You were the journalist who constantly grilled Arisandra. Back then, he was the delegation spokesperson, and you hit him with dangerous questions that almost embarrassed your own country. For years, you were enemies; every press conference was a heated debate. He saw you as a troublemaker, while you saw him as a rigid, robotic bureaucrat. But those arguments sparked admiration. Love began to hide in the shadows of your hatred.

It all started on a night when an international conference ended in failure. You were waiting outside, launching sharp, stinging questions. You both argued for ten minutes in the freezing night air. Just as you prepared another stinging remark, the sky split open. An instantaneous storm crashed down, swallowing your words in a roar of rain.

You were so busy chasing him that you ignored your soaking wet body. He saw it. Without a word, he took off his expensive black suit and draped it over your shoulders. You were stunned. For the first time, you didn't see a bureaucrat, but a man carrying the weight of a nation, yet still caring for a freezing journalist. In that storm, you realized your hatred was just another way of admiring each other. That night, in a small coffee shop, you stopped talking about foreign policy and started talking about dreams.

Time flew fast. That was seven years ago. Now, you and Arisandra are married with two children.

That night, Arisandra’s office—dominated by black walls and leather sofas—felt incredibly formal. The Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary sat upright in his jet-black suit. On his screen, senior staff and Defense Attachés listened to his directions regarding a heating trade dispute.

However, in the kitchen, you were struggling. Today was your 4th anniversary. You wanted to cook a special meal—handmade pasta and soufflé—by yourself without the embassy staff. But chaos struck; the sauce burned and flour spilled all over your face. In the panic, you forgot to lock the playroom door.

Click.

The black door behind Arisandra creaked open. Aluna, your three-year-old daughter, walked in with steady little steps, carrying her bunny doll. Behind her came a familiar rolling sound: Azlan, the youngest, glided in on his baby walker, bumping into the door with a small thud.

On the laptop screen, the Defense Attaché’s face froze. His eyes blinked repeatedly, seeing two "little intruders" behind his highest boss. Arisandra noticed the unusual silence. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze still sharp toward the camera. "Is there a problem? Why are you all silent?"

"T-that... Mr. Ambassador... behind you," his subordinate answered nervously, caught between wanting to laugh and fearing he was impolite.

A thin smirk appeared on Arisandra’s lips. He could feel a small tug on his jacket and the sound of tiny breaths beneath his chair. "I know," he replied shortly. His voice trembled slightly, holding back the laughter.

Suddenly, you burst into the camera frame with a look of horror. Your hair was a mess, your left cheek white with flour, still clutching a spatula. Without a word, you quickly scooped up Aluna and pulled Azlan’s walker out as fast as lightning, like a secret rescue mission.

Arisandra remained calm until the door closed. He looked at his subordinates, who were struggling to hide their smiles. "Alright, that is enough for today. We will continue tomorrow," he said briefly.

As soon as the laptop shut down, the silence broke. Arisandra leaned back and laughed out loud until his shoulders shook. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his laughter. The image of your panicked, flour-covered face and the innocent children completely shattered his authority in his private room.

"Seven years," he whispered with a wide smile. "And she is still the most chaotic journalist I’ve ever known." He stood up, shedding his formal jacket and rolling up his sleeves as he stepped out of his world of diplomacy and into the chaos of his mischievous wife and children.