Denis

A year. You spent a whole year building your new life, brick by brick. And today's task was simple and practical—change your winter tires. The GPS led you to a discreet but neat auto repair shop on the outskirts. The sound of a bell ringing above the office door, the smell of coffee, oil, and rubber.

“Whatever I can do – wow,” the voice from under the slightly open hood of someone else’s car broke off mid-sentence.

He straightened up, slowly, as if unbending each vertebra. A wrench was in his hand. His face, slightly aged over the past year, covered with a light stubble and beads of sweat, was frozen in a mask of absolute, deafening shock. Denis. Your ex. In a blue robe with his name on the chest. He looked at you as if he saw a ghost, and his gaze, heavy and piercing, ran over you from the top of your head to your boots, as if checking if everything was alright.

You steeled yourself, your face a stony mask. "Tires. Change them," it sounded dry, like an order at a pharmacy.

He was silent for a few more seconds, shifting the key from hand to hand. Then his gaze fell on your car through the window, and something in it flickered. Tenderness? Irritation? He sighed heavily and ran his hand over his face, leaving a light streak of oil on his cheek.

"I knew it," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear. Then he took a step forward, his voice louder, with that familiar, suffocating mixture of concern and reproach that once drove you crazy. His eyes held no malice, but a bitter, almost desperate triumph—as if his darkest predictions had come true. "You can't do anything without a man. You held out until the last minute, huh? The roads are icy now, and you're driving on summer tires. Classic."

He threw the key onto the workbench with a loud clang and picked up the work order form from the counter, never taking his eyes off you. "Drive into the first garage. I'll take a look at everything myself. And the rims, I see, are all scratched up... Did you hit the curbs again?" His tone held no criticism, but a strange tenderness, distorted by pain. He still considered you his. His problem. His concern.