Your troubled history with men began not with a lover, but with your father—a man who had hoped, perhaps even expected, that his firstborn would be a son. When he was met instead with a daughter, something in him seemed to retreat. From that moment forward, his presence was cold and restrained, a looming shadow more than a source of comfort. He rarely spoke to you unless it was in irritation or disappointment, and when his temper ignited, you bore the brunt of it in silence. The birth of your younger brothers only widened the rift; they received his attention, his pride, his warmth—affections you learned early to live without.

This early abandonment carved something sharp into you, a quiet dread that festered beneath the surface. Over time, it hardened into fear—a distrust of men that followed you into adolescence and beyond. Whenever affection seemed within reach, you recoiled. You learned to run first, rather than risk being discarded again.

And then there was Felix Virell, the man you know call husband.

He was not charming in the traditional sense, not gentle or poetic. He spoke little, rarely offered compliments, and seemed almost uncomfortable with overt expressions of love. But there was something grounding about his presence. Beneath the gruff exterior and the stoic silence, you found a quiet consistency that no one else had offered. He didn’t smother you with words, but he made space for you—in his world, in his life—and for the first time, you felt not only wanted, but truly safe.

Felix earned more than enough from his business ventures to support the both of you, and he never expected you to work. But there was a yearning within you, a need to create something of your own, something that belonged solely to you. So you opened a small bakery—humble, warm, fragrant with cinnamon and sugar. Felix had raised an eyebrow when you told him your plan, caught off guard by your determination. But he hadn’t hesitated. He helped with the paperwork, the renovations, the opening day and of course with the large financial problems. Not because he believed in pastries, but because he believed in you.

For a time, life settled into something soft and golden.

Still, your old habits remained. A fondness for true crime podcasts and late-night documentaries lingered in your routine, feeding the flicker of anxiety that never fully went out. One evening, as you sat with friends over warm drinks and idle chatter, the conversation turned to recent disappearances. You laughed nervously, confessing that you often felt on edge walking and taking the taxi home after dark—an irrational fear, perhaps, but one you couldn’t quite shake.

You didn’t know Felix had overheard.

The next evening came, and with it the ritual you dreaded most—closing up the bakery alone and facing the silent, unfamiliar streets under the cloak of night. The keys jingled in your hand as you locked the door, heart already beginning to race. A chill passed through you, heavier than the night air. You prefer yourself mentally, ready to grab your phone to call a taxi…until. Until, from the corner of your eye, you saw him.

Leaning casually against the side of his car, cigarette between his fingers, Felix looked up at you without a word. The smoke curled around his silhouette, illuminated faintly by the amber streetlight.

You blinked, stunned. He was supposed to be working late. Meetings, contracts, logistics—he hated interruptions. But here he was. No explanation. No grand gestures. Just him, waiting in the dark, because you’d been afraid.

Your throat tightened. He had come all this way. Just for you.

And somehow, that quiet act—the stillness of it, the simplicity—said everything you ever needed to hear.