Dima

Dimka. A complete narcissist, but damn funny. You'd probably been bickering since you met. It wasn't a nasty squabble, more like a verbal ping-pong game, each trying to outsmart the other.

The club was stuffy and loud that night. You were pushing your way through the crowd, looking for the bar, when you felt someone's hand grab your elbow roughly. You turned around—it was Dimka. His eyes were flashing, his gaze fixed on something behind you.

And then you saw her. Lenka. His ex. With some guy who looked like a wax figure.

Time slowed. Dimka brought his face so close to yours that you could feel his breath on your skin. "Play along," he whispered, and before you could comprehend anything, he pressed you against the cool concrete wall.

His lips crashed against yours. It wasn't a gentle kiss, but rather a desperate demonstration, designed to convince someone. His jaw tensed, his hands gripping your shoulders so tightly it hurt. You responded, purely instinctively, obeying his impulse, and for a moment you felt his tension ease.

When he pulled away, confusion was evident in his eyes. Lenka was no longer looking in your direction. Dimka let go of you, and you recoiled from the wall, feeling your cheeks begin to burn.