In sickness and in health
— ft nanami x fem!reader
Syn. You underestimate two things: your fever, and how quickly Nanami will drop everything for you.
Cw .ᐟ : Husband!Nanami, fluff, sick fic WC : 1.1 k
© Art creds : @dickerystuf
If you hold back one more cough, you might actually explode.
It’s day three of pretending you aren’t sick because the second Nanami finds out, he’ll abandon work entirely and hover over you like a mother hen.
You know how important his job is to him. Even after exhausting shifts and bruises hidden beneath dress shirts, he still insists on working so hard to give you the best life possible.
Usually, you can handle a slight fever on your own, but today feels different.
You wake up drenched in sweat despite feeling a violent chill throughout your body. Bonnet half way across the room, and head throbbing where it rests against the pillow.
The short walk to the bathroom nearly kills you. And by the time you stumble back into bed your body gives out against the mattress, trembling from the effort.
You curl beneath the blankets, dizzy and exhausted, using the last of your strength to order chicken soup and tea from a nearby restaurant.
You try to stay awake until it arrives but your eyelids are heavy and eventually you succumb to sleep.
—
The vibration of your phone buzzing against your cheek jolts you awake sometime later.
Oh shit. The food.
You try sitting up too fast and immediately regret it. Every muscle in your body aches. There’s absolutely no way you’re making it to the front door. Groaning, you scroll through your contacts before pressing the only person nearby enough to help.
The call rings twice.
“Heyy, how’s my favorite nanami,” Satoru’s sing-song voice answers cheerfully. “Have you finally come to your senses and realized im the better sorceror?”
Your short laugh is cut off by a cough so hard it rattles your chest.
He pauses.
“…Why do you sound like that?”
“Please tell me you’re on lunch break already,” you mumble weakly. “I ordered food but I’m too sick to go to the door, can you stop by the apartment to bring it inside for me? Pleaseee? I’ll owe you.”
Across the office, Nanami looks up from the paperwork in front of him the second he hears your voice through Gojo’s speaker.
His expression changes immediately.
Gojo notices too.
“…Wait,” Gojo says slowly, glancing over. “You’re sick?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Don’t tell Nanami.”
Nanami stands before Gojo can even respond.
“Give me the phone.”
Your stomach drops at the sound of his voice.
“…Kento?”
“You’re sick.”
It isn’t a question.
“I was going to tell you later—”
“You can barely get a word out without wheezing”
“Baby, I’m fine.”
“Yet you called Gojo instead of me.”
The disappointment in his voice somehow feels worse than anger.
You hear rustling, then keys.
“I’m coming home.”
“Ken—”
The line disconnects.
—
Exactly twenty minutes later you hear the front door unlock.
Nanami walks in carrying multiple bags you definitely didn’t order. Besides your tea and soup he carries a plastic bag filled with medicine, electrolyte drinks, and basically enough supplies to survive a mini apocalypse. You’d roll your eyes at his antics if it wasn’t hard enough keeping them open.
His tie is gone. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair slightly disheveled like he ran straight from work.
The second he sees you trying to sit up, his face tightens.
“Don’t you dare get up.”
You still try anyway.
He’s at your bedside instantly, one hand against your forehead, the other steadying your shoulder as he gently pushes you back into the pillows.
“You’re burning up,” he mutters, brows pinching together. “How long has this been going on?”
“…Three days.”
Nanami goes completely still.
“Three,” he repeats flatly.
You wince under the weight of his stare.
The exhaustion in his face twists into shame.
“Fuck. What kind of husband am I if I don't even notice you’re sick?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Why’d you hide it from me?”
“Because you would’ve called out of work.”
“I would have.”
There’s no hesitation in his answer.
That’s what gets you. He’s not even frustrated.Just genuinely hurt that you were suffering alone while he sat completely unaware.
His expression softens slightly when he notices yours crumpling.
He sighs quietly, sweeping your braids behind you. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
Despite the scolding tone, he carefully opens the soup container, testing the temperature before handing it to you.
When your shaking hands struggle to hold it steadily, Nanami simply takes the spoon back with another quiet sigh.
“Cmere, open your mouth.”
You shoot him a weak glare but obey anyway, letting him feed you spoonful after spoonful while he watches carefully to make sure you eat enough.
The warmth of the soup settles heavily in your stomach, exhaustion pulling at you all over again.
Nanami notices immediately.
Without a word, he sets the container aside before piling blankets around you.
He leans down then, pressing a lingering kiss against your feverish forehead.
“You should’ve called me first,” he says quietly against your skin.
Guilt twists in your chest. “I didn’t want you worrying.”
“That was never your decision to make. You’re my wife. I love you and i’ll always worry about you.
“Mm sorry Ken, I love you too, I just didn’t want to be a burden.”
The words come out slurred with exhaustion, barely above a whisper.
Nanami’s expression softens immediately.
“A burden?” he pulls away slightly, like the thought itself burns him.
His hand slides up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye with careful affection.
“You being sick is not an inconvenience to me.”
You blink tiredly up at him while he adjusts the blankets tighter around your shoulders, making sure not even a sliver of cold air gets through.
“I take care of you because I want to,” he continues. “Not because I have to.”
The fever leaves you too drained to hide how much the words affect you. Your eyes sting slightly as you lean further into his touch.
Nanami notices, of course he does.
“Baby,” he coos softly, brushing his lips against your forehead once more. “Don’t cry now.”
“I’m not,” you mumble weakly, voice wobbling.
A rare hint of amusement flickers across his face.
“You’re a terrible liar, love.”
Before you can argue, he slips into bed beside you fully clothed, ignoring your weak protest about getting him sick. He simply pulls you carefully against his chest, tucking your head under his chin as one arm wraps securely around your waist.
“Next time you feel like this, I’m your first call. Understand?”
You hesiate. “…Even if you’re working?”
“Especially if I’m working.”
You let out a tired hum of agreement, curling closer into his chest.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Next time your first instinct should be your husband, not the six-foot manchild.
