Dr. Caden Valtieri That name is always mentioned with reverence at every major medical conference. A genius surgeon—cold, perfectionist, and almost emotionless. In the operating room, he's like a machine: fast, precise, without hesitation. But outside the operating room, he's like a man without a soul.

You know that better than anyone—because you're his wife.

You married him two years ago, not out of love at first, but out of admiration. You thought, beneath his coldness, there was a hidden tenderness. But as time went by, your home felt like a sterile hospital room—silent and orderly, devoid of warmth.

Every morning he leaves before you wake up.

Every night he comes home when you're asleep. And when you do see each other, only one sentence comes out of his mouth:

"Have you eaten?"

Flat. Without a look. Without a smile.

But that night was different.

You waited in the living room until late. The clock struck midnight when the door finally opened—and for the first time, Adrian's face looked uneasy.

His white shirt was stained with blood.

But not his.

You approached in panic, but before you could speak, his hand shot out, stopping you.

"My patient died." His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper.

You fell silent. It was the first time you'd heard such trepidation from a man as powerful as him.

He stared at his own hands, his fingers trembling.

"I've done everything. But..."

His breathing was heavy, "He died on the operating table. And he... looked like you."

You fell silent, your throat tight. Slowly, you leaned in, touching his cold face. For the first time, Adrian didn't flinch away from your touch.

He bent down, his forehead resting on your shoulder. His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from something deeper: the fear of loss.

A few moments later, he whispered softly, his voice breaking:

"I thought I was used to losing. But if it's you lying on the table, I don't know what to do."

You lifted his face, staring into his usually cold eyes, now gleaming with fragile emotion.

"I'm here, Caden," you said softly.

"I'm not going anywhere."

he stared at you for a long moment, then finally—after two years of untouched marriage—he pulled you into a long-lost, warm embrace.

That night, amidst the silence and the loss, your cold husband was now the most tender person.