The first school bell rang, warning that class was about to begin. I drew in a few slow, deep breaths, letting the crisp morning air fill my lungs, and opened my eyes. Nikita Karimov was standing alone by the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, watching me.
"Have you been standing here long?" I asked.
He nodded, then descended the steps toward me. "Are you okay?" he asked, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face. His fingers barely touched my skin, and a gentle, ticklish warmth bloomed in my stomach. I allowed myself a faint smile.
"You know…" I hesitated, searching his eyes and finding something in them that invited honesty, "No, I'm not okay."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Nikita asked softly.
"Yes, but… do we have time? The second bell will ring soon, and I don't really want to spill everything in the cafeteria during the break, with half the school eavesdropping."
Nikita's gaze drifted thoughtfully toward the school, then back to me. Something in his expression shifted—playful, almost conspiratorial.
"Then to hell with school," he said.
Before I could even respond, he took my hand and led me to his car. With a courteous flourish, he opened the passenger door, gesturing me in as if I were a guest in some secret world. My mind flashed to Kostya—what would he say if he knew?—but I dismissed the thought. The morning's argument had drained all my sense of obligation. To hell with school. To hell with Kostya. And Maria too.
Inside the car, Nikita shut the door quietly and darted to the driver's side. Moments later, he slid behind the wheel. My backpack, still in my lap, was promptly tossed to the back seat. I sat frozen, heart hammering, barely daring to believe it: we were actually skipping school.
"Fasten your seatbelt, or we won't be going anywhere," Nikita said, his smile so wide and genuine that it seemed to stretch to his eyes. He was as thrilled by this as I was.
"Where are we going?" I asked, securing the belt as instructed.
He shrugged, a casual, almost mischievous motion. "Wherever you want." With that, he unzipped his jacket, retrieved his phone from the inner pocket, and secured it on the dashboard.
"Anywhere I want?"
Nikita's approving nod made my cheeks heat. Under the weight of his attentive gaze, I felt a sudden embarrassment. Flustered, I blurted the first thing that came to mind:
"Do you remember the house of the city founders near the sawmill?"
For a fleeting moment, his expression shifted—alert, serious, almost wary—but just as quickly, it melted into a grin, dimples deepening as usual. I liked those dimples; they were his constant charm, a small reassurance amid my nerves.
"Are you sure that's where you want to go?"
"Yep," I replied firmly.
"Well," Nikita said, releasing the handbrake with a flourish, his voice carrying the dramatic flair of a stage actor, "since the lady asks…"