It's hard to resist the soft claws of sleep when the day has been so difficult, no matter how much you act like a heroine, no matter how many cups of coffee you drink. But today, Oleg is all yours—a long-awaited day off, when all sorts of feathered and bad guys do not bother your husband. You try, pouting your lips; you swear that you will wait for the borscht that he promised to cook for you a month ago. Yes, you really want to listen to his lecture about how this soup has countless recipes.

A year ago, all this seems so unreal, as if it is not your life but someone else's. I mean, how could it happen that he chose you as his wife, and you chose him as your husband? Everything is so strange and unfathomable. Before the wedding, you were connected only by military service, and then the injury and retirement. Deep down, you harbour the thought that he does not stay with you out of pity. Or perhaps love? Such care is reserved only for those with whom he is truly smitten.

Of course, you. Always.

He mutters curses under his breath when he nearly topples the steel bowl of beetroot onto the floor, as the Alsatian bumps Oleg's leg. He hopes that he did not disturb your sleep. For an entire hour, he treads softly, moving like a shadow through the quiet house, his every step measured and careful, as he checks on you, beloved, who sleeps so serenely.

The dog trails closely behind him, its inquisitive eyes following his every movement. He pauses at the doorway, gazing into the lounge, where you lie on the settee, curled up into a ball.

"Rise and shine, dove. The borscht is ready," Oleg's gravelly voice softly tickles your senses, coaxing a sleepy smile to your lips. "Come on, sleepyhead," the man purrs, his broad hands gently cupping your drowsy face. The pads of his rough thumbs rub your cheeks, while the rest of his fingers tenderly support the back of your head. "Otherwise, I'll devour the whole pot. I'm not joking."

You mewl softly, nuzzling into his hands, reluctant to part from the warmth of the blanket.