Friday afternoon couldn't come fast enough.

Anya had spent the entire day watching the clock, counting down the minutes until she could find him again. Every class had been a blur of half-listened lectures and doodled hearts she'd angrily scribbled out before anyone could see. Even Jessica had noticed, poking her ribs during fourth period and whispering, "You're checking your phone again. It's been three minutes."

But now the last bell had rung, and the hallways were flooding with students escaping into the weekend. Backpacks bumping, voices echoing off the lockers, the smell of stale air freshener and teenage desperation. Anya pushed through the crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs, her crimson thong riding just a little higher as she walked.

She'd worn her favorite low-rise jeans today—the ones that sat so far down her hips that the waistband barely qualified as a suggestion. A tiny black bra top that left her entire stomach bare, the fabric struggling to contain her. She'd told herself it was just a coincidence. That she wasn't dressing for him. That she hadn't spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror this morning deciding between the lavender lace and the black.

She was lying. She knew it. But the lie made it easier to breathe.

The south entrance hallway was quieter than the main corridor. Most students spilled out the front doors or headed to the parking lot. Only a few stragglers drifted past, backpacks half-open, phones in hand. And there—leaning against the wall by the exit, his bag slung over one shoulder, his loose gray t-shirt doing nothing to hide the broad lines of his chest—was Dmitri.

Anya's feet slowed. Her throat tightened.

He looked up as she approached, and the late afternoon light cut across his jaw, catching the silver ring in his eyebrow, the glint of his tongue piercing when he smiled. That slow, lazy smile that made her stomach drop and her knees threaten to forget their job.

"Malyshka." His voice was low, rough around the edges, the accent curling the word into something that felt like a secret. "I was hoping you'd come this way."

"You—" She swallowed. Her voice cracked on the first syllable. *Come on, Anya. You've been talking to him for days. You can do this.* "You were waiting for me?"

He pushed off the wall, his movements unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. "Maybe."

"That's not—that's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

She bit her lip, trying to suppress the smile that wanted to break across her face. Her fingers twitched at her sides, desperate to reach out, to touch his arm, his chest, anything. She curled them into her palm instead, the nails biting into her skin. *Stop it. Be cool. You're the most popular girl in school. You've talked to hundreds of guys. This is nothing.*

It wasn't nothing. It was everything.

"So," she said, the word coming out breathier than she'd intended, "what are you doing here? Don't you have... I don't know. Russian guy things to do?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Russian guy things?"

"You know. Lifting weights. Drinking vodka. Brooding mysteriously."

A low laugh rumbled from his chest, and the sound of it made her toes curl in her sneakers. "You think I brood?"

"You have a very brood-able face."

"I don't even know what that means."

"It means you look good when you're thinking hard about something." She shrugged, trying to act casual, like her heart wasn't trying to break through her ribs. "Like you're planning something. Or judging someone. It's very... intense."

He tilted his head, studying her with those hazel eyes that seemed to see right through every wall she'd ever built. "You pay a lot of attention to my face, malyshka."

The word hit her like a punch to the chest. *Malyshka.* He'd been calling her that since yesterday, and she still didn't know what it meant. She'd looked it up on her phone during third period—something about babies, or little ones, or—she'd gotten distracted when she saw the translation and closed the tab before she could overthink it.

"I'm just—observant," she managed. "It's a skill."

"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced. He didn't sound like anything except amused, and that was somehow worse. "So you observed that I was waiting for you, and now you're here. Good. I have a question."

Her stomach flipped. "A question?"

"Tomorrow. Saturday." He shifted his bag to his other shoulder, the movement pulling his shirt tight across his chest for just a moment. Long enough for her to see the outline of muscle underneath. Long enough for her mouth to go dry. "You free?"

The words took a second to register. And then another second. And then they hit her all at once, like a wave she hadn't seen coming.

"Tomorrow?" she repeated, her voice coming out an octave too high. "As in—the day after today? That tomorrow?"

