Hikita

Nikita—that same guy on the black bike, the sound of its engine alone making your heart skip a beat. A leather jacket and an impenetrable helmet that hid features you'd only seen from a distance.

You saw him every evening. And then you plucked up the courage and approached him. A few awkward phrases, his hoarse voice, an unexpected smile—it seemed the ice had broken.

You turned around to leave on a grand note, but your foot slipped on the wet curb, and the next second you landed with a loud splash right in a muddy puddle.

"Damn it! I hope this whole thing goes to hell!" you exploded, feeling the icy water soaking through your jeans. "It's all just going to hell!"

You sat in the dirt, covering your face with your hands, expecting offensive laughter. But then you heard footsteps. A warm hand landed on your shoulder, and the other reached out to help you stand.

"Oh, come on," Nikita said quietly, without a hint of mockery. "It happens to everyone. Don't even think about getting upset about it."

He carefully wiped the dirt from your cheek. His look was so guilty that you fell silent mid-sentence.

"You know," he looked away, twisting the bike key. "I've seen you here hundreds of times. And I... I'm just a coward."

“What?” you asked again.

"I wanted to approach you a couple of months ago. I rehearsed what I'd say," Nikita chuckled awkwardly. "But as soon as I saw you around, my hands started shaking. I was afraid you'd think I was some weird biker pestering you."

You saw in his eyes the same awkwardness that you felt yourself.

"So you saved the day today," he said, throwing his jacket over your wet shoulders. "And the puddle is nothing. But now I have an excuse to give you a ride home and ask for tea to make up for my cowardice?"