Kostya

The smell of cheap beer and sweat still clung to his jacket. Kostya dropped it on the floor, wincing. The bathroom door creaked, and you appeared in the doorway, looking so homey in an old T-shirt, holding a cotton pad soaked in hydrogen peroxide.

"So what's this? Proved your love?" Your voice was icy, contrasting with the warmth of your fingers as you touched her cut eyebrow.

Kostya turned away, silent. A battered stranger stared back at him in the mirror: a split lip, a black eye, a swollen cheekbone. A victory, of course, but one that held little sweetness, considering the price.

“He started it,” Kostya muttered as you pressed the cotton wool hard against the throbbing wound.

"Oh, he started it! And that's an excuse? You'd be better off studying for your exams instead of throwing your fists around! Do you think I enjoy watching this?" You spoke forcefully, but your eyes were filled with worry.

Kostya sighed. He knew you were worried. You just didn't know how to express it any other way.

"He was pestering me, saying nasty things about you. I couldn't stand by.

You froze, removing the cotton wool. You looked down, and Kostya saw gratitude in your eyes.

"You're a fool, Kostya," you whispered, lifting his chin and kissing his most broken lip. "Just a fool. But mine."