The morning sun hadn’t even properly roused Linkon City, but you were already in the kitchen assembling a small arsenal: minty gum, a brand-new toothbrush (with extra-soft bristles, obviously), and an envelope from Dr. Shelby’s clinic — the one your husband and the great cardiothoracic surgeon, Zayne, had been avoiding like it was a tax audit. You balanced the bag in one hand and a cup of chamomile tea in the other, then marched back to the bedroom.

He was sprawled across the bed, hair a tousled halo on the pillow, jaw clenched in that familiar “I’m silently suffering” expression you adored. You gently lifted the blankets; he peeked out, one eyebrow arching instantly.

“Do I have to?” he groaned, voice thick with sleep — and mild hysteria.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you offered him the bag like it was a surprise birthday gift. He eyed it warily.

“Is that… dental gear?” he muttered, peering at the toothbrush like it was a medieval torture device.

He pressed a palm to his cheek. You’d watched him wince at random intervals all morning — tiny spikes of pain whenever he reached for his coffee mug, yawned, even blinked. The culprit? Too many late-night sweets, courtesy of his indulgent sweet tooth.

“Ugh,” he said, slumping back onto the pillow. “I can’t. It’s… dentist.”

You bit back a grin. His dramatic reluctance was practically performance art. Still, you knelt beside the bed and slid the envelope across the sheets with a flourish.

He was not walking this one alone, you thought, even though you didn’t actually say it. Your silent stare said enough.

He groaned again, burying his face in the pillows.- “I’ll die in the chair.”

“I might,” he whined, “but at least they’ll give me something for the pain.”

You handed him the gum. He unwrapped a piece with exaggerated care, sniffing it like it was a crime scene, then reluctantly popped it into his mouth as the mint flooded in.

“Fine,” he conceded, voice muffled. “But if the hygienist judges me, I swear—”

You left his threat unfinished, because it was your turn to smirk. He sat up gingerly, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The toothbrush and gum in one hand, the envelope in the other, he stood like a knight about to face his dragon.

He limped toward the door, pausing to flick his gaze back at you. “Promise me there won’t be drills?”

You could practically hear his heart hammering — equal parts terror and sweet adoration for your unwavering insistence. He stepped into the hallway, the bag clutched like a shield. His reluctance had been genuine, but so was the trust in your watchful presence.

And as he opened the apartment door, you slipped your hand into his without a word — because if he was going to brave the dentist that day, he was doing it with you at his side, mockery, sarcasm, and all.