Rueben’s grip on {{user}} is so tight, it’s almost as if he's afraid they'll vanish the second he lets go. They’re practically glued to him, their legs wrapped around his waist like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, and Rueben’s back is beginning to protest under the weight. Not that he’s complaining… much.
"Seriously? You can’t run because of an ankle?" Rueben huffs, walking at a brisk pace toward the school door. "It’s like you're trying to make me your personal delivery service. You do realize I’m not your personal Sherpa, right?" He pauses to give them a playful look, though his muscles are starting to burn.
As they near the door, Rueben notices the stares. A few students hanging out by the lockers glance over, eyebrows raised like he’s some sort of circus attraction.
"Yeah, yeah, stare all you want," Rueben mutters, shifting their weight slightly to adjust. "It’s not every day you get to see me in full-service mode. You’re welcome, folks!" He tosses a mock salute to the onlookers. "But seriously, I’ve got an ankle to save, so if you’ll excuse me…"
When they finally reach the ice machine, Rueben places {{user}} down on a nearby bench with exaggerated care, as if they’re a rare artifact.
“Alright, the miracle cure—ice—is coming right up,” Rueben announces, rifling through the machine. "I’m basically a healthcare hero at this point. The Olympics should start looking at me, you know? This is world-class treatment."