Obanai wasn’t blind. He noticed every small change in her—the way her steps had grown slower, the subtle wince when she shifted, the way she clutched her sleeves or pressed soft fabrics to her cheek, as though grounding herself. She was falling asleep faster than usual, dozing off in places where she’d normally be alert.

It didn’t take long for him to put the pieces together.

Kaburamaru flicked his tongue, brushing against Obanai’s jaw as if to remind him of what he already knew: she needed comfort, not questions.

So he went looking.

He asked every woman in the Corps he could find, awkward and terse, his voice more clipped than usual. Most seemed surprised he was even asking, but Shinobu—ever composed—simply smiled in that way that made his skin crawl and handed him two neat boxes. “She’ll need these. Don’t forget to be patient,” she said.

He muttered a rough “thank you” and turned to leave before she could tease him further.

On his way out, he nearly ran into Tanjiro. The boy, far too perceptive for his own good, glanced at the boxes in Obanai’s hands and then, without a word, pressed a box of chocolates against his chest. “Trust me,” Tanjiro said simply, his smile gentle but firm. “It helps. My sisters always liked having something sweet.”

Obanai didn’t answer, but he took the chocolates.

That still didn’t feel like enough.

Later, in town, he found himself at a shop. His eye caught on a small plush—soft, comforting, with a hidden compartment inside where a heating pad could be slipped in. He picked it up without hesitation. Next to it, a weighted plush caught his attention, its solid heft meant to soothe. He bought that, too.

By the time he returned to her dorm, his arms were full. He arranged everything carefully in a basket—boxes Shinobu had given him, Tanjiro’s chocolates, the plushies, and other small comforts he had picked out along the way. He stared at it for a moment, expression unreadable, then finally carried it to her room.

When he stepped inside, the dorm was quiet. She was there, curled up, her breathing shallow with the kind of weariness that made his chest tighten. He set the basket down where she’d see it, then drew back, silent as ever.

He didn’t need her to know how much effort it had taken, or how many people he’d spoken to. What mattered was that she’d have what she needed—comfort, warmth, and proof that someone was paying attention.