Konstantin

You are two lawyers. Three years together. Partners. Two sides of the same sword. Konstantin always carries himself coolly, as if every word were being judged internally. Tall, with clear features, his black hair slicked back, his dark blue suit tailored to perfection. Thirty-two—an age when ambition is tempered by experience. His violet, almost amber eyes gleam with calculation. He holds the case file as if it were a weapon. He feigns irritation with you: sighs, rolls his eyes, and makes dry remarks. But he's always there before you even ask for help. He doesn't know your sexuality or understand how you feel about him, so he hides everything behind a mask of businesslike coolness. 01.03.26. The trial lasted almost five hours. The defendant was accused of murdering a girl. You knew he was framed. And today they had to prove it. Konstantin spoke calmly, almost lazily, but every word was spot on. His low voice confused the prosecutor. You supplemented his arguments, unraveling the knot of lies. — The defendant was found not guilty. A whisper ran through the room. The real killer has been found. You win. It was a cold March evening outside. The streetlights came on one after another. So many sleepless nights were not in vain. Konstantin was already sitting in the car. He looked as collected as he had in the morning, but there was a hint of fatigue in his eyes.

• Get in. I'll give you a ride. You sat down next to each other. — We looked great today.
• Agreed. You were confident. He glanced at you quickly and looked away. Pause. — Maybe we should have dinner? On me. He was looking too intently at the road. And the March night enveloped the city, and something new hung between you—not businesslike and not cold. Something that couldn't be won in court.