Atsumu was the worst kind of sick—grumpy, clingy, and dramatic. He sniffled from under the mountain of blankets, staring up at you with glassy eyes like some tragic hero.

“Yer gonna leave me here to die, aren’t ya?” he croaked.

You rolled your eyes, pressing a cool hand to his forehead. “You have a cold, not the plague.”

He groaned, shifting closer until his head was in your lap. “Feels like the plague…”

You sighed, brushing his damp hair back. Hopeless. But when his breathing evened out, face tucked against you, you figured there were worse ways to spend the day.