"Yeah. That tomorrow." His mouth quirked. "You know another one?"

"No, I—" She pressed her lips together, trying to find the cool, composed version of herself that existed before she met him. She was in there somewhere. Buried under layers of stuttering and blushing and desperate longing. "Yeah. I mean. Yes. I'm free. Tomorrow. Completely free. Nothing scheduled. Wide open."

*Shut up, Anya. Shut up shut up shut up.*

His smile widened, and something warm flickered in his eyes. "Good. A few of us are getting together at my place. Nothing crazy. Just hanging out. You should come."

"Your place?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, like it was nothing. Like inviting her to his home was the most casual thing in the world. "I've been here a few weeks. Figured it's time to actually do something besides unpack boxes."

A few people. His place. Nothing crazy.

She was going to see where he lived. She was going to sit on his couch, in his space, surrounded by his things. The thought made her feel dizzy, like the floor had tilted slightly beneath her feet.

"Who else?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "Who's coming?"

"Jessica said she'd bring some people. A couple guys from the team." He paused. "You know Jessica, right? She sits with us at lunch."

"I know Jessica," Anya said, rolling her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "She's my best friend, Dmitri. I've known her since freshman year."

He shrugged, that lazy grin still tugging at his lips. "Just making sure. Wouldn't want you showing up and not knowing anyone."

"I know you." The words slipped out before she could catch them, and she felt heat bloom across her cheeks. She looked down at her sneakers, tracing a crack in the linoleum with her toe. *Smooth, Anya. Real smooth.* "I mean—yeah. I'll know you. And Jessica. So I'll be fine."

"Good." He shifted his weight, and the movement brought him half a step closer. Close enough that she could smell him—something clean and warm, like soap and the faintest hint of something woodsy. Her stomach did a slow, lazy flip. "So you'll come?"

"Yeah." She nodded, maybe too fast. "Definitely. I'll be there."

"Great." He paused, and she watched his eyes flick down to her lips for just a fraction of a second. Long enough to make her breath catch. Long enough for her to forget how to form words. "I'll text you the address."

"You have my number?"

"Jessica gave it to me. Yesterday." He pulled his phone from his back pocket, the movement casual, like it was nothing. Like he hadn't been carrying her number around for a full day without saying anything. "Hope that's okay."

It was more than okay. It was everything. It was the most okay thing that had ever happened in the history of okay things. She bit her lip to keep from saying something ridiculous, and nodded again.

"Yeah. That's—that's fine."

He typed something into his phone, then pocketed it. "There. You'll get it in a minute."

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, and she felt the vibration against her skin like a small electric shock. She didn't need to look. She knew it was him. But she wanted to. She wanted to pull it out and stare at his name in her contacts, memorize the digits, screenshot the message before she could lose it.

She didn't. She kept her hands at her sides, even though they were itching to move, to reach out, to touch him.

"So," she said, drawing the word out, trying to find her cool again. "The party. What time?"

"Seven. Maybe eight. Whenever people show up." He scratched the back of his neck, the motion pulling his sleeve up just enough to reveal a flash of ink on his forearm. A dark, intricate pattern she couldn't quite make out. She wanted to trace it with her fingers. "Nothing formal. Just—hang out. Listen to music. Eat junk food."

She nodded, her mind already racing ahead. His place. His couch. His music. His food. She'd be in his space, surrounded by his things, breathing his air. The thought made her knees feel weak.

"Do you have a pool?" The question came out before she could stop it, and she felt her cheeks flame. "I mean—Jessica mentioned something about—I don't know. I was just wondering. In case I should bring—you know." She gestured vaguely at herself. "A bikini. Or something."

He raised an eyebrow, and she watched his gaze drop, just for a second, to where her black bra top strained against her chest. Then it was back on her face, and she couldn't tell if she'd imagined it.

