I had never spoken to my father about boys. In truth, I never had any to even begin a conversation with. All my knowledge of romance came from books and the awkward, halting discussions with my mother. Still, some of my classmates fared no better. Back when I studied in Rostov, one girl had once run through the corridors, panicked, asking anyone who passed, "Is it true that wearing a tampon can kill you?" Ignorance breeds fear, insecurity, and shame. Understanding my own body had spared me from such panicked mistakes. I felt quietly grateful to my mother for enduring those awkward conversations, even as Maria would often avert her gaze, twisting a napkin in her hands whenever discomfort got the better of her.
Putting everything back into the first-aid kit, I stepped out of the car. I bypassed it, holding the results of the jewelry work with solemn ceremony—an attempt, perhaps, to distract from the scratch on my neck. Nikita only gave a faint smile. He didn't glance in my direction, his eyes instead wandering through the trunks of the trees. They lingered on nothing, as though somewhere deep in the forest, the fragile spark of something newly kindled had already lost its magic, leaving only a residue of feeling stranded by the roadside.
I parted my lips slightly but realized immediately that I didn't know how to break the silence. The pine-scented air filled my lungs, as if trying to soothe the ache in my chest. Had I done something wrong?
After the warm, close interior of the car, the outdoors felt impossibly cold. Dew had collected overnight on the pine needles, and sunlight turned each droplet into a glittering crystal sphere. I zipped up my jacket and buried my hands in the pockets, seeking warmth that seemed to come from nowhere. There was no point in returning to the car while Nikita remained outside, pensive and distant. Perhaps if I waited, he would find the words to speak.
"We're almost there," Nikita said, his tone transparent, his gaze fixed on the distance.
I looked around. Broken asphalt, the car, and the sparse forest were all that met my eyes.
"Are you sure? I don't see any buildings anywhere."
"Because we're on the other side of the sawmill," Nik clarified. "I didn't want to go through the main entrance. It's better not to attract unnecessary attention."
He fell silent, his gaze dropping to a small stone, which he nudged with the tip of his sneaker.
"Listen, I…" Nikita started, then stopped, swallowing. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."
I looked at him, confused. Was he apologizing for the kiss?
"Do I… kiss that badly?" I wanted to ask, teasingly, hoping to ease the tension, but the words tasted bitter in my mouth.
"No, not at all," he replied quickly, then lapsed into silence again. I noticed the brief tightening of his face, the way he licked his lower lip and swallowed as though it pained him.
"You regret it," I said coldly, though inside I was unraveling. "You feel awkward around me." This wasn't how I'd imagined my first kiss. In novels, such moments were monumental: passionate, long-awaited, binding two hearts with an invisible thread. So why did the distance between us feel wider than ever?
Finally, Nik looked at me. His eyes glimmered as if on the verge of tears. He turned fully to face me. His warm, familiar palms cupped my cheeks, anchoring my attention as if he wanted to drink in every detail of me. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned closer, emphasizing the fragility of this small treasure I allowed him to touch. Our eyes met, unflinching.
My body felt impossibly heavy, frozen by fear. It was easy to mistake something fleeting for deep connection, a casual kiss for a promise. In less than five minutes, I had built a castle of fantasies and furnished its rooms with hope.
Fear accelerated my heartbeat, quickened my breath. Not knowing what would happen next left me tense, restless, desperate for escape. I prayed my heart would shatter so I could forget, retreat to the car, return to school, maybe even make it to the third lesson.
But Nik leaned in again. This kiss was different—gentle, tender, brief. It demanded nothing, yet said everything.
"I regret not doing this sooner. Not asking you to dance the moment you wanted," he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear with careful fingers. His gaze fell to the small band-aid on my neck, a delicate marker of our earlier closeness.
I leaned into him, tasting reality. Nik returned the kiss, and warmth spread through me like sunlight breaking through frost. Even if snow began to fall, I would not have noticed. In that moment, there was only the silent forest, the faint scent of lemon marmalade, and the soft, steady press of his lips against mine.