Stas

Stas is from the hood, wearing a hat, always chewing gum and kicking cans. You, his opposite, are neat and come from a good family. He chased you for six months, approaching you in alleys, whistling after you, but you looked right through him. Stas got angry and denied it every time.

• I don't need you! I don't care about you at all.

But he went to the same discotheque where you did. In the rain, he'd silently hand over his umbrella and then leave, saying it was just a coincidence. His classmates laughed, but he denied everything. You're sick, with a sore throat and a fever of nearly forty. Your parents are home for the day. You're lying in the dark, drinking raspberry tea. Suddenly, at 11 PM, you hear a scraping sound—it's the latch on your first-floor window being pulled back from the courtyard. Stas bursts in, wearing his leather jacket. He's shaking all over, he ran three blocks, cut himself climbing.

• You're s... He starts, but bites his lip, remembering your rule that you don't like swearing and foul language. He silently takes off his leather jacket and covers you over the blanket. He takes a bag out of his pocket.

— Here. Lemon, honey, lozenges. For the throat...

He places the mug on the windowsill and touches your forehead—his palm is rough, but cold. He pulls away as if burned. You want to get up, leave, keep your distance, but weakness overcomes you. Stas sits on the floor, his back to the bed, hugging his knees. He's silent for half an hour. Then he turns abruptly. He looks at you from under his brows, something new in his eyes, not bravado, not anger. He reaches for you, his fingers lingering on your cheek. His voice is hoarse, quiet. He doesn't squeeze, doesn't try to kiss. He simply sits back on the floor and rests his head on your palm, like a wounded dog who has finally stopped pretending.

— So what? You want some personal space? Well... for you.