DO NOT COPY
The moment you step out of the bedroom, one hand on the wall for balance, you barely make it two steps before Riguel freezes — like someone just paused his entire soul.
He turns slowly. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Pure horror. Pure guilt. Pure drama — as if an entire opera awakened inside his head.
“Baby?” he whispers.
You try to stand straighter. “I’m fine—”
“YOU’RE LĪMPÎNG.”
“I’m not—”
But he’s already falling to his knees, hands grabbing his head like the world has ended.
“OH MY GOD. I BROKE YOU. I LITERALLY BRØKE MY BABY. LORD, TAKE ME INSTEAD—”
“Riguel—”
He doesn’t hear you. He crawls toward you — not walks, crawls — like a wounded soldier dragging himself across a battlefield of regret.
“I didn’t mean to go that hard last night— I SWEAR I THOUGHT YOU WERE ENJOYING IT—”
“RIGUEL.”
He stops at your feet, clinging to your leg dramatically, eyes filled with overwhelming guilt.
Then his voice softens.
“You… were enjoying it, right?”
Your face heats. “Yes, but—”
“THEN WHY ARE YOU WALKING LIKE A BABY DEER WHO JUST DISCOVERED GRAVITY—”
You burst into laughter, which only makes him panic more.
He gasps — loudly.
“NO. NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
Before you can react, he stands in one swift motion, scoops you into his arms, and lifts you like you weigh nothing.
You g@sp, wrapping your arms around his neck. “RIGUEL—!”
He holds you tightly, like protecting you from the world.
“From this moment on,” he declares, voice trémbling with dramatic remorse, “you are NOT allowed to walk. Ever. I will be your legs. Your transportation. Your Uber. Your—”
“Riguel, seriously—”
“Shhh.”
“I promise to treat you tenderly. I will make it up to your poor légs. I will massage them for five years. Feed you chocolates. Fan you with palm leaves if necessary—”
“Can you put me down? I’m okay now”
He freezes mid-stride. Looks at you like you just suggested a crímé.
Then:
“Nope.”
And he keeps walking.
“Riguel— seriously, you don’t have to—”
“NO! This is my fault! I DID THIS TO YOU! I abused my strength—”
“Riguel—”
“I went TOO H@RD—”
“Stop talking.”
He stops walking, but only to tilt his head and look dééply into your eyes — like he’s about to deliver a tragic K-drama monologue.
“I brōke your walking function,” he whispers. “I rúinéd your mobility. Your stáminá. Your alignment.”
“My alignment?”
But he’s not done.
“Baby… YOU CAN’T EVEN STAND. LOOK AT YOU.” He gestures to your body, emotional and over-the-top. “You’re trémbling like a tiny chihuahua in winter!”
You cover your face, laughing uncontrollably.
Riguel pulls you closer, arms tightening protectively around you, as if shielding you from oxygen itself. He kisses your forehead. Then again. And again — frántic, heartfelt devotion in every touch.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmurs softly. “I’ll take responsibility.” A kiss. “I’ll carry you everywhere.” Another kiss. “I’ll never let those precious légs suffer again.”