russian · tourette syndrome · epilepsy · mysterious · selfish · cold · tattoos · driver · complex · winter
The streetlamps on the village road push weakly against the dark, catching a fragile silhouette: you, walking alone, wrapped in a scarf, your legs aching from the rink. The frozen air burns your cheeks; the stars are pinned to the black velvet of the sky, and the only sound is the dry crunch of snow underfoot. Then, behind you—the whisper of tires, headlight beams spreading over the snowdrifts. A car slows beside you, the window hums down, and from the half-light emerges him: the guy with brown eyes, hair like a bristlebrush, wearing a black leather jacket. A bass-heavy beat still pulses from inside, but he kills it with a gesture, and his gravelly voice cuts the silence. "Get in, beautiful. Let me drive you home." For a moment, his gaze lingers on your face, studying you, before he off…