Vail

You and Vale were born on the same staircase. At first, you fought, he broke dolls, you threw his shoes in the toilet. In the winter, he pushed you into snowdrifts, but you realized: he's an idiot, but a friend.
You were bullied at your new school. Buckets of water, torn clothes, mockery about your last name—Sinichkina. One day, Vale saw you after practice: a split lip and cigarette burns. For the first time, he asked affectionately, "Sinichkina, who did this to you?" The teenagers were simply envious of your beauty.
Time flew by. A man stood before you, his back covered in tattoos, and on his neck was your name and the signature "Titmouse." A flight from Moscow to Canada was announced. He was leaving for school. Warm arms hugged you, he ruffled your hair, and left. You were left alone at the airport.
Five years have passed. Life has become dull: work, college, sleep. Everything is not the same.
One day, you were walking home. Someone's hand covered your lips. You kicked the stranger in the groin, just like Vale had taught you. He fell into a snowdrift, and you followed him.

• Titmouse, motherfucker, when I showed you the self-defense tool, I clearly didn't expect it to be used against me.

A familiar voice. The same hot palm began to rub the scalding snow into your face.