“So, ‘the babysitter,’ huh?” Nikita spat out the word. “Did you come here to lecture me now? Go on, say what you came to say. I’m all ears.”
He stood in the hallway, leaning his shoulder against the mirrored closet, a crooked smile on his face.
His face still had traces of childhood roundness, but it had already sharpened with teenage angles, and right now, it looked unfamiliar and unpleasant.
One of his sneakers was undone, the windbreaker flapped open, and there was a cloudy, aggressive haze in his eyes.
Andrey exhaled slowly, trying to steady the tremble in his fingers. He stood across from Nikita, blocking the way further into the apartment.
The hallway was dark, only a dim strip of light from the kitchen stretched unevenly across the floor.
“Did you check the time, Nikita?” Andrey’s voice was quieter than usual. “It’s two in the morning. Your mom is worried sick.”
She was about to call the hospitals—I barely convinced her to wait another half hour.
“Oh, please, spare me the drama,” Nikita tossed his head, almost losing his balance. “‘Worried sick’…”
She’s just used to you running the show now. You’ve got everyone marching in line, right? Sergeant Andreyev.
“I’m not your enemy, kid. I never was. But coming home like this, when your mom just got out of a hypertensive episode…”
Don’t you think that’s a bit too much?
Nikita suddenly stepped forward, almost right up to Andrey. His fists clenched, lips trembling with a raw, pent-up anger months in the making.
“Don’t you think you’re crossing the line?” he hissed. “Who even are you?”
You’re just some guy sleeping with my mom. A year ago, you weren’t even here and we managed just fine. We were doing okay!
Now you walk around giving orders, dishing out advice… ‘Nikita, do your homework,’ ‘Nikita, don’t talk to your mother like that.’
You’re nobody to me, understand? No-body!
“Nikita, stop it. You’re drunk, go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Andrey tried to take him by the shoulder to steer him toward his room, but Nikita jerked away like he’d been shocked.
“Don’t touch me!” Nikita shouted, his voice echoing through the house. “Don’t you dare lay your hands on me!”
You think just because you filled the fridge and fixed the faucet, you’re my dad now?
You’re not even close to measuring up! My dad—he’s the real deal. He was cool. He had a motorcycle, he’s seen real life!
But you… you’re just a boring mechanic in old pants. You’ll never, ever replace him!
Natalia came out of the bedroom. She was pale, wrapped in a long flannel robe, dark circles under her eyes.
She pressed her hand to her mouth as she looked at her son, and in her eyes, Andrey saw such hopeless pain that he himself wanted to scream.
“Nikita…” she whispered. “How can you say that? Andrey has done so much for us…”
“I don’t care what he’s done!” Nikita shrieked, refusing to look at his mother. “I never asked him to! I never asked anyone to try to take my father’s place!”
You betrayed him, mom! You brought this… this stranger into our house!
I hate you! And I hate him!
He stormed past Andrey, bumping him in the shoulder, and slammed his bedroom door shut with a bang. The lock clicked.
A heavy silence filled the hallway, broken only by the quiet sobs of Natalia.
Andrey walked over to his wife and put his arm around her shoulders. She felt as cold as ice.
“Go lie down, Natasha. I’ll get you some drops. Everything’s okay, it’s just age… and al.co.hol. He didn’t mean any harm.”
“No, Andrey,” she raised her tear-filled eyes to him. “It’s not just age. He was telling the truth…”
He doesn’t accept you. Not at all. I thought after a year it would get easier, but it’s like he’s building a wall—brick by brick. Every single day.
Andrey didn’t say anything. He led his wife to their room, gave her some valerian drops, waited until she fell asleep, and then sat in the kitchen.
There was untouched dinner on the table that Natalia had prepared for nine o’clock. The meat was cold, the salad had dried out. All of it felt like props from some failed play.
***
He had lived with them for a year. Twelve months of patiently, carefully trying to build a relationship.
He remembered the first time he walked into this apartment. Back then, he thought he could become a mentor to the kid.
He didn’t have children of his own, and all his unused paternal care, he was ready to give to this prickly teenager.
