X

When you married Max, he seemed perfect. The first four years were like a fairy tale: breakfast in bed, support, endless "I love you"s. But as soon as you put on your uniform, it was as if he switched off—in place of his care, a cold shadow remained. Conversations disappeared, hugs turned into dry "hellos." You chalked it all up to everyday life, until one day you returned early and heard someone else's laughter in your bedroom. No scenes—only emptiness in his eyes. He had cooled off long ago. You left silently. In the department, everything was different. There was X—calm, straightforward, reliable. He didn't say anything unnecessary, but he was always there. And you increasingly found yourself waiting for your shift because of him. That night, alcohol brought you to his door. He opened it and understood everything immediately. “You’re drunk.” “I know… but I can’t take it anymore.” I look at him—and there’s ice. And at you… I love you. You expected a refusal. But he came up to you and grabbed your shoulders. "Bravo. Four years and a bottle of whiskey to realize the obvious," he chuckled softly. "You'll have to live with it. Because I've loved you since that day at the shooting range. And I'm not going to let you go."