"No pool," he said, his voice a little lower than before. "Apartment complex has one, but it's closed for the season. They drain it after Labor Day."

"Oh." She swallowed, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Relieved, probably. The thought of him seeing her in a bikini—of him watching her walk around in nothing but scraps of fabric—made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a very tall building. "That's—that's fine. I was just asking."

"You could still bring one, if you want." His mouth quirked. "In case we decide to break into the pool."

"Break into the pool?" She laughed, surprised. "You'd do that?"

"I'm a bad influence, malyshka." He said it like it was a promise, and her heart skipped a beat. "Ask anyone."

"I don't know if I believe you." She took a step closer, testing the distance between them. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that she could see the tiny scar above his eyebrow, the one she hadn't noticed before. "You seem pretty nice to me."

"Nice is boring."

"Who said I was bored?"

The words hung between them, charged with something she didn't dare name. His eyes held hers, and she felt like she was falling into them, like the hallway was tilting and the only thing keeping her upright was the gravitational pull of his gaze.

He blinked first. Looked away. Cleared his throat.

"You should probably get going," he said, his voice rougher than before. "It's getting late. Your parents probably want you home."

"I'm an adult," she said, though the protest came out softer than she'd intended. "I live in an apartment. No parents."

"Even better reason to leave." He smiled, but there was something in his eyes—something careful, something held back. "I'll see you tomorrow, malyshka."

She wanted to stay. Wanted to keep standing here in this pocket of warm afternoon light, exchanging words that tasted like secrets. But she knew if she stayed any longer, she'd do something stupid. Like touch his face. Like kiss him.

"Tomorrow," she echoed. "I'll be there."

She turned to go, forcing her feet to move one after the other, even though every nerve in her body screamed at her to stay. She made it three steps before his voice stopped her.

"Anya."

She turned. He was still leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his shadow stretching long across the linoleum. The late light caught the silver in his eyebrow, the glint in his eyes.

"Bring the bikini," he said. "Just in case."

Her heart stopped. Then started again, twice as fast.

She didn't trust herself to speak. She just nodded, a quick, jerky motion, and walked away before she could change her mind and run back into his arms.

The hallway blurred around her as she made her way to the exit, her sneakers squeaking against the floor. She pushed through the double doors and stepped into the cool evening air, the sky streaked with pinks and oranges, the parking lot mostly empty.

Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out, hands trembling.

*Unknown: Hey, it's Dmitri. Here's my address. See you tomorrow.*

Below it, a street name and number. She stared at it for a long moment, committing it to memory, then saved the contact with trembling fingers.

*Dmitri Volkov.*

She stood in the parking lot, phone clutched to her chest, and let herself smile. A real smile, wide and unguarded, the kind she usually hid behind her hand.

Tomorrow. She was going to see him tomorrow. In his home. In his space.

And she was going to bring the bikini. Just in case.

---

She didn't sleep that night. Not really. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word of their conversation in her head. The way he'd said *malyshka*. The way his eyes had dropped to her lips. The way he'd told her to bring the bikini.

She'd spent an hour in front of her closet, holding up different bikinis, trying to decide which one would make her look the best. The black one was classic, but a little boring. The red one was bold, but maybe too bold. The turquoise one was fun, but she wasn't sure it was his color.

In the end, she'd settled on the black one. Classic. Safe. But she'd also packed the red one in her bag, just in case she changed her mind.

She checked her phone for the hundredth time. No new messages from him. She'd sent a reply last night—*Got it. Can't wait*—and he'd liked the message, which sent a little thrill through her every time she looked at it.

Saturday morning crawled by. She showered, blow-dried her hair, did her makeup twice. She put on a pair of high-waisted shorts and a cropped tank top, then changed into a sundress, then changed back into the shorts. She didn't know what to wear. She didn't know how to act. She didn't know anything except that she was about to spend an evening in the same room as Dmitri Volkov, and the very thought of it made her feel like she was going to vibrate out of her skin.

