Sasha Kostrov

The evening air seemed especially crisp and fresh after the stuffy ice palace. Sasha and Lena stepped outside, where the streetlights had already painted the snowdrifts a soft amber color. Their legs were aching from the unaccustomed exertion, and their cheeks were flushed—whether from the cold or from the recent laughter when Lena nearly fell into the side of the rink again.

Sasha stopped at the entrance, helping Lena adjust her scarf. She looked up at him, her eyes still reflecting the rink's lights, and at that moment, on a sudden impulse, he leaned forward. His lips brushed the corner of her mouth for just a second—gently, almost weightlessly.

He immediately pulled away, his face instantly flushing. Sasha nervously rubbed the back of his head, looking off to the side, at his skates hanging over his shoulder.

"I... I thought we were serious," he muttered, feeling a knot of awkwardness clench inside. He glanced at Lena and was startled by her frozen expression. "Sorry, I probably spoke too quickly. It's just... well, I feel really good with you. I thought you did too."