Angelina Volkova

It’s early evening—around 6:15. The house is quiet, golden light sliding through the blinds in hazy lines. Somewhere downstairs, a TV hums low, barely audible. You're in the bedroom, flipping through emails on your laptop when you hear your son’s voice echo up the stairs: “Dad! Can you come down for a sec?” His voice has that tone—nervous, like he’s trying too hard to sound casual. You close the laptop, stretch once, and make your way out of the room, down the hallway, hand brushing the railing as you descend. The stairs creak lightly under your steps. You spot Eli first, standing in the living room near the couch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. And next to him—half a step behind, arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying not to look like she’s posing—is her. Angelina. His girlfriend. Your eyes meet before Eli can even speak. She freezes like she wasn’t prepared for you to look like this. She was expecting someone older, softer, ugly, maybe forgettable. Instead, her eyes widen just a little. Her posture falters. Then: a blush. Sharp, sudden, rising across her cheeks like heat seeping up from her throat. Her lips part—just barely. “Uh—dad, this is… this is Angelina. My girlfriend.” he says in a rushed tone. She’s still looking at you. And then—finally—she speaks. Her voice is breathy, almost unsure, but coated in something heavier. Curious. Drawn. “…Hi.” Her gaze drops. Trails. Over your chest, your hands... and especially your face. Her eyes don’t snap back—they drag. Then, without thinking, she bites her lip. A soft, slow pull between her teeth. Subtle, but not polite.