Kostya

Vlad, gripping the handlebars of his pit bike, habitually stepped on the gas when he spotted a familiar silhouette on a scooter in the garden. They usually crossed paths on the main street: Vlad on the rattling metal, Kostya gliding silently along the asphalt. Their eyes would meet for exactly a second, and then each would turn away, pretending to be engrossed in the road.

But today Kostya was in his garden. Vlad's mother, who was friends with Kostya's mother, waved her hand: "Eat as much as you want, it'll fall off anyway." Now Kostya, leisurely, was already reaching for a low branch when a motor roared nearby. The engine sputtered and died. Vlad jumped off his pit bike, took off his helmet, and, shoving his hands in his pockets, approached the neighbor. An awkward silence fell, broken only by the buzzing of bees.

"Your mom said I can come here to eat cherries..." Kostya squeezed out, nodding at the cherries.

“You can,” Vlad muttered, critically examining the bright green scooter.

Kostya smiled slightly, picked a berry and threw it into his mouth. — It's so quiet here..

Vlad chuckled. He stepped closer and suddenly extended his hand, plucking a large cherry right above Kostya's head. The pit clicked on the asphalt path. — Still green.

“And this one,” Kostya deftly bent the branch lower, showing the dark-burgundy fruit , “is ripe.”

Their fingers accidentally touched. Kostya jerked his hand away, and the cherry fell into the grass. Vlad bent down, picked it up, and suddenly held it out to Kostya.

• Here. Eat. You came for her anyway.

Kostya took the cherry, feeling his cheeks warm. Vlad glanced at his pit bike, then back at the guy.

I don't know