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“Yuriy?”

I raised my glass to Zasha in a mock salute. “It’s complicated, and tonight’s about us catching up. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right, I won’t mention it. Just be careful.”

“Careful?”

“Yes.” Zasha fiddled with the neck of his bottle. “You’ve never been in love before. People expect it to change us for the better, but I don’t think that’s true at all. You act chill and shit, but I know you, Yuriy. It’s only to hide the sick things that go on inside that brain of yours. So be careful. Love could make an even bigger monster out of you.”

Zasha’s words stayed with me for the rest of the night. They were still running around in my brain when we walked out of the bar almost three hours later. It turned out a lot had happened in five years.

“We should probably walk for a bit so the cold air sobers us up,” Zasha said as we spilled out of the bar into the night. “I promised Yel I wouldn’t get drunk.”

“You’re hardly drunk.”

He immediately slipped on a patch of ice. In my effort to keep him upright, he grabbed my coat, panicked, and dragged me down with him. We skidded down the steps like two idiots on a broken sled, arms flailing, curses flying, until we hit the sidewalk in a heap.

For half a second, silence.

Then laughter—loud, ridiculous, helpless—burst out of both of us.

“I hate Kansas City,” I muttered, brushing snow off my coat.

“It’s all right.” He grinned, cheeks red. “Maybe one day you will move here with the person you don’t want to talk about, and we can be a close family once again.”

“I don’t know, Zasha. I really don’t.”

We walked slowly at first, both of us recalibrating our balance after nearly dying on a bar staircase. Snow dusted the ground in a thin, glittering layer. The air was sharp enough to make my teeth ache. Houses along the street were outlined with white and red lights, reindeer on lawns, inflatable snowmen swaying like air dancers, windows glowing gold.

A picture-perfect Christmas scene. Why didn’t I feel like I belonged in a place like this, but as soon as I was around Stas, I seemed to find my balance?

Zasha shoved his hands into his pockets. “You sure you don’t hate me?”

“How can I?” My voice came out rougher than I expected. “I might not say it a lot, but I love you, dickhead.”

Zasha snorted a laugh. “That’s nice to hear, though I could have done without the dickhead part.”

“Ah, come on. You know you love me too.”

“That’s debatable.”

I grabbed his coat collar and yanked him toward me, pulling him into a sloppy half headlock the way I used to when we were stupid kids. He yelped, stumbled, and tried to elbow me in the ribs, but he was still too soft-hearted, too gentle now. Too damn domestic.

“Debatable, my ass.” I tightened my arm around his neck just enough to make him squawk. “Say it.”

“Never,” he grunted, struggling.

“Say it,” I repeated, lowering my voice to a growl.

“You’re heavy!” He wriggled.

I snorted. “I’ll take that as ‘I love you too, big brother.’”

“In your dreams⁠—”

Before he could finish, I dug my fingers into his ribs—right below the last one, that weak spot he’d never grown out of—and tickled. Hard.

Zasha broke. He shrieked—actually shrieked a sound so ungodly it echoed down the empty winter street.