Andrey remembered buying Nikita his first professional skateboard. The boy hadn’t even said “thank you”—just grabbed the box and disappeared into his room.
He remembered trying to talk to him about soccer, about cars, about girls—only to be met with a deafening, icy silence.
And Nikita’s father… Viktor. A legend, turned into a shrine.
Andrey knew little about this man. He left the family when his son was seven. Did some shady shipping jobs, was always gone on trips, and then just vanished somewhere in the vast country, sending a postcard from Vladivostok or Murmansk once a year.
But in Nikita’s memory, he remained a hero on a chrome horse. Free, strong, unreachable.
Compared to this image, Andrey—working at a service center from eight to five—didn’t stand a chance.
Andrey looked at his own hands. Just an ordinary mechanic’s hands: grease ingrained in the creases, a few scars from slipped wrenches, nails cut short.
He wasn’t someone who did heroic deeds. He knew how to fix engines, change gaskets, and make things run like clockwork.
Clearly, that didn’t work with people’s souls. There were no bolts or nuts you could just tighten up.
The next morning, the apartment was quiet.
Natalia left for work early, careful to avoid crossing paths with her son. Andrey was getting ready too, when he heard movement behind Nikita’s bedroom door.
Then the door opened and the teenager stumbled out into the hallway. He looked rough: face puffy, hair sticking up, eyes red.
“Mom left?” he muttered, not looking at Andrey.
“She left. Breakfast is on the stove. Nikita…”
“Look, spare me the lectures, okay?” The boy walked into the kitchen, poured himself cold tap water, and gulped it down. “Yesterday was too much, I’ll admit.”
But I stand by what I said. You’re not my father. And you never will be.
“I’m not trying to take his place, Nikita,” Andrey stood in the kitchen doorway, putting on his jacket. “The place of your father is already taken—I get that.”
But I’m someone who lives under the same roof with you and loves your mom. If nothing else, that’s one reason I deserve a little respect.
“Respect is earned,” Nikita snapped back. “And you… you’re just convenient. Like an old pair of slippers.”
I get it, you make things peaceful for Mom. But not for me. Your ‘righteousness’ just makes me sick.
He turned away, clearly showing the conversation was over. Andrey sighed, left the apartment, and got into his old Toyota.
All the way to the service station, he couldn’t stop thinking that maybe Natalia was right. Maybe he really was just extra baggage.
The entire workday passed in a daze. The clients were demanding, the parts didn’t arrive on time, and his mind kept replaying last night’s argument.
By evening, Andrey felt completely drained. He was about to head home when he remembered Natalia had asked him to stop by the garage to pick up some old things that needed to go to the dacha.
The garage was in an old cooperative on the edge of town. It was a place frozen in time: rusty gates, the smell of burnt oil, men in greasy overalls discussing world news over open hoods.
Andrey loved this place. Everything here was straightforward and honest.
When he pulled up to his garage bay, he noticed the neighboring garage—which used to belong to Viktor and had been closed for years—was now slightly ajar.
Strange noises came from inside: a metallic clang and some muffled swearing.
Andrey turned off the engine and walked closer. In the dim light of the garage, surrounded by heaps of old tires and piles of junk, he saw Nikita.
The boy was covered in grime. His light hoodie was hopelessly stained with oil, and there was a big smear of soot across his cheek.
In front of him, propped up on makeshift stands, sat an old, half-disassembled motorcycle—the legendary “Dnepr” Nikita had talked about so much.
The chrome on the fork was long tarnished, the gas tank was dented, and wires poked out of the engine.
Nikita was trying to unscrew a spark plug with an old, rusty wrench. He leaned in with all his weight, grunting, his face turning red with effort, but the wrench slipped and his hand smacked hard against the frame.
“Damn it!” he yelled, clutching his bruised knuckles to his chest. “Why the hell won’t you turn?!”
Andrey quietly stepped into the garage. The scent of gasoline and old metal hit him, sparking a strange sense of nostalgia.
“The thread’s rusted,” he said calmly. “You need to spray it with WD, let it sit ten minutes. Or better yet, heat it up a bit.”
Nikita flinched and quickly spun around, his eyes flashing with anger.
“What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?”
