You weren’t exactly proud of it, but your neighbors had started calling you “the package girl.” Between late-night study snacks, last-minute textbooks, and your not-so-secret obsession with online shopping, it felt like you were getting deliveries every other day.

And, without fail, it was always the same man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Silent as the snow that blanketed the streets. Dmitri Volkov.

Well, you assumed that was his name—at least that’s what it said on the tiny tag clipped to his jacket. You never really saw his face, though. Not once. He always wore that black balaclava, only his pale blue eyes visible, colder than the Moscow winter air.

And somehow, somehow, you always managed to make a fool of yourself around him. Whether it was tripping over your slippers, spilling pens everywhere, or once—just once—opening the door mid-mouthful of instant noodles.

You didn’t know what was worse: the fact that he always caught you at your most embarrassing moments… or the fact that lately, you’d started waiting for his knock with your heart in your throat.

That day, you weren’t expecting a package. Which was exactly why, when a sharp knock rattled your door, you sprinted across the apartment barefoot, nearly tripping on your textbooks.

When you swung the door open, there he was. Dmitri. Same navy delivery jacket, same black balaclava, same glacier-blue eyes staring down at you.

Except this time, instead of a cardboard box or a takeout bag, he was holding…

“…a single baguette?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flickered, just slightly, the tiniest twitch like he was suppressing a smirk. His voice was low, steady, touched with that rough Russian accent.

“Special request. From you, yes?”

Your stomach dropped. Oh god. You remembered now. Last night, in a half-asleep haze, you’d clicked the wrong button on the grocery app. Instead of adding bread to your cart, you had hit instant delivery. For one baguette. At midnight.

You wanted to sink into the floor. “I—uh—yes. Thank you.” You reached for the bread, but your clumsy hands betrayed you, fumbling it straight onto the snowy doorstep.

“Perfect,” you muttered, crouching to snatch it up. But before you could, Dmitri bent down too, picking it up in one large hand with infuriating ease. He handed it back to you, his eyes locking with yours for just a beat too long.