I couldn’t help the grin that stretched across my face. “Yeah. You?”
His smirk deepened. “Better than usual.”
And just like that, the moment wrapped around us—soft and glowing, like a secret we hadn’t fully admitted yet but both quietly cherished.
Before I could even fully process what was happening, Nikolai leaned down and kissed me.
Like, kissed me.
His lips brushed mine so softly at first I almost thought I imagined it—but then the warmth bloomed, rushing from my mouth all the way to the tips of my toes like I’d been hit by lightning. A very attractive, broody, hockey-playing bolt of lightning.
My fingers found his bare chest (oh hello muscles, again), curling into him instinctively because I needed something—anything—to keep me from floating away. His mouth moved slowly against mine, coaxing and teasing like he had all the time in the world, and oh goodness, I was kissing Nikolai Volkov in his kitchen wearing his hoodie.
He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in close, and I swear my brain short-circuited. It was warm and dizzying and impossible not to sink into. I didn’t even care that my feet were freezing on the tile because I was basically melting in his hands.
When I finally pulled back (barely, breathlessly), I blinked up at him, heart doing pirouettes in my chest. “Wow,” I whispered, because my brain had stopped producing anything else useful.
His lips quirked into a smile that should’ve been illegal. “Wow, indeed.”
I laughed—awkward, giddy, probably sounding like someone who’d just mainlined hot chocolate. “So… what does this mean? Are we… like, friends who kiss? Or is this just some extended part of the bet and I missed a rule somewhere?”
The way his expression shifted made my stomach flip. The amusement faded, and he looked at me like he was peeling back all the layers I’d carefully wrapped around myself. “This isn’t about the bet anymore,” he said, voice low and serious. “It’s about us.”
Us. That word dropped into my chest like a stone and sent ripples everywhere.
I glanced down at the floor, because eye contact was dangerous and my heart was already misbehaving. “But… Mikel?—”
“Forget him.” His voice sharpened, but not in a scary way—more like a no-nonsense, I’d-move-mountains-for-you kind of way. He tilted my chin up gently, and his eyes were so intense it made me feel like I couldn’t hide anything.
And honestly? I didn’t want to.
My breath caught as he kissed me again, slower this time—so tender it made something in my chest ache in the best way. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a promise. A beginning.
And for once, that didn’t terrify me. Not completely.
“Why must we label it?” Nikolai asked, his voice a low murmur, his breath brushing warm against my neck.
I shifted just a little—partly from nerves, partly because… wow, that was distracting. “Because,” I said, trying not to sound like I was unraveling from the inside out, “labels set expectations. They make things clear. Safe.” I swallowed, wishing my voice didn’t shake. “It’s easier to know what we’re getting.”
His lips grazed the curve of my neck in slow, reverent kisses, and I swear I forgot what words were for a second. Every brush of his mouth sent a cascade of shivers rippling through me, like my whole body had suddenly become a live wire.
“I know I like kissing you,” he murmured, and then—oh. His hands slipped under the hem of my shirt, his palms warm and grounding against my skin. I gasped—a breathy little sound that I couldn’t hold back even if I tried.
And all I managed to whisper was, “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeated, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye, like he needed to see if I meant it. His gaze was so intense it made my knees want to melt.
I nodded—tiny, uncertain, but also certain enough. “Yeah. Okay.” My voice was soft and breathless and probably sounded like a squeaky cartoon bird, but I didn’t care.
His lips curved into that devastating smile of his, and then he kissed me again—deeper this time, like he was trying to claim every part of me with just his mouth. My thoughts scattered like confetti. This wasn’t just kissing. It was emotional combustion. Urgent and tender and way too much in the best way.
And then, just when I thought I might actually burst into a puddle of swoon, he pulled back again, forehead resting gently against mine.
“You’re still thinking about him,” he said, voice soft—not accusing, just knowing. Like he’d peered into the part of my brain where I shoved the stuff I didn’t want to deal with.
I bit my lip, a little embarrassed. “I don’t want to,” I admitted, my words wobbling. “But sometimes it’s like… a reflex. I compare everything. And then I wonder if I’m just—broken.”
His hands on my waist tightened, grounding me again. “Don’t,” he said gently, but there was steel in it too. “You’re not broken. You don’t have to carry any of that.”
