Page 24 of The Pucking Arrangement

Nyet. Stop.

I knock. Too hard. The music cuts off like a guillotine.

“Just a second!” Rustling. Movement.

The door swings open, and—Bozhe moy.

She’s standing there in leggings and an oversized sweater that’s slipping off one shoulder, her hair piled into some kind of messy knot with rogue pieces escaping. Her skin glows in the muted light from the window. She looks soft. She looks like trouble.

“Hi!” Her smile is bright, but it dims slightly when she sees my expression.

Because, of course, I’m scowling.

“Ready?” I manage, voice gruff.

“Almost.” She gestures to a neat stack of boxes and a suitcase by the window. “Just need to pack up my cello?—”

“We are on a schedule,” I cut her off, clinging to structure, to anything other than the fact that her apartment smells like her. Vanilla. Rosin. Pure fucking temptation. “Ris has skating. Time is important.”

Stop being an ass.

But I can’t seem to snap out of it. The whole scene—the cozy apartment, the way she looks in this soft, undone state—feels like a threat to my control. So, I do what I do best: I build walls.

“I’ll get these,” I mutter, striding toward her luggage and—fuck.

My elbow clips a pile of sheet music. Pages explode across the floor like confetti at the worst party imaginable.

“Bozhe moy.” I drop to my knees, snatching papers.

She kneels too. Our hands brush as we both reach for the same page.

A jolt snaps through me, sharp and electric, stealing my breath.

She jerks back like she felt it too, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.Solnyshko, my mind whispers traitorously, because the sunlight hits her just right, making her glow like something precious.

I shove the thought away. Hard.

“Sorry,” we say at the same time.

“I’ll get it,” I snap. Too sharp, too quick.

Her fingers pull back, hurt flickering across her face.

Perfect. Now you’re scaring her.

I shove the pages together in a messy, totally unhelpful stack. She watches with wide eyes, like I just committed a crime against organization.

But still—she reaches to help.

Still warm. Still patient. Still looking at me like I’m not a giant disaster barely holding his shit together.

“Let me drive myself,” she says as we head downstairs. “My Honda’s just around the corner?—”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“You are not hauling a cello and a suitcase down four flights and stuffing them into your tiny car,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “I drive. You ride.”

---