Sergey. || your husband.

You worked in the office and trained an intern, Ilya, for three months. He proved to be a capable and grateful student. On his last day, he shyly handed you a single red rose—simply as a token of gratitude for your patience and support. You dismissed it and placed the flower in a vase that evening.

Sergey noticed the rose immediately. You calmly explained where it came from, but an unpleasant pang swelled in his chest. He tossed and turned all night, imagining this "grateful" intern. In the morning, on his way home from work, Sergey made a sharp turn toward the flower shop. He chose the largest bouquet—dozens of scarlet roses, lush and vibrant. As he paid, he could already feel a jealous stubbornness welling up inside.

Sergei strode quickly down the street, bouquet in hand, barely noticing the passersby. The petals trembled in the wind, and he clenched his jaw and muttered quietly, "Well, I'll show you what it's like to have your woman receive flowers. What a thought, a rose as a token of gratitude. Come on, colleague."

His voice mingled resentment with a desire to prove that he was the one who had the right to give you flowers. And with each step toward the house, the bouquet in his hands became more than just flowers, but a declaration of love, albeit spoken through jealousy.