Page 8 of Sweet Dreams

P.S. Babushka = grandmother. Balaclava = definitely not recommended for baking. Or anything, really. Unless you're robbing a bank in Siberia.

He hit send, then hurried to change. By the time he made it downstairs, Nik was on verse four, much to the dismay of Yuri's elderly neighbors.

"Alright, alright, I'm here," Yuri grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You can stop torturing everyone now."

Nik grinned, slinging an arm around Yuri's shoulders. "Aw, you love my singing. Admit it."

"I'd rather admit to tax fraud," Yuri retorted, but there was no heat in it. Despite his reluctance, he felt a familiar thrill of anticipation. A night out with Nik was never dull.

As they walked towards their favorite bar, Nik studied his friend. "So, what's her name?"

Yuri nearly tripped over his own feet. "What? Who?"

"The girl. The one that had you 'networking' instead of answering my calls."

"There's no girl," Yuri protested too quickly.

Nik's grin widened. "Uh-huh. And that's why you're blushing like a schoolboy. Come on, spill. Is she Russian? Please tell me she's not another dancer. I can't handle another Natasha situation."

Yuri winced at the memory. "She's not a dancer. She's... she's a baker. From America."

Nik stopped dead in his tracks. "A baker. From America," he repeated slowly. "Yuri, tell me you're not on one of those international dating sites."

Yuri's silence was answer enough.

"Bozhe moy," Nik groaned. "Have you learned nothing from those crime documentaries I made you watch? She's probably a 50-year-old man named Chuck who wants to steal your kidneys!"

"She's not—" Yuri started to argue, then caught himself. "Look, it's not serious. We just started chatting. She seems... nice."

"Nice," Nik echoed. "Right. Well, when you wake up in a bathtub full of ice, don't come crying to me."

Despite his words, Nik's tone was more concerned than mocking. Yuri felt a surge of affection for his friend. "I promise to keep both my kidneys intact," he said solemnly. "Now, are we going to drink or what?"

People filled the crowded bar, smoke filled the air, and laughter echoed throughout. Yuri breathed it in, feeling a familiar ache. It wasn't Rhapsody, his beloved lost nightclub, but it was close.

As Nik ordered their usual vodkas, Yuri's mind wandered back to Beth. He found himself wondering what she was doing now – probably baking. He could almost smell the aroma of freshbread, and see her with flour on her cheeks and determination in her eyes.

"Earth to Yuri," Nik's voice cut through his musings. "Your drink's getting warm."

Yuri blinked, focusing on the shot glass in front of him. "Sorry," he muttered, throwing back the vodka in one smooth motion.

Nik sighed, clapping him on the back. "You've got it bad, my friend. Just... be careful, okay? I can't lose you to the wilds of America."

Yuri managed a smile. "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

But even as he said it, a part of him wondered if that was true.

The next morning, Yuri woke to a pounding headache and three new messages from Beth. He squinted at the screen, a slow smile spreading across his face despite the pain.

Message 1: Raincheck accepted, Mr. International. But don't think you're getting off that easy. I want the full story, complete with dramatic reenactments. If you supply the drama, I'll supply the popcorn.

Message 2: Also, I may have stress-baked again. Do you think medovik travels well internationally? Asking for a friend. (The friend is my stomach.)

Message 3:Okay, it's 3:00 a.m., and I'm covered in honey and flour. I blame you for this, Yuri from Minsk. I hope you're happy. But also... this is delicious. Your babushka was onto something.

Ignoring the protest of his vodka-soaked brain, Yuri hit the 'video call' button. It rang once, twice, three times before connecting.

Beth's face filled the screen, her hair a riot of messy curls, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise.

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