He glanced at the flavors with the same expression he wore before a faceoff. “Vanilla.”
I stared at him. “That’s not a favorite, that’s a lack of imagination.”
“It is simple,” he replied, dead serious.
“Oh, my goodness.” I turned to the poor teenager behind the counter. “Hi, I’m going to need about seven sample spoons. For science.”
The kid nodded solemnly. He understood the assignment.
One by one, I handed them to Nikolai: cookie dough, mint chip, double chocolate fudge explosion (yes, that was its real name, and yes, I made him try it last).
He tried each with the same stoic face, but I saw it—the slight arch of his brow, the quiet hmm under his breath.
“Okay,” I said, hands on hips. “Tell me you liked at least one of those more than plain old sad boy vanilla.”
He hesitated. Then pointed at the salted caramel pretzel.
“Yes. That is character development, Volkov.”
He almost smiled.
And for the first time all day, so did I.
After a full-on flavor tour and a borderline existential crisis over pistachio, we finally made it to the register. I knew exactly what I wanted—birthday cake and brownie batter, stacked high like I had something to prove. Nikolai was slower, still eyeing the board like he was calculating a chess move instead of picking dessert. But eventually, he pointed to the salted caramel pretzel with the quiet confidence of a man accepting his sugary fate.
I grinned as the scoops hit our cones, exchanged a conspiratorial look with the teenager behind the counter, and handed over my card before Nikolai could even reach for his wallet.
“I won the bet,” I said smugly. “You owe me a smile and some melted dairy joy.”
"Yes, but I'm supposed to make you happy," he replied.
"Trust me," I said. "You did."
Chapter 8
Nikolai
I turned onto a quieter street; the kind lined with tall trees and too many speed bumps. The sun hung low, bleeding gold across the windshield. In the seat beside me, Mina curled up like she owned the car—legs tucked under her, cone in hand, sugar high in full effect.
“Okay, so sprinkles are texture, not just decoration,” she said, absolutely serious. She waved her ice cream like it was a scepter of truth, and a few sprinkles bounced off her lap. “You can’t just throw them on and call it a day. They add crunch. Crunch is essential.”
I said nothing, just glanced sideways—once, then again. Her eyes were brighter than I’d seen them since she walked out of that apartment. Brighter than she probably realized. She wasn’t guarded now. She wasn’t waiting for a fight. She was just… talking.
“And cookie dough?” she continued, licking a drip before it hit her fingers. “That’s love. That’s literal love language stuff. Someone hands you warm, homemade cookies? That’s deeper than saying it out loud.”
Her hands moved with her words, full of drama and conviction. Like all of this really mattered. And in a strange way, it did—because it had her smiling. That alone made it sacred.
I didn’t interrupt. Didn’t joke. Just let her speak.
She talked about store-bought cookies being relationship red flags, about how icing was a trust exercise, and somewhere in all of it, I realized I’d stopped thinking about the road. I was still driving, but my attention had shifted entirely to her—to the sound of her voice, the rise and fall of her excitement. The way the corners of her mouth curled between thoughts.
I’d seen her silent. I’d seen her scared. I’d seen her burn.
This version of her—unfiltered joy, melted chocolate on her fingers, feet kicked up in my car—it was new. Unexpected. And I didn’t want it to end.
So I kept driving. And I listened.
And I wondered—what broke her before all this?
