The morning begins unexpectedly calm, as if the universe itself decides to gift me a moment of silence after long days of anxiety. Beside me, her warm breath barely grazes my skin—my girlfriend is asleep, clinging tightly to my shoulder as if afraid I'll vanish if she loosens her grip. It's been so long since I last share a bed with her... This simple moment feels so precious, so fragile, that I'm afraid to move, lest I shatter it.
I never really count those nights in the dorm—there, the walls press in, the air thick with others' fears, every rustle making me flinch. But here, in this apartment, it's so quiet, so safe, that I almost believe it: maybe somewhere does exist a place where you can stop being afraid. As if this is my real home. My heart clenches at the thought that someday I'll have to leave, and I silently promise myself: if it's within my power, I'll never abandon this corner of peace again.
Carefully, glancing down, I see my burn has almost healed—only faint pink traces remain of what happened. The skin, recently searing with fire, now just tingles slightly when touched. Raising my left hand, I slowly, cautiously brush the edge of the wound, bracing for pain.
But there is none.
A flicker of surprise runs through me—is it really gone? Just the day before yesterday, when I touched the burned skin the same way, a wave of fire shot through me, forcing me to grit my teeth. Of course, I'm not pressing as hard as Katrin did yesterday... But even a light touch back then sent a burning echo through me.
Now—almost nothing. It means it's truly healing. Soon, it really won't hurt anymore. And maybe, someday, the other wounds—the ones deeper than skin—will also stop aching.
Rebel Girl wakes up slowly, as if her consciousness floats up from the depths of a warm, cozy dream. She squints at the soft morning light seeping through the gap in the curtains and gives me a sleepy smile, cracking just one eye open, as if checking whether this is reality or a lingering dream.
"Good morning," I whisper, afraid to break this fragile silence, and press a light kiss to the corner of her lips, catching the morning sun tripled in her smile.
"Morning!" Her voice is husky from sleep but already carries her usual liveliness.
She props herself up on her elbows, stretches like a cat, and blinks before fixing her gaze on the window—or rather, the heavy curtains hiding the morning outside.
"What time is it? Are we late for your institute?" Turning to me, she frowns slightly, but her eyes still glow with drowsy tenderness.
I reach for the nightstand, fingers finding the cool surface of my phone. A glance at the screen brings mild relief—no rush, no chaos.
"No, we wake up early. A whole hour before the alarm," I say, a faint smile slipping into my voice.
"Got it." She immediately melts back into the pillows. "Then I'll lie here a bit longer, okay?"
How could I refuse? She's so helplessly adorable in the morning—messy hair, warm cheeks, pillow creases on her face. If she asked me to skip class right now, I'd agree without a second thought—follow her to the ends of the earth.
"Yeah," I nod, unable to suppress a grin. "I'll go take a shower."
"Okay," she stretches and lazily grabs the edge of the blanket, pulling it higher. "But don't take too long, or I'll miss you."
The words are so simple, yet something inside me twinges.
"Alright," I promise, already imagining the hot water washing away the last traces of sleep—though I know my thoughts will stay here, beside her.
Grabbing my robe and towel, I head to the bathroom, bare feet padding softly on the cool laminate. Placing my things on the edge of the tub, I pause for a moment, running my palm over the tiled wall—smooth, almost icy. Then I step into the shower, feeling the humid warmth begin to fill the tiny room.
Rebel Girl's shower has transparent glass walls, which at first is unsettling—too unfamiliar, seeing every detail of my own reflection. But now it doesn't bother me. Behind this door, only our little world exists: just her, me, and no one else. Besides, I need to get used to this new level of closeness—to not hiding, not feeling shy, just being.
The second reason, far more mundane, brings a faint smirk to my face: the moment I turn on the water, the bathroom fills with thick, milky steam. It swallows everything—the mirror, the walls, even my own hands in front of my face—turning the space into a blurred watercolor painting. Visibility drops to zero: no one outside can see me, and I can't see beyond the foggy glass door.
I've already lathered my hair, working the shampoo into my scalp, when through the rush of water, I catch the faintest creak of the door. A whisper of sound, almost ghostly, but undeniably there.
"Katrin?" I call out, instinctively covering myself, though it's pointless—the steam has already wrapped everything in a dense veil, hiding me.
