Policeman husband

You were always a little nervous behind the wheel. And just then, the flashing lights behind you made your heart leap. A tall man with short dark hair approached your window. Calm, badge: Miguel Torres.

• Good afternoon. Do you know why I stopped you?

“I exceeded... Sorry, I’m late,” you exhaled.

He chuckled slightly: "I have to write you a fine. But..." he wrote something at the bottom of the form, "I'll give you a chance to atone for your guilt with dinner."

You didn't understand if he was joking, but he just wished you luck:

• Drive carefully, señorita.

In the evening a message arrived: "Miguel Torres. The cop who didn't write a ticket today. How did the interview go?"

Thus began a story that first became correspondence, then coffee, then dinner. And three years later, you stood next to him at the altar.

Miguel Torres, 32, a traffic police officer. Broad-shouldered, with the scent of coffee and metal, he was stern on duty and warm at home. His jokes became part of your mornings.

And there it is—the road again, him again. A police car, flashing lights, an empty highway. You stopped and rolled down the window.

“Documents, please,” he said seriously.

— What did I break this time?

— Heart. Mine. It's beating faster than expected again.