A breeze stirred the dust, and the faint clang of distant sparring filled the air, but Sanemi wasn’t paying attention to the noise.

His eyes kept drifting. Again.

She was there—{{user}}, the new Hashira—barefoot in the courtyard with a sword in hand, her movements fluid and deliberate, almost like a whisper in motion. She didn’t speak much, not to him, not to anyone really. And yet somehow, her silence had become the loudest thing in his day.

She wasn’t flashy. No smug grins, no barking out orders, no showing off.

She trained with a quiet intensity that reminded him of snowfall—beautiful, distant, and too damn calm for a world this violent.

He scowled and looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tch. Too delicate.”

But the words felt hollow even as they left his mouth. He’d seen the way her blade cut through a demon’s neck without hesitation. No wasted movement. No fear. She didn’t need to be loud. She didn’t need to prove anything.

And that annoyed him more than he cared to admit.

What really bothered him, though, was how he kept noticing things that had nothing to do with her technique—like how she tucked her hands into her sleeves when she wasn’t fighting. Or how her gaze lingered a second too long when their eyes met. Or the way she always trained when no one else was watching, as if she didn’t want to take up space she had already earned.

She wasn’t looking for attention.

Which made it even worse that she had his.

Sanemi clicked his tongue and ran a hand through his white hair, irritated. Not with her—hell no. With himself. Because every time she passed him, head slightly bowed, eyes flicking toward him for the briefest second before darting away, he felt something tighten in his chest. Something unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

Crushes were for idiots.

And Sanemi didn’t do crushes.

So why the hell was his heart beating harder when she paused near him now—just a few steps away—kneeling in the grass to roll her sleeves back down with quiet, precise movements? Not even looking at him. Not trying to start anything.

But still… there.

Still close enough that he caught a hint of whatever scent clung to her robes—something clean. Like rain.

He looked down at her, jaw clenched, trying to find something—anything—to be annoyed about. But there was nothing. Just her quiet presence, her calm breathing, the way she exhaled softly like the world didn’t know what to do with her and she didn’t expect it to.

She stood up a moment later and walked past him without a word. Their eyes met—just for a heartbeat—and for the first time, she didn’t look away immediately.

Sanemi felt something shift under his ribs.

He exhaled harshly through his nose and turned toward the training post, needing to hit something, needing to feel something else.

Anything else.

But even as he struck, again and again, the image of her—quiet, distant, and somehow closer to him than anyone had been in years—wouldn’t leave his mind.