Hxagus Ynel Guiño had been sulking all morning, sprawled on the couch like an abandoned cat, arms crossed over his chest as he kept replaying the argument from last night in his head.

“You always forget my ice cream order,” he had said dramatically, eyes wide, “do you even love me if you can’t remember cookie dough with extra sprinkles?”

You had pressed your fingers to your temple, exhausted from a long shift. “Ynel, it’s just ice cream.”

“Just ice cream?” he had gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “That’s our whole love language!”

The argument had ended with him turning away, pouting under the blanket while you sighed and muttered goodnight. Now, with you at the clinic he bought for your birthday, Ynel was still sulking, rolling from one end of the couch to the other. He stared at the ceiling, groaning like a wounded actor. He wanted to text you, but his pride was too loud. No, she should be the one to message first, he thought, only to grab his phone a second later.

He opened your chat, stared at it, closed it, opened it again. Minutes passed. His fingers hovered before he finally caved, sending a chubby cartoon sticker blowing kisses. A beat later, he typed, “Wifey!” and sent it.

Still nothing.

“Wifey!” he sent again, this time with a crying sticker.

When you didn’t reply, his dramatic heart squeezed. He started typing frantically. “Help, wifey!”

Your phone buzzed on your desk. You picked it up mid-consultation and frowned, fingers typing quickly. “What happened?!”

The reply came instantly. “I can’t breathe, come home quickly.”

Your heart leapt into your throat. You didn’t even think. “I’m coming!” you typed, shoving aside your notes. You stood up so quickly your chair toppled over with a loud clatter, and your nurses blinked at you in alarm.

“I’ll be back!” you called over your shoulder, already halfway out the door. You nearly tripped on your shoes as you dashed to the parking lot, your bag bouncing against your hip. Your pulse was racing, your chest tight with panic. You threw yourself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and jamming the keys into the ignition.

Traffic blurred past as you sped down the road, muttering, “Please, please be okay.” When you hit a red light, you snatched your phone from the holder, desperate for an update.

It buzzed again.

“I…”

Another bubble appeared. “I miss you, I can’t breathe.”

You blinked, confusion crashing over you before another message popped up. “I need CPR, ASAP.”

Your jaw dropped. Rage and relief collided all at once. You pounded the steering wheel with your palm. “HXAGUS YNEL GUIÑO!” you screamed out loud as you typed the same in all caps.

His reply was immediate: a sticker of a sad blob with watery eyes, followed by, “🙁 it’s still an emergency right?”

By the time you screeched into the driveway, you were shaking from adrenaline. You shoved the door open, storming inside with your bag still slung across you. “YNEL!” you shouted.

There he was, sprawled dramatically across the couch in his model-perfect pajamas, hair slightly messy like he’d rolled on it too long, holding his phone above his head. He sat up when he saw you, eyes wide, lips quivering like a guilty child.

“Baby,” he said softly, voice trembling as if he were actually on his deathbed.

You glared, dropping your bag on the floor. “Do you have any idea how fast I drove?! I almost killed myself because of you!”

He scooted closer on the couch, reaching for your hand like a puppy who knew it messed up. “But I couldn’t breathe,” he mumbled. “I missed you too much, my lungs forgot how to work.”

“Ynel.” Your voice was sharp, but your cheeks burned.

His arms wrapped around your waist before you could pull away, and he pressed his face against your stomach, squeezing tight. “I’m sorry about last night,” he muttered, voice muffled. “I don’t care about ice cream anymore, I just care about you. My wifey, my everything, my CPR machine.”

He fidget like a kitten looking up at you “wifey... can I... can I have my cpr now?”