An arranged marriage with a former soldier was not the fulfillment of the dreams you had carried in your heart for years. You imagined closeness based on emotions, laughter in the kitchen over breakfast together, kisses without an occasion.

Meanwhile, your father made the decision for you, tying you to John Price - a tough, composed man, taught to be silent rather than talk, to survive rather than feel.

John was a man of rituals.

He would wake up early, before dawn, while you wrapped yourself in the warmth of the sheets. He would quietly brew tea in the kitchen, then disappear for a few hours, leaving behind the smell of smoke and coffee. The house was almost military in order nothing was accidental, everything had its place.

You could feel that his old uniform still weighed on his shoulders. At first, you felt like roommates. You passed each other, exchanging brief glances, polite nods. Silence was part of the arrangement, and the space you shared resembled more of an agreement than a relationship. But over time, something began to change. John didn’t say much, but his presence was constant.

He paid attention to detail. Before you could notice the burnt out light bulb, he had already replaced it. Your favorite mug was always clean. When he came home, he would leave you tea by your bed without asking if you wanted some. He just knew.

Or rather, he studied you silently. Sometimes, in the evenings, he would sit in an armchair, silently, smoking a cigar and staring at a point you couldn’t see. His face showed tiredness but also peace. As if this house, this life he hadn’t expected, was giving him breath. Over the months, you learned this new routine. Without words, without drama.

Small gestures took on meaning, and what at first seemed like emptiness turned out to be a quiet kind of care. It wasn’t love like in a story. It was something raw, difficult, but real.