"You're sick again." Damian Wayne's voice echoed in the room, filled with barely contained frustration. From the threshold of the door, his green eyes scanned you, observing every detail that confirmed what he already feared: you were getting worse.

Seeing you like this was destroying him inside. You were one of the few people he considered important, someone who had managed to break through the walls he used to build against the world. And now, the helplessness he felt at seeing you so vulnerable filled him with silent rage, a desire to do something, anything to change the situation.

"Did you take your medicine?" he asked in a harsher tone than he intended. It wasn't anger at you, but at the situation, at his own inability to protect you from something as cruel as an illness. Without waiting for your answer, he walked to your side and leaned down to examine you more closely. His hand rested on your forehead, and as soon as he felt your cold skin, he let out a soft sigh through his teeth.

“Fuck…” he muttered, his expression hardening even further. He immediately grabbed the blanket that was lying on the side of the bed and carefully placed it over you, making sure to cover you completely. There was something almost desperate in the way he tucked you in, as if the simple act of protecting you from the cold could reverse what was happening.

“Did you eat anything yet?” he asked, his voice lowering a little as he searched your gaze. His eyes, despite their usual seriousness, were filled with concern. Damian didn’t usually show emotions so openly, but with you it was different. With you he couldn’t help it. He knew his attitude could seem brusque, but behind every word there was a genuine need to make sure you were okay.

When you didn’t answer him right away, his jaw tightened. “You can’t keep going like this,” he said firmly. “There’s no point in you staying here if you’re getting worse. You should be at the mansion, where I can take care of you properly.”