The football smacked into Dmitri's chest, and he caught it one-handed without looking away from her. He was still watching her, even as the other guys shouted for the ball. Even as the water rippled around his waist. Even as one of the baseball players cannonballed beside him, sending a wave that broke against his back and made him blink.

He didn't look at them. He looked at her.

Something warm and terrifying bloomed in Anya's chest. She couldn't feel the water anymore – just the weight of his gaze, the way it seemed to pin her in place. Her fingers floated at the surface, and she curled them under, pressing her palm against her stomach as if she could press the feeling down.

"You're drooling."

Jessica's voice cut through, dry and amused. Anya jerked, splashing, and found her friend treading water beside her, eyebrows raised.

"I'm not drooling."

"Your mouth is open."

Anya snapped it shut. Her cheeks burned. "I was just – watching the game."

"Sure you were." Jessica's grin was slow and knowing. "You know his shirt's still on, right? The real show hasn't started."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying. If you're gonna drool, wait till the good part."

Anya ducked under the water again, letting the chlorine rinse the heat from her face, and when she came up, Dmitri had tossed the football to someone else. He was wading toward the shallow end, toward the ladder, toward the edge where the string lights cast his shadow long and dark across the concrete.

One by one, the guys around him peeled their shirts off. Wet fabric slapped against tanned skin. They tossed the shirts onto lounge chairs, onto the chaise by the grill, onto the grass. But Anya wasn't watching them. She was watching Dmitri's back as he reached the ladder, his hands gripping the metal rails, the muscles in his shoulders tensing as he hauled himself out of the pool in one easy motion.

Water sluiced down his spine. It caught the light, beaded on his skin, ran in rivulets over the ink covering his back – the dark lines of tattoos she'd only glimpsed before. A sprawling design she couldn't make out from here, wings and words and something that looked like a crown, all of it shifting as he straightened and turned to grab a towel from the stack on the lounger.

Anya's breath went shallow. Her body remembered the exact texture of the water, the cold of the pool, but she felt none of it. She felt the air thicken. Felt her pulse in her throat, in her fingertips, between her legs.

She had to get out of the water. Had to be closer.

Her hands found the pool ladder. The metal was warm from the sun. She pulled herself up, the water rushing off her, the black bikini clinging to her skin like a second layer. The fabric was thin – she knew it was thin. She'd picked it for that reason. The way it flattened against her breasts when wet, the way her nipples peaked, visible through the soaked triangles. She felt the eyes on her before she even turned around.

A group of guys – the baseball players, a few others from school – had stopped mid-conversation. One of them, a tall blond with a lazy grin, had his beer paused halfway to his mouth. Another was staring openly, his towel forgotten in his hand.

Anya ignored them. She pushed her wet hair back over her shoulder, and the motion made her breasts lift, made the water beads shiver down her stomach. The tiny black triangle of her bikini bottom sat low on her hips, and the boys' eyes followed the curve of her waist, the shadow of her hip bone – her thong was white today, the lace visible above the black fabric, a deliberate peek she knew they could see.

She started walking. Her hips moved with each step, the way they always did when she wanted attention. Her body bounced in ways she couldn't control – couldn't pretend she was trying to hide – and the silence from the cluster of guys told her everything she needed to know.

Dmitri's towel stopped halfway to his chest.

He was standing by the lounge chairs, one hand gripping the white cotton, the other still lifted toward his shoulder, frozen mid-motion. Water dripped from his hair. Dark rivulets ran down his neck, over his collarbone, across the tattoos that covered his chest – a bold script she couldn't read, a dagger, a swallow in flight. His abs were hard, defined, each ridge catching the string-light shadows. And his eyes – those hazel eyes – dropped to her body, traveled the length of her once, and then snapped back up to her face.

His jaw tightened.

"Anya." His voice was low, a rumble she felt in her chest. A warning she knew she should listen to.

She didn't. She kept walking, her bare feet padding across the warm concrete, until she stood in front of him, close enough that the heat of his body hit her damp skin.

The blond guy let out a low whistle. "Jesus Christ."

"Shut it, Marcus." Dmitri's voice didn't rise, but something in it hardened. He didn't look away from her. "Anya."

"What?" She smiled, soft and innocent, tilting her head. "I wanted to see what you guys were doing."

"We were playing football."

"Looks like you stopped."

He exhaled, a slow breath through his nose. His hand was still gripping the towel. He didn't lift it to dry himself. He just stood there, dripping, muscles hard, watching her with something that looked almost like frustration.

Marcus took a step closer, his grin sliding into something predatory. "Hey, you're Anya, right? I've seen you around. You look good wet."

Anya's smile flickered. She opened her mouth to reply – something sharp, something dismissive – but Dmitri moved first.

He stepped in front of her. Not dramatically, not with aggression – just one smooth step that put his body between her and Marcus, that blocked the other man's view entirely. His shoulders filled her horizon. His back was inches from her face, and she could see the tattoos up close now: the wings, the crown, the words in Russian she couldn't read.

"She's with me." Dmitri's voice was quiet. Flat. "Back off."

