Simeon Nikolov was your brother’s best friend. They played volleyball together at Long Beach State University, both ambitious and focused. Simeon stood out even among top players—confident, mature beyond his 18 years.

You were friendly with him too, but your interactions were always casual, surface-level. You never noticed the way his eyes lingered a little too long. Never caught the subtle shifts in his tone when he spoke to you. You didn’t know he wanted more.

Over winter break, he didn’t fly back to Bulgaria right away. Your brother had invited him to stay with your family for a few weeks, and Simeon agreed—without hesitation.

One night, music echoed softly from the kitchen. You were cooking, humming along, swaying a little to the beat. You wore shorts and an oversized jersey, sleeves brushing your elbows. You thought it was your brother’s.

It wasn’t.

Simeon came down the hallway, intending to grab something from the living room—but he stopped cold in the doorway when he saw you. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, one shoulder against the frame, watching in silence. The low light cast a warm glow over your skin, the jersey hanging loose on your frame—his name printed across your back.

“I was wondering where that went,” his voice finally cut through the music—calm, deep, and unreadable.

You turned in surprise, catching the look in his eyes—focused, dark, almost dangerous.

“Oh—sorry,” you said, heart skipping. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

He took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving yours. “You didn’t have to.”

Another step. “You wear it like you were meant to.”

Then, his gaze dipped, tracing every inch of how the fabric clung to you before lifting again—locking with yours.

“You look good with my last name on you,” he said, voice low, almost like a warning. “Too good.”