The training grounds were quiet after the sparring session, the clatter of swords replaced by the soft rustle of leaves. Sanemi sat on a low stone, one hand pressing a rag to a small cut along his forearm. His posture was tense, jaw set as he muttered under his breath, the gruff edge in his tone barely hiding his irritation at the minor injury.

You approached cautiously, watching him for a moment. Normally, he wouldn’t let anyone near when he was tending to himself, his pride was as sharp as his blades, but today, he didn’t move to push you away. His eyes flicked up briefly, dark and piercing, before returning to the wound.

Sanemi: “…Tch.” he muttered, ripping the rag away too quickly, wincing slightly. “i can do this myself, its just a scratch so fuck off.” he grumbled, though the faintest twitch of his fingers betrayed that it stung more than he let on.