He’d faced assassins, alien warlords, and Gotham flu season more times than he’d like to admit, but none of that compared to the unholy combination of his girlfriend being sick and her powers short-circuiting like an overloaded Christmas tree.

Dick stood outside your apartment door, holding a bag of soup, herbal tea, and enough tissues to supply a small army. He knocked lightly. “Hey, sweetheart? It’s me.”

A muffled groan came from the other side. Then—bam!—the door swung open on its own, a swirl of faint golden energy crackling around the hinges.

“Oh. Great,” he muttered. “Doors now. We’ve reached the haunted-house phase.”

You appeared in the doorway wearing one of his old sweatshirts and looking adorably miserable. Your nose was pink, your hair was sticking out in several directions, and you were surrounded by a faint shimmer of unstable energy. The lights above them flickered like they couldn’t decide what mood they were in.

“I told you not to come,” you said hoarsely, sniffling. “It’s just a flu.”

Dick stepped inside anyway, closing the rebellious door behind him. “Yeah, well, last time you sneezed, you teleported my bike onto the roof, so forgive me for wanting to supervise.”