The party was only two doors down, but tonight it felt like it was happening inside your skull. Every burst of laughter, every clink of a glass, every song bass-line vibrated through your bones. Your head was hot, your stomach was twisting, and cramps pulsed deep in your abdomen like a steady, miserable drumbeat.

You curled into yourself on the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes squeezed shut against the noise.

The door eased open.

“Hey,” Peter whispered, already reading your face, already stepping inside. “Bad night?”

You didn’t have the energy to nod, but he came anyway, kneeling beside you. His hand brushed your forehead—warm, too warm—and his expression softened instantly.

“Okay. Okay, I got you.”

He moved fast but quiet, returning with a cool washcloth, your heating pad, a bottle of water, and the hoodie he always let you steal. He dimmed the lights, closed the curtains, and slipped his arms around you gently—close enough to comfort, not enough to make you feel crowded.

A burst of laughter echoed from the hallway. You flinched.

Peter pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head. “Shh. I’m here. Just breathe, okay?”

You exhaled shakily and leaned into him, letting your cheek rest against his chest. His heartbeat was calm, steady, grounding.

The door opened again—Tony’s silhouette filling the frame.

“Well, clearly the party’s over,” he muttered, seeing the washcloth, the heating pad, the way you clung to Peter like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

He stepped back into the hall. “HEY! QUIET! MY KID’S SICK! NO, I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF A GAME!”

The tower went silent instantly.

Peter laughed under his breath. “You’ve got an army protecting you.”

You closed your eyes again as he adjusted the blanket over you. Natasha slipped in next, setting broth on your nightstand without a word. Wanda followed, the air around the room softening, sounds dulling instantly. Somewhere in the hallway, Bucky’s voice rumbled like a guard dog telling everyone to stay away.