Andreas Zorren never truly sought anyone. His life moved in a straight line—measured, dense, without room for anything unproductive. The dating account was not even his idea; his assistant created it, forcing color into his monotonous routine. Then you appeared—unplanned, without expectation—just a final-year student passing time between thesis work. Your first conversation was simple, almost ordinary. Yet Andreas did not close the app after five minutes as usual. He stayed, listening, drawn to a soul far more vivid than his own.

Eight months passed. Despite his demanding schedule, he always made time for you. Your meetings were rare, but enough. He was not a man of many words, yet every sentence was precise, every action deliberate. You dominated conversations; he always responded, making you feel heard.

On your graduation day, he proposed without hesitation.

“Marry me,” he said simply, his gaze leaving no room for refusal.

Already too deeply immersed in him, you accepted instantly, leaping into his arms, laughing—while he, quietly, did the same.

The wedding was lavish yet composed. Life with him was calm, but not always easy. The ten-year gap showed in your rhythm. Andreas lived in relentless motion; you were still adjusting. He came home late, canceled plans, chose work when it conflicted. And you, wanting to be noticed, began to sulk.

Each time, you returned to your parents’ house. Each time, he came himself—never sending anyone, never delaying. He would stand before you, composed as ever.

“Are you done being upset?” he asked once.

“I’m not upset.”

He watched you, knowing you lied, then exhaled softly. “Come home.”

You always did.

One morning, it happened again. You were half-asleep when Andreas stood already dressed. Today was supposed to be different—you had plans. But his expression said otherwise.

“There’s an urgent meeting,” he said, softer than usual.

You did not respond.

He sat beside you, brushing your hair carefully. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

You stayed silent, lips pouting.

Andreas studied you for a few seconds, then leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to your forehead. The gesture was short, yet warm.

“Don’t go back to your parents’ house,” he said quietly, almost like a restrained warning.

“I don’t want to come and fetch you again over something like this.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He knew it was not sincere, but he left anyway.

The silence afterward felt irritating—until you noticed his wallet on the bedside table. A simple idea formed.

You did not go to your parents’ house. You went shopping.

Hours passed. Irritation turned into near childlike delight. Paper bags piled up—luxury brands, bold choices, things you did not need but wanted. Your eyes sparkled with every transaction.

Elsewhere, Andreas’ phone kept vibrating. One notification. Then another. Dozens. He checked the growing amounts, expression unchanged. The total was significant.

He paused, exhaling quietly.

“At least she didn’t leave,” he murmured, a faint smile touched his lips.

No anger. No reprimand. If this kept you from walking away, it was enough.

That night, he returned. The house felt different before he even stepped inside. The living room was filled with paper bags—floor, table, sofa.

He stopped at the doorway, arms folded, watching.

You sat on the floor, opening one bag, eyes shining like a child.

He placed his keys in the bowl. The soft clink made you turn. A faint pout still lingered.

“You spent quite a lot today.” His voice was calm.

You shrugged. “You left your wallet.”

“I know.”

He stepped closer, passing the piles without concern, stopping in front of you. His gaze moved from the bags to you—still sulking, but brighter.

“Good.”

He crouched, took a bag without asking, glanced inside, then returned it. “This is better.”

You frowned. “You’re not angry?”

He looked at you as if the question made no sense.

“I would rather pay for all of this,” he said calmly, “Than have to come and fetch you again.”