The morning light spilled through the blinds of their Brooklyn apartment, casting soft lines across the cozy bedroom. Steve Rogers stood quietly by the doorway, holding a tray with a steaming mug of tea, a bowl of chicken soup, and a tiny stack of tissues neatly folded like it was a military operation.

In bed, wrapped in a nest of blankets, lay {{user}} — his wife, his partner, and the usually unstoppable force in his world. Today, though, she was stopped in her tracks by something not even Hydra could conjure: the flu.

She let out a groggy groan and peeked one eye open as Steve approached.

“I come bearing supplies,” he said with that boyish grin of his. “Your favorite tea, and soup made from scratch. Stark says it’s scientifically proven to make you feel 62% better.”