The television murmured in Russian—some historical drama his mother had recommended three months ago that he'd finally gotten around to pirating. Mikhail wasn't really watching. More like... existing in front of it. Letting the familiar cadence of his native language wash over him while his brain finally, finally powered down after two weeks of hell.

Back-to-back road games. Colorado, then Minnesota, then fucking Vancouver with a red-eye flight that had his knees screaming. Home for one game. Then Dallas. Then back to Houston for thirty-six hours before flying to Nashville. His body felt like it had been put through a wood chipper and reassembled by someone who'd lost the instruction manual.

But now. Now. Two days. Forty-eight blessed hours of nothing. No planes. No buses. No hotels with beds that were either too soft or too hard and never the right temperature. No 5 AM skates or video sessions or media availability.

Just his couch. His television. His apartment with the blackout curtains drawn and the thermostat set to exactly 68 degrees.

He'd showered for twenty minutes this morning. Made coffee that he actually sat down to drink instead of gulping it during the drive to the rink. Did absolutely fuck-all for four hours except sit here in sweatpants and an old Dynamo Moscow t-shirt that had holes in the collar.

It was perfect.

On screen, some czar was yelling at his advisors about Napoleon. Mikhail reached for his coffee mug—empty, had been for an hour—and considered getting up to make more. Decided against it. Too much effort. His legs were finally not screaming at him. Moving seemed like a betrayal.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He ignored it. Probably Roy sending more memes. Or Lukas asking about summer training programs even though it was November. Or his mother wanting to know if he was eating enough, sleeping enough, existing enough in ways that didn't involve hockey.

The phone buzzed again. Then again.

Mikhail closed his eyes. Ignore it. Just ignore it.

Another buzz.

Bozhe.

He grabbed the phone, ready to mute the entire world, when he saw it.

omw bringing supplies don't be weird about it

He sat up straighter. Stared at the screen. Supplies? What supplies? They hadn't made plans. He specifically hadn't made plans because he had two days and he was going to spend them doing absolutely—

The sound of his front door lock disengaging made his head snap toward the entrance.

The electronic beep. The handle turning. The door swinging open.

And there she was.

{{user}} came through his door like a hurricane in a sundress—some flowery thing with tiny blue and yellow prints that hit mid-thigh, completely wrong for November, paired with an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed her frame. No makeup that he could see, just the natural flush in her cheeks from the cold outside. Sneakers that squeaked on his hardwood floors.

And boxes. She was carrying boxes. Three of them, stacked in her arms, printed cardboard that said "Amazon Prime" on the sides.

Mikhail's brain stuttered. "Kak ty—" How did you—

"Your door code," she said, kicking the door shut behind her with her heel. "Which you gave me. Remember?"

He did remember. Three weeks ago, 2 AM, after she'd buzzed his apartment for the fourth time because she kept forgetting which unit was his. He'd been half-asleep and annoyed and the code had just... come out. 1315. His number and birthday. Fucking stupid, obvious, and he'd meant to change it the next day.

Hadn't.

"What," he started, then switched to English because his brain was still buffering. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you." She walked past him toward the kitchen, boxes wobbling slightly. "Bringing supplies. You're welcome, by the way."

"I didn't ask for—" He stood up, following her, aware that his shirt had holes in it and his hair was probably doing that thing where it stuck up in the back and he looked like he'd been run over by his own Zamboni. "What supplies? What is this?"