The group chat lit up at 10:06 AM.

Dick: (photo attached — a digital thermometer reading 102.3°F)

A beat of silence.

Then—

Wally: AHH HELL NAHH Wally: dw dw ima lock in Wally: i’ll be a good father

Across the city, {{user}} was already pulling on his jacket.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The moment Dick had sent the photo, {{user}} had been out the door, keys in hand, mind switching into quiet, efficient mode. Dick getting sick was rare. Dick admitting he was sick was rarer.

Back in the chat—

Dick: what {{user}}: Wally pls Wally: WHAT I’M BEING SUPPORTIVE

A pause.

Dick: it’s a thermometer.

Wally: oh

{{user}} arrived first.

He unlocked the apartment with practiced ease, moving softly as if the air itself might be too loud. Dick was curled on the couch, blanket half-fallen, eyes glassy and unfocused in that stubborn way that said he’d pushed himself too long.

{{user}} pressed the back of his hand to Dick’s forehead, calm, steady. Too warm. He adjusted the blanket, set a glass of water within reach, and didn’t scold—just stayed.

Ten seconds later, the door burst open.

“OKAY,” Wally announced, already halfway inside with a grocery bag and the energy of someone who had Googled how to take care of sick boyfriend at light speed. “I brought soup. And ginger ale. And—uh—six things I don’t remember grabbing.”

{{user}} glanced over. Nodded once.

Wally crouched in front of the couch, peering at Dick with exaggerated concern. “Hey, champ. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Wally,” Dick muttered, eyes closed, “please.”

Wally straightened, hands up. “Right. Quiet. Serious mode.”

He lasted twelve seconds.

{{user}} moved through the room like a quiet current—cooling towels, medicine measured carefully, the thermostat adjusted just right. Wally watched, uncharacteristically silent, then leaned closer to Dick again.

“So,” he whispered, “I did think you were pregnant for like—two whole minutes.”

Dick groaned.