropped from her waist, and she felt the absence like a cold spot. "Okay. But if you fall again, I might not catch you." The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Liar," she said. "You totally would."
He laughed, that low, rough sound she was starting to crave. "Maybe."
They started walking again, but this time, the space between them was smaller. Her arm brushed his with every step, and she didn't pull away. Neither did he. The contact was light, almost casual, but every touch sent electricity through her skin.
"So," she said, trying to fill the silence. "You work out? Like, regularly?" *Stop talking. Stop asking obvious questions.* But she couldn't help it. She needed to know. She needed to hear him talk about his body, to imagine the hours he spent building that muscle, the sweat, the effort, the raw physicality of him.
He glanced down at her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "A little. I like to stay in shape."
"A little?" She snorted. "Dmitri, I just grabbed your arm and it felt like grabbing a rock. That's not 'a little.' That's 'I could probably bench-press a car.'"
He shook his head, but he was smiling. "I don't know about a car. Maybe a small motorcycle."
"See? That's what I'm talking about." She gestured at him with her free hand. "You're hiding all that under your shirt. It's unfair. False advertising."
He raised an eyebrow. "False advertising? What am I advertising?"
She opened her mouth, closed it. *You're advertising that you're hot and I want to climb you like a tree.* But she couldn't say that. She settled for: "I don't know. Mystery. Intrigue. You walk around looking all... soft and loose, and then you catch someone and suddenly you're a wall of muscle. It's misleading."
"Maybe I like being misleading." His voice was low, teasing. The accent curled around the words, making them sound like a secret.
"Well, it's working," she said. "I'm misled. Completely fooled."
They reached the end of the hallway, where the corridor opened into the main atrium. The homeroom bell had already rung, and the hallways were emptying. They had a few minutes before first period started.