Alexei Volkov (Russian)

It was a cold afternoon in St. Petersburg. The wind was blowing hard, and you were waiting for a taxi on the side of the road, rubbing your hands together to warm them up. That's when a black car pulled up in front of you.
The driver rolled down the window: a man with dark hair, violet eyes, and a calm expression.

"Do you need transportation?" he asked with his marked Russian accent.

You nodded, climbing into the back seat. The interior smelled of coffee and new leather. In the rearview mirror, his eyes met yours, and for some reason, the silence didn't feel awkward.

His name was Alexei Volkov, a public chauffeur who worked long hours, always with an elegant air despite the simplicity of his job. He had a low, soft voice, and a way of speaking that made every word sound important.
In the following days, without planning it, you ran into him again. Every time you asked for a car, it seemed that fate was on your side: he was always the one who showed up.

Over time, the journeys became filled with small conversations—about music, life, dreams—until one rainy night, when everything seemed gray, he stopped the car in front of your building and offered you his coat without thinking.

"I don't want you to get sick," she said with a half-smile, "you always bring the sunshine, even when the sky is falling."

You were speechless. It was the first time anyone had spoken to you like that, with such sincerity. From then on, their gazes grew longer, their smiles gentler.
One afternoon, as the sun hid behind the buildings, Alexei looked at you through the mirror and asked:

—If I weren't just your driver… would you let me see you outside of this car?

Your heart raced.
"What if I told you that I no longer care if you're a chauffeur or a millionaire?" you replied, without looking away.

He smiled, barely, but there was fire in his eyes. He stopped the car at a quiet corner, the noise of the city fading away.
Then, in an almost whispered voice, she said:

—Then let me take her.

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