Only Once

Author’s Note:

This story is set in Russia, but it is purely fictional and not intended to reflect any political stance or real-world events.

The cold wind burns my cheeks a crimson red. The snow crunches under my boots, leaving a trail behind me. Snowflakes fall like scattered ash, blinding my view ahead. The air is crisp and biting; it snaps like a rabid dog — too cold, too bitter for a foreigner like me.

Finally, the hotel comes into view. My slow, careful steps become erratic and fast as I try to catch up to the place I know offers warmth and comfort. And just as things got better, they soon got worse. The next step sends me and my luggage flying straight down. I fall hard onto the snowy sidewalk.

Great.

I let out a frustrated groan as I wipe the snow off my sleeves. I carefully stand up and go for my bags. My hand clashes with another that’s also reaching for them.

What the—?

I look up to find a handsome man picking up my luggage. He has striking, deep brown eyes, hair that’s dark and slicked back with gel, and thin lips that elicit a warm smile — one that makes me forget about the aggressive cold. Momentarily.

“Ты в порядке?” He asks. His voice is smooth and deep like the ocean.

I only nod in response, not trusting my Russian abilities. I find myself stuck in his brown eyes, unsure of what to do.

“Куда ты идёшь?” He speaks up again.

I point to the hotel down the street. He nods before offering me his arm.

What a gentleman.

I link arms with him, and he leads me to the hotel.

“Как вас зовут?” He asks, looking down at me.

“Blaire,” I say in my painfully obvious American accent.

“Blaire?” He repeats and smiles in realization.

“Ah, you’re a foreigner?” He asks in his thick yet attractive Russian accent.

“Yes. I’m from America,” I reply, feeling comfortable with him.

He chuckles lightly. “What brings an American girl here to Kaliningrad?”

I look up at him to find he’s already looking down at me.

“I’m here on a work visa.”

He nods, listening intently. “I’m an English teacher,” I continue.

His smile widens. “Ah, an English teacher! Maybe you could help me with my English.” He laughs.

I smile with him. “Your English seems good already,” I say genuinely.

He shakes his head, a smile still plastered on his face.

“Not as good as yours, Blaire,” he says softly.

We finally reach the hotel, and he helps me carry my bags inside.

“You never told me your name,” I say.

He places my bags on the floor once we’re inside.

“I’m Nikita,” he says warmly.

“Well, thank you for your help, Nikita,” I say sincerely.

He gives a nod, as if to say of course.

I go to the counter to check in, and Nikita follows, picking up my bags. I give my name to the receptionist, and she hands me a key card.

We make our way toward the elevator, his footsteps trailing softly behind mine. Before I step in, I turn to him.

“You don’t have to carry my bags to my room,” I say.

He lets out a soft chuckle and shakes his head. “I know. But I want to.”

We both step inside. He presses the button for the third floor before I can. I’ve never met a man so kind before.

The ride up isn’t awkward. In fact, I feel… safe.

Safe with a man I just met.

Crazy, I know.

When the elevator dings, he leads the way to my room without hesitation. I unlock the door and step in. Nikita follows, placing my bags gently on the floor.

He turns to me, eyes soft.

“If you’d like,” he says, “maybe we could get a drink together?”

I hesitate. It’s late.

But the jet lag has me wide awake, and honestly, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the man who helped me.

I nod. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

We head downstairs to the hotel bar. He leads the way once more, until we’re met with a dimly lit, quiet bar. We sit down, and he orders us both a drink.

He turns to me, a spark in his eyes. “So, Blaire,” he says, swirling his glass, “why Kaliningrad of all places?”

I let out a soft laugh. “Everyone asks that. Honestly, I wanted to go somewhere no one else would. Somewhere different. Somewhere quiet.”

“You found it,” he replies, smiling. “It’s quiet. But not always kind.”

His eyes hold something heavier behind them. I wonder if he meant the cold — or something else.

“And you?” I ask, leaning forward. “What do you do?”

He hesitates, looking away briefly before answering. “I help manage my family’s business. We own a small repair shop.”

I nod. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Before I can ask a follow-up question, he suddenly changes the subject.

“Do you ever get homesick before you even leave?”

I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

“Like… you’re still standing in the place you’ve always known, but it already feels like a memory.”

I look at him a little differently. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think I do.”

I think back to my home in America — how I felt before leaving. I was scared, anxious, and already missing it. I gave up my life for this.

Luckily, it didn’t seem too bad here. Thanks to Nikita.

I’d probably be crying in my hotel room alone if it wasn’t for him.

“Are you not from here?” I ask.

“No, I am,” he says simply.

“Are you leaving soon?”

He hesitates, looking away again. He lets out a soft sigh before answering.

“Yes. I’m being drafted.”

“Oh.” I’m speechless. Being drafted is serious, and from the look on his face, he doesn’t seem too thrilled.

“I’m sorry. That must be hard…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, looking back into my eyes. “It is my duty.”

I’m sure he’s dedicated — but the look in his eyes is heartbreaking. He seems scared and angry. Angry that he has to leave his home behind. Like I did.

Except his situation isn’t by choice.

“I know when I was leaving America to come here I was terrified,” I say softly. “Hell, I’m still terrified. I have a whole classroom of teens to teach in a couple of days.” I chuckle lightly.

“But… if I can do this, then I’m sure you can do it a hundred times over.”

Nikita finally puts his soft smile back on.

“Thank you for your kind words, Blaire.”

His smile falters.

“But I’m not sure I’ll make it back.”

“Don’t think like that, Nikita,” I say firmly. “You’re strong and capable.”

Nikita laughs in disbelief. “How could you know that? We just met.”

“Because a weak man wouldn’t help a woman who fell down,” I say, honest and sure.

That seems to get to him.

“You’re right,” he says, smiling lightly again. “You’re a smart girl, Blaire.”

“And you’re a strong and smart man, Nikita,” I say. “You shouldn’t forget that.”

We end up talking for hours — about our childhoods, our families, and each other. He tells me all the best spots in Kaliningrad and how this place has shaped him.

Through our conversations, I learn that he’s one of a kind.

Not perfect — but humbly himself.

Which is rare to find in people.

We finish our drinks just as the clock turns 1:36 AM. We both stand, and he offers his arm once more, leading me to my room.

The walk to the elevator is quiet, but once we step in, I can’t help but ask,

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, looking forward.

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. I was hoping to see him again.

The rest of the elevator ride is silent until it dings and we step out.

He walks me to my room, my arm still linked with his. We stop in front of the door. We unlink arms and look into each other’s eyes.

“Thank you for tonight, Blaire,” he says with a warm smile.

“Will I ever see you again?”

He hesitates.

“I hope so.”

But we both know hope is a fragile thing.

“Goodnight, Blaire.”

He leans in and gives me three soft kisses, switching between cheeks.

“Goodnight, Nikita.”

He gives me one last warm smile before walking away and disappearing into the elevator.

That was the last time — and the only time — I ever saw him.