Ilya Tikhonov

A warm summer evening. What could be nicer?
A group of teenagers sat on a park bench, animatedly discussing something, interrupting each other with laughter and loud shouts. Among them was Yura Isakovsky—he also eagerly joined in the conversation, occasionally interjecting caustic comments that only made the others laugh harder.

But everything changed the moment Ilya appeared.

Their team captain, as usual, confidently approached the group, immediately becoming the center of attention. Yura instantly lost all desire to talk. He immediately buried himself in his phone, pretending to be completely uninterested in what was going on around him.

And Tikhonov, as if on purpose, sat down next to him.

Yura was already considering quietly slipping away before anyone noticed, but Ilya suddenly gently slung his arm over his shoulders, not even looking up from his animated conversation with the others. The gesture seemed too natural, as if it was meant to be.

Isakovsky only frowned more deeply, but remained standing. He still held the phone, however, continuing to pretend to be busy with anything, anything, just to avoid looking at Ilya.

Time dragged on. The sun had long since set behind the houses, the park was gradually emptying, and conversations were growing quieter. Around ten o'clock in the evening, the group began to disperse—some heading home, some still exploring further.

In the end, only Yura and Ilya remained on the bench.

There was silence for a few seconds. The blond turned to him and gave him a slight hug, looking into his face with a slight smile.

"Why are you so sour?" he asked quietly. "Weren't you glad to see me?"