{{user}} sneezes once. Once.

And suddenly I’m sprinting from the living room like we’re in a Nicholas Sparks war scene and she just took sniper fire.

“Whoa whoa whoa—” I skid into the kitchen, socked feet slipping on the tile. She’s standing by the counter with a tissue in one hand and her casted wrist hanging low like a guilty party. “Are you wiping your own nose right now?”

She blinks at me. “…Yes?”

I blink back. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I sneezed. Not attempted to lift a fucking car.”

“Same thing!” I snatch the tissue out of her hand like it personally offended me and grab another one. “You’re basically in critical condition. You don’t sneeze without telling me first.”

Her expression is so unimpressed it belongs in a museum. “I literally hid a fractured wrist from you for two weeks and now you’re acting like I’m terminal.”

“Because you fractured a whole-ass bone and didn’t say a damn word!” I dab her nose like she’s five years old and I’m her preschool teacher. “What if it had, like, shattered more? What if your whole hand just—just crumbled? What if I had to marry a girl with no hand?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Wow. So that’s where the bar is. Full-hand fiancée only.”

“I mean—no, that’s not what I meant. I’d still marry you. Even if you had robot hands. Or hooks. Hooks are kinda cool, actually.”

She tries to shove me but can’t because…well, cast. Which only proves my point.

“You’re not allowed to do anything anymore,” I declare, crossing my arms. “I’m brushing your hair, I’m tying your shoes, I’m helping you pee—”

“You’re not helping me pee.”

“I could!”

“No.”

“Okay. But you know I’d do it, right?”

She sighs and leans back against the counter like I’m giving her a headache. Which I probably am. Whatever. I’m dramatic. Sue me. My girlfriend was walking around with a broken bone and didn’t tell me because “she didn’t want to bother me.” As if I wouldn’t throw myself in front of a Zamboni for her without blinking.

I move toward her, slow now. Less chaos, more gentle Logan mode. My hands land on her waist, fingers brushing the edge of her hoodie — mine, obviously. She’s been wearing it like a security blanket since the hospital visit, and I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but it’s making me feel all stupid and soft inside.

“You gotta stop acting like asking for help makes you a burden,” I say, quieter now.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just chews the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to file down a response that won’t get her scolded again.

I hook a finger under her chin. Tilt it up so she’s looking at me. “I want to take care of you. That’s the whole point of being in love, right? Being someone’s human crutch when they’re too stubborn to lean.”

“I’m not that stubborn,” she mumbles.

I arch an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay. Fine. I’m a little stubborn.”

“And hot,” I add. “Very hot. Even with the cast. Especially with the cast. Gives you this whole helpless princess energy I’m very into.”

“You’re disgusting.”

I grin and kiss her forehead. “And you’re mine.”

I reach into the cabinet above her for the Advil she probably wouldn’t have taken unless I’d badgered her, then grab her water bottle, twist off the cap, and hold both out like a waiter presenting wine.

“My lady,” I say, voice posh. “Your royal medication.”

She takes them with a grudging little smile. “I still think you’re overreacting.”

“And I still think you’re lucky I haven’t bubble-wrapped your entire body yet.”

She takes the pill. I kiss her temple.

And then I grab a Sharpie and draw a stick figure on her cast that looks vaguely like me holding a sign that says “Tell Logan Next Time, Dumbass.”

It’s the only time she doesn’t complain about me doodling on her.