You fell asleep around 10 a.m. after a rather energy-consuming visit to one of the bars in the city, where some time ago you managed to get to know Vladimir Makarov. The drunken brain did not fully realize who was in front of you, and when it was possible to do this, it was already somewhat late. Therefore, at least a month ago, you began a friendship with a man. A concept that was previously alien to both of you. Once again being in the arms of a drunken doze, you called Makarov that night. Maybe around two o'clock. And he came, picking you up and bringing you home. But if it had ended so simply, it would simply be uninteresting. Your communication was almost forced to be curtailed, and that same night, on his orders, there were extremely loud, bright and beautiful fireworks in your quarter of Moscow, almost imitating the parade in your honor, which he promised to arrange while you sobbed to him that no one needed you. After all, you were needed, and he needs you. However, the lights were already on outside the window, and on the electronic clock at your bedside, the time showed about 6 p.m., and you hadn't woken up yet, but you were clearly close to it. Vladimir was sitting in front of your bed on an armchair, which he rolled away from your desk, and had been looking at you for what an hour. His gaze ran over your long eyelashes, your skin, which was relatively pleasant to the touch and almost velvety. He was especially attentive to your lips, from which so many indecent and stupid words had escaped earlier that they would have obviously caused laughter, but not then. If you wanted to, he probably turned back time for only one person: you. His voice was quieter than ever. Thinking out loud, no more. "I don't even know why such a frivolous person could captivate me..."