We settle into a corner booth. The tension between us crackles like static electricity.
“So,” he says, sipping his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Acting dreams?”
I nearly choke on my first sip of the earthy, slightly bitter smoothie. “How did you?—?”
“Bobby mentioned it in passing. And you carry yourself like someone whoperforms. Tell me more.”
Something in his calm interest disarms me.
Before I know it, the words are spilling out—how I moved to the city after acting school, the endless auditions and classes, the grind of personal training to pay the bills, my big dreams of landing a real role someday. I even mention Dermott’s coaching and the upcoming audition I am prepping for. Kirill listens without interrupting, his gaze steady and surprisingly attentive. Impressed, even.
When I finally pause for breath, he sets his cup down.
“I can help you,” Kirill says simply. “Get your name out there. Not just as a talented trainer, but as an up-and-coming actor. I’ve got connections in the industry. Auditions that actually matter. Producers who owe favors. And when I call a favor in, I call it in.”
My heart skips. It sounds too good to be true. The wary part of me—the part that grew up in a small town and learned that nothing comes free in the big city—sits up straight.
“What do I need to do in return?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “Because nothing’s free, right?”
Kirill’s expression doesn’t change.
No smirk, no leer.
Just that steady, commanding calm. “Nothing complicated. Simply keep training Bobby. Help keep him out of trouble. Give him the structure and discipline he needs right now.”
I search his face for the catch. There has to be one. But his offer feels genuine in its straightforwardness. Training Bobby is not terrible—he is motivated, and the pay is life-changing. If it comes with a real shot at advancing my acting career…
“Deal,” I say finally, extending my hand across the table.
He takes it. His grip is firm, warm, enveloping mine completely. A spark shoots up my arm at the contact, and for a second I forget to breathe. We shake once—slow, deliberate.
“Deal,” Kirill echoes, his voice a low rumble that sends another shiver through me.
As we release hands, I take another sip of my smoothie, trying to steady the whirlwind in my chest. What have I just agreedto? Part of me feels triumphant—like I stood up for myself and came out ahead. Another part whispers caution. Kirill Antonov is not the kind of man who does casual favors. There is weight behind every word, every decision.
Yet sitting across from him now, with the city moving outside the café windows and that electric tension humming between us, I cannot deny the pull. The dark energy that unsettled me in the gym now feels… intoxicating.
I am playing with fire.
And for the first time in a long while, a small, secret part of me wonders what it would feel like to get burned.
We finish our drinks in relative silence after that, the conversation shifting to lighter topics—Bobby’s progress, my favorite pre-workout flavors, his surprisingly dry sense of humor when he comments on the “mushroom dirt water” I am drinking. Kirill sticks firmly to his caffeine, eyeing my green concoction with open skepticism.
As we part at the corner, he pauses.
“Tomorrow, same time for Bobby?” Kirill asks, though it still carries that note of expectation rather than pure question.
I nod, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” His eyes hold mine again, that intense contact sending warmth spreading through my chest. “And Teddy…thank you.”
Then he is gone, disappearing into the flow of the city with the same quiet command he seems to exert over everything.
I stand there for a long moment, gym bag heavy on my shoulder, mind racing. My irritation has faded, replaced by a confusingcocktail of excitement, wariness, and something dangerously close to anticipation.
Training Bobby is no longer just a job.
And Kirill Antonov is no longer just a bossy uncle in the background.
