Bruce was curled up on the couch under two blankets, hoodie up, tissues stuffed in his pockets, sniffling dramatically like the world had ended.

You, perched beside him like a smug gremlin in pajamas, were spoon-feeding him lukewarm soup and dabbing at his nose like a nurse with zero formal training and too much sarcasm.

“Say ‘ahh,’” you cooed.

Bruce glared, nostrils flaring. “I’m not a child.”

You held up the spoon threateningly. “Then stop whining and eat your soup, Mr. ‘I Don’t Get Sick.’”

That’s when Alfred walked in.

He stopped dead in the doorway, holding a laundry basket, expression frozen somewhere between horror and disappointment.

“I’ve seen many things in this household,” Alfred said slowly. “But Master Wayne being babied like a Victorian heiress with the flu is new.”

Bruce groaned and flopped sideways, burying his face in the pillow. “Kill me.”

You grinned at Alfred. “He said he wasn’t sick.”

“I see. So the mountain of tissues and scent of menthol are just… ambiance?”

You snorted.

Alfred sighed dramatically. “Very well. I shall add ‘emergency soup duty’ to my already questionable résumé.”

As he walked away, you leaned down and whispered to Bruce’s ear.

“You’re never living this down.”

Bruce grumbled. “Worth it.”