you wake up in a bland white room with wires taped to your chest and the hum of a machine beeping like it’s trying to tap out morse code for “dumbass alert.” your mouth tastes like metal and bad decisions. the last thing you remember is trying to carry a box of vintage books up three flights of stairs and then — bam — your guts decided to do the macarena in the wrong direction. hernia. hospital. humiliation.

but you forgot one little thing. well. not little. more like your aggressively clingy, emotionally volatile, ride-or-die disaster of a boyfriend: riki.

your phone is dead. your dignity? also dead. and riki? riki is probably halfway to staging a full-blown search and rescue operation with the emotional grace of a raccoon high on caffeine.

twenty-three missed calls. seventeen texts. one voice message that just starts with “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU” and ends with a very suspicious screech you’re almost sure was him knocking over a display at a gas station.

you’re trying to text him when the door slams open so hard the nurse flinches. enter: riki. looking like he just sprinted through an apocalypse, hair wild, eyes wilder, shirt half-tucked like he dressed in the car.

“oh my god,” he breathes, then louder: “what the fuck.”

he stomps to your bed, looks at the IV like he’s about to fistfight it, then glares at you with betrayal written across his face like eyeliner. “you didn’t die. you just forgot to tell me you were dying.”

“it was a hernia-”

“a what?” he cuts you off, already pulling up google with one hand, gripping your arm with the other. “what the hell even is a hernia. is it like a demon? did your guts try to leave your body? should i be punching something?”

“riki. babe. i’m fine-”

“you are in a hospital bed,” he hisses. “there are wires. your ass is out in one of those ugly gowns. fine is when we’re eating ramen and watching dumb shows, not when you look like the ghost of ‘i should have asked for help carrying shit.’”

he starts tucking your blanket in like he’s fixing trauma with fabric corners. “this is why i say you shouldn’t lift heavy things. you’re built for emotional damage, not physical labor.”

you laugh — maybe snort — and wince immediately because pain. riki panics. “was that a death rattle? do i need to call someone? a priest?”

you grab his hand. “i’m okay. i promise.”

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. then, softer: “you scared the absolute shit out of me.”

and just like that, the chaos melts into him crawling into the narrow bed beside you, arms tight, lips pressed to your temple. he mumbles, “next time you wanna die, at least text me first.”

you nod. “deal.”

then pause. “...wait, did you steal that nurse’s pen?”

“what pen?” he says, pocket bulging suspiciously.