“Just came to pick up some things,” Andrey nodded toward his garage. “Looks like you decided to revive this old machine?”
“None of your business,” Nikita snapped, trying to hide his trembling hands. “It’s Dad’s bike. He promised we’d fix it up together when I grew up.”
“Viktor hasn’t been around here in a long time,” Andrey commented, moving closer to get a better look at the motorcycle. “Seven years, judging by the dust.”
“So what?” Nikita shot back, jutting out his chin defiantly. “He’s just busy, that’s all. He’s got things to do. I can handle it myself. Don’t need anyone’s help.”
Andrey ignored the jab. He walked over to the workbench, found a can of penetrating lubricant among the clutter, and without asking for permission, generously sprayed the spark plug wells.
“Hey! I said, don’t touch!” Nikita tried to push him away, but Andrey didn’t budge an inch.
“Listen, kid,” Andrey turned to him. His voice was firm. “You can hate me all you want. Shout that I’m nothing to you.
But if you keep working with that rusty piece of junk you call a wrench, you’re going to round off the edges. Then you might as well toss this engine for scrap metal. Is that what you want?”
Nikita froze. He looked at the motorcycle, then at Andrey. His shoulders slumped.
“It’s been sitting here for ages,” he said quietly. “I thought my dad would come back and we’d… But he’s not coming. He doesn’t even answer the phone.”
And yesterday… yesterday I saw him in a dream. He was riding it, and I was sitting behind. I just want it to run. So when he comes back, he’ll see that I… that I didn’t let him down.
Andrey felt something painfully tighten in his chest. In front of him he saw not a cocky, drunk teenager, but a little, lost boy who’d been waiting seven years for a miracle. A miracle that probably wouldn’t come.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Andrey shrugged off his jacket, left in just a t-shirt. “I’ll bring my car over, I’ve got a good tool set in there. And a compressor too. Let’s see what we can do here.”
“You’re actually going to help me?” Nikita squinted suspiciously. “After what I said to you yesterday?”
“After what you said yesterday, I should’ve boxed your ears,” Andrey smirked. “But I’m a mechanic. I can’t stand to see a good thing rotting away. Or a kid tearing up his hands because of bad tools.”
Deal?
Nikita was silent for a long moment, shifting from foot to foot. Then he nodded, barely noticeably.
“Don’t think this changes anything,” he muttered.
“I don’t,” Andrey was already heading to his car. “Grab some rags, we’re going to scrub off ages of grime.”
The next three hours passed in complete silence, but it was a different kind of silence—one of focused work, not icy tension.
Andrey brought in a lamp, flooding the garage with warm, bright light. Together they removed the tank, disconnected hoses, and cleared out the mouse nests that had settled under the seat.
Andrey worked quickly and precisely. His movements were economical, honed by years of experience.
Nikita watched closely, handing him tools and trying not to get in the way.
“Look here,” Andrey pointed to the carburetor. “This is all gunked up. The gas turned to varnish. We’ll need to soak it in solvent or it’s not going to work.”
“Will we be able to get it started?”—for the first time, there was a hint of hope in Nikita’s voice.
“The engine isn’t seized, which is good,” Andrey turned the kickstarter by hand. “There’s compression. Spark… we’ll need to check for a spark.”
The wiring’s a mess, of course. But it’s fixable. If you’ve got enough patience.
“I’ve got plenty,” Nikita said firmly.
By the time they finished for the day, it was completely dark outside. Both of them were covered in grime, but Andrey could see the sparkle in Nikita’s eyes.
“Alright, that’s enough for today,” Andrey wiped his hands with a rag. “Tomorrow I’ll order a rebuild kit for the carbs and new spark plugs.”
Ready to head home? Mom’s probably worried about us again.
Nikita glanced at the motorcycle, then at Andrei.
“Hey…” he hesitated. “Could you… not mention the motorcycle to Mom? She doesn’t like it when I bring up Dad’s stuff.”
“Your secret’s safe,” Andrei nodded. “But about us staying late in the garage—we’ll have to tell her something. Let’s just say we were checking my car. Deal?”
“Yeah. Thanks. And for the tools too.”