Marcus raised his hands, still grinning. "Easy, man. I'm just saying hello."

"You said hello. Now go play."

The other guys exchanged looks, shuffled. Marcus held his ground for a beat longer, then shrugged and turned back toward the pool, muttering something Anya couldn't catch.

Dmitri didn't move. He stood there, his back to her, his breathing steady, until the other guys were far enough away that the tension loosened. Then he turned, slowly, and looked down at her.

His jaw was still tight. His eyes swept over her face, her hair, the goosebumps rising on her bare shoulders. "You shouldn't walk around like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what."

She bit her lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break. "I'm wet. I got out of the pool. What was I supposed to do, dry off in the water?"

"You could have stayed in the water."

"And miss all this?" She gestured at the string lights, the lounge chairs, the group of guys now splashing each other in the shallow end. "The party's out here."

"The party's fine without you."

"That's not what Marcus thinks."

Dmitri's eyes darkened. "Marcus can think whatever he wants. He's not getting close to you."

The words landed in her chest, heavy and warm. She tilted her head, studying him. "Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"That's not a reason."

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

She should have pushed – should have teased, should have made him squirm. But the way he was looking at her, the way his towel was still clutched in his hand, the way water was still beading on his chest and sliding down his stomach toward the waistband of his swim trunks – she forgot what she was going to say.

Her voice came out smaller than she meant. "I just wanted to be near you."

Something shifted in his face. The hard line of his jaw softened, just a fraction. His eyes searched hers, and she felt seen in a way that made her breath catch.

"Malyshka." His voice was gentler now, rough-edged but warm. He lifted the towel – not to dry himself, but to drape it over her shoulders. The cotton was dry, soft, and it smelled like him – clean, a little like fabric softener, a little like sun. "You're shivering."

She hadn't noticed. But now that he said it, she felt the cold – the bite of the evening air on her wet skin, the goosebumps rising where his towel settled. She pulled it tighter around herself, the fabric swallowing her, and looked up at him.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just – sit down. I'll grab you something to drink."

He guided her to the lounge chair, his hand light on the small of her back, and she let herself be moved. The towel fell open as she sat, slipping off one shoulder, and she caught him glancing at the curve of her breast before he looked away.

She tucked her legs underneath her, the stiff fabric of the towel pooling around her thighs, and watched him walk toward the cooler. His back was still damp, the tattoos shifting with every step. The string lights caught the water in his hair, and she realized she was holding her breath.

Jessica appeared beside her, dropping onto the adjacent lounger with a slosh of pool water. "So."

"So."

"He just scared off a guy for looking at you."

"He did."

"And then he gave you his towel."

"Yes."

"And now he's getting you a drink."

"Jess."

"I'm just saying." Jessica's grin was sharp. "If you wanted him to be obsessed with you, it's working."

Anya's stomach flipped. She pressed her lips together, watching Dmitri pull two cans from the cooler and pop the tops. "He's not obsessed. He's just – protective."

"Same thing, babe."

"It's not. He treats me like a friend."

"He doesn't give his friends his towel and glares at anyone who looks at them."

Anya didn't have an answer for that. Dmitri was walking back, a can in each hand, his hair starting to dry in messy waves. He stopped in front of her, held out a can – Coke, she realized, not beer – and when she took it, his fingers brushed hers.

The contact was brief. Barely a second. But she felt it like a spark.

He sat on the lounge chair beside her, the one Jessica had been on, and Jessica shot Anya a look before sliding off to find another seat. Dmitri didn't seem to notice. He cracked open his beer, took a long sip, and leaned back, his legs stretched out in front of him, bare feet crossed at the ankle.

They sat in silence for a moment. The party hummed around them – laughter, splashing, the low thrum of music from a portable speaker. But it felt distant, like it was happening behind glass.

"You don't have to protect me from them." Anya's voice came out quiet, almost lost in the noise. "I can handle guys like Marcus."

"I know you can." Dmitri didn't look at her. His eyes were on the pool, on the shifting lights, on nothing. "But you shouldn't have to."

She turned the can in her hands, watching the condensation bead on her fingers. "Is that why you're nice to me? Because you think I need protecting?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that the question settled, heavy, between them. Then he turned, and his hazel eyes met hers, and she saw something there she couldn't name.

"No." His voice was rough. "I'm nice to you because you make me feel..." He stopped. His jaw worked. "I don't know what the word is."

Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. "Try."

He looked away, at the can in his hand, at the tattoo on his forearm. "When you stutter," he said slowly, "I know you're not pretending. I know you're not putting on a show. You're just – you. And I don't get that from anyone else."

She couldn't breathe. The towel slipped further off her shoulder, and she didn't move to fix it. She just stared at the line of his jaw, the way the string lights caught the edge of his profile, the way his thumb was rubbing the condensation off his beer can in a slow, steady rhythm.

"Dmitri."

He looked at her.

"I'm not pretending now."

Something flickered across his face – surprise, maybe, or doubt. He searched her eyes, and she let him. Let him see the nervousness, the hope, the trembling wanting she was too afraid to name.

"I know." His voice was barely above a whisper. "That's what scares me."