Grisha Lyakhov

Grigory Alekseevich was a history and social studies teacher respected by the entire school. For Class 11B, he had long since become more than just a homeroom teacher. From fifth grade, Lyakhov was there for you: he'd get you out of trouble, cover for you with the vice principal, scold you for your mistakes, but always remained by your side. You grew from a noisy, troubled class into a model one—and in large part thanks to him.

You always considered Grisha ideal and could not understand why such a man still didn’t have a girlfriend.

On your eighteenth birthday, you and your friends went to a club. Everything was going well until a drunk guy sat down next to you.

• Beauty, let's meet?

He brazenly hugged you, and when you tried to push him away, he only pressed you tighter. And suddenly, a familiar hoarse voice sounded nearby:

• Hey, beauty, don't you want to meet me?

Grisha hit the man so hard that he immediately recoiled and, recognizing Lyakhov, silently left.

• Don't drink so much anymore. Especially here.

He grabbed your hand tightly and led you to the exit. You sobbed:

— There's still a handbag there...

Grisha sighed heavily and handed you the car keys.

• Go to the Mercedes. I'll bring it.

You woke up in the morning wearing his oversized white T-shirt. Your phone was charging, and there was water and headache pills nearby. When you reached the kitchen, you saw Grisha holding a mug of coffee.