"Yeah?" Her voice comes from somewhere to the right, close but echoing off the tiled walls, making its source seem phantom-like, barely tangible.
I squint, trying to make out anything through the damp haze, but only blurred shapes swim into view.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend.
"Forgot my hair tie in here," she replies. A soft rustle follows—her fingers skimming the shelf in search. Then, barely audible: "Ah, found it! Okay, I'm leaving. See you when you're done."
Her footsteps are light, but in the muffled silence of the bathroom, they seem almost deafening. The door creaks again, and I'm alone. But for a second, I think I catch the faintest hint of embarrassment in her voice—or is it just the echo playing tricks?
"Right," I mutter, returning to rinsing my hair.
Yet her sudden visit lingers in my mind, adding another drop of awkwardness to our "adjustment period." A warm, almost aching feeling spreads in my chest—a strange mix of embarrassment, tenderness, and something else I can't yet name.
The water streams down my back, washing away soap and fatigue. Hot steam swirls in the air, condensing on the mirror and walls in intricate patterns. When I finally step out of the shower, the cold tiles sting my feet.
Instinctively, I reach for the towel—but it's gone. I frown, scanning the room. Empty. Towel, clothes, slippers—all vanished. Where my things had been just a minute ago, there's only bare tile now.
A sharp pang hits my chest—first confusion, then frustration, followed by irritation, hot and prickling like needles under my skin.
Katrin. Of course it's her.
I clench my jaw and exhale, fighting the urge to swear out loud. I can picture it—her barely stifling a laugh as she snatches my things and bolts, knowing I'm helpless. Her eyes gleam with mischief, lips curled in that smug, predatory grin.
Running a hand over my wet neck, I close my eyes and laugh quietly, feeling the irritation ebb, replaced by a warm, almost childish spite. Oh, Rebel Girl… You're gonna regret this.
"Katrin!" My voice comes out sharp, nearly a growl.
I crack the door open, sticking just my head out to avoid exposing more than necessary. Humid air rushes into the hallway, mingling with the cooler room beyond.
Light footsteps sound somewhere beyond the door, and then there she is—wearing that same sly, self-satisfied smirk that makes my fists clench.
"Yes?" she drawls, feigning innocence, but her eyes sparkle with mischief.
"Give them back. Now." I try to sound firm, but a hint of helplessness seeps into my voice—and she definitely notices.
"Give what back?" Katrin widens her eyes, playing clueless. Her fingers fiddle with the hem of her sweater like she's barely holding back laughter.
"The things you took from the bathroom," I grind out. "Unless you've already forgotten."
Slowly, savoring the moment, she points to the bed.
"There they are."
I glance past her shoulder. Sure enough, my things are neatly laid out on the comforter. But between me and them stands her—with every intention of making me work for it.
"Not gonna help me?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Nope!" Katrin shakes her head cheerfully, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, clearly ready to enjoy my suffering.
I freeze, feeling a treacherous draft slither down my spine, raising goosebumps across my skin. My cheeks burn with frustration—hot, prickling irritation. For a moment, I even close my eyes, imagining myself snatching a towel from the rack and wrapping it around me like armor against this absurd situation.
But… there is no towel.
I narrow my eyes, exhaling through clenched teeth. Clever girl. Of course. She wouldn't miss a chance to see this through.
For a second, I stand perfectly still, frantically weighing options:
Make a run for it. Dash to the bed, risk looking… well, exactly as I am—naked, dripping, and utterly exposed. I can already picture her gaze, brimming with undisguised glee, and know she'd never let me live it down.
Try to negotiate. Sweet-talk her, maybe offer a favor in return. But one glance at her face kills that idea. Her smug expression screams useless. She's in her element now—lips quirked, eyes gleaming with mischief, relishing every second.
Outsmart her. Fake a doorbell ring, ask her to check my phone? But she's too sharp for such obvious tricks.
And then—she tilts her head just slightly, arches a brow, bites her lower lip in that infuriating way. It hits me: she's loving this. The steam, the standoff, me standing here furious and flustered while she drinks it all in.
I watch the corners of her mouth twitch. She barely stifles a grin, squinting at me like she's daring: "Go on. Impress me."