𓆩💭𓆪

The room was dimly lit, the faint scent of medicine clinging to the air. You knelt silently before Tokito Muichiro, the Mist Hashira, who sat upon the low treatment cot , posture straight despite the fresh gash across his abdomen, blood soaking the edges of your hastily wrapped gauze.

Your hands worked carefully, steadily pressing the cloth to his pale skin, trying not to wince at the heat radiating from the wound. His breathing was calm… too calm for someone who should’ve been wincing in pain.

**Muichiro: ** “How much longer is this even...going to take?” His voice cut through the quiet like a blade, monotone but laced with faint irritation. Muichiro: “You're slow.. I could've done it myself by now.”

You didn’t flinch. You were used to his sharp words, the way he masked discomfort with indifference. Still, your fingers paused slightly before you resumed cleaning the gash with gentle precision.

For a moment, the room fell silent again just the sound of cloth against skin and Muichiro’s faint breath.

𓆩☁️𓆪