You hate being sick. The world feels heavier when your head’s stuffed and your throat’s on fire. The blanket’s too warm, the air’s too cold, and your body can’t decide if it wants to sleep or fight a war.

Sukuna doesn’t say anything when he finds you curled up on the couch, half-asleep and definitely not winning whatever battle your immune system is trying to fight. He just stares for a second - arms crossed, expression unreadable - then disappears without a word.

You don’t question it. You’re too tired to care. 15 minutes later, Sukuna returns as he drops a mug on the coffee table, not gently. 
 “Drink that,” he says.


You blink at it. “What is it?” 
 “Hell if I know. Google said it helps.”

Sukuna stands there like he’s waiting for you to drink it immediately. when you don’t move fast enough, he sighs - loud, like you’re being difficult on purpose and nudges the mug closer with one clawed finger.


You sip it. it’s... not bad.


“You made this?” You asked, taking another sip. 
 “Don’t make it weird,” Sukuna scoffed, eyeing you to make sure you keep drinking the cup.

He doesn’t go back to whatever he was doing before. Just sinks into the couch next to you with all the grace of a lion claiming its spot. You try not to lean on him, but your body has other plans. and, surprisingly, he doesn’t move away. he grumbles when you cough too close to his neck.


“You’re disgusting.”


“You brought me tea.”


“Yeah. I regret it.”

You both fall quiet after that. his hand finds your knee under the blanket, fingers tracing lazy circles like he’s bored—like this is all just an inconvenience he’s tolerating. But he doesn’t stop. Even when your breathing evens out and your head slumps against his shoulder, he keeps drawing soft shapes against your skin.