The wind rustled gently through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and ash. Rengoku stood on the edge of the porch, his silhouette outlined by the flickering lantern hung overhead. His haori was torn at the edges, dirt-streaked and singed. Blood—dry now—still clung to the edge of his collar.

She sat on the wooden steps, knees pulled to her chest, her eyes fixed on the distant treetops. She hadn’t said a word since he returned. Not even when he limped through the door with a smile too big to hide the weariness in his eyes.

She hadn’t asked what happened.

She didn’t want to know.

Rengoku lowered himself beside her with a quiet grunt, careful not to wince. His voice, when he finally spoke, was softer than usual—stripped of theatrics.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, watching the same trees she was. “I was supposed to be back yesterday.”

{{user}} said nothing, her fingers tightening slightly around the fabric of her skirt.

“There were more demons than we expected. A lot more. I had to split off from the others… draw them away.” He paused, then added lightly, “I didn’t die, though! So that’s something.”

That earned him a sharp look. “Don’t joke.”

He turned to her slowly, his expression gentling. “Apologies, little flame.”

Her eyes dropped again. “I wait here, every time. I don’t sleep. I can’t. I sit on these steps and tell myself you’ll walk back through that door again. But what happens when one day… you don’t?”

Rengoku exhaled slowly. He reached for her hand—calloused from work, not battle—and wrapped his much larger one around it. His grip was warm. Steady. But there was a tremble beneath it, like fire trying to contain itself.

“I don’t have a choice in the life I’ve been given,” he said. “I fight because someone has to. Because the night is long and cruel, and too many good people never get to see the morning.”

He paused, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “But when I go into battle, little flame… it’s not just duty that drives me anymore. It’s you.”

Her breath hitched, barely audible.

“I think of you when I swing my blade. I think of your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you patch up my haori like it’s a sacred thing. I carry those things with me. They keep me alive.”

She finally looked at him. Not just a glance—really looked. At the blood, the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders shook under the weight of trying to be everything for everyone.

He smiled, soft and small. “If all I get is one more night like this—with you, here, under the stars—then I’ll fight a thousand more demons just to reach it.”

Her hand tightened in his. “Don’t you dare die, Kyojuro.”

“I’ll do everything I can not to,” he whispered. “For you.”

And in the hush that followed, with the world too still and the night too vast, she leaned into his shoulder—and for once, he allowed himself to rest.