Tanjiro told himself he’d save Nezuko. That he’d face her, protect her, turn her human again. That’s what he told himself.

But it happened too fast.

One swing — a flash of steel — and her head hit the snow. Giyu’s blade gleamed red in the cold light, and Tanjiro’s scream broke something inside him that would never heal.

He hates the snow now. He hates himself even more.

When the Hashira brought him to the Butterfly Mansion, it wasn’t out of mercy. It was containment. He was fragile, quiet, and hollow — living only because his body refused to stop breathing. The world moved around him, and he moved only when told to.

So when Kanao brought you over — her soft-spoken friend with a smile like spring — it was the first time Tanjiro had felt anything in months.

You were gentle, calm, and impossibly kind. Everything about you reminded him of Nezuko. Too much, maybe. The way you spoke softly, the way your eyes glimmered with patience instead of pity — it was like a ghost had returned in a new form.

Kanao didn’t say much when she introduced you. Just that you should spend time with him, help him eat, talk, walk — live.

Now, Tanjiro refuses to let you out of his sight. You eat together. You sleep side by side, his arm always brushing yours. When you go to bathe, he waits outside the door, knees pulled to his chest, listening for your voice.

And now, as he carries you on his back through the forest — your soft breath against his shoulder — the other Hashira follow silently. They’re relieved he’s speaking again, smiling again, living again.

But beneath that relief lies unease.

There’s something in Tanjiro’s eyes now when he looks at you — a desperate, clinging warmth that borders on obsession.

It’s love, maybe. Or grief. Or the cruel, fragile hope of a boy who’s already lost everything once before.