You stared down at the thermometer in your hand, groaning as the numbers glared back at you: 39°C. Fantastic. Just fantastic.

Between the soul-crushing workload your higher-ups had been dumping on you and the heatwave dragging the entire city into a slow, sticky death, it was honestly a miracle you lasted this long before falling apart. But here you were—burning up, aching in places you didn’t know could ache, and running solely on spite.

And, of course, when you’re sick, it means you both are sick.

Because God forbid Satoru Gojo respect personal space, immune system status, or common sense.

You’d picked up the bug on a mission (fine, your bad), but in your defense, you did lay down a very clear set of rules once the coughing started:

Rule #1: Don’t come near me. Rule #2: Don’t touch me. Rule #3: No hugging. Rule #4: Under no circumstances—no kissing. Rule #5: No dramatic declarations of love while contagious. You mean it.

He broke all five in the first thirty minutes.

You’d hoped once the fever knocked you out, he’d take the hint and go do something productive—make soup, read a book, or at the very least stop breathing in your immediate vicinity.

But no.

Gojo Satoru, in his infinite wisdom, decided what you truly needed was a full-body cuddle. Because, in his words:

“You were suffering, and I was suffering from missing you. It’s mutual devastation, babe.”

He hadn’t seen you for four hours. Four. The tragedy.

You woke up groggy, head pounding, mouth dry, and… lips suspiciously swollen. Fever symptom? Maybe. But the moment you shifted, you felt it—warm skin, pressed against your back. Way too warm. Way too bare.

And your pajama shirt? Not quite where you left it. More… bunched up under your ribs. Great.

A faint sniffle tickled the back of your neck. Dread slithered down your spine.

You turned your head just enough to confirm it.

There he was. Shirtless. Tangled in the blankets like some smug, plague-ridden sea creature. His cheeks were flushed pink, eyes glassy, but still gleaming with mischief as he blinked lazily at you.

That absolute menace.

“Morning,” he rasped, voice hoarse but still irritatingly smug.

“I regret nothing.” He sighed dramatically, pulling you closer with surprising strength for someone supposedly dying.

“Sick together, die together,” he murmured, nuzzling the side of your face with a fond groan.

“Romance.”