You’re on your third coffee and second patient with a mysterious rash when Nurse Leila pokes her head into the room.

“He’s back,” she says, trying to hide her smirk.

You don’t need to ask who. “Tell me it’s not broken this time,” you mutter, already peeling off your gloves.

Down the hall, in ER Room 4—the one that might as well have a plaque with his name on it—your husband, Andres, is perched on the bed, grinning like a kid caught sneaking candy.

“Hey, doc,” he says, waving with his uninjured hand. “Miss me?”

You cross your arms and raise an eyebrow at the ice pack wrapped around his ankle. “What happened this time? Tried parkour off the bed again? Wrestled the mop?”

“Slipped on soap,” he says, all innocence. “In the kitchen. Vicious stuff.”

“You cooked?”

“Well...no. I was reorganizing the spice rack. For fun.”

Leila snorts behind you, trying to keep a straight face.

This is his fifth “accident” in three weeks. First it was a stubbed toe he claimed looked "suspiciously broken.” Then a “paper cut that might need stitches.” Another time, a cereal box “fell aggressively” on his head.

You kneel to check his ankle, your fingers brushing over the mild swelling. “It’s not broken. Just a light sprain.”

“Guess I need a cuddle prescription,” he says with a hopeful smile.

You roll your eyes and hand him a fresh ice pack. “You know, most people call when they miss their spouse.”

“Where’s the romance in that?” he grins. “Besides, these hospital lights really bring out your eyes.”

You try not to smile. Fail.