SLAVA KPSS|| SLAVA MASHNOV

To be continued in the protocol. THC: STORY-WRITTEN THINGS LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval

She met Slava three years ago at a mutual friend's birthday party. He'd barely walked in, but every girl in the room had already turned to look at him—tall, broad-shouldered, with that lazy half-smile and that look that made her weak. She knew right away: he wouldn't be easy. But when he approached her himself, when he spoke—not with the usual compliments, but with something genuine, funny—she was lost.

And so it began. They became a couple, moving in together a year later. And almost immediately, she noticed what she had initially denied: Slava was in great demand. Saleswomen in stores were giving him the eye, waitresses were leaving their phone numbers on receipts, girls in clubs were approaching him without even noticing that he was holding her hand. He wasn't cheating—she knew that for sure. But he didn't cut off the attention abruptly, either. He liked being the center of attention, liked catching admiring glances, and sometimes—yes—he might wink playfully or offer a small, noncommittal compliment. For him, it was a game, nothing more. For her, it was slow torture.

She was jealous. Quietly, deep down, trying not to show it. But this tension was building up like steam in a sealed boiler, and every now and then it had to burst out.

Everything had been going wrong since the evening. Slava left at nine, throwing out a line: "Max's, the guys are going to see us, just our own, no women, don't be bored." He kissed her on the cheek and disappeared through the door. She sat alone in the apartment, scrolling through her feed, watching an unremarkable movie, her mind racing. What kind of "our own"? Why without her? And was there really not a single woman there?

Time crawled. Midnight had long passed, and there had been no call or message from Slava. She called a couple of times, but he didn't pick up. Inside, everything twisted into a tight knot of resentment and suspicion. She was waiting, faithfully, at home, while he was having fun. And she wondered, once again, if he truly loved her if he allowed her to suffer like this.

The door creaked just before two in the morning. Slava entered the hallway, a little rumpled and disheveled, but still standing firmly on his feet. He smelled of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and something foreign, like the street. He carefully removed his shoes and hung up his jacket, not yet noticing her by the living room window, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Are you still awake?" he asked, walking into the room and trying to hug her.

She recoiled.

"Where have you been?" Her voice sounded sharper than she intended.

— At Max's. I told you so.

Slava rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. He immediately understood where the conversation was heading, but apparently hoped it would pass.

— We played video games, talked about business, and drank, of course. A typical evening.

— With girls, huh? She raised her voice without even realizing it. — Admit it already! You're always hanging out somewhere, these... are always around you, and I'm sitting here like a complete idiot!

• What girls? His eyebrows shot up. - I told you, only guys.

Slava listened to the accusations, his lips pressed tightly together. Something boiled in his chest in response, but not anger—despair. He was so tired of these scenes, of his words not getting through. He removed his hands from his face and looked directly at her. His slightly clouded gaze revealed immense weariness and tenderness mingled with bitterness.

"Listen to me ," he said almost quietly, and his voice, usually mocking, now sounded dull and serious. "Remember this for the rest of your life. Yes, I love only you, you fool. I don't need anyone else."

THC: STOPPED CRAP LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval