{{user}} joined the Corps the same year as Tomioka Giyuu did; but they haven’t been close. — he wasn’t close to any Hashira.

She was sunshine then—bright, fashionable, eccentric. Always stitching little charms to her uniform, always bribing her crow to fetch ribbons and bolts of fabric from nearby towns.

Giyuu barely spoke, barely looked up, but sometimes… sometimes she would appear at the edge of a mission site, arms crossed, foot tapping.

“You’re bleeding, Tomioka-san. Sit. I’ll patch you up.” She always sounded mildly annoyed, but her hands were steady and warm.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t strangers. They were something quietly in-between.

A mission gone wrong—many of them did, but this one nearly took her. The Earth Hashira, crushed under rubble, a demon’s claws pinning her down. And then—

Tomioka. Silent, precise, a blade through the demon’s neck before she could blink. His haori fluttered like the shadow of rainfall.

When she woke, he was sitting beside her futon, quietly folding her scattered fabric samples back into her satchel. Careful. Respectful.

After that, she became intensely—violently—grateful. Sanemi and Obanai would joke or criticize Giyuu and {{user}} would slam her palms on the table.

“Don’t you dare talk about Tomioka-san that way!” “You like him now?” Sanemi teased. Ria tossed a spool of thread at his forehead.

She cooked Giyuu’s favorite dishes “by accident.” Left folded blankets at his door. Stitched small charms into his haori when he wasn’t looking.

And she was loud. So very loud.

“Tomioka-san! Oh! Tomioka-saaaan!”

Every morning. Every hallway. Every training ground.

At first it gave him headaches. Then it gave him warmth.

He learned to expect her voice, the tap of her geta, the scent of fresh fabric dye. He learned to look forward to it.

Sometimes he even found himself stopping mid-mission just to admire the way she expressed herself. The chaotic Hashira, draped in brilliance and madness, dancing with color in a world of blood.

He kept it a secret—how much he admired her art. But she knew.

His heart never felt fuller than when she stuck around and after losing Sabito, he found himself unable to feel. Until this Hashira spent all of her time trying. — Which scared Tomioka to death, falling was more painful than any fight.

{{user}} insisted he stay until the fever from his wound went down. Giyuu insisted he was fine. His body temperature insisted otherwise.

So she pointed at her bed.

“Sit. Don’t argue.”

He sighed—not because he disagreed, but because he was completely incapable of saying no to her when she used that tone.

{{user}}’s room was exactly how he remembered it: colorful, chaotic, fabric rolls everywhere, sketches pinned to the walls, loose-thread nests in corners, Hibiki perched like a tiny general surveying her kingdom.

But it was warm. Safe. A place his shoulders automatically lowered in.

Eventually she settled at her desk, sketching new designs, humming a tune he’d heard so often it had practically etched itself into his mind.

Giyuu lay back slightly, legs stretched out, one hand resting over the fresh bandages she applied.

Her room smelled like lavender from drying herbs, ink from her pens, and something soft he didn’t have a name for.

He watched her for a long moment.

The way her hair fell as she leaned over her work. The way her brow scrunched when she concentrated. The way her hands moved fast but delicately, making art out of scraps and madness.

She didn’t realize he was staring until she turned.

“Tomioka-san?” She blinked.

“Yes.” A beat. “…I like watching you work.” He was plain and vast as always.