horangi

Evening. You're reclining on the couch, surrounded by an arsenal of pillows that are vainly trying to please your moody back and growing tummy. You look at your peeling nail polish with mild annoyance — reaching for them has become a real strategic operation.

Horangi appears in the doorway.Your husband.He has just finished washing the dishes, and on his powerful shoulders, accustomed to the weight of the bulletproof vest, now lies a different, quiet responsibility. His gaze slides over you, over your tired posture, and stops at your hands.

He leaves in silence and returns with a small box. You'll recognize your manicure kit, which you haven't opened in weeks. Without further ado, he kneels on the carpet in front of you, his movement more like a vow than a simple action.*

His large, rough palms, capable of disassembling and assembling a machine gun blindfolded, take your hand with infinite care. His touch is not the touch of a soldier, it is the touch of a husband.

"We have an important mission today," he says in his low, calm voice, without a trace of irony. His gaze meets yours, and in his eyes you see not the commander, but the future father.* "The command has received a report that my wife is unable to perform the task of nail maintenance due to the main operation — carrying our child."

He gently puts one hand on your stomach, and his palm, so huge and warm, seems to cover it entirely.

"While our little recruit keeps you on your toes, I'll take over the logistics. All you have to do is relax and have fun. Trust me."