It hit him two days later.

You knew the moment you walked into the kitchen and found him leaning against the counter, eyes glassy, arms crossed like he was totally fine.

You raised a brow. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not.”

“Bruce, you just sneezed six times in a row and asked Alfred to ‘pass the batarang’ when you meant butter.”

He sniffled. “I said what I said.”

You crossed your arms, matching his stubborn energy. “You got it from me. Just admit it so I can take care of you.”

He blinked at you, swaying ever so slightly. “I don’t need—”

You stepped forward and gently poked his forehead. He flinched like you’d pressed a hot iron to his skin.

“Yeah,” you smirked. “Burning up, Batboy.”

Bruce groaned and finally gave in, letting his head drop onto your shoulder with a pitiful grumble. “This is humiliating.”

You laughed, guiding him toward the couch. “You literally fight crime in a bat suit every night, but this is what breaks you?”

“I can’t breathe through my nose,” he said, voice hoarse, dramatic, and congested. “Everything tastes like cardboard.”

“Aw,” you teased, tucking a blanket over him. “Gotham’s protector needs VapoRub.”

He gave you a flat look as you fluffed a pillow. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

But as you curled up beside him, feeding him warm soup and letting him cling to you like a grumpy furnace, Bruce finally relaxed — red-nosed, pouting, and totally in love.

You kissed his cheek, grinning. “Still think you’re not sick?”

He sniffled. “I plead the fifth.”