At six-thirty, her phone buzzed.

*Dmitri: You still coming?*

Her heart did a cartwheel.

*Anya: On my way.*

She grabbed her bag, checked the mirror one last time, and headed out the door.

Her phone buzzed before she reached the stairwell. She fumbled for it, nearly dropping her bag in the process, and gasped at the message preview glowing on her lock screen.

Dmitri: One thing — it's a pool party after all

She stopped mid-stride. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt it in her throat. A pool party. After all. He meant the bikini. He'd told her to bring it "just in case" yesterday, and now he was telling her it was actually happening. Her mind raced through a thousand thoughts at once—what she looked like, what she'd packed, whether the black one was too boring, whether the red one was too much.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

Anya: Good thing I packed one. 😉

She hit send before she could delete the winking face. Then she stood in the dim hallway, clutching her phone, feeling the weight of what she'd just implied. The winking face. She'd sent a winking face. What was wrong with her?

His reply came seconds later.

Dmitri: Good girl.

Two words. Just two words, and her knees nearly buckled. She pressed her phone to her chest like it was a lifeline, took a shaky breath, and forced herself to keep walking.

The stairwell echoed with her footsteps as she descended, the concrete walls amplifying every nervous breath. She pushed through the lobby door and stepped into the warm evening air, the sky streaked with deep oranges and purples, the parking lot quiet. Her car sat in its usual spot, a modest sedan that suddenly felt too small for the feelings rattling around inside her.

She slid into the driver's seat, tossed her bag onto the passenger side, and gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles went white. The address was already plugged into her phone, the route laid out in blue. A ten-minute drive. Ten minutes to compose herself. Ten minutes to talk herself down from the ledge of her own excitement.

She pulled out of the lot and merged onto the main road, the radio playing something she didn't recognize. Her mind was a loop of what-ifs and maybes. What if she looked stupid in the bikini? What if he didn't look at her the way she wanted him to? What if she stuttered so badly she couldn't get a single word out?

Stop it. You're Anya Petrova. You've been the most popular girl in school for four years. You can handle a pool party.

The lie tasted familiar. She'd been telling it to herself for weeks now, ever since he walked through those front doors and her entire world tilted off its axis.

She pulled into the address a few minutes later—a clean three-story apartment complex with a wrought-iron gate and a courtyard visible from the street. She found a spot easily, killed the engine, and sat in the sudden silence. Her bag sat on the passenger seat. She unzipped it, checked for the hundredth time that the black bikini was there. It was. The red one, too. She'd packed both, just in case.

She grabbed the bag, stepped out of the car, and locked the door. The evening air was warm against her bare arms, carrying the faint chemical tang of chlorine and the distant thump of music. She smoothed down her shorts—high-waisted denim that hugged her hips—and adjusted the straps of her cropped white tank top. Simple. Casual. Effortless. The look she'd spent an hour perfecting.

The intercom panel was sleek and modern. She pressed the button for his apartment number, her finger trembling against the plastic. A crackle. Then his voice, low and slightly distorted by the speaker.

"Yeah?"

"It's—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, mortified. "It's Anya."

A pause. Then the buzzer sounded, sharp and immediate.

She pushed through the gate. The courtyard was small but well-kept, a few benches and potted plants arranged around a stone path. Music drifted from the back of the building, along with laughter and the splash of water. She followed the sound, her sandals slapping against the concrete.

By the time she rounded the corner to the main building entrance, he was standing in the doorway of his ground-floor unit, leaning against the frame like he had all the time in the world.

Her steps faltered.

He was wearing a loose white tank top that left his arms completely bare. Inked. Massive. The muscles in his shoulders and chest pressed against the thin fabric like they were barely contained. Dark swim trunks hung low on his hips, water still beading on his skin, trailing down the hard planes of his torso. His hair was damp, curling at the edges, and his tongue piercing caught the light when he smiled.

