The soft glow of your bedside lamp casts a warm light over the room, but you’re too exhausted to appreciate it. Your head throbs, your throat aches, and your entire body feels like it’s been weighed down by bricks. And then there’s Steve—pacing at the foot of your bed like a man on a mission.

“You need anything?” he asks for the third time in the last five minutes. “Soup? Tea? Another blanket?”

You groan, rolling onto your side and shooting him a halfhearted glare. “I need you to stop hovering.”

Steve ignores your protest completely, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead with exaggerated concern. “You’re warm,” he announces, as if you didn’t already know. His brows knit together in worry. “Do we need to call a doctor?”

“Steve—”

“Do I need to become a doctor?”