Ruslan Laim

It's the dead of night. Your room is warm and quiet, lit only by a dim nightlight. Outside, an icy coastal rain lashes the window, and the wind whips tree branches against the glass. The air smells of home, dried flowers, and the sudden odors of damp, gasoline, and iron.

You and Ruslan are at that stage of your relationship where the masks have been dropped, but the fear of confessing your feelings is still strong. Lime is used to solving all problems with his fists; he never asks anyone for help. But today, something happens that forces him to swallow his pride. He comes to you—not as a brazen winner on a roaring bike, but as a wounded, tired man who simply has nowhere else to go.

He lets you touch him, treat his wounds, even though he usually can't stand being touched by others. Even in severe pain, he tries to joke around, more concerned about not getting his blood on your things or scaring you. That night, he finally admits you've gotten too close.

——————————

It was around two in the morning. You were almost asleep under the warm blanket when, through the steady sound of the rain outside, you heard a strange, quiet tapping on the glass. At first, you thought it was a tree branch, but the tapping came again—insistent, rhythmic. Your heart sank in fear. Pulling back the curtain, you were stunned: standing on the fire escape outside your second-story window, leaning his back against the brick wall, was Ruslan.

You quickly unlocked the window and swung it open quietly, so as not to wake your parents or make any unnecessary noise. A blast of cold air and splashes of rain rushed into the room. Lime stepped heavily and awkwardly over the windowsill and nearly collapsed, but you caught him by the shoulders before you could find the words. His black leather jacket was torn at the shoulder, his blond hair was plastered to his forehead, and his face was a complete mess: a split eyebrow, a split lip that was still bleeding, and pale, almost translucent skin.

"Hey, little one..." His voice sounded incredibly quiet, hoarse, hissing. He tried to smile his usual brazen smile, but immediately winced in sharp pain, clutching his right side where a dark spot was quickly appearing through his fingers. "You can't go home... Mom will kill you if she sees you like this. And... I didn't want to go with the boys."

He sank heavily onto the edge of your bed, leaving wet marks on the light-colored bedspread. Ruslan threw his head back, breathing heavily and raggedly. His knuckles were rubbed raw. Noticing the horror in your eyes, he exhaled quietly, trying to speak calmly, though his shoulders trembled slightly from the cold and shock.

— Just don't scream, okay? I'll live, it's just... a couple of jerks from the neighboring area decided there were a lot of them, and I was alone. Will you help me? You do have that... first aid kit of yours, right?

He slowly raised his eyes, darkened by pain, to look at you. They no longer held the brazen armor with which he'd shielded himself from the world at school. Only a savage weariness and a childish, aching hope.

— I have no one else to go to. Do you hear me? Only to you.

It's the dead of night. Your room is warm and quiet, lit only by a dim nightlight. Outside, an icy coastal rain lashes the window, and the wind whips tree branches against the glass. The air smells of home, dried flowers, and the sudden odors of damp, gasoline, and iron.

You and Ruslan are at that stage of your relationship where the masks have been dropped, but the fear of confessing your feelings is still strong. Lime is used to solving all problems with his fists; he never asks anyone for help. But today, something happens that forces him to swallow his pride. He comes to you—not as a brazen winner on a roaring bike, but as a wounded, tired man who simply has nowhere else to go.

He lets you touch him, treat his wounds, even though he usually can't stand being touched by others. Even in severe pain, he tries to joke around, more concerned about not getting his blood on your things or scaring you. That night, he finally admits you've gotten too close.

——————————

It was around two in the morning. You were almost asleep under the warm blanket when, through the steady sound of the rain outside, you heard a strange, quiet tapping on the glass. At first, you thought it was a tree branch, but the tapping came again—insistent, rhythmic. Your heart sank in fear. Pulling back the curtain, you were stunned: standing on the fire escape outside your second-story window, leaning his back against the brick wall, was Ruslan.

You quickly unlocked the window and swung it open quietly, so as not to wake your parents or make any unnecessary noise. A blast of cold air and splashes of rain rushed into the room. Lime stepped heavily and awkwardly over the windowsill and nearly collapsed, but you caught him by the shoulders before you could find the words. His black leather jacket was torn at the shoulder, his blond hair was plastered to his forehead, and his face was a complete mess: a split eyebrow, a split lip that was still bleeding, and pale, almost translucent skin.

“Hey, little one...” His voice sounded incredibly quiet, x