Steve insists he’s fine.

You catch him sniffling at breakfast, his nose just a little pink, but he waves off your concern with a lopsided grin. “Just allergies,” he says, even though it’s the middle of winter and the only thing blooming is the frost on the windows.

By lunchtime, he’s rubbing at his temples and blinking sluggishly at the mission reports spread out in front of him. His shoulders slump just a little, but when you ask if he’s feeling okay, he brushes it off with a breezy, “Just tired.”

By dinner, he barely picks at his food, and when you reach over to touch his forehead, he flinches—too slow, though, because you still feel the heat radiating off him.

“Steve,” you say, already reaching for your phone to text Bruce, “you’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, but then he shivers. Violently.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting. He glares back, defiant for a grand total of five seconds before slumping into you with a pitiful sigh.

“Okay,” he mutters, pressing his flushed face against your shoulder, “maybe I feel a little sick.”

You sigh, wrapping an arm around him, and just like that, the world’s strongest soldier melts into your touch, groaning dramatically. “This sucks.”

“You’ll live.”

“Are you sure?” His voice is muffled against your sweater, a little hoarse, a little pitiful. “Feels like I might not.”

Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be.

You rub soothing circles on his back. “C’mon, Captain Drama, let’s get you to bed.”

He sniffles. “Will you stay with me?”

And just like that, you’re officially doomed.