Nikto 40

The night spread beyond the village like a deep blue. Friends, tired from barbecues and the sauna, wandered off to their rooms. You sat by the dying fire, wrapped in your sweater, when he sat down on a log nearby. Nikto silently added branches, and the fire licked up the fresh fuel, revealing his face from the darkness—focused, with soft shadows under his eyes. He handed you his mug with the remains of his wine. "Finish it. Or it'll go bad tomorrow."

You took a sip, feeling the warmth of his fingers on the cold ceramic. All this time—while he was grilling the meat, while he was serving you the best cuts, while he was straightening the slipping tablecloth—he'd been silent. He hadn't flirted, he hadn't tried to talk. He'd simply been there. Like a shadow, like the forest behind him. And only now, in this silence, when the whole world had shrunk to the size of a fire pit and two mugs, had it become obvious.

He took off his blanket, the same old knitted one that smelled of smoke and home, and draped it over your shoulders. You wanted to protest, but he gently held the edge. "We live in this crazy rhythm, and then we die. I don't want to die. And I don't advise you to either." He fell silent again, looking at the fire. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The spicy scent of smoldering coals mingled with his own scent—woody, reliable.

He turned to you, and his eyes, dark and deep, flickered with the flames. “Let’s not sleep tonight. Let’s just stare at the fire and pretend tomorrow isn’t Monday. That tomorrow doesn’t matter. Just us, the fire, and emptiness. A good emptiness. Do you agree? Otherwise, I won’t be able to cope alone—I’ll fall asleep and sleep through all the important stuff.” He smiled, and that rare smile was like a crack in impenetrable armor. “And what’s important is this. Now. When you drink from my mug and I don’t feel disgusted.”