You were bundled on the couch like a human burrito, surrounded by tissues, tea cups, and a growing pile of medicine Bruce had absolutely over-ordered.

“I’m fine,” you croaked, blowing your nose with the elegance of a wet trumpet.

Bruce stared at you over the rim of his coffee, unimpressed. “You have a fever of 102 and tried to put frozen peas in the toaster.”

“That was one time.”

“That was ten minutes ago.”

You glared weakly from under the blanket. “You’re lucky I’m sick or I’d fight you.”

He arched a brow. “Oh no. Not the mighty warrior with tissues in her hair.”

You reached up and groaned — yep. Tissue. Right there, stuck like a badge of your current suffering.

Bruce set his cup down and crossed the room, kneeling beside you. He gently plucked the tissue from your hair and brushed a hand down your cheek, letting his thumb rest just beneath your eye.

“Even like this,” he murmured, “you’re still the most impossible, beautiful disaster I’ve ever met.”

You blinked at him, heart doing a stupid little flip. “You’re only saying that because I’m too weak to sass you back.”

“Maybe,” he smiled. “But mostly because I love you.”

You coughed, then muttered, “Gross. Now I’m sick and emotional.”

Bruce kissed your forehead. “Good. You’re staying right here.”