The bus carrying Katya rolled away from the curb, its taillights shrinking into the twilight. Alex stood motionless beneath the soft glow of the streetlamp, his hand drifting to his cheek, still warm from where her lips had brushed it. A slow, incredulous smile tugged at his mouth, echoing the kaleidoscope of feelings churning inside him—surprise, joy, disbelief, and a tender kind of awe that made his heartbeat unsteady.
Katya Volkov—reserved, brilliant, silver-haired Katya who spoke like a poem in Russian murmurs—had kissed him. Not a dramatic, cinematic sweep, but a gentle, fleeting press. And yet, it struck him deeper than anything theatrical ever could. It was unguarded, spontaneous, and all the more powerful for that. A breach in her walls. A crack in his own.
The walk home blurred into nothing. The city sounds faded into a dull hush, the streetlights streaking by unnoticed as he played the moment on a loop. Her hesitation. The flicker of courage in her eyes. The featherlight kiss. The instant blush that lit up her face like fireworks before she'd turned and vanished onto the bus.
He laughed quietly to himself. It was perfect. Absolutely, heartbreakingly perfect.
"Она меня поцеловала… Сама… Я не сплю?"(She kissed me… Herself… Am I dreaming?)
The thought circled in his mind like a mantra. He, Alexei Nakamura—analytical, measured, always a step removed—felt like a teenager caught in a dream he didn't want to wake from. And oddly enough, he didn't mind it one bit.
Sunday passed in a rose-tinted haze. He kept replaying the festival—the way Katya had beamed at their shared success, how the fireworks had reflected in her eyes, that unspoken warmth that had stretched between them. And, of course, the kiss.
Their upcoming "blini date" on Saturday no longer felt like a casual meet-up. It loomed large, like a moment that could shift everything. He found himself scouring recipes online—not to second-guess Babushka Natasha, of course, but to prepare, to contribute, to show he cared in the quiet, meticulous way he knew how. He even browsed for a small, thoughtful gift before catching himself. Slow down, Nakamura. One step at a time.
By Monday morning, anticipation was braided with nerves. How would she act? Embarrassed? Distant? Pretend it hadn't happened? He steeled himself, ready to follow her lead—whatever it was.
He saw her the moment he stepped into the classroom. She was already seated, face half-hidden behind a textbook, her silver hair cascading like a curtain. As he passed to take his seat—diagonally behind hers—he noticed the tiniest tension in her shoulders.
The homeroom bell rang. Mr. Harrison launched into announcements. Alex risked a glance. Katya's eyes were locked on her desk, a faint pink flush clinging to her cheeks. She inhaled shakily, then muttered a rapid-fire stream of Russian so fast he barely caught it. But he got enough.
"Какой позор… зачем я это сделала? Он, наверное, думает, что я сумасшедшая… или легкомысленная… Как мне теперь смотреть ему в глаза? Аааа, земля, разверзнись и поглоти меня!"(What shame… why did I do that? He probably thinks I'm crazy… or foolish… How can I look him in the eye? Aaah, earth, open up and swallow me!)
He bit back a grin. Her embarrassment was so genuine, so painfully adorable, that it tugged at something deep inside him. He forced himself to act normal—chatted quietly with Kenji, focused on Mr. Harrison's droning voice, gave Katya the space she clearly needed.
But throughout the morning, the air between them crackled with quiet tension. Every brush of fingers passing papers, every accidental glance, carried new meaning. He saw her open her mouth to speak several times, only to retreat, her cheeks flaring red again.
During a break, as he was pulling a book from his locker, she appeared beside him. Her steps were small, her books clutched to her chest like armor.
"A-Alexey-kun," she said, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed somewhere near his tie. "About… Saturday night… after the festival…"
"Yes, Katya?" His voice was low, steady. Inside, his heart kicked like a drum.
"I… I wanted to apologize. If I was… inappropriate. Or if it made you uncomfortable. I didn't plan it. The fireworks, the moment… I wasn't thinking." She faltered, shrinking behind her words.
"Он, должно быть, считает меня такой неловкой и глупой,"(He must think I'm so awkward and silly,)
she added under her breath in Russian, clearly unaware he'd caught it.
Alex felt his heart crack open. "Katya," he said, softly but firmly. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "There's nothing to apologize for."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "It was… a lovely surprise."
Her eyes widened, startled. The blush on her cheeks deepened, but this time, it looked more like hope than shame.
"П-правда? Тебе… тебе не было… неприятно?"(R-really? You… you weren't uncomfortable?)
"Not even slightly," he replied, holding her gaze. "It was memorable. In the best kind of way."
She blinked, then slowly—tentatively—smiled. A fragile, beautiful thing.
"Он не сердится… Он даже… улыбается. Может быть… может быть, я не всё испортила?"(He's not angry… He's even smiling. Maybe… maybe I didn't ruin everything?)
"So," Alex added, a little lighter now, "no apologies needed. Deal?"
Katya nodded, her smile steadier now. "Deal, Alexey-kun."
And just like that, something unspoken shifted. The awkwardness melted away, replaced by a quiet anticipation. The rest of the week drifted by in soft, shared glances and whispered moments in the library. But now, those moments were threaded with something new—a mutual secret, a promise of something just beginning.
Katya's Russian whispers became something Alex treasured more than ever. They were like diary entries spoken into the wind, honest and unguarded. He overheard her talking to her best friend, Aoi Nakamura (no relation, to much mutual amusement), about Saturday.
"Это будет… особенный день. Я так надеюсь, что всё пройдёт хорошо,"(It will be a special day. I just hope everything goes well.)
Hope trembled in her voice like a note on the edge of a song.
She was doing her own preparation, too. One afternoon in study hall, he heard her muttering to herself:
"Нужно не забыть купить сметану. И, может быть, немного малинового варенья. Бабушка всегда говорила, что блины с малиновым вареньем – это вкус детства. Интересно, понравится ли это Алексею-куну?"(I must remember to buy sour cream. And maybe raspberry jam. Grandmother always said blini with raspberry jam is the taste of childhood. I wonder if Alexey-kun will like it?)
He made a mental note: raspberry jam. Definitely express enthusiasm when the time came.
Even Kenji noticed the shift.
"Okay, seriously," he said one afternoon as they walked home. "You and Volkov-san are practically glowing. What happened? Did the fireworks grant you a magical romance buff or something?"
Alex offered a serene smile. "We just get along well. And we're making blini on Saturday."
Kenji raised an eyebrow. "Is that what they call it these days?"
Alex chuckled, shaking his head.
"Just don't forget us mere mortals when you two become Seiwa's power couple," Kenji added with a smirk.
The words were teasing, but they resonated. Because deep down, Alex felt it too—that quiet, growing certainty that something real was blooming.
By Friday afternoon, anticipation thrummed in his chest. As students packed up, Katya approached, clutching her bag, eyes alight with nervous excitement.
"So, Alexey-kun," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "Tomorrow. My apartment. Around… one o'clock? Still good?"
"Perfect," Alex replied. "I'm looking forward to it. And I promise to be a very attentive—if possibly disastrous—blini apprentice."
A soft blush spread across her face.
"Он придёт ко мне домой… Мы будем вместе готовить… Это… это так волнительно!"(He's coming to my place… We'll be cooking together… This is so exciting!)
"I'm sure you'll do fine," she said, smiling. "Just try not to burn my kitchen down."
"No guarantees," he teased, "but I'll try my best."
Their eyes met, and silence settled—warm, filled with possibility.
A single kiss had rewritten the space between them. Now came the next step. A Saturday afternoon, the scent of frying batter, and the unfolding of something fragile and real.
Alex couldn't wait.