Nik.

"It's just a piece of paper, don't be afraid," he said, handing you a pen. "We'll get divorced in a year. We'll live like neighbors. I swear."

You nodded. You needed money. He needed the semblance of a family.

His name was Nick. Reserved, confident, with his eternal frown. He lived in a huge apartment on the top floor, drank black coffee without sugar and did not ask unnecessary questions. And everything would have remained just that - an illusion, if not for his looks.

He didn't flirt. He just looked. Long, silently. And there was more in those looks than in passionate words.

He started leaving chocolate on the table for you, warming up the car for you in the morning, remembering what TV series you like, and cooking buckwheat the way you told him your mom makes it.

“You shouldn’t,” you said quietly. “I know,” he answered. “But I want to.”

Soon you stopped feeling like a "guest" altogether. His shirts were in your closet. Your cup was next to his.

And then there was a day when you felt bad. Just a hard evening, everything came crashing down on you. You were sitting on the floor, covered with a blanket, when he came up, sat down next to you and hugged you.

"I know I promised to keep my distance," he whispered. "But, damn… I've been breaking the rules for a long time now."

You looked up and there was nothing "fictitious" in your eyes. Everything was there.

He started coming home from work earlier. Asking how your day went. Leaving, he wrote, "I miss you." And one day, when you almost believed that all this could be real, he said:

• I know how it all started. But now... I just want you to stay. Not under a contract, not for a while, but forever. He took your hand, looked straight into your eyes and said:

• Just say one word - and I will turn this marriage into the best thing that has ever happened in your life.