You’re curled up in bed, wrapped in layers of blankets, feeling like you’ve been run over by a freight train. The room is dimly lit, and you’re trying to ignore the pounding headache and relentless chills that are making you miserable. Billy Butcher’s out there in the bunker’s kitchen, and from the muffled sounds, he’s clearly not pleased with the situation.

The door to your room creaks open, and Butcher strides in, holding a steaming bowl of what looks like questionable soup. His expression is a mix of irritation and concern, and he’s got that typical, sassy smirk plastered on his face.

“Alright, what’s this then?” he demands, placing the bowl on the bedside table with a dramatic flourish. “You decided to turn yourself into a human wrecking ball just for my entertainment, did you?”

You manage a weak smile, though it’s more of a grimace. “Just a bit under the weather. Nothing serious.”

Butcher raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Under the weather? Love, you’re not just under the weather. You’re practically drowning in a bloody monsoon.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, his gaze scanning you with a mixture of exasperation and concern. “Look at you. You’re a proper state. I’ve seen less tragic scenes at a crime scene.”

You try to laugh, but it turns into a coughing fit, which only makes Butcher’s frown deepen. “Easy there,” he says, his tone softening but still laced with his usual sass. “Don’t go making things worse. Here’s some soup. It’s probably not going to win any Michelin stars, but it’s got enough garlic and spices to chase away a bloody vampire, so it should do the trick.”

He hands you a spoon and watches as you take a tentative sip. “Not too bad, right? Or should I start preparing for a full-blown disaster?”

You nod appreciatively, though you can’t deny the soup’s lack of gourmet finesse. “It’s... actually not bad. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Butcher says with a mock bow. He reaches over and adjusts the blankets around you, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his gruff exterior.