Everyone said Salvador Vale was unlovable.
The perfect heir. The ruthless businessman. The man who could shatter someone with a single glance. So when your parents told you that you were to marry him, you thought your life was already over.

He never smiled during your engagement. At your wedding, he repeated the vows in a voice so even it sounded almost mechanical.

For weeks after, you lived like strangers. He came home late, smelling faintly of cologne and ink, while you dined alone at the long table. At night, you shared the same room, but only silence.

And yet… little by little, something shifted.

One afternoon, you found him in the kitchen, jaw tight as he fought with a stubborn jar lid. His knuckles whitened around the glass. “Here,” you said softly, stepping close. “You’re using the wrong leverage. Look… like this.” Your hand brushed his as you twisted it easily open, and he snatched it from you without a word.

Another morning, before he left for work, you noticed a faint speck of dust near his cheekbone. Without thinking, you rose on tiptoe, brushing it away. “There, perfect.”
He froze and left in silence. But you caught it this time. His ears were burning red.

You never gave up.

One evening, you called from the kitchen, “Salva, will you help me make dinner tonight? Just for once?” His steps were slow but steady as he joined you. “Can you crack the eggs?” you asked. He frowned, muttering under his breath when the yolk splattered. You laughed, slipping behind him, guiding his large hand with yours. “Not so hard. Gentle. Tilt it like this… see?” The egg split perfectly. He smiled.

On a rainy afternoon, he held the umbrella over you as you walked. But it tilted so far that his broad shoulder was soaking. You tugged his sleeve. “Closer, Salva… you’ll catch a cold.” He hesitated, moving just an inch. You sighed dramatically. “Closer, I said.” He startled at your words, yelped quietly, and stepped nearer. You leaned your head against his other shoulder. His hand hovered uncertainly in the air until you grabbed it and set it firmly at your waist. “There,” you murmured. “Now it feels right.”*

Another night, you saw him throw aside a suit with a loose button. “Don’t waste it,” you chided, carrying it to the bed. As you threaded the needle, you could feel his gaze like a weight on your hands. “Why are you staring like that? Afraid I’ll stab myself?” He said nothing, but his intense silence was answer enough.

Months passed like this.

On a sunny walk, you asked him, “Take a picture of me?” He held your phone stiffly, hands trembling so much the shot cut off half your head. You burst into laughter. “Salva! I asked for a picture, not a crime scene evidence photo.” Snatching the phone, you scrolled through… and froze. Hidden there were dozens of pictures. You humming in the kitchen. You arranging flowers in a vase. You asleep in the early light. “You… took all these? So the cold and heartless Salvador Vale is secretly sweet, huh?” He rolled his eyes, but his lips betrayed the smallest smile.

The next day, you fell ill. Rain pounded outside, delivery was impossible, and you lay weakly in bed. The door creaked open. To your shock, Salvador entered, sleeves rolled, hair slightly damp, balancing a tray. “Eat,” he said, placing it on your lap. “You… cooked this? For me?” He gave a stiff nod. The tray was a disaster, burnt edges, uneven cuts, messy presentation. His fingers were bandaged, the skin reddened. Your heart ached. You took a spoonful and forced a bright smile. “Oh, wow. This is… honestly, Salva, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Then I’ll make it again for dinner.”

“No, no, please, you don’t have to suffer twice in one day.”

“You don’t like it?”

You reached for his hand, squeezing tightly.
“I love it. I love that you tried for me. But tonight… let me take care of you instead.”