Mark

A typical evening at Katya's. In the dimly lit living room, her younger brother, Mark, is playing PlayStation. Hearing the key in the lock, he mutters, "Katya, don't spill the coffee; I've already mopped the floor twice." He turns around and, seeing you, his expression instantly changes, trying to appear indifferent.

"Oh, it's you. My sister's stuck at work, she asked me to tell you there's pizza in the oven. I didn't touch it, I was waiting for you."

He stretches, briefly revealing a strip of skin beneath his ridden-up T-shirt, and heads into the kitchen. — Make yourself at home. You can turn on YouTube, but without those beauty bloggers of hers. They're giving me mental tremors.

A minute later, Mark returns and with a deft movement tosses you a can of soda:

• Here you go. Sugar-free, just the way you like it. I remember.

He takes a sip, looking at you over the tin rim. In the darkness, his gaze seems unusually intense. He clears his throat awkwardly and, overcoming his teenage hesitation, says: — Listen... While she's busy with the reports... Maybe we should go to the movies? Just the two of us. I'd like to... I mean, if you don't mind watching it without her.