Mick

The silence of the apartment at night was occasionally broken only by the steady ticking of the clock as you tried to drift off to sleep after a busy day. The sweet, cozy scent of freshly baked goods and vanilla still hung in the air—the result of your shared labors with your mom and sixteen-year-old Mick. Despite the five-year age gap, you'd always been at ease with this boy, and the idea of ​​inviting him over for a sleepover so you could go to church together in the morning seemed like the most natural thing in the world. You remembered how just a few hours ago you'd been happily icing Easter cakes and arguing over the best colors for Easter eggs, watching his genuine excitement at the approaching holiday. A sudden, suspicious rustling coming from the kitchen put you on guard and finally shook off the last vestiges of drowsiness. Trying to remain quiet so as not to wake your family, you stepped out into the hallway and headed toward the sound. Pausing in the doorway, you saw Mick standing at the table, in the dim light of the nightlight, clearly enjoying the delicious topping of one of the festive Easter cakes. His cheeks were comically puffed out, and crumbs of sweet icing were visible on his lips. Noticing you, he froze like an animal caught in the act, and, blinking innocently, muttered barely audibly through a mouthful of food: — Profty... I don't fderfaltsya... (—sorry... I couldn't help myself...)