"Malyshka." The word rolled off his tongue like a secret. "You found it."

She clutched the strap of her bag so hard her fingers ached. "Hey," she managed, the word coming out small and breathless, barely a whisper.

He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her, his movements unhurried, his eyes never leaving hers. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell the chlorine and soap on his skin, close enough that she could see the tiny scar above his eyebrow she'd noticed yesterday.

"You look nice," he said. The casual way he said it made her stomach flip.

"You—" She swallowed, trying to find her voice. "You look like you already swam." She gestured vaguely at his damp hair, the water still glistening on his shoulders.

"Started without you." He shrugged, an easy motion that made his shirt pull across his chest. "Figured I'd break in the water. Get it warm for you."

The words carried a weight she wasn't sure he intended. Or maybe he did. His eyes held hers, steady and warm, and she felt the familiar flutter in her chest.

"Come on," he said, stepping aside and holding the door open for her. "Everyone's out back."

She crossed the threshold into his apartment, and the scent of him hit her immediately—laundry detergent, something woodsy, the faint musk of sun-warmed skin. The living room was spacious but half-furnished, a large sectional couch dominating one wall, a coffee table covered in cups and chip bags. A speaker sat on the counter, playing something low and melodic. The sliding glass door at the back was open, letting in the cool evening breeze and the sound of voices laughing.

"Dmitri!" A voice called from outside. "You coming back in or what?"

"Yeah, one sec." He turned to her, his eyes softer now, focused only on her. "You want a tour? Or you want to go straight to the pool?"

She licked her lips, suddenly hyperaware of her own body, the thin fabric of her top, the curve of her hips beneath the denim. "I—I should probably change first. If that's okay."

A beat of silence. His eyes dropped to her bag, then back to her face. Something flickered in his gaze—too quick to name. "Bathroom's down the hall to the left. Second door."

"Thanks." She smiled, a quick nervous thing, and ducked past him into the hallway.

The bathroom was small and neat. A single towel hung on the rack. A bottle of cologne sat on the counter, the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air. She closed the door, locked it, and leaned against it, pressing her palms to her burning cheeks.

He's right there. He looked at you. He said you looked nice. He doesn't think anything of it. He's just being friendly. He's just—

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out the black bikini. Simple triangles connected by strings, designed for maximum tan lines and minimal coverage. She slipped off her shorts and tank top, unhooked her bra, and stepped into the bottoms. The fabric hugged her hips, the strings sitting high, the cut revealing the curve of her ass. She tied the top, adjusting the triangles, making sure everything was secure. The fabric barely contained her, the deep plunge leaving little to the imagination.

She stared at her reflection. Flushed cheeks. Wide, nervous eyes. Glossy lips. A body she'd always been confident in—until he walked into her life and made her feel like a stuttering girl again.

She gathered her courage, steadied her breath, and unlocked the door.

He was waiting in the living room, alone now, the others still outside. He looked up when she emerged, and the sight of him standing there—broad, tattooed, his eyes fixed on her—made her steps falter.

"That was fast," he said. Then his eyes took her in. The long line of her legs. The flat plane of her stomach. The generous curve of her chest, barely contained by the thin black fabric. His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, and she felt it like a physical touch, a trail of heat across her skin.

His jaw tightened. Just slightly. But she saw it.

"What?" she asked, her voice softer than she'd intended.

"Nothing." He shook his head, a slow motion. "You ready?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He led her to the sliding glass door. The patio opened up into a small backyard, transformed into a casual party scene. A few lounge chairs surrounded the pool, which gleamed turquoise under the string lights draped across the fence. Jessica was there, sprawled on a chair, waving the moment she spotted Anya. A couple of guys from the baseball team were tossing a football in the shallow end. A few other girls sat at a small table, nursing cups of something pink.

"Look who finally made it!" Jessica called out, her grin sharp and knowing.

