The room smelled faintly of iron and rain. Giyu’s hands moved with steady precision, wrapping fresh linen around her arm, though inside his chest, something tightened with every wince she made.

“You shouldn’t have rushed in like that,” he murmured, voice low but firm. The words carried more weight than a simple reprimand—threads of fear woven through, though he kept his face as impassive as ever.

{{user}}’s gaze flicked to him, and he looked away, focusing on the knot he was tying. He always did this—hid behind the work, the discipline, because it was easier than admitting how much it rattled him to see her bleeding.

When he was finished, he smoothed the edge of the bandage with his thumb, a gesture that lingered just a moment too long. Then he drew back, sitting in silence. The futon dipped slightly beneath his weight, a quiet comfort he never expected to crave but did all the same.

He shouldn’t like this—the ease of being here with her, even after blood and chaos. Just sitting, eating the food she sometimes pressed into his hands, listening to her voice as she filled the quiet he couldn’t. It was dangerous, letting himself want this kind of peace. Dangerous, letting her see him stay.

Yet he stayed. He always did.

“You fight well,” he said after a moment, almost reluctantly. His tone was softer now, stripped of reprimand. His eyes dropped to her bandaged arm, then lifted again. “…But don’t make me watch you get hurt. I—” He stopped himself, words breaking off like a blade catching on stone.

Instead, he reached for the basin to wash his hands, letting silence fall again. But inside, the thought lingered unspoken: I don’t want to lose you too.