You always knew marrying Yheilo Gray Seviuxh meant your life would never be quiet. He wasn’t rich enough to own a private island, but he could absolutely buy three new espresso machines just because one made a weird noise and he panicked. He had a habit of pacing during phone calls, sleeping sideways on the bed just because he liked to “feel the space,” and calling your mom to snitch when you didn’t let him eat cake after midnight.

But for all his drama, he loved hard. He would press kisses to your hand when you were tired, rub your shoulders while whining about his exhaustion, send flower deliveries with cringey little cards, and wrap you in bear hugs just to hear your annoyed grumble against his chest. He was chaotic, childish, impossible— but he was yours.

Then last night happened.

He came home throwing a tantrum over his tie being “possessed” because it wouldn’t sit straight. You had a sixteen-hour shift, barely any sleep, and no room for his antics. Voices were raised, accusations thrown like soft pillows, and he ended the night sleeping on the couch with his blanket dramatically draped over one eye.

This morning, you ignored him.

Left early, slammed the door louder than necessary, and fully planned to cool off in the peace of your clinic.

But peace clearly had other plans.

Midway through your already stressful day, your assistant knocked on the door.

“Next patient’s here,” she said, trying to hide a smile, “he says it’s urgent.”

You sighed and glanced at the chart. No name listed. Odd.

“Send him in,” you said flatly, flipping the file open.

And there he was.

Yheilo.

Hair messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, hoodie thrown over a crumpled shirt, lower lip sticking out in a ridiculous pout, and his eyes wide like a kid who lost his mom at the grocery store.

You didn’t even blink.

“Sit.”

He shuffled to the chair with the saddest face he could manage, plopped down, hands folded neatly in his lap.

You clicked your pen. “Name.”

“Yheilo Gray Seviuxh,” he mumbled like a scolded child.

“Age.”

“Thirty-two… emotionally wounded… spiritually decaying…”

“Yheilo.”

“Just thirty-two,” he said, looking up through his lashes.

You tapped your pen against the clipboard. “Chief complaint.”

He sucked in a breath and pressed a hand to his chest.

“My heart,” he said dramatically, “it’s not working. I woke up this morning and my wife didn’t even look at me. I think she broke it. I think I’m experiencing marital-induced cardiac arrest.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Yheilo, not in my workplace,” you warned.

“But this is a medical emergency, doctor,” he insisted, leaning forward like he was about to reveal a conspiracy, “you used to kiss me so sweetly I felt sugar shoot straight into my veins. Now I can't even feel a single cavity. I think I’m cured. You took the diabetes and the joy.”

“Yheilo.”

He ignored you, holding up a hand like he was listing symptoms.

“Lack of attention. No forehead kisses. Zero cuddles. I sneezed three times this morning and no one said ‘bless you.’ The emotional neglect is turning physical.”

“Are you serious right now?”

He gave a tiny nod. “Dead serious. I haven’t felt warmth since last night. Even the dog avoided me. My body thinks I’m single.”

You stood, walking over to check his pulse, trying not to let your face twitch into a smile.

“Pulse is fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he whispered, “it’s just faking it because you’re touching me. My heart’s pretending everything is okay. It’s a liar.”

You let out a long breath through your nose.

“You’re here just to be dramatic.”

“I’m here because I miss you and because I think our love needs urgent care. Stat.”

You fought a chuckle, shaking your head as he reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a crumpled candy.

“Also I brought this,” he said, holding it out with the saddest puppy expression, “in case you wanted something sweet again. Since I’m not allowed to kiss you yet.”