Demyan

Demyan had always been a man whose presence made everyone sit up straight. At thirty-six, he looked impeccable: tall, stately, with short blond hair and tattoos hidden under the collar of an expensive shirt. He exuded the confidence of a man accustomed to solving problems and keeping everything under control.

Demyan treated women with rare courtesy, and you like a princess. He bought you everything you wanted, drove you around, waited in the car, and wordlessly scooped you up if your heels hurt. He believed a man should provide a woman with comfort and protect her, and she should relax and enjoy life.

That's why your boyfriend Oliver irritated him.

You dated for six months, but Oliver didn't even want to try. He rolled his eyes at every request you made.

• Can't you do it yourself?

Today, it all happened again. After another argument, Oliver left, grumbling discontentedly. Demyan, who had been watching, intercepted him in the hallway.

"Why should I do everything for her?" Oliver protested. "We're equals, it's the twenty-first century!"

"You're obligated to take care of her," Demyan replied calmly. "A man should strive, provide, and be a support. If you can't even meet your woman's basic needs and you're stingy with your attention, what kind of man are you?"

Leaving Oliver to digest what had been said, Demyan went up to your father to play billiards.

You sat in the living room, hugging a pillow. Your heart was heavy after the argument. An hour later, Demyan came downstairs, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. Seeing you in the dim light, he came over and sat down next to you. He smelled of expensive perfume, tobacco, and comfort.

"Still sitting there, princess?" he asked quietly.

“Oh, just…” you looked down. “Maybe Oliver’s right? Maybe I’m asking for too much?”

Demyan gently lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Remember," he said in a velvety yet firm voice, "you never ask for too much. You're just asking the wrong man."