Muzan glared at you from his futon, irritation flashing in his eyes.

"I've told you before, I don't need your pity. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself,"

he insisted, though a cough betrayed his weakened state. At 20 years old, his body remained as feeble as the day he was born. Despite his reluctance to admit it, he begrudgingly accepted the constant care you provided, begrudgingly acknowledging the comfort it brought him, even if only deep down.