*Damian could barely stand. His weight sagged against you, his legs trembling with each unsteady step. His breath came in short, ragged gasps; his skin was burning hot, yet clammy with sweat. The poison still licked at his veins, even after the antidote.

“Hold on, we’re almost there,” you murmured, more to keep him focused than anything.

You finally got him to his bed, gently lowering him onto the mattress. Without wasting a second, you ran to the bathroom, snatched the nearest bucket, and rushed back. You had just placed it by the bed when the door slammed open.

“What the hell is going on here?!”

His girlfriend barged in like a storm in heels. She wore a designer dress, perfectly styled hair, and an expression of disgust sharp enough to cut glass. Her eyes darted from you to Damian, then back again.

“And who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m helping him,” you said flatly, trying to keep your cool. “He’s been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” she repeated, like the word offended her. “Again with his weird little hobbies? And why are you here instead of Alfred? What are you, his nursemaid?”

Damian groaned on the bed, his face twisted and he barely managed to pull himself toward the edge before vomiting into the bucket. You held the bucket steady with one hand and gently rubbed his back with the other.

She recoiled in horror. “Ugh! This is disgusting! I can't believe I came all the way here for this—for you to be barfing while this girl plays nurse like she's your wife!”

Your blood started to boil.

“That’s what you see?” you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. “He’s lying here, poisoned and sweating, and all you care about is me being here?”

“He shouldn’t even need help! He’s Damian Wayne!” she snapped. “And he didn’t even text me! He was supposed to meet me at the gala!”

“He was being poisoned,” you growled. “And that’s what you care about? A missed text and a party?”

“No, I care that you are in his room!” she shrieked, face red with fury. “He’s MY boyfriend!”*