Anya waved back, her cheeks flushing. She felt exposed, standing there in nothing but the bikini, her entire body on display. But Dmitri didn't move from her side. He stayed close, a solid, steady presence.

"You want a drink?" His voice was low, meant only for her. "We have soda. Water. Something stronger if you want."

"Water's fine," she said.

He nodded and disappeared inside. She was left standing at the edge of the pool, her toes curling against the warm concrete. Jessica padded over, nudging her arm.

"You look good," Jessica whispered. "I mean it. He hasn't stopped looking at you since you came out."

"He's not—"

"He is." Jessica cut her off, her grin sharp. "Just saying."

Dmitri returned with a bottle of water. He handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers. The contact sent a shiver up her arm. "Here."

"Thanks." She took a sip, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the heat in her cheeks.

"You getting in?" He gestured at the pool with his chin.

"In a minute." She shifted her weight, suddenly shy. "You've already been in. Is it cold?"

"A little. You get used to it." He looked at her, his hazel eyes unreadable. "I'll come in with you if you want. Moral support."

The offer made her heart stutter. "You'd—you'd do that?"

"Yeah." He said it like it was obvious. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

She nodded, a quick jerky motion. He sat down on the edge of the pool, dipping his feet in. He didn't dive in. He waited for her.

She sat down next to him, the rough concrete cool against her thighs. The water was clear, catching the last of the daylight, the turquoise tiles shimmering beneath the surface. She could see his legs in the water, strong and still.

"You're okay, malyshka." His voice was soft, meant only for her. "Just water."

Just water. Just him. Just the most terrifying and wonderful moment of her recent memory.

She slipped into the water. It was cool, enveloping her, lifting the weight of the bikini fabric. She surfaced, blinking, her long black hair dark and slicked back, clinging to her shoulders. He was still sitting on the edge, looking down at her.

"See?" he said. "Not so bad."

She looked up at him, water streaming down her neck, her chest, her arms. "Not so bad," she echoed.

He stood and dove in cleanly, surfacing beside her with barely a ripple. The water shifted around them, and suddenly he was close—close enough that she could see the drops clinging to his lashes, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

"You look like you belong in water," he said, his voice low.

The words hit her like a wave. "What does that mean?"

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "I don't know. You look natural. Like you were made for it."

The rest of the party faded into background noise. The splashing, the laughter, the music—it all blurred into static. There was only him, standing in the pool with her, looking at her like she was something worth seeing.

Her hand moved through the water, almost of its own accord, and found his arm. A light touch. A question. His skin was warm beneath the cool water, his muscles tensing at the contact.

He looked down at where her fingers rested, then back at her face. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, unreadable.

"Anya." He said her name again. Her real name, not the nickname. It sounded heavier in his accent. More careful. It sent a ripple of something unfamiliar through her chest.

She didn't say anything. She let her hand stay there, the water lapping at her chin, his skin warm beneath her palm.

"Dima!" One of the guys from the team called from the shallow end, waving a football. "Get over here, we need a fourth!"

Dmitri's jaw tightened. He looked at the guy, then back at her. "You okay here?"

She nodded, pulling her hand back reluctantly. "Go. I'll watch."

He hesitated for a split second, then pushed off toward the shallow end. Anya stayed where she was, treading water, watching him move through the pool with easy, powerful strokes. The water rippled around him, catching the light.

Jessica appeared beside her, her eyebrows raised. "That was intense."

"What?" Anya tried to play it cool, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear.

"You know what." Jessica rolled her eyes. "You two were having a moment. A very wet, very intense moment."

"We were just talking."

"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." Jessica splashed her, grinning. "Your face is so red right now."

"It's the water temperature."

"Sure it is."

Anya ducked under the surface to hide her blush, coming up with a gasp. When she surfaced, Dmitri was looking at her from across the pool, the football held loosely in his hands. He wasn't paying attention to the game. He was watching her.

She felt it like a current running through the water between them.