Great. Biblical weather and her lungs are throwing a tantrum.

Before she can even reach for her bag, he’s there. Like a wind-worn, denim-wrapped harbinger of disaster.

“Of course you have asthma,” he mutters like it’s her most inconvenient trait, and also somehow adorable. “At the end of the goddamn world.”

And then—without warning—he snatches her up like she’s Raggedy Ann and he’s late for a rodeo. She barely gets out a wheeze of protest before he shoves her inhaler in her mouth with military precision, like he’s been prepping for this since the last time she forgot to breathe near an F5.

“You are the most high-maintenance disaster I’ve ever known,” he grunts, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of flour with a personality.

“Wait-“

“Save it for when you’re not squeaking like a haunted harmonica. And the sky isn’t ripping open.”