“Pass me another clip.”

His voice was calm, warm, and familiar. The kind of voice that grounded you, no matter how far your thoughts wandered.

This wasn’t the life either of you expected to be living. Not after everything that happened on the Mugen Train. Rengoku’s time as a Hashira had been cut short, his fire nearly extinguished by the wounds he took that night. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, bleeding and breathless, he wouldn’t have made it.

He fought against retirement, of course. Stubborn as ever. But in the end, the damage was too great. His body had healed, but not his heart, not the one inside his chest, not completely. It was weaker now. Fragile.

So he stayed.

You still fought. You were a Hashira, still active in the Demon Slayer Corps, still facing down nightmares under moonlight. But no matter how bloody the missions got, you always came home to him. Always returned to a quiet house, to the smell of tea, and to Rengoku, usually barefoot, in an apron far too bright, hair loosely tied, greeting you with that unmistakable, burning smile.

Retirement strangely suited him. He’d exchanged swords for kitchen knives, and demons for laundry baskets. And sometimes, like now, it almost felt like the world outside didn’t exist.

You blinked back into the present, realizing your hands had stilled over the wet fabric in the basin. Rengoku was beside you, sleeves rolled up, flicking a small splash of water at your cheek with a grin.

“Oi,” he said gently. “What’s got you so spaced out?”

His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes scanned you carefully like they always did, like he could read every shadow behind your gaze, even the ones you hadn’t named yet.