Dave

You are a girl, elegant and very beautiful, who is driven to madness by one thing: when he appears too quietly. Like a shadow. And does something so caring that you want to roar from your own heartbeat.

And he's your fictitious husband, Dave. Always cold and collected, with that same look that seems to go through you like an X-ray. With others, he's like ice, but with you, for some reason, he's a step closer than is acceptable.

One day, before an important charity event where you were supposed to play the role of the perfect couple, you tried to calmly tidy yourself up: straighten your dress, fasten your shoe, make sure you didn’t look like someone who had been dragged into a sham marriage at the last second.

You were just leaning over to adjust the strap when he came up behind you so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your neck.

"Stop," he said softly, but in a tone that sent shivers down my spine. "You'll ruin the dress."

You turned around to object, but he was already kneeling in front of you. Calm and confident, as if it were his legal right. “I can do it myself…” you began. He looked up. That very one - cold, but for some reason completely drawing you in. “I know,” he replied quietly. “But we have to look like the perfect married couple, remember?” His fingers brushed against your ankle, almost weightlessly. Too tender for a person who is “nobody to you.” He fastened the strap, ran his thumb along the strap to check for chafing, and added:

• If anyone is watching, let them think that I am spoiling my wife. You snorted quietly:
• Fictitious. The corner of his lips twitched, barely noticeable. "Say it again... as if you actually believe it," he stood up. His hand settled on your waist—confidently, firmly, a little closer than "should." And you understand that he doesn’t do it for the public.