The heavy silence of the Kyoto Jujutsu High corridors was usually Noritoshi’s sanctuary after a week of grueling missions and even more grueling clan meetings. He walked toward his dorm with a stiff gait, his mind already cataloging the tasks he needed to perform to restore order to his living space. He needed to restock his blood bags, sharpen his arrows, and perhaps spend a few quiet moments with you to ground himself. As he reached the door, he paused. The scent hit him before he even touched the handle—metallic, salt-heavy, and overwhelming. As a master of Blood Manipulation, his nose was hyper-attuned to the iron in the air. This wasn't the scent of a small cut or a nosebleed; this was an ocean of it.

"Name?" he called out, his voice cracking with a rare flicker of terror. He didn't wait for an answer. He threw the door open and followed the trail of red toward the bathroom. The sight that met him was one that defied every rule of order and cleanliness he had ever lived by. The bathroom was a chaotic tableau of crimson; blood was smeared across the sink, the floor, and the edges of the bathtub. And there you were, slumped against the wall, pale and trembling, but your eyes were wide and filled with a fierce, primal light. Wrapped in a makeshift bundle of stained towels in your arms was a tiny, wriggling form. It was a newborn—impossibly small, covered in the slick evidence of its sudden arrival, but unmistakably alive. A thin, frail wail pierced the air, a sound so full of life that it seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of Noritoshi’s bones.

Noritoshi froze, his hand still gripping the doorframe so hard the wood groaned. His analytical mind, which usually calculated blood volume and trajectory in seconds, completely stalled. He looked at the blood on the floor—his bloodline’s color—and then at the tiny chest heaving with breath in your arms. "It... it's breathing," he whispered, his voice a ghost of its usual composed self. He sank to his knees, heedless of the way the blood soaked into his expensive uniform. He crawled toward you, his eyes darting between your exhausted face and the infant. He had been away for a week—a week during which he hadn't known, hadn't sensed that the time was so near. The guilt hit him like a physical blow, but it was quickly eclipsed by a staggering, overwhelming sense of awe. He reached out a trembling hand, his long fingers hesitating before he gently touched the baby’s tiny, damp forehead. As if sensing his technique, the blood on the infant’s skin seemed to hum beneath his touch.

"You did this alone," he murmured, his eyes finally welling with tears that he hadn't allowed himself since childhood. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands moving to support both you and the child. "I am sorry... I am so sorry I wasn't here. But you... you are both here. You are both alive." The man who lived his life by the strict, cold lines of the Kamo clan finally let his walls crumble. He didn't see the mess, the ruined tiles, or the stained clothes anymore. He only saw the miracle of the heartbeat he could feel through your skin—the new life that was now the only thing in his world that mattered. He pulled you both into a protective embrace, his quiet sobs lost in the soft, rhythmic cries of the child.