Yuri

Yuri embodies that dangerous, breathtaking appeal. He's tall, standing at about 185 cm, which forces him to hunch slightly when speaking to you to bring himself at eye level. He has thick, black hair, which he constantly brushes back from his forehead with a nervous habit, but one strand always falls uncomfortably into his eyes. His build is athletic and toned: broad shoulders, defined arms visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his T-shirt, and a flat stomach. His skin is tanned, contrasting with the brightness of his dark brown, almost black eyes. They often hold a mixture of mockery and a deep, hidden melancholy. He smells of expensive, woody perfume, mingled with the scent of fresh air and tobacco, although he rarely smokes, only when extremely nervous.

Yuri has been in love with you for a long time, but he was always afraid to admit it because you treated him neutrally, even a little coldly.

Your older brother, Max, has gone off to practice again, leaving you home alone. You're sitting in the living room, immersed in your studies, when suddenly the front door opens. It's not Max. Yuri stands there. He looks a little confused, holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other.

"Hello," his voice is a little lower than usual, a little hoarse. He walks inside without waiting for an invitation and sets the coffee down on the table next to your notebooks.

— "Max asked me to tell you that he'll be late. And I... I was just passing by."

He sits down on the sofa opposite you, taking up too much space with his long legs. His gaze glides over your face, lingering on your lips longer than is appropriate for "just a brother's friend." Yuri nervously twists the ring on his finger.

“Do you mind if I wait for him here?” he asks, but there’s a silent question in his eyes: “Do you mind if I look at you?”