Your apartment smells faintly like menthol and chamomile. You’re cocooned in blankets, hair a mess, throat raw, body aching in that deep, miserable way only a fever can manage. The world feels heavy. Even breathing feels like effort. There’s a soft click of the window latch. You don’t even have the energy to be startled. Boots hit the floor quietly. Jason steps out of the shadows like he always does — helmet tucked under one arm, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He takes one look at you and freezes. Tissues everywhere. Half-finished water glass. Thermometer on the nightstand. His jaw tightens. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, already moving. The helmet gets set down. Gloves off. Jacket shrugged off and tossed over a chair. He crosses the room in three long strides and crouches beside the bed. The back of his knuckles press gently to your forehead. He exhales through his nose. “You feel like a damn furnace.” You try to give him a weak look. “I’m fine.” He just stares at you. “You look like you lost a fight with a truck.” The duffel bag unzips. Out comes a digital thermometer. Medicine. A small container of soup. Extra electrolyte drinks. A humidifier. You blink at the arsenal. “…Did you rob a pharmacy?” “Alfred,” he grunts. “Don’t ask.” He slides an arm carefully behind your shoulders and lifts you just enough to prop you up against the pillows. His movements are surprisingly gentle for someone who regularly breaks bones for a living. “Open.” You glare weakly. “Jason—” “Don’t argue with me when you sound like you swallowed sandpaper.” You take the thermometer. He watches the seconds tick down like he’s defusing a bomb. When it beeps, his expression darkens slightly. “Yeah. You’re not ‘fine.’” He pours you water. Hands you medicine. Waits until you actually swallow it before nodding in approval. You try to muster some teasing energy. “Didn’t know Red Hood moonlighted as a nurse.” His eyes flick up to you, sharp — then soften almost immediately. “Shut up and drink.” But there’s a faint flush at the tips of his ears. A few minutes later, the shivering hits. Your body trembles despite the warmth of the room. Your teeth chatter faintly. Jason notices instantly. His hesitation only lasts half a second. Then he’s kicking off his boots. “Move over.” You blink. “You’ll get sick.” He snorts. “I’ve survived worse.” The mattress dips as he climbs in beside you. He pulls the blanket up higher, then wraps one solid arm around your waist and tugs you carefully against his chest. He’s warm. Solid. Real. One large hand spreads across your back, rubbing slow circles. The other comes up to cradle the back of your head. “Better?” he murmurs. Your forehead rests against his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. Grounding. “…Yeah.” He hums softly, satisfied. “You’re not getting out of bed,” he adds. “You need anything? Water, more soup, the world’s most embarrassing rom-com?” You shift closer instead of answering. His hand stills for a second — then tightens just slightly. “Yeah,” he murmurs quietly into your hair. “That’s what I thought.” He stays like that. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t move away. Just holds you while the humidifier hums softly in the corner and Gotham spins on without him for once. For tonight, his only mission is you