For one stupid second, I imagine the worst: a gun barrel, a masked man, my obituary readingBank Teller Dies in Spanx.Then I shove the thought down and push the door open.
There’s a man in my living room.
I freeze. My heart slams so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. Blood rushes in my ears, loud enough to drown out thought. Every inch of me locks tight, like maybe if I stay perfectly still, he’ll disappear.
Every survival instinct I’ve developed over the past forty-eight hours screams at once.
I scream.
The man barely reacts.
Just slowly looks up from his phone like I’m a minor inconvenience, not a potential threat to national security.
It’shim.
Anton Malikov. Resident Bratva menace. Owner of the world’s most judgmental eyebrows.
He blinks once, cocks his head likeI’mthe one who broke intohisapartment, and goes right back to scrolling.
“JesusfuckingChrist,” I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest as if that’ll keep my heart from exploding. “Are you serious right now?”
He smirks. Doesn’t even pretend to hide it.
My heart’s still doing parkour in my chest, but my legs move anyway, like fear has clocked out and curiosity’s working overtime.
I walk into the kitchen. Slowly. Like I’m passing a wild animal. A very well-groomed, potentially homicidal wild animal.
And despite every rational part of my brain screamingdanger, the rest of me is… not on board.
Because—Jesus.
He’s… different this morning.
Not different in his essence. He’s still big and dangerous and threatening. But he’s cleaned up. Fresh shave revealing the hard line of his jaw. Hair still damp from a shower, swept back in that casual way that probably takes twenty minutes to perfect. He’s wearing a black button-down that fits him like it was tailored by angels with very specific fantasies.
He looks like he stepped out of a cologne ad. The kind where the tagline is something like “Seduce. Conquer. Destroy.”
My stomach does this stupid flutter thing that has no business happening before coffee.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between suspicious and mildly breathless.
He lowers his phone. Does a slow scan from my face down to my toes and back up… deliberate, like he’s taking inventory. “You look rested.”
He stops there, watching me a beat too long, like he’s trying not to get caught checking me out, then drops his gaze back to the screen.
“Your bed is… comfortable.”
That makes his chin lift a fraction. His eyes flick to mine again, darker this time, like the word alone dragged him somewhere else. Heat. Something dirty he doesn’t say. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Good.” That’s it. Justgood.Like my sleep quality is a quarterly metric he’s tracking.
I head for the coffee machine, one of those hulking Italian beasts with chrome knobs and more buttons than my old high school calculator. I jab a random one, praying for caffeine. The machine sputters like I just insulted its ancestors.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, stabbing another button. Still nothing.
“I have a key.”
“Obviously. I meant, why didn’t you… let me know earlier?”
