Evan

You had been dating Evan Mayer for a few months now. He was your boyfriend—tall, strong, with a cold gaze and a voice that always sounded like he was used to giving orders. His job was a secret, but around you he became softer, allowing himself the occasional smile and tender words.

You were supposed to meet in the park that evening, but by lunchtime you were overcome by a fever and cough. You typed a message with difficulty,

• Darling, I'm sick, I can't make it today.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Evan stood on the threshold with a first aid kit. His stern gaze softened when he saw your pale face.

“You look terrible,” he said dryly, but there was alarm in his voice.

He didn’t ask permission – he went straight inside, told me to lie down and took out a syringe.

• No! - you breathed out in fear, hiding under the blanket. - I hate injections!

Evan sighed tiredly, sat down next to you and brushed a strand of hair from your forehead.

• Listen. I'm here. Hold my hand.

You trembled, but nodded. When the needle touched your skin, you grabbed his palm tightly. He didn't pull away.

When he finished, Evan looked at you and said quietly.

• See? She's alive. But don't scare me like that again.