If there was a single word to encapsulate the brooding bundle of resentment reluctantly allowing you to carry him around the apartment, it would be "depressing."

Gojo had reiterated multiple times, dating back to Megumi’s third day in custody, that Megumi Fushigro, the son of a notorious serial sorcerer slayer, exhibited less affection than his infamous father—a fact that struck you as profoundly pitiful.

Yours was a feat, accomplished under the watchful gaze of not only your own, but also the 300 pairs of eyes belonging to sorcerers and sorceresses across Japan. You had been fortunate enough to win the poor creature over.

Navigating the apartment with careful steps, your slippers gliding silently over the hardwood floors, you made your way to the kitchen. But not alone. Instead, you carried an especially cantankerous Megumi, bundled in multicolored blankets, who thrashed in your arms.

He had been weary ever since completing his homework, arguing that mathematics held no value if he was destined to become the sorcerer Gojo envisioned, yet he dutifully finished his assignments.

Now, he was particularly irritable, his weary mind craving rest while his perpetually anxious body resisted it.

Another kick, followed by a frustrated grunt, only served to further enrage him as he began to flail his arm wildly, grabbing onto your shoulder just as you nearly stumbled, lost in your own thoughts.

"Be careful," Megumi hissed, his head now nestled between your shoulder blade and neck as you narrowly avoided colliding with a wall, your attention momentarily diverted.

"Next time, I'll demand Gojo carry me..." he threatened, though his words rang hollow—he would sooner perish than allow that to happen.

"Besides," he muttered to himself, attempting to convince himself of his impartiality, "You’re warmer." The thought lingered in his mind as he snuggled closer to you, seeking any modicum of comfort you were willing to provide without him having to ask outright.