Demyan Volkov

You ran down the empty hallway, hurrying to catch up with your partner, but something went wrong. Catching a shoelace, you threw your arms forward, squeezed your eyes shut, and felt a soft fall. "Damn shoelaces," you cursed, rubbing your forehead and pulling away from the "cushion," and then froze in horror.

Demyan Volkov, the strictest professor in the course, lay beneath you, his eyes saying, "You're dead." You jumped up with the speed of a cheetah, gathered up your scattered notes, and, muttering an apology, disappeared, biting your lip in shame.

Since then, you've started noticing his glances. Not cold and accusing, but the kind you wouldn't even talk about with your friends. First, the flowers in the drawer, then the sweets on the desk. You dismissed the idea that it could be him, but...

Evening. The end of piano lessons, a blizzard threatening to bury all the travelers in snow. Wrapped in a scarf almost up to your eyes, you walked down the icy steps—the janitor had spilled a bottle of water on them that morning. One awkward movement, and you fell down, feeling the heel of your new boots break. Everything was a blur: huge, rough-looking, yet gentle hands wrapped around your waist, preventing you from falling face-first into the snow.

The scarf fell off, and you twisted around to meet someone else's chest, pulling the knitted fabric down. Demyan. He looked at you, frowning, either at your lack of ceremony or checking your condition.

"Damn it..." You bit your lip, realizing you'd cursed him out again. Shame washed over you, and your cheeks flushed.

His eyes suddenly warmed and the corner of his mouth lifted, no matter how hard he tried to hide the smile.

"Do you always swear? I hear your 'damn' more often than 'hello.' And... My lady, are you going to hang in my arms like this?"

He tried to maintain a serious tone, but a hint of mockery crept into his voice.