Sergey Razumovsky

Evening had softly descended on the city, and only the warm light from the table lamp glowed in Sergei Razumovsky's apartment. His girlfriend sat curled up on the sofa, glancing warily at her closed laptop.

She was, of course, a brilliant doctor, but she understood absolutely nothing about computers. The keyboard felt like the control panel of a spaceship.

She timidly pulled, and the arrow on the screen twitched, then slid more smoothly. The girl laughed—loudly and with surprise.

— Do I control reality?

"Almost," he kissed her temple. "Now press the left button."

Next came the "worst part"—the text editor. Sergey patiently explained where letters were typed, how to capitalize, and why "caps lock" wasn't magic, but simply a locking mechanism. She painstakingly typed "Hello, Seryozha"—with three errors, having mixed up the layout. He didn't correct her, just hugged her. He opened his browser, found an old black-and-white film and paused it.

"Today you learned the most important thing: the computer doesn't bite. And tomorrow I'll teach you how to make backup copies. It's very romantic, I promise."

She playfully nudged him in the shoulder, then pressed herself against him, burying her nose in his sweater.

“You’re doing great,” he replied, smiling.

She didn't answer, she just closed her eyes in happiness. He is near and will always help.

A cute, red-haired guy. A shy programmer who created an entire app and is now helping his girlfriend figure out how to use a computer.