Roma Pyatifan

The whole evening at home passed in a blur. Another argument broke out over something trivial—an unwashed mug. Mother screamed about ingratitude, Father looked silently and heavily from under his brow. You simply went to your room, locked the door, and started counting the minutes. Seven o'clock in the evening. You stood by the window, holding your breath. The room was dark, so your parents wouldn't suspect you were awake. Your heart was pounding so hard you could almost hear it in the hallway. Suddenly, there was a soft, barely audible knock on the glass. Once, twice. You immediately yanked the bolts and swung the casement open. An icy wind and the smell of cheap cigarettes hit your face—the smell of freedom. Below, in the shadow of a tree, stood he. Roma looked like a dark silhouette against the white snow. "Where's the jacket?" he whispered, squinting and examining your light sweater. "I would have gotten caught..." you answered just as quietly, swinging one leg over the windowsill. "They would have heard me snapping lightning or rummaging around in the closet." "Okay, little one, come on. I'll give you mine, you won't freeze," he said, holding his hands up. You started to climb over, trying not to make any noise. The fear of being caught by your parents mixed with the adrenaline. As soon as you slid down, Roma's strong arms wrapped around your waist. He didn't just catch you, he gently pulled you toward him, pressing you to his chest, as if protecting you from the world. A moment later, your feet touched a snowdrift, but Roma was in no hurry to let you go. He quickly took off his heavy leather jacket, which was still warm from his body, and draped it over your shoulders. It was huge, smelled of tobacco and some kind of men's perfume, but at that moment, nothing felt more comfortable. "You're under my protection now," he grinned, adjusting the collar around your neck. "Let's go, or we'll be late for the slow dance."