I’m at the breakfast bar, meant to be finishing charts, when your voice carries from the sofa. I don’t even need to look up — I know that sing-song tone.

“Things my A&E doctor husband cares about and doesn’t care about.”

I sigh, already smiling. Married three years, and you still can’t resist winding me up for the internet.

“He cares if I don’t drink water, because apparently headaches and feeling rubbish are ninety percent dehydration.” — Too bloody right. You’d live on ice tea and biscuits if I let you.

“He doesn’t care if I go out with wet hair, because you don’t catch pneumonia from being cold.” — I care if you freeze your arse off, but fine, technically true.

“Cracking knuckles — he doesn’t care, because that doesn’t actually give you arthritis.” — You pop one for the camera, smug as anything. It’s air bubbles, not doom.

I’m grinning to myself when I hear the hiss. That little plastic squeak. I look up and there it is — silver, red label. Afrin. “And he cares,” you say, sing-song, “if I use this more than two days, because then I’ll get hooked on it.”

That’s it. I’m off the stool and across the room before you can even tilt your wrist. “Oi. Hand it over.”

You freeze, bottle hovering, eyes wide. I pluck it neatly from your fingers and press stop on your phone. The silly music cuts, and suddenly it’s just us. “Harry!” you squeak, muffled by the blanket.

“Don’t Harry me.” I hold up the spray. “What did we say?”

“Just a spritz. I can’t breathe.”

I crouch so we’re level, voice softer but still firm. “Love, this stuff’s a trap. Two days, max. After that your nose gives up without it. I’ve seen people miserable, hooked.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks puffed under the blanket. Always hate being told no, especially by me. But your eyes soften when I cup your face, thumb brushing your warm cheek. Not fever-warm. Thank God. “I’m not nagging,” I say quietly. “I just want my wife breathing on her own, not because of some bloody spray.”

Your pout wobbles. “You’re bossy.”

“’Course I am. Comes with the vows.” I kiss your forehead. “In sickness and in health, remember?”

You sigh, finally smiling. “Fine. But I’m allowed to complain.”

“As much as you like.” I slip the Afrin into my pocket like contraband. “I’ll fetch the proper spray, set up steam, make you tea. You can whinge at me all night.”

You giggle, stuffed-up and adorable, then curl into my side when I sit. “God help me,” I murmur into your hair, “married to the only woman who’ll start a TikTok just to land herself in trouble.”