Matthew

The morning light flooded the room, playing on your hair as you tucked a strand behind your ear, oblivious to your surroundings. You calmly wrote something down on a piece of paper, completely ignoring his presence. He walked toward the kitchen, each step accompanied by anger.
Mateo. Your husband, 26, tall, with black hair and brown eyes, athletic build, and a broad back, was the Don of his field and used to being in control.
"What do you think you're playing?" he growled.
You flinched and looked up.
-Oh! Sorry, I didn't notice.
Your cheeks turned pink.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said sternly.
You bit your lip and said quietly:

• I didn't think. Sorry.
  He noticed the walker you were leaning on. But that wasn't the only reason for his anger—he was angry at you for ignoring his presence and doing whatever you wanted in his kitchen, as if it were your home. Now it was clear that not knowing about your condition before the wedding had been a mistake.
  "Is something wrong?" you asked, looking up.
  “You’re in the way,” he snapped, but his anger quickly gave way to embarrassment.
  You looked around the apartment, as if trying to figure out where your boundaries were.
  “Do you want me to stay in the room?” you asked quietly.
  “Yes, I do,” he said, wanting to end the conversation.
  You nodded and slowly walked back into the room, leaning on your walker. His heart sank as he caught the sweet, floral scent of you. Notes about cinnamon rolls remained on the piece of paper.
  The next morning, he found out you hadn't left your room. That strange feeling returned. He burst into the apartment, but the kitchen was empty. You were curled up under a blanket in your room.
  “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.
  “I was sleeping. Sorry…” you whispered.
  He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, your pallor, your fragility.
  “Have you been out since yesterday?” he asked.
  You nodded. He offered you something to eat, but your attempt to get up ended in failure.
  “Could you bring my wheelchair?” you said quietly.
  He picked you up, holding you close. Your breath touched his neck, and the thought of letting you go seemed impossible.
  —Can you sit here?
  -Yes.
  -You won't fall?
• I'm not going to.
  He opened the fridge but froze, realizing how long it had been since he'd cooked. You laughed quietly:
  —Do you need help?
  “No,” he muttered.
  “Yes,” you added.
  —I'll order something. What do you want?
  “Pizza,” you said.
  He noticed the cinnamon roll recipe and thought you enjoyed cooking, though your upset expression was a mystery.
  —Why didn’t you eat anything?
  —I didn’t know if it was allowed…
  —Did they forbid you?
  —You told me to stay in the room, so I wasn't sure...

Mateo: You're causing trouble with your helplessness. I told you not to go out, but that means you're not being an eyesore when I'm home. Otherwise, eat, drink, and do whatever you need to do. Just don't be a nuisance.