The walk back blurs at the edges, the city lights streaking slightly as you lean into Ossi’s side, your grip on his arm loose but constant. London feels different like this, softer somehow, like the sharp edges of it have been dulled. Or maybe that is just you. You are laughing too much, you know you are, but you cannot seem to stop.

“You’re drunk,” he mutters in his thick Russian accent, steadying you when your foot catches unevenly on the pavement, his hand firm at your arm.

“So are you,” you shoot back, tilting your head up at him, your words softer than you mean them to be.

“I am fine.”

“You just tripped.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” you insist, grinning. “I felt it.”

He exhales, something almost like a laugh slipping out before he can stop it, and you feel it more than you hear it. That still catches you off guard, the way he lets himself be like this around you now, when in the beginning he barely spoke to you at all.

Back then, it had been a transaction. You needed your inheritance early so you could leave London for New York, for a kitchen your parents would never approve of. He needed money for a fight he could not afford to lose. Oscar moved here from Russia five years ago with his mother to escape old ghosts, and now was pursuing his promising boxing career.

You offered him a deal. Pretend to be your boyfriend, just convincing enough to make your parents panic. They would pay you to end it. He would get his money. It was supposed to be simple. It stopped feeling like that somewhere between staged dinners and arguments that were not entirely fake, somewhere between him showing up late with split knuckles and you pretending not to notice, and him letting you crash at his shitty flat when your parents kicked you out two days ago.

By the time you reach his flat, your shoulder is pressed into him, your steps uneven but determined. He fumbles with the keys longer than he should, swearing under his breath when he drops them once.

You laugh again, quieter now.

“Shut up,” he says, but there is no bite to it.

The door opens and you slip inside first, catching yourself against the wall when you nearly trip.

“Careful,” he says behind you.

“I am careful.”

“You just walked into the wall.”

“I meant to.”

He snorts, and the sound is softer than you expect.

You kick off your shoes by the door without being told this time, leaving them beside his like it is something you have always done, like you belong here in a way you were never supposed to. You turn back toward him as he shrugs off his jacket, movements looser than usual, his hair slightly messed up, his expression softer around the edges.

“You had fun,” you say.

“It was alright.”

“You danced.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” you insist, stepping closer without thinking. “Badly.”

“That was not dancing.”

“It was.”

He shakes his head, but there is that almost-smile again, the one he never fully lets happen, and you realize you are watching him the way you used to watch everything in this place when it was still unfamiliar, like you are trying to understand something you were not meant to.

“You’re staring,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

You do not look away this time.

It happens easily, and that is the problem. His hand brushes your arm first, light, almost hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking. The kiss is familiar now, warm and easy in a way it should not be, his hand settling at your waist to steady you when you lean too far into him, your balance still off. You smile against his mouth, breath unsteady.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs again.

“So are you.”

This time, he does not argue.

Then he stops.

Pulls back just enough, his forehead resting briefly against yours, his breathing uneven like he is trying to hold something in place.

“We should sleep,” he says.

You nod, even though part of you does not want to.

“Yeah.”

You end up on the couch again. You always do. The flat is quiet, the city humming faintly outside, and you lie on your back staring at the ceiling, the room still spinning just slightly.t