It wasn't that I felt older—no. Inside me, a quiet suffering stirred, a loneliness so profound it pressed against every thought, mingling with a wish, faint but insistent, to be more like everyone else: fretting over grades, longing for the latest jeans, worrying about things I had always considered trivial. The weight of it pressed against my chest, making each heartbeat ache. Treacherous tears rose unbidden, stinging the corners of my eyes. I hid my face behind my hair, turned toward the window, and breathed slowly, desperately trying to calm myself. I just didn't want to break down in the car, not in front of Nikita, not now.
The fragile veneer of composure finally splintered when I felt his fingers slip gently into mine. Nikita's touch was soft, deliberate, his index finger tracing a slow path across my skin, and something inside me gave way. Warm tears spilled freely, rolling over my cheeks and tasting faintly of salt and something else, something intimate. Leaning against the door, I pressed my free hand against my face, trying to hold back the sobs. I didn't want him to see me like this—disheveled, vulnerable, raw.
The car slowed, veering toward a clearing by the sawmill, and then halted.
"Asya," Nikita said softly, but I didn't move.
I heard the click of his jacket, the subtle rustle of fabric, and then his warm hand on my cheek, tilting my face away from the window. I closed my eyes, mortified at how pathetic I must look. My skin flushed crimson, tears streaking down as usual. I couldn't bear to look at him, not yet, not wanting to see pity there—I needed anything but pity.
"Asya," he said again, quieter this time. The car was silent except for his voice.
"Look at me," he whispered, both hands framing my face, radiating warmth. "Please."
Slowly, hesitantly, I opened my eyes. Nikita's gaze met mine, steady, unjudging, neither surprised nor pitying. He looked as though he could peer into the very depths of me. My breath caught, my chest tightened, and for a moment, I felt him almost touch the core of my being. Then he leaned closer, pausing just shy of my face, seeking permission. I blinked slowly, whispering yes with everything I was. I wanted this.
Our lips met. The softness of him, the faint scent of lemon marmalade lingering on his skin—it all seemed unbearably precious. His mouth moved against mine, tentative at first, and I surrendered completely. Sweetness mingled with salt; breath caught, lips parted, and I wanted more, more than I could contain. My fingers tangled in his unruly hair, drawing him closer, memorizing the warmth, the scent, the feel of him.
His hands traced my neck, kisses following each gentle touch, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He unzipped my jacket slightly, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath. My body hummed, every nerve alight with a heady mix of newness and familiarity, of longing finally acknowledged. Each kiss was a question and an answer, a promise made without words. I surrendered to it, trembling, wanting, needing more.
Then, abruptly, a sharp sting ripped through the haze of pleasure. Pain. I gasped, recoiling, and Nikita froze, his hands darting back as though he had been struck himself.
"I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean—It was an accident!" he stammered, voice tight, panicked.
I blinked, confused. Was he apologizing for the kiss?
"I'll get the first-aid kit," he said quickly, leaping from the car. The trunk clicked, he retrieved something red, and returned, offering it to me carefully, hands shaking.
"Why…what for?" I asked, bewildered.
"You're bleeding. On your neck. Better clean it, put a band-aid…just in case," he said, avoiding my gaze.
I touched the tender spot, and sure enough, crimson marked my fingertips.
"Oh, it's nothing. Really, don't worry," I murmured, still baffled.
Nik's face was solemn, guilt written across it. I didn't understand why he made such a fuss. So what if there was a little blood?
"It wasn't on purpose," he said, voice low, almost a whisper, "Please…take care of it yourself. I can't stand to see blood."
"Does it make you dizzy or something?" I asked, more curious than alarmed.
"Something like that," he admitted, reluctant to meet my eyes.
I raised the visor, spotting the small built-in mirror. The reddened skin was slowly darkening into a bruise, a small scratch marking the edge. Barely anything. If not for his insistence, I wouldn't have bothered.
I opened the kit, wetting a cotton pad with peroxide. The sting brought a sharp flash of childhood memory. I pressed it gently against my neck, waited, then removed it and applied a flesh-colored band-aid, covering the tender spot entirely. Small comfort, but necessary. I could forgive a skipped class, perhaps—but a mark left by a kiss? That I couldn't simply overlook.