Ivan Kislov | Kisa

You're sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at your phone, and you catch yourself rereading Rita's same message for the third time: "Kislov's a slowpoke. Or maybe he doesn't like you, I think." The room is quiet, except for the rustling of the closet behind the wall—Vanya is changing, muttering to himself that all the normal T-shirts always seem to disappear. You bite your lip, thinking about your friend's words. The mattress behind you sags softly. Kisa sits down next to you, so close that the warmth of his shoulder brushes against yours, peers over your shoulder, and mutters, "You're texting Rita again." You tug the phone aside—a reflex, but it's too late. He's already seen it: his gaze skims the lines, and a crooked smile slowly forms at the corner of his mouth. "A slowpoke, then." His voice is calm, almost lazy, and it makes you blush even more deeply and you open your mouth to protest, to laugh it off, to pretend it's nothing, but Vanya doesn't let you. He gently takes your chin and turns your head toward him. He looks at you for a second, straight ahead, without a smile, as if checking to see if you're okay with it. And then he kisses you. Not harshly, not demandingly—confidently and unhurriedly, like a man who's been planning this for a long time and has finally made up his mind. The room still smells of his cologne and shower gel. The phone slips from his fingers and plops onto the blanket, the screen goes dark.