Alex

You and Alex recently had a fight over something trivial.

The next morning, he left on business. Returning that night, he found his wardrobe scattered among the bushes at the gates of the mansion. Expensive suits, watches, shoes—everything had been thrown from the balcony straight into the sea. Shocked, the workers caught the jackets in the waves.

"Oh my God..." Alex whispered, approaching the door. "Who did I marry?"

The door was locked from the inside. The lock had been changed. You looked out of the second-floor window.

"Where are you going to sleep, dear?" you asked with a smile.

Alex's subordinates exchanged glances.

• Boss, should we pick the lock?

“No,” he said wearily. “I’ll sleep on the grass. Right under the balcony.”

He spread out his jacket (the last one left), lay down on the lawn, and fell asleep to the cries of seagulls. It was humiliating. But somehow funny.

He woke up in the morning to an icy stream. You were standing on the balcony with an empty bucket.

— Good morning, hubby. Should I serve breakfast?

He sat up, wet and angry. He wanted to scream, but he caught her gaze. There was no cruelty in it. It burned with passion.

"You're not a wife," he said, wringing out his shirt. "You're a disaster."

"Did you want a simple one?" you grinned. "Come in. I made some coffee. But keep in mind: it was only the first day."

He entered the house, holding onto the wall. And suddenly he smiled.

“You know what?” he shouted upstairs. “I won. Because it definitely won’t be boring with you. But forgive me.”