They stepped out of the garage and Andrei locked the gate. Nikita walked beside him, and Andrei noticed the boy wasn’t trying to keep his distance anymore.
“Andrei?” Nikita called as they neared the car.
“Yeah?”
“Is it true you can fix just about anything?”
Andrei smiled, glancing up at the stars that were just starting to appear in the spring sky.
“Engines, for sure. They’re simple, really. All you need is to know how they work—and never skimp on the oil.”
“People are trickier. But I try.”
Nikita didn’t answer, but the way he shut the car door didn’t have the anger it used to.
It was a small step—a single brick taken out of the wall that Natalia had talked about.
***
The garage had become their secret hideout. Evenings turned into a ritual: Andrei would pick Nikita up after school (or after his so-called “extra classes” that he usually skipped), and they’d head straight to the garage.
Natalia was relieved that her son had stopped hanging out with the wrong crowd, though she was still puzzled why her husband was suddenly spending so much time with the Toyota.
“What are you always tinkering with out there?” she’d ask over dinner. “The car’s practically brand new.”
“Just maintenance, Natasha,” Andrei would joke, catching a sly, conspiratorial glance from Nikita. “It’s spring—everything’s got to be running perfectly.”
Inside the garage, life was bustling. Bit by bit, the motorcycle was shedding layers of dirt and rust.
Andrei never did the work for Nikita. He was a teacher—explaining how things worked, showing him how to set the gaps right, how to get a real feel for the metal.
“Don’t tighten it so much,” Andrei stopped the boy’s hand as Nikita tried to torque the cylinder head bolt. “Metal expands when it’s hot. Over-tighten it now and it’ll crack later. Everything needs to be done with care and feel. Got it?”
“Got it,” Nikita eased off the wrench. “Hey Andrei, why did you give up being a mechanic for management? You seem to love all this stuff.”
Andrei sat down on a stool, lit a cigarette, and looked at his grease-stained hands.
“Life forced me. I used to think I’d work on engines forever. But then… I got injured, my back gave out. Plus, Natalia wanted some stability.”
“A boss makes more, smells better too. But here, in the garage, I feel like I’m finally where I belong.”
Nikita sat beside him on an upturned box, turning an old spark plug over in his hands.
“My dad hated stability,” he said quietly. “He always said it was for weaklings. That a real man should always be on the move. That home’s an anchor that just drags you down.”
Andrei looked at the boy. Viktor’s shadow still hung over them, but it was a bit fainter now.
“A real man, Nikita, is someone who stays,” Andrey said calmly. “Leaving is the easiest thing to do. Running off into the sunset, leaving behind everything that needs to be cared for, what you’re responsible for…”
That isn’t strength. That’s cowardice, covered up with fancy words. Real strength is when you have problems, when you’re bored, when things get tough—but you stay and sort it all out. For the sake of those who matter to you.
Nikita frowned.
“He’s not a coward. He’s… he’s just different. He was searching for himself.”
“You can search for yourself without abandoning your seven-year-old son,” Andrey didn’t want to be harsh, but it was time to speak the truth. “You want to know why I’m here?”
It’s not because I love this old Dnepr. I’m here because I promised your mom I’d take care of you.
And I’m still here, even when you hate me. Because that’s what it means to be a man.
Nikita went quiet. He stared at the dismantled engine for a long time, then suddenly asked:
“What if he comes back? You know, Dad. What would you do?”
“I’d shake his hand,” Andrey shrugged. “And I’d ask where he’s been all these years. But who matters more to you—that’s your choice to make. I’m not going to compete with him.”
The work went on. Soon, the wiring was fixed, the carburetors cleaned, and fresh gas poured into the tank. It was time for the first evening start.
“Go ahead, Nikita,” Andrey stepped aside to give the boy space at the kickstarter. “You put it together. You start it up.”
Nikita took a deep breath. His face was focused and serious. He pumped the engine a few times with the ignition off, just as Andrey had taught him. Then he flicked the switch.
The first kick—silence. The second—the engine coughed, spitting out a cloud of blue-gray smoke.
“Open the choke a bit more!” Andrey shouted.
Nikita adjusted the lever and leaned into the kick with all his weight.
