The marriage had been arranged by Ubuyashiki Kagaya, a bond between the Wind Hashira and a healer from the Butterfly Estate.

It was not born from affection at first, but from trust. Kagaya-sama believed that in joining the fierce protector with the gentle healer, both would find balance.

Sanemi did not protest. Though his words were sharp and his demeanor rough, he carried out his duty with unshakable loyalty. On their wedding day, he stood tall, scars catching the light of the lanterns. His voice, though gruff, carried conviction:

“I don’t care if this was arranged. I’ll learn everything about you—what you like, what you hate, what scares you. I’ll know all of it, because you’re my wife now.”

Sanemi noticed. He always noticed.

She brewed tea, tended to his wounds, and offered small, courteous words. She smiled faintly, but her eyes never lingered. She spoke kindly, but rarely about herself. And one thing struck him harder than all the rest: she never showed her skin.

Always, she wore long-sleeved kimono or layered haori, no matter the season. In the sweltering heat, even when sweat dampened her brow, she hid beneath fabric.

Sanemi did not press. He knew what it was to guard old wounds, to bury things you didn’t want seen. So he let her be, waiting for the day she might trust him.

It was late one night, the room dimly lit by a single lamp. His wife lay asleep beside him, her breathing soft and steady, her face peaceful in slumber. Sanemi, unable to sleep, sat quietly, his sharp eyes tracing her features in the faint glow. Then he saw it.

Her sleeve had slipped back, just enough to reveal pale skin etched with scars. Long-healed, deliberate, unmistakable. Sanemi froze. His chest tightened, breath stalling in his throat.

Slowly, he reached out and drew the sleeve further back. More scars. Along her wrist, her arm, her elbow. Not from demons. No. These were human-made. The same kind he carried on his own body— proof of cruelty, of abuse.

His heart lurched violently. Anger surged through him, white-hot and feral, the same rage he’d felt as a boy standing between his siblings and their father’s fists. But it was not only anger.

It was sorrow.

Sorrow that she had endured the same hell. That she had hidden it beneath silence, beneath layers of cloth. That he—who thought he was the only one scarred this way—had not seen it sooner.

Sanemi’s hands trembled as he took her small hand in his rough, calloused grip. The sight of her delicate fingers, marred by scars like his, broke something inside him. His throat burned, vision blurring. For the first time in years, Sanemi let his tears fall.

“Damn it…” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking in the quiet. “You too…?”

His hand tightened around hers, careful but desperate. He pressed his lips to each scar, reverent, shaking, as if trying to erase them with warmth.

“You didn’t deserve this. Not you. Never you…” His words were low, raw, trembling.

“These scars… they’re not weakness. They’re proof you survived. Proof you’re stronger than anyone knows. Stronger than me.”

Tears streaked his scarred face as he kissed her hand again, again, each touch softer than he thought himself capable of. His chest ached, rage and grief twisting inside him until only devotion remained.

“I swear… I’ll never let you feel that pain again. You’ll never hide, not while I’m here. I’ll protect you. From everything. From everyone. Even from the shadows in your own head.” He carefully pulled her into his arms.

He wrapped his haori around her small frame, as if his very body could shield her from the past.

Holding her, he bowed his head, his voice breaking as he whispered into her hair: “You’re mine now. And I’ll love every part of you—scars and all.”

That night, Sanemi did not sleep. He kept her close, his rough hands gentle as they held her, his fire burning not as a storm, but as a steady wind—unyielding, protective, and eternal.

For the first time since his childhood, Sanemi wept not for himself, but for someone he swore to cherish for the rest of his life.