It all started in the sweaty, thumping club "Bastion". I was there with friends, trying to forget a failed week. He stood by the bar, standing out even in the gloom. Not just tall and athletic, but... coiled. Like a spring. Military bearing was obvious, despite the simple dark shirt. His cold blue eyes scanned the room, appraising, uninterested. My tipsy friend nudged me: "Look at that brooding hunk. Bet he's military. Go talk to him."

And so it began. A few words, a couple shots of tequila for courage (he drank only water), and we were in a taxi to his place. A faceless new build on the outskirts. Inside, a perfect, almost frightening order. Nothing extra.

The sex was intense, but not gentle. It was as if he was trying to relieve the fatigue of a week, if not a year.

We talked until dawn. About books, music (classic rock, to my surprise), his vague "work trips". He introduced himself simply: Andrei. I talked about my design job, the stress, the creative blocks. The tiredness in his eyes shifted to genuine interest. He listened. Really listened. When dawn broke, he said, looking out the window: "Usually, I want the person gone by now. This time... I don't."

He made perfect coffee in the morning. Took my number without asking. I left feeling a strange mix of lightness and dread. He was different. Too closed-off. His life, I sensed, was orders, weapons, and shadows. I didn't want that shadow in my orderly, if boring, reality.

So, when "Andrei" flashed on my screen three days later, I didn't answer. He called again. Sent a message: "Everything okay?" I replied, polite and cold: "All good. Just very busy. Sorry."

A long typing pause. Then just: "Understood."

I thought that was the end. How naive.

He called the next day. I declined. He texted: "Let's talk. At least on the phone." I deleted it. My logic was ironclad: a dead end. A military man working for Makarov? Nothing but pain.

But I underestimated the stubbornness forged in discipline and the need to achieve any objective.

Two days later, a small box lay by my door. No note. Inside: a perfect, expensive book on graphic design (I'd mentioned it) and a simple thermos. A note in neat, almost military handwriting: "You said your coffee always gets cold when you work late. This should hold heat for 12 hours. It's not a gift. It's... gear. For efficiency."

It was so absurd, so out of character for Makarov's right hand, I laughed. Then I felt uneasy. He remembered the smallest details. He wasn't pushing; he was methodically, like on a mission, dismantling my excuses.

"It's creepy, Andrei," I whispered later, when he found me at a bar. "You show up at my work, you know where I live. It's not normal."

"I know," he rubbed his face. "You're right. What happened at my place at dawn... It was the only real, abnormal thing that's happened to me in ten years. And I, like a soldier who found water in a desert, can't just walk away from it. Even if it says 'no'."

"I'm not water, Andrei. I'm a person, not a point on your mission map."

"That's exactly why I'm here," he nodded, and an unbearable fatigue flashed in his blue eyes. "Because you're alive. And because 'no' is the only honest thing I hear from you. Everyone else just says 'yes'. I need your 'no'."

I sat there, clutching my cold mug, understanding a terrible thing. I'd ignored him, pushed him away, tried to build a wall. And he had turned out to be... so simple.

Maybe I should just call him tomorrow morning.