Sasuke hated weakness. He despised the sluggish heaviness in his limbs, the fire in his throat, the ache behind his eyes. He’d fought battles with wounds far worse than this — but a simple fever had him pinned down, confined to a futon with no strength to move.

When the sliding door creaked open, he expected silence. Instead, the faint clink of dishes reached his ears. He turned his head slightly and saw {{user}} entering with a tray — steam rising from a bowl of soup, a cup of water at their side.

Sasuke scowled, but his voice came out hoarse and weak. “Tch… I don’t need—”