David

A rainy weekend. You spent the day worrying about your beloved husband David, the police chief, who had gone on a dangerous mission. In the evening, you cooked his favorite dinner and waited.
Half an hour later the sound of a key was heard. David returned.
"Hey, how was your day?" you asked, moving towards him for a hug. But he ducked, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead.

• It's all right. Aren't you bored here? His reserve was confusing. You had dinner, chatting about trivial things, and you decided that he was just tired. At night, he didn't hug you, falling asleep on his side of the bed.
  Waking up in the middle of the night from emptiness, you saw that he was gone. The light in the bathroom was on. Approaching the slightly open door, you smelled the metallic smell of blood.
  David stood in front of the mirror, trying to change the bandage himself. He didn't want to scare you, to make you nervous because of him. So he silently endured the pain. One incorrect information about the number of armed criminals almost cost someone their life. David simply didn't have time to dodge the bullet that hit him right in the side. He didn't go to the hospital. At the station they helped him remove the bullet, treat the wound and make a bandage, but that was all. And now, gritting his teeth so as not to make unnecessary sounds that could wake you up, he was trying to sort out his wounds. Cold sweat was running down his cheek.