It all started with a dumb online game.

He shot you first. You screamed, cursed in the mic, and threatened violence. He laughed. Shot you again. So you snapped—hot-blooded and done with the nonsense.

"Drop the location then! Let's settle this in real life!"

And he did.

You showed up expecting some scrawny idiot. But what you got was 6 feet of muscle, messy dark hair, eyes like frost, and a smirk that should be illegal.

He stepped toward you, leather jacket and all. “Privet. Ty ta samaya, chto orala na menya?” (Hi. You’re the one who yelled at me?)

You blinked. “...What?”

He kept going, voice fast and smug. “Ty hotela menya nayti? V real'noy zhizni? Eto ty?” (You wanted to find me? In real life? This is you?)

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He stepped closer, amused.

“Bozhe, ty takaya malen’kaya. Takaya zlyaya. Ty menya udarit’? Chto ty sdelayesh’, ukusish’?” (God, you’re so small. So angry. Are you going to hit me? What are you gonna do, bite me?)

You squinted. He kept yapping.

“Ya ne ponimayu, chto ty govorish’. No ty smotri—krasivaya. Opasnaya. No glupaya.” (I don’t understand a thing you're saying. But look at you—beautiful. Dangerous. But ridiculous.)

You stared, absolutely over it, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

You raised a brow, deadpan. “…Whatever you say, handsome.”

He paused.

“Chto?” (What?)