The late evening draped Sasha’s apartment in a warm, amber haze, the kind of dim lighting that made every shadow look like a secret. Her place was a charming mess—books stacked haphazardly on the floor, a throw blanket crumpled on the couch, and tissues scattered across the coffee table like confetti after a particularly disastrous party. A half-empty bottle of cheap red wine sat as the centerpiece, a silent witness to her latest wallow in post-breakup blues. The air smelled faintly of lavender and regret.
A sharp knock at the door jolted Sasha from her pity party. She groaned, dragging herself off the couch, her oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder as she shuffled to answer it. She already knew who it was—only one person had the audacity to show up unannounced at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday.
Swinging the door open, she was met with Zachar’s lopsided smirk, a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka dangling from his hand like a peace offering. His dark hair was a mess, as if he’d just rolled out of bed or wrestled a bear on the way over, and his leather jacket looked like it had seen better days. Still, there was something infuriatingly charming about the way he leaned against her doorframe, all casual confidence.
“Well, damn, Sash,” Zachar drawled, his voice dripping with mock concern. “You look like you’ve been auditioning for a role as a heartbroken ghost. Should I call a priest or just pour you a shot?”
Sasha crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him, though the faintest smirk tugged at her lips. “Oh, look, it’s the patron saint of bad decisions. What’s that in your hand? Paint thinner disguised as vodka?”
Zachar chuckled, stepping past her without waiting for an invitation. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. This stuff’s got character. Like me.” He waggled his eyebrows as he kicked the door shut behind him, making a beeline for her cluttered living room.
Sasha rolled her eyes, following him with a huff. “Character? Is that what we’re calling your complete lack of taste now? I’m pretty sure that bottle’s a war crime.”
She plopped back onto the couch, tucking her legs under her as Zachar set the vodka down next to her sad little wine bottle. He shrugged off his jacket, revealing a fitted black tee that clung to his frame just enough to be distracting. Not that she was looking. Nope. Definitely not.
“Listen, princess,” Zachar shot back, dropping onto the couch beside her with an exaggerated sigh, “I didn’t come here to be judged for my liquor choices. I came to save you from drowning in your own melodrama. You’ve got enough tissues here to start a small business.”
Sasha snatched a tissue from the table and tossed it at his face, though he caught it with a grin. “Oh, please. If I’m drowning, it’s in the sheer audacity of you thinking you’re my knight in shining armor. What’s your plan, huh? Get me drunk on that swill and hope I forget I’m a mess?”
Zachar leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just brushing the edge of her shoulder. “Nah, I’m more of a ‘distract and conquer’ kind of guy. Step one: cheap booze. Step two: my irresistible charm. Step three: you forget what’s-his-name ever existed.”
Sasha snorted, reaching for the wine bottle and taking a swig straight from it, not bothering with a glass. “Irresistible charm? Zach, I’ve seen you try to flirt with a vending machine. It gave you the cold shoulder. Literally.”
He clutched his chest in mock offense, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “Ouch, Sash. That’s cold. But for the record, that vending machine and I had a moment. You’re just jealous.”
She arched a brow, setting the bottle down with a deliberate thud. “Jealous? Of a machine that rejected you? Sweetie, I’ve got higher standards than that. And speaking of standards, let’s talk about your track record. Didn’t your last date end with you accidentally setting her kitchen on fire?”
Zachar laughed, a low, rumbling sound that filled the room and, annoyingly, made her stomach flip. “Hey, that was romantic! Nothing says ‘I’m into you’ like a little arson. Besides, she forgave me. Eventually.”
Sasha shook her head, fighting a grin as she grabbed the vodka bottle, unscrewing the cap with a grimace. “Fine. If I’m going to suffer through your company, I might as well suffer through this too.” She took a cautious sip, immediately wincing. “Oh my god, Zach. This tastes like regret and nail polish remover had a baby.”
He smirked, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Told you. Character. Now, drink up, drama queen. Let’s toast to forgetting assholes who don’t deserve you.”
Their eyes locked for a moment, and Sasha felt a flicker of something dangerous beneath his teasing tone—something that made her pulse quicken despite herself. She shoved the feeling down, raising the bottle with a defiant tilt of her chin. “To forgetting assholes. And to reminding myself why I don’t let clowns like you into my life more often.”
They clinked the vodka against her wine bottle, the sound sharp in the quiet room. As they drank, the banter flowed as easily as the alcohol, each jab and quip laced with a growing undercurrent of tension. Sasha couldn’t ignore the way Zachar’s gaze lingered on her lips when she spoke, or how his casual touches—brushing her arm, nudging her knee—felt less accidental by the minute. And damn it, she hated how much she didn’t hate it.
“So,” Zachar said after a while, his voice softer now, though still edged with that infuriating smirk. “You gonna tell me what’s really got you hoarding tissues like it’s the apocalypse, or do I have to guess? ‘Cause I’m betting it’s not just the breakup. You’re too tough for that.”
Sasha stiffened, her fingers tightening around the vodka bottle. She wasn’t ready to spill her guts, not to him, not to anyone. But the way he looked at her—part challenge, part genuine concern—made her walls wobble. She masked it with a scoff, turning the tables. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend you’re here for a therapy session. You’re just hoping to catch me at my weakest so you can swoop in with some half-assed hero act.”
Zachar tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her squirm. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like seeing you all riled up. It’s kinda hot, Sash. Even with the snotty tissues.”
She glared at him, though heat crept up her neck at his words. “You’re insufferable, you know that? And for the record, I don’t need a hero. I need someone who’s actually good at this whole ‘comforting’ thing. My ex couldn’t even spell the word, let alone do it right.”
His smirk widened into something dangerously playful, and he leaned in just enough that she could smell the faint leather and spice of him. “Is that a challenge, darlin’? ‘Cause I’m real good at comforting when I wanna be. Better than what’s-his-name ever dreamed of being.”
Sasha’s breath caught, but she didn’t back down. If anything, his cockiness fueled her fire. She turned to face him fully, her knee brushing his as she fixed him with a steely gaze, her voice low and daring. “Oh, really? Big talk for a guy who can’t even pick a decent drink. Prove it, then. Show me you’ve got more game than a bottle of cheap vodka.”
The air between them crackled, charged with unspoken possibilities. Zachar’s eyes darkened, his smirk faltering for a split second before returning full force, and Sasha knew she’d just thrown down a gauntlet neither of them could ignore. Whatever happened next, one thing was clear: comfort was about to come with a whole lot of heat.
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