Wally had seen plenty of disasters in his life — collapsing buildings, alien invasions, one time Barry tried to cook. But none of it… none of it… came close to the chaos that was his girlfriend getting the flu.

You were rarely sick. Ever. Which, for someone who could literally bend probability, made sense. But apparently, your immune system had rolled a natural one this week, because when you called to say, “I think I’ll just stay home today,” every hero in the League had immediately felt the universe shudder in response.

Now, standing outside your apartment, Wally balanced a tray of soup and a bouquet of tissues (because flowers felt risky). He knocked gently. “Hey, lucky charm? It’s me.”

From inside came a clatter, a crash, and what sounded suspiciously like a smoke alarm.

“Oh boy.” He phased the door open with a burst of speed—just in time for a bucket of water to tip off the counter and drench him from head to toe.

You looked up from the couch, wrapped in a blanket burrito, eyes glassy. “Wally?”

He blinked water from his eyes. “Hey, gorgeous. Don’t mind me, just testing your home’s anti-speedster defenses.”