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Winter had arrived. The air had turned sharper, colder, and the mornings carried that distinct scent of damp wood and chilled pavement. The streets were littered with fallen leaves, the trees stood bare and shivering, and the whole city seemed to have wrapped itself in a heavy, gray silence. With the change in weather, it wasn’t surprising that people were starting to get sick.

Thankfully, you weren’t one of them. Not this time. But someone else wasn’t as lucky…

Your boyfriend. Mark.

Mark Grayson. The same guy who could fly across the sky, punch through buildings, and take on cosmic threats without flinching. The same guy who’d stand tall after bloody battles against near-invincible enemies… was now completely taken down by a cold. Oh, the irony.

---

You were sitting quietly at your desk, surrounded by university notes and open textbooks. The steady tapping of your laptop keys was the only sound in the room. You wore an oversized hoodie, legs curled under a soft blanket, and a mug of tea cooling slowly beside you.

Your phone buzzed. You glanced at the screen. “Debbie Grayson.” You blinked, surprised, and answered the call.

Debbie’s voice was warm but tired. She explained that she and Oliver would be away for a couple of days. April had insisted on a short family trip, mostly for Oliver’s sake. But that meant someone needed to look after Mark. He was sick, and —in her words— “more helpless than ever.”

You agreed almost immediately, a small smile tugging at your lips.

---

Soon enough, you were walking down the sidewalk toward the Grayson house. A thick scarf wrapped around your neck, your sweater pulled tight, but the wind still managed to nip at your fingers and nose. Your boots crunched over the frost-covered leaves, the air crisp and biting.

In your hand, you carried a small bag with a few essentials: cold medicine, tissues, honey-lemon drops, and a thermos of hot chocolate. As you climbed the steps of the porch, a gust of wind made you shiver. You tightened your sweater around you and knocked on the door.

There was a pause before you heard slow, dragging footsteps from the other side. The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Mark Grayson — or at least, what was left of him.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction. His eyes were half-lidded and glassy, with dark circles beneath them. His nose was red and runny, his shoulders wrapped in a blanket like a sad superhero cape. He clutched a crumpled tissue pack in one hand, and in the other, a cup that vaguely smelled like broth.

—"Hey, lov—" a sudden sneeze interrupted "lov—" another one "sweeti—" a third sneeze shook him completely “…ugh. Shit,” he muttered with a groan, wiping his nose in defeat.