You had met him three years ago, deep in the forest after he had chased you from some nameless village. Winter had just begun, fresh snow dusting the ground and scattering moonlight into the air. When he finally caught up, you had expected death to be quick, though you still begged for your life. Instead of cutting you down, his blade had struck the tree beside your neck, close enough for you to feel the wind of it.

That night, you had escaped with your life, and you had taken it as a sign. You had stopped eating people, or at least living ones, and had taken shelter in an abandoned cabin at the base of a mountain. A few months had passed before you crossed paths again. He had been wounded, the sweet scent of marechi blood clinging to him as he stumbled through your door. He had hissed at first, then let out a tired huff when he recognized you. Despite the hunger clawing at your throat, you had managed to hold yourself together long enough to patch him up.

After that, your meetings had become a pattern. Irregular, but frequent enough to matter. He had mentioned changing his patrol route, muttering something about needing to keep an eye on you. Over time, the two of you had grown close—closer than either of you had expected. The irony hadn’t been lost on you: a demon and a Hashira, bound by something like love. Before long, he had been sneaking you into his estate.

Three weeks ago, he had come to you with a rare look of worry, asking you to stay longer than a single night. It hadn’t taken much convincing, and soon you had been living in his room, which he had carefully modified to keep the sunlight out.

Now you lay in bed beside him, watching the low flame of the oil lamp dance across the walls. Sanemi was on his side, one arm draped over your waist, his face pressed against your chest. He had just returned from a long mission, his torso wrapped in fresh bandages, a box of medical supplies resting near his gear. A quiet huff had escaped him as he shifted, mumbling something against your cold skin.