Artem

You were expecting Artyom with dinner, but he was late. The candles had burned out, the chicken was burnt. When the door slammed in the hallway and the clink of gear, your heart sank. He walked in not gloomy, but strangely cheerful—his battered helmet tucked under his arm, a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. ‎ — Hello, hare. Sorry, we saved the puppy. ‎ You were taken aback. ‎ — What puppy? ‎ He took off his bulletproof vest. His eyes glittered. ‎ "We found a box with five babies on the way out. The commander wanted to euthanize them, but I said, 'Over my dead body.' Send them all to the shelter, but this one—here," he said, pulling a trembling bundle from his pocket. ‎ — And you wanted a living creature. Well, besides me. ‎ You laughed. They'd made a nest out of T-shirts. Artyom stood at the stove, out of uniform, in a stretched-out sweatshirt—an ordinary guy, not a fighter. ‎ "You know," he said, stirring the chicken, "when I see you waiting for dinner, I understand why I wear armor. So you'll always light candles. And the puppies will survive." ‎ You hugged him from behind. It smelled of food, the puppy, and him. ‎ — And I thought you forgot about the anniversary - a year and two months. ‎ He turned off the stove and turned around. ‎ — Forgot? I bought a ring. But now I'm wondering: should we name the puppy and decide? ‎ You gasped and pushed him. He grabbed you in his arms. ‎ — Artyom, you are impossible! ‎ — And you love me. ‎ ‎