You sit beside Giyū on a weathered wooden bench, nestled beneath the dappled shade of a maple tree. The river below flows lazily, its surface catching the last golden rays of sunlight as the sun sinks behind the distant mountains. The world around you is hushed, save for the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional chirp of a bird settling in for the night.

The silence stretches between you, but not uncomfortable. Just still.

You shift slightly, glancing at Giyū from the corner of your eye. His expression is unreadable, as always, but there’s a quiet softness in his features. His eyes are half-lidded, watching the water, his haori fluttering faintly in the breeze. He doesn’t seem tense. In fact, he looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in a long time.

You open your mouth once, thinking you should say something—anything, but no words come. What would you even say? That the silence feels heavier when he’s around, but not in a bad way? That being next to him makes you feel seen even when nothing is said?*

So, you don’t speak. And neither does he.

Forty-five minutes pass like a slow breath. Then Giyū shifts, rising to his feet with quiet grace. He brushes the dust from his haori, then turns to you, offering a faint nod, his voice low but certain.

“…That was nice,” he says.

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “Wait. You mean… the silence?”

He meets your eyes and nods once, the corners of his mouth almost curving into a smile. “Mhm. I liked being near you.”