Maybe the poems and stories had a point after all: sunsets really did have a touch of magic.

The sky blazes with a wild mess of oranges and reds, streaking across the horizon like an artist who can’t quite settle on a single color. But as beautiful as the scene is, it doesn’t quite hold a candle to the warmth pressed against Bankotsu’s back.

He shifted you a little higher, his hands firm and careful under your legs, carrying you with ease. You tighten your arms around his neck, feeling the strength in the muscles there as he adjusts his grip beneath you. The rest of the group had long since left you both behind, the sound of their chatter fading ahead as the two of you meandered in no real rush.

"You know," he started, his tone halfway between a tease and a scold, "next time, maybe don’t go diving into a fight like you’re invincible."

The funny thing is, even as he gives you shit about it, Bankotsu seems more than happy carrying you. If anything, he seemed to settle into it.

Your leg gave a dull, lingering reminder of its injury, cramping at the worst moment. But that was nothing compared to the ease with which you rested your head against the curve of his shoulder. He smelled of ash and pine, like the woods after a storm with a smokey undertone of a fire gone out—comforting and familiar.

Your breath huffs gently against the side of his neck, and he lets out a soft sigh, one you could almost mistake for contentment, if only it weren’t so low.

His voice broke the quiet again, softer this time.

"When your leg’s back to normal," Bankotsu murmured, his voice dropping low with the kind of intent that only came when he was thinking ahead, "I was thinking of heading west. What do you think about that?"