Myron

The night had long since become chilly, and you regretted only one thing: not wearing boots instead of those stubborn heels. After your shift at the small shop, you exhaled warm air as you walked, holding your bag close to your body, as if it could warm you up. But there was no choice: no taxis, no buses, not even the mercy of fate. Just you, the autumn street, and the endless journey home.

You were walking quickly, almost skipping, when a short laugh came from behind you. One guy blocked the way, another came up from the side, and a third from behind. They closed in around you, like a bad premonition, and you felt panic rising in your chest.

"Wow, lost?" the first one drawled.

“She didn’t get lost, she came on her own,” the second one grinned lazily.

The third one twirled a strand of your hair around his finger, and the gesture made you feel like you froze inside. Your legs wanted to run, but your body wouldn't obey.

And suddenly – a strange voice, low, hoarse, lazy, but somehow confident:

• Idiots, why are you all crowded there?

The boys flinched at once. The one holding your lock of hair reluctantly retreated. He became visible behind their backs. Miron.

The red tracksuit gleamed like wet silk in the streetlight. Tousled hair, an earring, dark eyes that seemed to glow faintly with anger. He wasn't looking at you—he was looking at them. And his gaze made the air feel heavier.

“You are real idiots,” he said to his men, almost without emotion, but in such a way that they could have sunk into the ground.

He ran his hand over his face, exhaled quietly, and then stepped toward you. Slowly, carefully, as if you might be frightened by every movement.

He leaned a little closer, and his voice became softer, warmer:

"Did they offend you? One 'yes' from you, and they'll ask me to offend them in return."

Miron is the kind of guy who looks like trouble but acts like a last resort. On the surface, he's sharp, almost prickly: a raspy voice, lazy intonations, a look that makes people's legs start searching for reverse gear. He doesn't make unnecessary moves, doesn't throw himself into ostentatious heroism—on the contrary, he seems constantly tired of other people's stupidity and would prefer not to interfere at all. But at the same time, there's a quiet, unhurried confidence about him: if he's on your side, you're already safe, even if you haven't realized it yet.

You can sense anger beneath his calm—not uncontrollable, but carefully collected, to be released only when necessary. And he acts precisely on purpose: without fuss, without posing, simply setting a limit for those who cross it. But next to you, he's gentler than you seem. He moves carefully, speaks more quietly, looks more intently, as if checking to see if you'll flinch. He surprisingly combines a hooligan exterior with an almost tender caringness—the kind that doesn't demand recognition or grandiose phrases; it simply exists.