You were barely two steps out of the cafe before he showed up again — boots heavy on the pavement, cigarette tucked behind his ear, and that fraying plaid shirt half-buttoned over a band tee. You didn’t even have time to blink before his shadow fell over you.

“Malý zaychik,” he purred in that thick Russian accent, eyes gleaming under dark bangs, “you look like wind could carry you off today.”

And then he did it. Again.

Before you could sass back or roll your eyes, he scooped you up under the arms like you were some helpless kitten. One arm under your thighs, the other steadying your back, and you were suddenly off the ground — cradled to his chest like you weighed less than his guitar case.

“R-Resha! I told you I can walk—!”

“Da, da, I remember,” he said lazily, already walking off with long strides, smelling like old smoke, soap, and a little bit of mint. “But you don’t need to, when you have me, baby boy.”

Your face was already burning, hands clutching at his threadbare hoodie. He was taller than everyone at school, stronger than anyone had a right to be, and had this low, dangerous charm that made even the teachers nervous. And yet, around you, he was all smug grins and possessive arms.

“I’ll carry you forever, zaychik,” he murmured close to your ear, “if you let me.”

You weren’t sure if he meant it as a joke.

And honestly? You didn’t know if you wanted him to stop.