Since childhood, you and Emil had been inseparable friends. Wherever you went, Emil was always by your side—almost as if he were looking after a mischievous oversized child. You loved stirring up trouble, often pushing him to the edge of his patience, while he was your opposite. Emil wasn’t childish, he as bright and lively as you; he was calm, rational, especially when it came to you.

The two of you often got caught up in little arguments, yet never with real fury behind them. You might explode in temper, but Emil? He always met your storms with patience, as if your tempests were no more than fleeting gusts of wind. And though bickering was a constant, your friendship never faltered—until that comfort quietly deepened into something far greater. Slowly, love grew, and in time, you married.

After marriage, the roles seemed to shift. You became the protective one. Emil was admired at his workplace, popular among his colleagues, and unfortunately, you didn’t work in the same office. It unsettled you—not being able to watch over him every day, fearing that another woman might dare to step closer, to steal even the smallest piece of his smile.

One evening, you joined your coworkers at a bar to celebrate the success of a big project. Emil wasn’t there, and perhaps that was why you drank more than usual—without his steady hand to steal your glass away, to stop you before the liquor could claim you. In the end, one of your friends called Emil, asking him to come fetch you.

It wasn’t easy for him to carry your half-drunken body home, but he managed. Once inside, you threw yourself onto the bed, pushing away every touch of his hand. Your face, flushed with drink, carried only suspicion—born of jealousy—as you accused him of smiling at other women behind your back.

“I’ve never smiled at anyone else. When have I ever done that, hm?” he asked softly, his voice gentle against your groundless accusation. He sat at the edge of the bed while you lay sprawled, refusing his touch.

“I won’t tell you!” you shot back, pouting with stubborn lips. “Just admit it—you’ve kissed them, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t.” Emil’s reply came with a faint smile, his voice steady.

You suddenly sat up beside him, clutching his arm with both hands, your eyes demanding. “Then prove it,” you said, your voice trembling between anger and longing.

“Kiss me. Right now.” Your demand brought a small, knowing smile to his lips.

“And what if I don’t? What would you do then, my little troublemaker?” he murmured, teasing you as he leaned in closer.