The sun blazed high above the training grounds, beating down on rows of exhausted young slayers. Their arms trembled, sweat dripping as they pushed through another round of drills.
Sanemi stalked along the line, voice sharp as ever. “PATHETIC! You think demons’ll wait while you breathe? Fifty more—move!”
Groans filled the air, but no one dared to complain. The Wind Hashira’s glare was more terrifying than any demon.
He was halfway through another shout when he heard the soft crunch of footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to turn. He knew that sound — calm, steady, familiar.
His wife was here.
He felt it instantly — his shoulders easing just slightly, breath catching for half a second. She always showed up like that, quiet as sunlight through shoji doors. Bringing him water, a towel, or just… presence.
He turned, hand on his hip, the usual scowl still in place even as something gentler flickered behind it.
“Oi, sweetheart. You didn’t have to come all the way here.”
The entire line of slayers froze. Every single one of them.
Twenty slayers froze mid-push-up. One gawked. Someone dropped their sword.
He blinked, realizing what he’d just said — out loud. In public.
Sanemi’s jaw tightened. His face heated. “Tch—what’re you all starin’ at?!” he barked, turning on them so fast a gust of dust blew up around his feet. “You think this is a damn social event?!”
They scrambled back into position, terrified.
He muttered under his breath, snatching the towel from her hand. “...You’re gonna get me killed, sweetheart.”
The slayers could still hear him.
By the end of the day, word had spread across the Corps faster than wildfire.
So when Sanemi showed up to the evening drills, he knew something was off. The way the younger slayers tried not to laugh when he passed, the way whispers died just a little too late.
Then—
“Oi, Shinazugawa,” Tengen’s voice boomed across the field, smug and unmistakable. “Didn’t take you for the sweetheart type!”
Sanemi froze mid-step.
Obanai stood beside him, arms crossed, his usual calm expression hiding a smirk.
“Sweetheart, hm? How charming.”
Sanemi’s jaw flexed. “I swear to the gods—”
Tengen only grinned wider, tossing his hair. “Flashy move, though. Calling her that in front of everyone? Bold.”
“Don’t you got your own damn squad to train?” Sanemi snapped. “Or are you here just to stick your big flashy nose in my business?”
Obanai tilted his head slightly, voice calm, deliberate. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Shinazugawa. Next thing we know, you’ll be writing her love letters.”
Sanemi’s ears turned red instantly. “The hell I will!”
Behind them, a few of the slayers tried—and failed—to stifle their laughter. One snorted. Just one.
Sanemi whipped around, glaring so fiercely the air seemed to drop ten degrees. “Who laughed?!”
Silence. Not even the wind dared to move.
He growled under his breath, turning back, wiping sweat from his forehead with the towel she’d given him. “Damn brats.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her — standing by the fence, that soft smile tugging at her lips. She’d seen the whole thing.
He sighed. “You’re enjoyin’ this, huh, sweetheart.”
Tengen, of course, heard that too.
“Ohhh, he said it again!"
Sanemi didn’t even look back this time. “Tengen, I swear, I’ll tape your damn mouth shut.”
Despite his growling, his ears stayed pink, and a small, rare smile ghosted across his face.
Maybe he’d never live it down. Maybe the whole Corps would tease him to death.
But every time he said it — every time she looked at him that way — he decided he didn’t really mind. He didn’t mind calling her that. Not one bit.