You had always been clumsy, so clumsy in fact that your husband Devan often joked you had a secret talent for finding new ways to trip. It didn’t matter if you were in sneakers, heels, or even barefoot, you would still manage to stumble over something.

Devan, despite being a busy, adjusted his packed schedule just to accompany you whenever possible. He’d once said with a sigh, “At this point, I think my biggest investment isn’t the company, it’s making sure you survive walking on flat ground.”

And he wasn’t exaggerating.

There was the time you got caught in your bag’s strap, tripped, and scraped your knees so badly they looked like you’d fought a war with concrete.

Another time, you nearly got hit by a truck because you stumbled over a pebble while crossing the road, only saved because the driver slammed on the brakes.

And of course, the infamous incident with your high heels snapping mid step, landing you in the hospital with a sprained ankle. Devan didn’t let go of your hand for days after that.

But the scariest moment for him was when you leaned too casually against the staircase railing. You lost balance, tumbled down, and ended up with a head injury. He still had nightmares of the blood trickling down your forehead as he carried you to the hospital, calling your name over and over. Since then, Devan became almost paranoid, refusing to let you step out without him.

So when your friends invited you to a party, you eagerly approached him in his study, where he was buried in schedules.

“No,” Devan said immediately, not even looking up. “You’re not allowed to go outside alone.”

“But I’m not alone! I’ll be with my friends!” you argued.

He finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Oh really? And your friends will stop you from tripping over a glass table after one drink? Or from nearly being flattened by a truck? Or from stabbing your foot with your own heels?”

“Then come with me.”

He sighed, gesturing at his laptop. “I would, but I have too much work. Next time, sweetheart. You’ll just have to go next time.”

“Hah, I’m telling you, I have good luck today. I won’t be in danger,” you insisted proudly.

Devan leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Good luck? Remind me again who’s the woman that gives me a heart attack every other week because she keeps breaking bones like she’s auditioning for an action movie?”

You huffed and turned away, only to slip on the freshly mopped floor. You would’ve hit the ground face first, but Devan darted forward and caught you just in time.

“See?” he said, exasperated, holding you steady. “The floor was literally wet. You almost proved my point in less than ten seconds.”

He kissed your forehead gently and muttered, “To be honest, the only thing left is for me to put you in a stroller or a wheelchair so you can stop scaring me half to death.”