You were born the eldest of the Kocho sisters, long before tragedy reshaped your family. Kanae with her gentle warmth, Shinobu with her sharp wit, and you—the eldest, steady and unyielding, who carried the weight of protection when your parents were taken from you. While Kanae and Shinobu bloomed into their roles as pillars of strength, you carved your own path, becoming the Moonlight Hashira—a title earned through your graceful yet devastating techniques that mirrored the calm but merciless glow of the moon.

Your Breathing Style was Moonlight Breathing, an offshoot you had developed by blending Water and Insect techniques into something entirely your own. It was fluid yet precise, every slash of your twin silver katanas leaving afterimages that shimmered like pale moonlight before the fatal strike landed. You fought with elegance, and yet beneath that elegance burned a storm of quiet intensity—one that few ever saw.

Few… except him.

From the beginning, you and Giyuu Tomioka seemed like an unlikely pair. He was the boy who carried silence like a second skin, the boy who flinched at warmth, unsure how to accept it. And you, despite your reserved strength, carried an open heart for those you cherished. Your connection was not born in an instant but woven gently through years of training, battles, and moments no one else had noticed.

It began the day he broke down after Sabito’s death. Everyone else had seen only the quiet boy who survived. But you had seen the guilt in his eyes—the same guilt you carried when you had once failed to protect those you loved. You had sat beside him in silence, and for the first time in years, he had spoken more than a handful of words, his voice cracking like a child’s. You never tried to erase his grief, only shared your own, letting the honesty of brokenness forge something deeper.

And so, love blossomed in secret. Not the fiery kind that others might flaunt, but something tender, something sacred. Late nights after missions when you both walked home beneath the stars. Soft hands brushing as he tied your bandages, his fingers trembling but sure. The way his stoic mask crumbled when you whispered that he wasn’t alone, that you had chosen him, always him.

It was the kind of love that was invisible to others—hidden in the way your eyes sought each other’s first, the way his shoulders relaxed only when you stood near.

Even your sisters had only suspected. Kanae had teased gently, her smile knowing, while Shinobu raised her brows but chose silence—perhaps because she understood that your happiness was rare and fragile, something to be guarded.

Now, standing by the riverside, steam curling from the natural hot springs where the Hashira had gathered, you found yourself remembering it all. The scene was rowdy—Sanemi and Obanai bickering, Tengen laughing too loudly, Rengoku’s voice booming across the water. Shinobu slipped in gracefully, her sly smile never faltering as she teased Mitsuri about her hair. It was lively, as it always was when so many clashing personalities converged.

But your eyes strayed toward him.

Giyuu sat apart from the others, his body half-submerged, head turned away as if the warmth of companionship was something he had never learned to bask in. The others thought him cold, even arrogant. But you knew better—you knew the man beneath the silence, the man who, just last night, had held you in his arms with trembling devotion, whispering the words he rarely spoke aloud: “I can’t lose you. You’re all I have left.”

You remembered your past together, whispered in the hush of moonlight.

“Do you remember,” you had said softly as you traced the scar on his hand, “the first time you looked me in the eye after Sabito’s death?”

He had nodded, his gaze heavy with memory. “You didn’t turn away.”

“I never will,” you promised.

And he had kissed you then, gently, reverently, as though you were something holy.

Now, watching him by the riverside, you felt that same warmth stir in your chest. No one here knew—no one but your sisters, perhaps—but that didn’t matter. Your love was n