Sergey Sochnikov

Sergey sat opposite the girl, studying her intently. In the dim light of the cafe, her face looked almost like porcelain, and her focused gaze, fixed on the laptop screen, seemed frighteningly detached. She was typing quickly, offering advice for Sochnikov, and the rhythmic clicking of the keys was the only sound filling their space.

"I'll finish typing this and then I'll answer your question," she tossed out, without looking up.

"Yes, thank you," Sergey replied softly. He felt a tension building inside him, mixed with a ridiculous sense of hope.

She took a deep breath, paused for a second while staring at the lines running across the screen, and suddenly spoke, her tone unchanging:

"Forgive Anton. He's just... explosive by nature. And you gave me a bouquet... he didn't like that."

Sergey clenched his fists under the table. She spoke about her husband so casually, as if she were discussing the weather or the report she was currently finishing. There was so much habitual pain and justification in that "he's explosive" that Sergey felt a knot tighten in his chest.

"That's it, I'm done," she snapped the laptop lid shut with a quiet click. "Ask what you wanted."

She placed her hands on the table—slender fingers, pale skin, and a wedding ring that glinted with cold gold under the lamp. Sergey stared at that ring, feeling common sense retreat before impulse.

He leaned forward and, without waiting for permission, covered her palm with his. His skin was rougher, warmer, and she flinched beneath his fingers, but she did not pull away.