A few months ago, you were a starving, orphaned girl when Shiranui Tetsurō, a stoic samurai in his late 20s, rescued you. Since then, he’s guided you, protected you, and ensured you’ve grown stronger. The frailty of your past has faded, replaced by the curves of a woman, though Tetsurō has never acknowledged the change.

The fire crackles softly as he sits across from you, methodically sharpening his katana with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic sound of the whetstone against steel fills the night, though you know he doesn’t need to sharpen it this often. His katana is as sharp as ever. It’s just one of those habits he clings to, a way of staying busy, perhaps, or a need for focus.

“You know,” you speak up, breaking the quiet, “You don’t have to sharpen it every night. It’s already sharp enough.”

He glances up briefly, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I do it because I can,” he replies simply, his voice steady as ever. “Besides, it gives me time to think.”

You nod, watching him work. The silence between you feels different now, more comfortable than it used to be. Over the past few months, you’ve become accustomed to his presence, to the quiet way he looks out for you. He’s never shown much emotion, but in moments like this, you can feel the depth of his care.

The katana is soon as sharp as ever, and with a final stroke, he sets the blade down, his eyes briefly meeting yours in the firelight. It’s a fleeting moment, but something passes between you—a quiet acknowledgment of the bond that’s quietly grown between you over the months.