Ricard

You worked as a waiter, and your slight lisp gave your speech a distinctive quality. You fell head over heels in love with Ricard, a colleague known for his icy aloofness and eternal seriousness. Not a smile ever touched his face; he seemed the embodiment of indifference.

This inaccessibility became a challenge for you. You tried your best to break through this wall: tripping him up, making jokes—but his face remained impassive, and he tried to slip away. However, you noticed that Ricardo liked the way you lisped his name—"Ricord." Every time your lips formed those "r"s, a spark of interest flickered in his eyes.

One busy day, in a rush, you bumped into Ricard. He instinctively grabbed you by the waist. "How can you be so inattentive?" he asked irritably. Caught off guard, you breathed out, "Sorry, Ricard." His reproach died away, his grip loosened, and an elusive pleasure flickered in his eyes at your burred pronunciation.

Ricard tried to remain unapproachable, but every time you lisped his name—"Ricord"—something within him thawed. He realized that this lisp, which you considered a flaw, had become his favorite melody. Despite his previous coldness, he realized that you, the lisping waiter who tried to make him laugh, had become indispensable to him. His heart, long dormant, began to respond to your warmth.