The garage filled with a deep, rumbling sound. The engine shook in its frame, belching thick smoke, but it was running! The sound was uneven, stuttering, but it was the sound of life.
Nikita froze with his foot still on the pedal. A huge, genuine smile spread across his face—the kind Andrey had never seen before. He looked absolutely happy.
“It’s running! Andrey, it’s running!” the boy shouted, shouting over the noise.
“Shut it off!” Andrey grinned in response. “We’ll overheat it, we need to set the timing. But the foundation is there! Good job, kid!”
Nikita stopped the engine. In the sudden silence, all you could hear was the ticking of cooling metal.
The boy suddenly stepped over to Andrey and… awkwardly, in a manly way, rested his forehead on Andrey’s shoulder. For a second, Andrey felt a warm handshake.
“Thank you,” Nikita whispered. “Thank you for not leaving.”
Two more weeks passed. The motorcycle was completely finished. Andrey even helped Nikita paint the tank a deep blue—the same shade Viktor’s once was, only even brighter and cleaner.
One evening, as they were about to leave, Nikita suddenly stopped at the door.
“Andrey, I… I talked to Dad yesterday.”
Andrey froze, fumbling for his keys in his pocket.
“And?”
“He called. Said he’s passing through town. Invited me to meet up. Said he might even take me with him for the summer.”
Andrey felt a chill inside. This was the moment of truth.
“So, what did you decide?”
Nikita looked at the shining motorcycle, then at Andrey.
“I told him I couldn’t. I said I have things to do here. And that… that I have a motorcycle that needs breaking in. And that I can’t leave mom alone, her blood pressure isn’t good.”
He paused, then added, looking Andrey straight in the eyes:
“He asked who helped me with the bike. I said — my dad.”
It became very quiet in the garage. Andrey felt a lump in his throat. He walked over to the boy and firmly squeezed his shoulder.
“Well, if that’s how it is… If your dad helped, then we should go show your mom the result. She’s probably starting to worry about us by now.”
“Andrey?” Nikita hesitated. “Will you teach me to ride? For real?”
“I will,” Andrey nodded. “But first — helmet, license, and full gear. A real man doesn’t take pointless risks, remember?”
“I remember,” Nikita smiled.
They rolled the motorcycle out of the garage. The evening air was fresh and clear. Nikita took his seat, feeling the power of the restored machine beneath him.
“You know,” he said, putting on his helmet. “Dad always said machines are just metal. But you said they have a soul. You were right.”
Andrey got into his car and started the engine. He watched as Nikita slowly, carefully pulled away, keeping the heavy bike steady on the uneven asphalt.
The boy no longer tried to look ‘cool’ or ‘heroic.’ He simply did his work.
When they reached home, Natalya was standing on the balcony. Seeing her son on the motorcycle, at first she was frightened, but then she saw Andrey following behind and her face lit up with understanding.
Nikita turned off the engine at the entrance. He took off his helmet and looked up at his mother.
“Mom, look! We fixed it!”
Natalya came down. She looked at her son, at the motorcycle, then turned her gaze to her husband. Andrey stood aside, leaning on the car, simply watching them.
“Andrey…” she walked up to him and took his hand. “How did you do it?”
“I just gave him the key, Natasha,” he smiled. “The rest he did himself.”
That evening, there were no shouts or slamming doors at home. There was a lively dinner, during which Nikita excitedly talked about valve clearances and clean jets.
Natalya listened, not understanding much about mechanics, but noticing how her son had changed.
When Nikita went to his room, Andrey stepped out onto the balcony. The night city was sparkling with lights. Nikita came up behind him.
“Andrey?”
“What is it, Nikita?”
“Uh… I have a parent-teacher meeting at school tomorrow. They’re going to talk about the OGE test. Mom can’t go, she has a shift. Could you… would you go?”
Andrey turned around. Standing in front of him was his son. Not by blood, not by papers, but by that invisible law of respect and love, stronger than any engine.
“Of course I’ll go,” said Andrey. “We’re family.”
Nikita nodded and, before leaving, added:
“And… dad?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for staying.”
Andrey watched the boy go and realized this was the most important repair of his life. He had waited for this moment…