Then Weston, who’d somehow appeared without making a sound like a hockey-playing vampire, muttered, “Still… Petrov. That’s a rough draft of a human being.”
“Thank you,” I muttered with mock reverence.
Nikolai stood, grabbing both our cups. “We’re going.”
I reached for our pastry, because priorities. “You say that like you don’t love this circus.”
He didn’t answer, but his hand found mine again—firm, steady, unapologetic—as he pulled me gently toward the door. And even with all the chirping, all the chaos, I realized something:
I kind of did love this circus.
Chapter 14
Nikolai
The engine purred beneath my hands as I guided us away from the café, the steady rhythm of the tires a dull hum against the road. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was warm, familiar. Like we were both catching our breath after something good.
Mina sat in the passenger seat, her head turned toward the window, the streetlights dancing across her skin in soft gold. She was humming—off-key, quiet, but with conviction. I didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. The sound did something to me. Settled in my chest and stayed there.
Her laughter back at the cafe played on repeat in my head—how easily she’d slid into the chaos, tossing barbs like she’d been raised on locker room chirps. She held her own with Asher and Kellen, even threw a jab at Weston that made Wyatt choke on his cocoa.
And me?
I couldn’t stop watching her.
Couldn’t stop wondering how in the hell someone like Mikel could be ashamed to bring her around.
“Are you always this charming?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. It was half a joke. Half something else.
She turned, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Only when I’m surrounded by emotionally stunted man-children.”
I snorted, more amused than offended. That smile—it was dangerous. Disarming. The kind that slipped past armor and embedded itself somewhere deeper. I looked back at the road, jaw tight, pulse off-kilter.
The truth was, she didn’t just fit—she lit the place up. And the more time I spent with her, the harder it became to remember the lines I was supposed to be holding. This wasn’t supposed to matter. She wasn’t supposed to matter. But she did.
Too much.
“You’ve gone all broody,” she said, still watching me. “You okay?”
I didn’t answer right away. Just let the engine fill the space between us. I didn’t know how to say what I was thinking—that this thing between us, this thirty-day agreement, wasn’t feeling temporary anymore. That it had started to feel like something I didn’t want to give up.
“Just thinking,” I said finally, eyes still on the road.
She let it go, but the air changed. Heavier. Charged. Her silence said everything her mouth didn’t.
And I wasn’t sure how long I could hold back the words forming at the edge of my tongue.
I eased the wheel through the last curve, letting the quiet between us stretch—not awkward, not heavy. Just easy. But still, I could feel the weight of her gaze like heat against my jaw. Curious. Patient. Like she was waiting for me to say something that mattered.
“Got a road trip coming up,” I said finally, my voice steady but quieter than usual. “We leave the night after next. Gone five days.”
Her head tilted toward me, the movement slow and smooth like she was cataloging each word before responding. “You going to miss me or something?” she asked with a teasing lilt, but the question hung heavier than it should have.
I gave a short exhale—close to a laugh, but not quite. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
She went quiet for a second, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve the way they always did when she was trying not to show nerves.
“I want you to come to the game before I go,” I said.
