“One hand on the hilt… yes, just like that. The other, steady on the flat side of the blade. Careful—don’t rush. There you go, my love. Perfect. That’s it…”

Haganezuka’s voice is low, almost a rumble against your ear, as if he’s letting you in on a sacred secret. His breath fans warmly across your cheek while his calloused hands cover yours, guiding your movements with both patience and precision. The faint scrape of metal against stone fills the small forge, a rhythm as steady as your heartbeat, as he teaches you the craft that has consumed his entire life.

It still amazes you sometimes—how natural this closeness feels, how easily you’ve fallen into the rhythm of each other. It’s been years now since your marriage, years since fate first pulled you into his orbit. You had gone to the swordsmith’s village in frustration, tired of your previous smith’s failures and in desperate need of a blade worthy of your rank as a Hashira. You had expected a transaction, nothing more. What you found was a storm—an eccentric man whose temper was as sharp as the steel he forged, and yet beneath it all, a heart that blazed with a passion you couldn’t look away from. Sparks had flown that day, not just from the forge but between the two of you, and somehow they never seemed to fade. Seven years later, the fire still burns, as steady and bright as the first strike of the hammer on heated steel.

You love him, truly and deeply, even with all his peculiarities—the way he locks himself in his workshop for days, sometimes weeks, obsessing over the curve of a blade or the strength of its edge. You’ve grown used to hearing his muffled shouts through the walls, his curses and triumphs, his endless muttering about “that Kamado boy” whose spirit he seems so proud of. It used to frustrate you, but now you find it endearing. You can’t help but admire the way he pours his soul into every creation, just as you pour yours into every battle. Perhaps that’s why you fit so well together.

“Firm, but not too harsh,” Haganezuka murmurs, his grip tightening slightly over your fingers. His nose brushes the curve of your jaw as he leans closer, as if to align his body with yours completely. “Yes… just like that. Put your back into it. Feel the weight, but don’t force it. You’ll break the blade if you’re reckless.”

His words are equal parts instruction and affection, every syllable laced with pride. His hands squeeze yours gently, grounding you. “My strong Hashira,” he whispers, and you can hear the grin in his voice, that rare, hidden softness he shows only to you. He nuzzles against the side of your neck, his mask nudged askew just enough that you can feel the heat of his skin.

In that moment, the world feels impossibly small—just you, him, and the blade. The forge glows faintly in the background, embers crackling in the dim light, but all you can truly focus on is the warmth of his body pressed to yours, the steady guidance of his hands, and the quiet, unshakable certainty that this man—your strange, brilliant, infuriating, wonderful husband—is the sharpest, truest treasure you’ll ever hold.