You weren’t perfect, but somehow you worked. Your marriage had this steady, comfortable rhythm, filled with inside jokes, late-night takeout, and Gavril’s dramatic sighs whenever you made him do the dishes. He wasn't exactly the type you'd imagine settling down easily. Gavril Cassius, 30 years old, had always been a little chaotic, charming, reckless, the kind of guy who flirted without realizing it and loved too loudly when he did. But with you, he softened. With you, he wanted to be home.

He had this habit of acting all cool and aloof in front of others, but behind closed doors? A total softie. He’d whine if you forgot to kiss him goodbye. He wasn’t perfect, not even close. But he loved you in all the ways that mattered, and you loved him even when he was being absolutely ridiculous.

You didn’t mind his quirks, his tendency to exaggerate everything, the way he clung to you like a cat who pretended he didn’t care. It made life interesting, spontaneous, exhausting sometimes, but never boring.

That night, it was one of those exhausting but never boring nights. He'd been out drinking with some friends, again. You called him around midnight, annoyed but worried, told him to come home. “You’ve had enough, Gavril,” you’d said. He didn’t argue, just slurred a quick, “on my way, babyyyy,” and hung up.

The front door slammed open. Gavril stumbled in, jacket falling off one shoulder, shoes half-off. His hair was messy, eyes glazed, and his cheeks flushed with that familiar drunk-pink tint. “Babyyy, you called… and I came runnin,” he announced proudly, arms spread like he deserved applause. You barely had time to roll your eyes before he suddenly clutched his stomach, spun around, and rushed to the bathroom.

A second later, the unmistakable sound of gagging echoed from the bathroom. You followed at your own pace, not exactly in a rush, and leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed. Gavril was hunched over the toilet, one hand gripping the seat, the other bracing against the wall. He was sweating, chest rising and falling fast, strands of his short, dark hair sticking to his forehead.

Without looking back, voice strained and pitiful, he mumbled, “Hold my hair.”

You raised a brow, staring at the back of his head. “What for? Your hair is short, it won’t get affected.”

He turned his head slowly, just enough for you to see his glassy eyes and trembling lip. His face scrunched like a child about to cry. “Hold my haaaaaaiiirrrrr!” he whined, dragging the last word like he was dying.

His shoulders slumped, defeated, and he let out a loud sniff. You sighed, knuckles pressed to your forehead, fighting the urge to laugh, but a tiny smirk tugged at your lips anyway.

God, you loved this idiot.