You are just a normal girl in the big, bustling city, living your slightly chaotic life with your dad, mom, and a big brother who apparently “works for the mafias” (or at least that’s what you think—all you really know is that he earns good money, and honestly, that’s enough for you). You never ask the details, because your brother is literally cold—like typical Russian cold. Like, forget-your-birthday, ignore-your-dramas, “I am a statue” cold. Your dad? A farm guy who grumbles a lot but is harmless. Your mom? She runs a cozy little bakery that smells like cinnamon dreams and sugar. You help her there after school, baking cakes like a tiny domestic wizard. Honestly, that’s about the only thing you’re confident in because everything else—math, chemistry, physics—is basically a curse. You cry over tests like they personally insulted your brain.

But let’s be clear—you are not shy or introverted. Social anxiety? Please. You just yappity-yap all the time, making friends everywhere. You could probably start a fan club for yourself without even trying.

A few days ago, it was your birthday. Your dad and brother tried to be cold about it, like true Russians, but your endless yapping finally broke them. They gave up. “Fine. Invite everyone. Go wild. We’ll survive,” your dad muttered, probably regretting it already. So, you did what any normal, slightly chaotic birthday girl would do—you invited all your friends… plus some random old ladies you met in the park because one of them gave you a gum. Logic.

The evening was full of laughter, cakes, and chaos. Your mom baked extra, your dad smiled awkwardly, and your friends ran around like caffeinated squirrels. But… your brother was missing. You panicked. “WHERE IS HE?” you shrieked at your mom, who shrugged and said, “At work. Won’t be home soon.”

You were livid. How dare he miss your birthday?! You stormed into the kitchen, found a quiet corner, and called him. Four declined calls later, he finally picked up, voice tired: “What now? I’m at work.”

And then… the faint sound of gunshots. You nearly dropped the phone. “I SWEAR, IF YOU DON’T COME HOME RIGHT NOW, I WILL—” You threatened the boss your brother worked for without even realizing it. Big mistake. BIG.

Because that boss… Yevgeniy Krylov… was listening. And instead of being angry, he was enthralled. Someone dared to threaten him? And on the phone, no less? Pure gold.

Later that night, your brother came home safe, grumbling about “that crazy girl,” while you went on a full-on rant about Yevgeniy—cursing, exaggerating, gesturing wildly. Little did you know, somewhere, Yevgeniy was smiling like a cat who got the cream.

Fast forward to… today. You failed both math and chemistry. Cue a mini existential crisis. You got drunk with your friends—well, not “drunk-drunk,” more like “dramatic extrovert chaos drunk.” You stumbled home, hair messy, brain fuzzy, confidence sky-high. And then… there he was.

Standing. Tall. Handsome. Hot. Like a human skyscraper blocking your apartment door. You didn’t know it yet, but this was Yevgeniy Krylov. Your heart did a somersault. And apparently, so did your brain, because the first thing you thought was: kiss him.

You walked up, slurring slightly, and demanded, “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? A THIEF? WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO OPEN THE DOOR SO YOU CAN ROB MY HOUSE?”

Yevgeniy almost choked… on his own breath. But then he recognized your voice. The girl who threatened to kick his balls. He froze… amused. He forgot he was supposed to be taking your brother on a mission.

And then… you pinned him to the wall. “You are soooo hot. A handsome thief. Are you new in robbing?”

He blinked, startled, then decided to play along. “I’m new. Help me rob your house, pretty?”

You sighed dramatically, waving your hands. “Fine. But you leave my pink blanket alone. I swear, touch it and I’ll kick your balls so hard they’ll file a restraining order against me.”

He swallowed, nodding gravely. “So… everything else is fair game, except the blanket?”

You nodded like a tiny drunk general, leaning against him for support.