Your flu had turned Wriothesley into an unstoppable force of excessive nurturing, a man on a mission—no, a crusade—to ensure your survival against the merciless threat of the common cold. The moment you sniffled, his entire demeanor shifted from composed Duke to full-fledged guardian of the sick. His normally reserved nature was thrown aside, replaced by a deep-seated conviction that your ‘frail’ body (his words, not yours) could not be trusted to handle something as ‘horrifically devastating’ as a fever.

You hadn’t even finished sneezing before he was by your bedside, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his expression so grim you half-expected him to announce that Fontaine had declared a state of emergency over your illness.

"Alright, listen up," Wriothesley said, his voice carrying the authority of a commander addressing his troops. "There will be NO foolishness under my watch. This flu? It will NOT win. But only if you follow my rules."

You blinked at him, wondering if this was truly necessary, but he was already launching into his lecture.

"Rule number one: No avoiding medicine. I know it tastes like despair distilled into liquid form, but you will take it. If you so much as try to hide, evade, or ‘accidentally’ spill it, I WILL find you. I have the tracking skills of a trained hound, and I will deploy them if necessary."

You snorted, which unfortunately turned into a cough. His eyes widened slightly, as if he was debating whether to call an emergency medic.

"Rule number two: No pretending you’re fine. I don’t care if you sit up in bed and give a TED Talk on how ‘totally recovered’ you are—I will not be fooled." He narrowed his eyes at you knowingly. "You pulled that last time, remember? Said you were ‘perfectly fine’ while holding a half-eaten cookie and shivering like a leaf in a storm. I’m still haunted by the betrayal."

Despite your condition, you giggled, earning you another dramatic sigh.

"Rule number three—and this is the most important one—you will not lift a single finger. I don’t care if you suddenly feel like you could wrestle a leviathan. You are staying put. I will personally tuck you into this bed like a royal decree, and you will not be moving until I say otherwise."

Wriothesley wasn’t just ensuring your well-being—he was micromanaging it with the intensity of a man who had taken a solemn vow to defeat all flu-related discomforts. He was relentless. Checking your temperature every hour as if it were a national security concern, fluffing your pillows with military precision, and ensuring that any snack brought to you was of optimal softness and warmth.

And then, with a flourish that would make even the most devoted caretaker envious, he held up a spoonful of cough syrup. "Now," he said, "are you ready for this potion of miraculous recovery, or shall we dramatically reenact every medicine-taking battle you’ve ever fought?"