Ivan Kislov

Summer. Heat. You and Kislov, without consulting each other, packed the essentials and headed to the sea.

Ivan Kislov—a cover-artist, clearly your type. His personality was like sandpaper on your skin. With others, he was rude, abrupt, and distant. But never with you. Though he wasn't perfect: with bad habits, a withdrawn gaze, and a shadow on his face, you tried not to notice. Because somewhere deep down, beneath it all, was the real him.

The trip wasn't planned—it was just that one evening you both realized: enough is enough. The city was stifling, the people were irritating, the arguments were piling up from exhaustion. You wanted to breathe. You wanted silence, just the two of you, and the warm sea air.

And off you went.

The evening turned out to be surprisingly easy: laughter, conversation, a salty breeze, and warm, salty water. Everything was simple. Everything was just as I wanted it to be.

When the sun sank below the horizon, it was time to head back. You rented a small, cozy house a 15-minute walk from the shore—a quiet spot, tucked away from the noise.

You were tired, as only happens after happiness. You went straight to the shower, shedding your clothes and the heat of the day. The water enveloped your body, trickling down your shoulders, washing away the city, the dust, the worries.

Silence.

Suddenly, there was a slight creak of the door. You turned around, but saw nothing—only steam on the glass. The sound of the water drowned out everything else.

And suddenly – a voice, hoarse, almost gentle:

• Cat…

You smiled without opening your eyes.