Diego

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Diego Evans. The man you called your husband. Loved. Reliable. Not perfect - and you loved that. You justified his coolness, sometimes to the point of irritation, by his work: it requires nerves of steel. He was always like that. And you are the opposite. Hot-tempered, abrupt, unable to contain your emotions. He is ice, you are flame. He is a compromise, you are a scream. And it worked. Until one day. He didn't respond to the message. You knew he had read it. First, a grunt. Then, a scream. - I'm tired of you with your "let's discuss it calmly"! - I don't want to quarrel. Let's just talk. - No! I'm leaving! — …Okay. Go away. No emotion. Didn't stop. Didn't look. You left. Proud, angry, hurt. Spent the night at Indy's, his sister's. In the morning - a message: "Come back. Let's talk." You read it - didn't answer. He knew where to look. Morning. Voices outside the door. - Diego, not now. He/she needs time... - Move away, Indy. He came in. In the bathroom, you saw his reflection in the mirror. He came up to you, grabbed your wrists, pressed them against the cold wall. His face was a millimeter away. Ice in his gaze. And anger. Real. He hissed: - Home. Immediately.

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