#andrei fluff

You’re dancing. Actually dancing—laughing, off-beat, hair sticking to your lip gloss—and Andrei is right there with you, towering and grinning, moving with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you’re bad at something and doing it anyway. You’re dancing with Andrei because it’s easy. Because he showed up when you texted come out with us and didn’t ask questions. Because he never makes things weird.

Your friends are nearby, a loose circle of bodies and laughter, watching you with knowing looks that make your skin prickle.

“Stop,” you mouth at them, laughing, when you catch one of them raising their eyebrows exaggeratedly.

Andrei leans down. “What?”

“They think you’re in love with me,” you say, rolling your eyes.

He almost misses a step.

“This is not true,” he says a little too fast.

“Exactly,” you grin. “I keep telling them that.”

Across the circle, your friend mouths liar at Andrei when she thinks you’re not looking. He pretends not to see it, ears pink under the lights.

“See?” you shout over the music. “You’re not terrible.”

He leans down so you can hear him, warm breath at your ear. “This is a lie you tell because you are kind.”

You spin, almost trip, and he catches you automatically, hands steady at your waist. For a second it’s just the two of you, your laugh stuck in your throat, his eyes dropping a fraction too long. Friends, you remind yourself. Always friends.

You turn back to the music, feeling light. Safe. Then something shifts. The air feels colder somehow, sharper. The laughter behind you fades into background noise as you spot him near the bar. Your ex. Leaning like he belongs there, eyes already locked on you. Your stomach drops.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

Andrei follows your line of sight. His body goes rigid, like a switch flipped.

“Are you sure I cannot punch him in the face?” he asks, voice low and serious.

You bark out a surprised laugh. “Yes.”

He watches your ex take a step closer. “What if I just break his nose a little?”

You grab his arm, half-amused, half-alarmed. “Andrei, what has gotten into you?!”

“He is staring,” Andrei says, jaw tight. “I do not like this.”

Your ex pushes onto the dance floor, smug and familiar in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Hey,” he says, eyes sliding over you like he’s allowed to do that. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Before you can respond, Andrei steps slightly in front of you. Not blocking—just… there.

“We are busy,” he says flatly.

Your ex laughs. “Right. And you are…?”

Her friend,” Andrei says. The word is careful. Deliberate.

Your ex smirks. “Relax, man. I’m just saying hi.”

“No,” Andrei replies. “You are making her uncomfortable.”

Your heart stutters. You hadn’t said that. He just knew.

Your friends have gone very quiet behind you.

“I can speak for myself,” you say, though your voice wobbles. “And I don’t want to talk.”

Your ex scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and backs off, disappearing into the crowd. The music rushes back in all at once.

You exhale. “Okay. Thank you. But also—wow.”

Andrei turns to you, hands still clenched. “I am sorry if that was too much.”

“It wasn’t,” you say quickly. “I just didn’t know you had… that in you.”

He shrugs, awkward now that the threat is gone. “I do not like when people think they can treat you badly.”

Your friends reappear like a storm.

“ANDREI,” one of them hisses, eyes wide. “That was so hot.”

Another grins at you. “You still think he doesn’t like you?”

You laugh, flustered. “Guys, stop.”

Andrei looks like he might actually melt into the floor.

“We should—uh—dance somewhere else,” you say, grabbing his hand before you can overthink it. He follows instantly. The song shifts to something slower, heavier. The lights dim. You sway together, closer now, your hands settling on his shoulders like they belong there. His hands hover for a second before resting at your waist, careful, reverent.

“You really don’t have to protect me,” you say softly.

He looks down at you, expression open in a way you’re not used to seeing. “I know. But I want to.”

Your chest tightens. You think about the way he always waits for you after practice. The way he texts to make sure you got home. The way your friends have been insufferably sure about this for years.

“You know,” you murmur, “everyone keeps telling me you have feelings for me.”

His breath catches. Just barely. “And what do you tell them?”

“That they’re wrong,” you admit.

He nods, a small, resigned motion. “Okay.”

Something about that—about how easily he accepts it—makes your heart ache.

You look at him properly now. Really look. The way his thumb moves absentmindedly against your side. The way he watches your face like it’s his anchor. Maybe this wasn’t sudden. Maybe you just weren’t ready to see it before.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his chest. “I don’t think they’re wrong,” you whisper.

He stills completely.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice barely audible over the music.

You smile, slow and certain. “Yeah. I think tonight kind of gave you away.”