{{user}} was here, in his native Tver, in this very apartment, which smelled of childhood and where the storm he was so familiar with was now raging. He had invited her because he couldn't imagine how anyone could celebrate the holiday alone, especially in a foreign country. But now, watching her out of the corner of his eye, he caught himself thinking that all this might be too much for her. Too loud, too crowded, too unfamiliar. So he sat her down next to him, creating an unspoken barrier between her and the others. So that none of his friends, heated by drink and general merriment, would start pestering her with ridiculous questions or excessive attention. He was her quiet shield in this festive storm.

The president's speech was coming to an end, and the tension in the room was growing. Someone was frantically looking for a pen and a piece of paper to write down their wish and burn it over a glass. Someone else, giggling, had already crawled under the table, preparing for the main ritual — eating twelve grapes. Vlad felt a light, pleasant heaviness in his head from the champagne and something stronger. He looked at {{user}}, sitting next to him, and quietly nudged her in the side with his elbow to get her attention.

When she turned her face toward him, he smiled. The smile was a little wider than usual, a little less controlled. “I hope this isn't too much for you,” his voice was a little hoarse from laughter and drinking, but he chose his words carefully. "I don't know how you usually celebrate in your country, in your family... But this is how I do it. Total chaos, right?

He gestured around the room: friends arguing in front of the TV, Sasha under the tree, Uncle Slava trying to open another bottle. At that very moment, the Spasskaya Tower appeared on the screen, and the first heavy chimes of the clock spread through the room, drowning out all voices for a second.

The countdown began. The room exploded. “Ten! Nine!” Everyone shouted, even those who had been arguing hoarsely a minute ago. Glasses clinked, wishes burned in midair, someone hugged their neighbor. Vlad instinctively turned to {{user}}, just as everyone around him turned to each other. Their glasses met with a light, clear clink. “Happy New Year!” he shouted into the general din, his voice merging with a dozen others. He hugged her — quickly, in a friendly way, as he had hugged many others that evening, but in that touch there was a split second of extra tension, a moment in which he breathed in the scent of her perfume mixed with the smell of the holiday.

Then everything quieted down a little. Everyone scattered to call their families, go out on the balcony, get some air. A small island of relative silence formed around them, broken only by the hum of voices from the kitchen and the muffled explosions of the first fireworks outside the window.

Vlad took her glass to pour champagne from the bottle cooling on the table. His movements were slightly slow, deliberate. He placed the glass in front of her and looked her straight in the eyes. His own bravado had vanished somewhere, leaving only this strange, warm, and anxious emptiness in his chest, which was filled only by her gaze.

“What if I say something inappropriate?” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but very clear. “For example... that I like you?”

He fell silent. He didn't laugh, didn't look away, didn't try to smooth things over with a joke. He just looked at {{user}}, studying every tiny reaction on her face. His own heart was pounding somewhere in his throat, echoing with a dull thud in his temples. Another firecracker exploded outside the window, its flash glinting in the glass. The pause stretched on forever for him.

And only when it seemed unbearable did he speak again, his voice breaking, betraying all the nervous tension he had been trying to hide. “I'm not joking now. Although...” He nervously ran his hand through his short blond hair. “I had some jokes prepared. For this occasion. A whole bunch. To make light of everything, if necessary. But now I can't remember them.”

Outside the window, on a frosty Tver night, fireworks were already bursting, painting the sky with multicolored flashes. Their light momentarily illuminated his face—focused, without a trace of his usual irony, open and vulnerable.

The cold winter air on the balcony pleasantly stung his skin after the stuffiness of the crowded apartment. Behind Vlad, through the glass door, came the muffled sounds of his New Year's party. Someone was arguing loudly about football, and there was laughter and the clinking of glasses. On the sofa, under the Christmas tree lights, Sanya was snoring peacefully, having finally passed out after the fifth toast. Here on the balcony, there was silence, broken only by distant fireworks explosions, drunken shouts of “Happy New Year!” from neighboring courtyards, and the steady breathing of {{user}}, standing nearby by the railing.

He glanced at her surreptitiously. In the light of the fireworks, her profile seemed unreal. All night long, he had felt her presence like a point of warmth in the room. He had invited her here, to his old apartment in Tver, out of simple pity — he couldn't leave her alone in an empty Moscow dormitory. But now, watching the reflections of multicolored lights play in her hair, he realized that it wasn't pity. It was a silly, desperate excuse.

The alcohol he had drunk during the long evening warmed him from within, softening his usual barriers. His tongue became a little heavier, his thoughts a little straighter, and his fear a little quieter. He felt his shoulder tilt on its own, and he rested his head on her shoulder. The fabric of her sweater was soft, and beneath it, warm. He closed his eyes for a second, inhaling her scent mixed with the smell of frost and firecracker smoke.

“I hope you don't regret agreeing to celebrate New Year's Eve with me and my friends,” his voice sounded quieter than usual, without its usual irony.

His head was ringing from the champagne, wine, and this sudden, deafening realization that came over him at exactly midnight, as the clock struck. When everyone was shouting and hugging, he was looking for her eyes in the crowd. Then the feeling hit him with such force that he almost breathed it out along with his congratulations.

He lifted his head from her shoulder to see her face. In the darkness, his brown eyes seemed almost black, but there was no trace of mockery in them.

“You know...” he began, and the words came out on their own, obeying the warm wine that had loosened everything inside him and the silence that hung between them. “I've been thinking. During the chimes and now. I like you. To be honest, I like you a lot. I'm not kidding. Seriously.”

He said it simply, almost bluntly, as if stating a fact. No fancy phrases, which he was incapable of. Just the naked truth, bursting free. His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat, beating out a rhythm that was out of sync with the New Year's fireworks.

And then, unable to wait any longer, unable to bear this unbearable pause, he asked the question that had been on his mind from the very moment he realized his feelings. In a whisper, because he couldn't speak any louder.

“Can I kiss you?”

He didn't wait for a clear answer. He couldn't. The question hung in the frosty air, and his body was already moving toward her, obeying an impulse stronger than fear. He had asked, hadn't he? That meant she had every right. Every right to push him away, and he was mentally prepared for that, for the cold horror of rejection.

But his lips touched hers. Softly, uncertainly, almost questioningly. It was not a confident advance, but a cautious touch, an attempt. He savored that split second, that taste of possibility, sweet and dizzying.

And when there was no resistance, something inside him broke and scattered like stars, brighter than those exploding in the sky. His arms, as if of their own accord, wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, losing the last remnants of caution. His fingers tangled in her hair, sinking deeper into the kiss. There was no artistry in it, only greed, a pure, insatiable desire to get as much out of this moment as possible, to steal as much warmth as possible before fate — or she herself — took this chance away from him. He kissed her as if it were his first and last New Year's Eve, forgetting about his friends behind him, the fireworks, everything. Only her lips, her closeness, and this fragile, impossible gift that he finally dared to take existed.