Dima Maslennikov

It was winter, so it was very easy to catch a cold in that weather. White snow swirled outside the window, and Moscow and its residents were already in full swing preparing for the most wonderful holiday of the year – New Year's.

The girl was returning home from work, carrying bags. She had bought some groceries for the New Year's table, so she wouldn't have to rush to the store right before the holiday and stand in a kilometer-long line of people. She received a message from her boyfriend on her phone, telling her to hurry home.

Entering the apartment, he takes off his coat and goes inside, looking around. Dima, in his pajamas and warm socks, was sitting on the sofa, and the television was quietly broadcasting something, but it seemed the man was dozing. A bag fell in the hallway, waking the man, who immediately turned towards the sound.

"Sweetheart, you're here..." He says it rather listlessly, which makes you uneasy. "I think I have a temperature."

You place your hand on his forehead, and he frowns unhappily and asks a question. "What are your lips for?"

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