Snow on her skin

Her name was Amara. ‎She came to Saint Petersburg in late August, still wearing the optimism of someone who had never truly been cold. Twenty-one years old, dark skin that glowed even under the weak northern sun, hips that swayed like they carried their own rhythm, breasts so full they strained every blouse she owned. She had been told many times .. that her body was "too much" for most places. In Russia, it turned out to be *dangerously* too much. ‎ ‎Her first week at the university dormitory she met him. ‎ ‎Dima. ‎ ‎Tall, blond, shoulders like a hockey player who never quite stopped training. Pale blue eyes that looked through people rather than at them. He lived on the same floor, room 412, two doors down from hers. The first time their paths crossed he was coming out of the shared kitchen while she was trying to carry a pot of jollof rice back to her room. ‎ ‎He stopped. Looked her up and down slowly. Then said in perfect English with a thick Russian accent: ‎ ‎"You look like you're going to break the floor." ‎ ‎Amara froze. She understood the words but not the intention behind them yet. ‎ ‎He smirked, stepped closer, leaned down just enough that she could smell the mint gum and faint cigarette smoke on him. ‎ ‎"Careful, Africa. Things break here when they're too heavy." ‎ ‎Then he walked away. ‎ ‎That was the beginning. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎For the next two months he found ways to make her feel small even though she was not. ‎ ‎He called her "the black Barbie" in front of other students. ‎He "accidentally" bumped into her in the narrow corridor so her breasts brushed against his chest - then he laughed like it was her fault. ‎When she spoke in class he would lean back, arms crossed, and mutter loud enough for others to hear: ‎"She talks like she's singing." ‎"She thinks she's in a music video." ‎"She smells like spices and desperation." ‎ ‎The worst part? Some of the other international students laughed along. Safety in cruelty. ‎ ‎Amara cried in her room almost every night those first weeks. ‎She cried because she missed Lagos traffic and her mother's loud laughter. ‎She cried because her scholarship money barely covered food after rent. ‎She cried because no matter how modestly she dressed, her body still drew eyes like moths hungry, mocking, entitled eyes. ‎ ‎And she cried because God help her she still noticed him. ‎ ‎The way his jaw tightened when he was angry. ‎The way veins stood out on his forearms when he carried something heavy. ‎The way he sometimes looked at her when he thought no one else was watching not mocking anymore, but *starving*. ‎ ‎She hated that she noticed. ‎ ‎She hated that her body reacted anyway. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Winter came early and cruel. ‎ ‎By December the temperature was -18 °C and the snow never stopped. ‎ ‎Amara had no proper winter coat only the puffy jacket she bought second-hand that was two sizes too small across the chest. Every time she zipped it up, the zipper stopped halfway and her breasts pushed the fabric apart like they were trying to escape. ‎ ‎One Friday night the dormitory heating failed on her floor. ‎ ‎Most students left for the weekend or went to friends' places with working radiators. Amara had nowhere to go. ‎ ‎She sat on her bed in three sweaters, two pairs of leggings, socks, and a scarf, shivering so hard her teeth chattered. She was trying to read a textbook but the cold made the words blur. ‎ ‎A knock. ‎ ‎Hard. Impatient. ‎ ‎She opened the door. ‎ ‎Dima stood there in a black hoodie and grey sweatpants, hair messy like he'd just woken up. ‎ ‎He looked at her really looked and something in his face changed. ‎ ‎"You're shaking like a wet cat," he said. ‎ ‎She tried to close the door. ‎ ‎He put his palm flat against it, holding it open without effort. ‎ ‎"Move," he said. Not loud. Just final. ‎ ‎She stepped back. He walked in, closed the door behind him, looked around her tiny room the single bed, the small electric heater that barely gave warmth, the suitcase still half-unpacked after four months. ‎ ‎Without a word he pulled his hoodie over his head. ‎ ‎Underneath he wore only a thin black t-shirt. Broad chest. Flat stomach. Arms thick with muscle. ‎ ‎He threw the hoodie at her. ‎ ‎"Put it on." ‎ ‎She caught it. It was warm from his body. It smelled like cedar, smoke, him. ‎ ‎She didn't move. ‎ ‎He stepped closer. ‎ ‎"I said put. It. On." ‎ ‎Her hands shook as she pulled it over her head. The hoodie swallowed her sleeves too long, hem reaching mid-thigh. But it was warm. So warm. ‎ ‎He looked at her like that small and drowning in his clothes and something dark flickered in his eyes. ‎ ‎"Sit," he said, nodding at the bed. ‎ ‎She obeyed. ‎ ‎He crouched in front of her, forearms resting on his thighs, looking up into her face. ‎ ‎"Why didn't you tell anyone the heating was broken?" ‎ ‎She shrugged. Voice small. "Who would care?" ‎ ‎He stared at her for a long moment. ‎ ‎Then quietly almost gently he said: ‎ ‎"I care." ‎ ‎The words landed like a slap and a caress at the same time. ‎ ‎She looked away. Tears burned behind her eyes. ‎ ‎He reached out slowly. Two fingers under her chin. Turned her face back to him. ‎ ‎"You think I hate you," he said. ‎ ‎She didn't answer. ‎ ‎"I don't hate you, Amara." ‎ ‎Hearing her name in his mouth felt obscene. Intimate. ‎ ‎"I hated how much I wanted you," he continued. "Every single day. Every time you walked past me. Every time your breasts moved when you breathed. Every time you looked at me like I was the devil. I hated it. So I hurt you instead." ‎ ‎Her breath caught. ‎ ‎His thumb brushed the edge of her lower lip barely a touch. ‎ ‎"I'm sorry," he said. Voice rough. "I'm so f*****g sorry." ‎ ‎She started crying then quiet, ugly sobs. ‎ ‎He didn't flinch. ‎ ‎He simply pulled her forward until her forehead rested against his. Held her there while she shook. ‎ ‎When her crying slowed he whispered: ‎ ‎"Tell me to leave. Right now. And I'll go. I swear." ‎ ‎She didn't speak. ‎ ‎Instead she lifted her trembling hands... and placed them on his chest. ‎ ‎Right over his heart. ‎ ‎It was pounding as hard as hers. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He kissed her like a man who had been starving for months. ‎ ‎Slow at first. Careful. Giving her time to pull away. ‎ ‎She didn't. ‎ ‎When she opened her mouth for him he groaned deep, broken sound and the gentleness disappeared. ‎ ‎He kissed her like he wanted to crawl inside her skin. ‎ ‎Hands slid under the hoodie, found bare waist, then higher cupping her heavy breasts through her thin bra. Thumbs brushed her n*****s and she gasped into his mouth. ‎ ‎"So f*****g perfect," he muttered against her lips. "I've thought about these every night." ‎ ‎He pulled the hoodie off her in one movement. ‎ ‎Then the sweaters. ‎ ‎Then the bra. ‎ ‎When her breasts spilled free he made a sound like he'd been punched. ‎ ‎Dark n*****s already tight from cold and arousal. Full, soft, trembling with every breath. ‎ ‎He lowered his head and took one into his mouth hot tongue, gentle suction at first, then harder. ‎ ‎Amara's back arched. Fingers digging into his hair. ‎ ‎"Dima..." ‎ ‎