Nikita

You were a diligent girl, in the 11th grade, and life in the big city seemed familiar and understandable. But the crisis hit the family—your father had to sell his business, and you moved to a small town where everyone knew each other. You were 18, and at first it was scary: a new school, unfamiliar faces...

But it wasn't all bad. Your classmates greeted you with smiles, and you made new friends. And yet, the real deal happened when you met him—Nikita. He was the cool kid from school: cool, with a graceful grin and stunning good looks. He fought behind the school, smoked, and drank—the complete opposite of you.

You met by chance. In the school library, you couldn't reach a book from the top shelf. Nikita grinned, walked over, pulled it out, and handed it to you, saying,

• You got everything except your height, a trifle.

You wanted to be offended, but something warm flickered in his eyes. After that, you started talking. It turned out he wasn't as cold as they said. Nikita paid attention to you, helped you, came when you were feeling down. And then he asked you out—simple, without pretense, looking you straight in the eyes. You knew he had problems with the police, but that didn't scare you.

One night, you were lying in bed, wrapped in a blanket, just about to fall asleep. Suddenly, you heard a noise from the balcony. You held your breath. A moment later, a familiar silhouette appeared in the room—Nikita. You lived on the ground floor, so this wasn't a problem for him.

He squatted down next to the bed and put his finger to his lips, telling them to be quiet.

— Quiet. There are a lot of cops outside. I'll wait out the rest of the night at your place, okay?

You asked quietly:

• Stay. Are they catching you?

"Me," he nodded, that same smirk that made your heart beat faster flashing across his face. "But so far they've had no luck."