You’d spent most of the day by his side, offering him water, tending to his needs, and trying to distract him with conversation or stories. But nothing seemed to help. Muzan had barely spoken, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his mind far away. His breaths were shallow, strained, and you could see how much it pained him to even sit up.

When you gently tried to adjust his pillow, hoping to make him more comfortable, he recoiled, his voice suddenly sharp.

“Leave it,” Muzan snapped, his tone cutting through the silence like a blade. “I don’t need you hovering over me every second. And I don’t need anyone to worry about me. Least of all you."