Gojo's hand slid painfully over to his throbbing stomach, and he grimaced, shuffling uncomfortably in the bed until his back found the support of the wooden headboard. His glare was fixed to the side, where you stood, an angel by his bedside.

"Morning," he croaked, his voice breaking like brittle ice as he suppressed a violent cough that threatened to shake his fragile frame.

He was a bundle of contagious illness, did you care about the danger? The answer was no.

"What's for breakfast?"