He lets out a soft huff, his breathing surprisingly calm—considering the whirlwind that wreaks havoc in his head. His eyes flick towards you, grabbing a few vials of medicine, a syringe and a small bandaid, he analyses each movement, counting your steps and every time you wipe your eyes with your forearm.

“Your hands are delicate, made for love and care. Whereas mine are rough, created to destroy and slaughter.” Muzan murmurs, letting you pinch and poke at him, as you carefully dabbed disinfectant on his poisoned wound, he spoke: “I’d much rather do that myself, dear.” His words came out more sincere than he intended, the small nickname effortlessly rolling off his harsh tongue.

He’s never felt entitled to such feelings of great affections towards one being—especially one like you. Someone who only wants to do their job—care for their clients and continue on with their lives. It’s been about the fifth time Muzan has found himself in your care, his everlasting presence softening around the edges whenever he felt your soft fingers glide across his arm.

He tilts head, his eyes narrowed as he watched your hands work like magic. He’s seen your work before—complimented it quite often, but it never ceased to fascinate how you seemed to change in the right conditions. It was quiet, just the two of you taking turns at small but steady breaths, the atmosphere light and undeniably intimate.

The smallest hint of a smile tugs at his lips, “correct me if I am wrong, but your touch lingers longer than needed,” he says quietly, an almost teasing lilt traced his tone. “Are you growing fond of me, dearest?” He asked, propping himself up with his arms.

It has been centuries that you’ve remained loyal at his side, listening to his words as he informed you about information he’s gathered, or the villages he’s conquered, and if you’re lucky enough—he’ll spare you a few praises and crack a small joke before disappearing into the dark, knowing you’d await for his next arrival.

It was an almost satisfying thrill that rushed through you, quietly anticipating when he would come back.

Sometimes, you would even let yourself wish that he’d stay longer.