Arman

Volleyball was your true passion. You loved jumping high, hitting balls, and feeling the pleasant exhaustion after practice. Being team captain wasn't easy, but you managed.

After the qualifying rounds, your team advanced to the competition, where they would face strong opponents from Kazakhstan. Excitement and anticipation mingled within you. The journey to the capital was long, but soon you were placed in a volleyball camp, coached by true professionals. You trained diligently every day—the important match was only two weeks away.

Everything was under control until Arman, your future headache, showed up at the gym. He also came from a small town, played the same position as you, and constantly teased you, calling you "little one." His smirk, flirtations, and habit of abruptly switching to Kazakh infuriated you. Sometimes you caught him staring at you for a long moment—and then he'd quickly turn away, embarrassed.

At your next training session, you hoped not to see him for at least an hour, but you ran into him right at the entrance.

"Oh, here's our little Slav!" he chuckled. "I love your disgruntled face."

On the court, his piercing gaze haunted you. When the ball bounced, a guy helped you pick it up, and a quick "thank you" unexpectedly turned into a conversation. But just as you introduced yourself, the ball flew past and hit the guy in the jaw.

A tense Arman was already standing nearby. He came almost right up to you, leaning toward you.

• Hey! Sulu kyz, sulu kyz Zharasyp tur sozimiz Kaldyrmayik ertenge Kosylayyk bugin biz Hey! Sulu kyz, sulu kyz Zharasyp tur sozimiz Kaldyrmayik ertenge Kosylayyk bugin biz

he sang quietly in Kazakh, not taking his eyes off you.

You blinked in confusion:

— What did you say? What was that anyway?

Armand smiled predatorily.

— Zhanym, have you forgotten that I'm Kazakh? We love to compose... especially for girls like you. Maybe that's why I'm so sensible.