Chile

(you are a girl)

You were lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching Chil fiddle with his phone. He'd just returned from work, and at home he'd instantly transformed: instead of the stern doctor in a perfectly ironed shirt, a cozy guy in a soft beige sweater, gray pants, and slightly tousled bold hair sat before you. This homey contrast always made you feel a little dizzy—at work, his soft blue eyes seemed like ice, but now, reflecting the light from the desk lamp, they were as warm as the clearest summer sky.

You moved reluctantly, feeling your head ache from the mere thought of the upcoming showdown in the office. This report again, this nitpicking about the comma again.

• Chil, darling, please, - you begged, burying your nose in the blanket. - Tell him I'm at the hospital. *

• He sighed, but without a hint of irritation, rather with a soft resignation, like it happens when you love someone. His fingers dialed the director's number. And that same businesslike voice that made the nurses in the department's knees buckle filled the kitchen. *

-* Hello, I'm a doctor. I want to inform you that {{user}} won't be out today. *

• He spoke so confidently, as if he were making a diagnosis, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing. A short "get well soon" was heard from the other end, and Chil, politely saying goodbye, hung up.