The kiss deepens—not much, just enough.
This is supposed to be pretend—a performance and a necessary illusion to keep me in the US—but this kiss is completely unexpected—the ring was unexpected, he…was unexpected.
But there’s nothing performative about the way my pulse is hammering, or the way my knees feel unsteady, or the way his fingers flex against my waist like he’s holding on tighter.
For a suspended second, it’s just us.
No family. No papers waiting to be signed. No threats on the other side of the ocean. No rooftop full of teammates and a world that I still don’t understand but seems to be pulling me in with every day I’ve spent in Seattle.
Only, I need to keep my head about myself. Scottie and I still don’t know each other. We’re far from a love match, and this wedding is still temporary. Stunning ring and all, this marriage has an expiration date as soon as my grandmother forces my father to relent in dragging me back to Russia to be married to whoever pushes my father’s narrative.
Luka clears his throat.
Loudly.
The sound cracks through the haze like a gunshot. I jolt. My fingers release Scottie’s jaw and settle against the lapels of his tux instead. His hands tighten reflexively, dragging me infinitely closer before he seems to realize it.
He pulls back slowly, as if he’s fighting his own muscles.
His lips brush mine one last time on the way out—an accidental ghost of a touch that feels more like a promise than a mistake.
He’s so close I can see the darker ring around his irises, the way his pupils are blown wide. His forehead is nearly touching mine, his breath catching in shallow bursts that match my own. There’s a stunned, dazed look on his face, as if whatever just passed between us wasn’t in the script either.
My lips tingle. My cheeks burn. I am acutely aware of every place we’re touching—the span of his palms, the brush of his chest against the bodice of my dress, the heat of his thighs where our bodies almost, almost line up.
I don’t think about pulling away. Instead, I’m thinking about how it would feel if he did it again.
The rooftop snaps back into focus. There’s cheering, loud applause, and someone whistles a catcall that makes my cheeks heat up to an inferno. I hear Peyton squeal, “Did youseethat?” in a voice that carries embarrassingly well.
I’m used to living for the applause of a well-rehearsed performance, but this wasn’t that. This was an unscripted andcompletely unexpected moment with a stranger… whose huge diamond now encircles my finger like a claim. Something I was worried about when my father was trying to marry me off to the Russian politician, but now that the claim is coming from Scottie, I’m surprised at how freeing that feels.
Juliet makes a delighted little noise that sounds suspiciously like, “That’ll play great on video,” and for one wild second, I want to laugh and hide and do it all over again.
Coach Haynes clears his throat, his warm, booming voice cutting through the chaos.
“By the power vested in me by the great state of Washington… and the internet,” he says, making a few people chuckle, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Husband and wife.
The words land like a physical thing in the space between us, tying us together.
They’re meant to be a formality. A legal device. A shield forged out of paperwork and witnesses and vows no one expects us to keep past the necessary timeline.
But with Scottie’s hands still at my waist and the taste of his mouth still on my lips, they suddenly don’t feel formal at all.
They feel like a door closing softly behind a one-way ticket to Russia and a new, temporary life in Seattle.
Coach smiles, eyes twinkling. “Friends, family, teammates… I give you Mr. and Mrs. Easton.”
The crowd erupts.
Mr. and Mrs. Easton.
The name curls around me, unfamiliar yet somehow… soft. Not Popovich. Not Volkov. Easton. A name that doesn’t carry a trail of blood, dirty money, and purchased or forced respect through every room it enters.
Scottie’s fingers slide down from my waist, trailing over the flare of my skirt until they find my hand. For an instant, ourpalms hover a breath apart. There’s a choice there—one last fissure where I could pull back, remind myself this is temporary, transactional, something to endure, not inhabit.
I don’t move.
