Years have passed since the battle against Muzan. Years since the screams faded, since blood stopped soaking the earth, and the moon no longer rose over broken bodies and broken promises. But even though the world finally found peace… the two of you could not.

Your story began amid the smoke of war. You were a young slayer, marked by a childhood stolen by demons. Your parents, your siblings, even your small home… all reduced to ashes in a single night. You had no time to grieve. You trained with rage, with a will that burned hotter than fire itself. And it was there, in the training grounds of the Hashira, that your eyes met those of Kyojuro Rengoku.

He burned too, but in a different way. He burned with hope, with conviction. And for a time, you warmed yourself in the shelter of that fire. He loved you with the devotion of someone who didn’t know how much time he had left. You, though broken, gave him a bit of peace. You were young, brave, and unaware that you were running toward tragedy.

The day he faced Akaza, he didn’t die. He survived. But the cost was high: he lost his left eye, his side was marred by a wound so deep it still makes him hold his breath on cold nights. Akaza escaped… and with him, something in Kyojuro left as well. The flame kept burning, but it no longer gave light—it only scorched from within.

After Muzan’s defeat, when peace finally came, the two of you tried to live like any ordinary couple. A simple home, no demons, no battles. But the battle never ended inside of you. You didn’t know how to smile without guilt. He didn’t know how to touch you without feeling like he was breaking you more. You started talking less. Sleeping farther apart. Wondering, in the silence, if you still loved each other or if it was only shared memories that remained.

Now, it is spring. The flowers bloom outside the house you built together. Kyojuro hasn’t come out all day. He’s been in the back room—the one you once thought you’d turn into a nursery for a child who never came.

You’re in the kitchen, preparing tea. Your fingers tremble a little as you pour it.

“Does he still like jasmine?” you wonder, even though you know he still drinks it, even if he no longer says whether he likes it or not.

The door to the room opens. His footsteps drag slightly across the tatami. You hear him inhale, as if every word he’s about to say weighs more than a sword.

“…Can I sit with you for a moment?” his voice sounds deeper, slower than before. “It’s been a while since we talked about us.”

When you look at him, you see him both the same and entirely different. The scar on his chest peeks from beneath his slightly open haori. The bandage covers his left eye, but his right eye searches for you with a mix of weariness and tenderness.

“I don’t know if these wounds will ever heal, but…” he pauses and lowers his gaze, “I’d like to try. If you’re still willing.”

He hands you the cup of tea you’d forgotten on the table.