The house was dark when you stepped in, the scent of rain still clinging to your uniform and the ache of battle lingering in your bones. You shut the door behind you as quietly as possible, every movement slow, deliberate—worn with exhaustion but pulled forward by one thought:

Home.

You padded softly through the halls, passing the dim nightlight in the corner your youngest insisted on keeping. It wasn’t until you reached the bedroom that you heard it—the faint murmur of the TV, low and distant, flickering gently behind the door left slightly ajar.

You pushed it open slowly.

There, on the bed, under the softest glow of the screen, was Giyuu.

He was reclined against the pillows, hair slightly damp from a recent shower, wearing his usual navy-blue sleep robe. His eyes were heavy, lids drooping with sleep he refused to give in to. And resting peacefully on his chest, one on each side, were your children—your daughter curled beneath his chin, thumb in her mouth, and your son snuggled up to his side, one small hand resting over Giyuu’s heart.

The remote was still loosely held in his hand, forgotten as some old documentary murmured in the background.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, struck still by the quiet beauty of it—your husband, the man once called the stoic Water Hashira, wrapped in the purest kind of softness. His arms cradled the kids protectively, his body perfectly still so he wouldn’t disturb their dreams. He looked like peace incarnate.

His eyes opened the slightest bit when he sensed your presence, always alert for you.

“You’re back,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep and something deeper—relief.