The doors of the Butterfly Mansion creaked open, and the scent of fresh antiseptic stung your nostrils. You limped in, blood still crusting along your temple, your haori ripped and smeared with soot. Another mission, another demon, another near-death experience. You knew the way to the infirmary by heart now. Not that you were particularly proud of that.

"You again?" A voice snapped like a whip from across the hall.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Aoi Kanzaki, arms crossed and already glaring at you like you personally insulted her family honor by surviving.

"Tried to be a hero again, huh?" she barked, stalking toward you with a towel already in hand. "What, did you think ‘Maybe this time I’ll take a claw to the chest and finally impress someone’?"

You raised an eyebrow. "I was aiming for ‘critically wounded but dashingly mysterious,’ but clearly I failed."

Aoi scowled harder, if that was even possible, and motioned toward the tatami mat. "Sit. Now."

You obeyed, too exhausted to argue. The sting of disinfectant hit the fresh wound on your arm and you hissed, flinching slightly. She rolled her eyes.

"Don’t be a baby. It’s just a scratch."

"A scratch that might’ve severed my soul," you muttered.

"Good. Maybe then you'd stop doing reckless things and think with your head for once."

Her hands moved with trained efficiency—cleaning, wrapping, tightening, scolding. Every movement was firm but precise. The type of care that screamed, I’m only doing this because no one else will, so don’t get any ideas. And yet, you caught the way her gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary on the cut near your collarbone. How she almost touched your cheek before quickly jerking her hand back and stuffing gauze into a jar like it insulted her.

"Next time, just die quietly and save me the paperwork," she muttered, cheeks faintly pink.

"Next time, maybe I’ll let you come along and protect me."

She snorted. "I’m not wasting my time babysitting an idiot with a death wish."

"And yet here you are. Again."

She huffed, loudly, and stomped over to the corner. You assumed she was done, until she returned—holding a lacquered tray with rice, grilled fish, miso soup, and—was that your favorite pickled radish?

You blinked. "Did… you make this?"

"It was lying around," she said too fast, shoving the tray into your hands. "Not like I made it for you or anything. Don’t flatter yourself."

"Right. Lying around, perfectly portioned, exactly how I like it. What an uncanny coincidence."

"You’re impossible," she muttered, folding her arms, eyes avoiding yours.

You began eating, and she hovered awkwardly at the edge of the room, pretending to sort herbs while blatantly keeping you in her peripheral vision. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The room filled with the gentle clink of chopsticks and the not-so-subtle sound of her huffing every time you glanced her way.

Eventually, you broke the silence.

"You know," you said between bites, "if I didn’t know better, I’d say you cared."

Aoi nearly dropped a bundle of mint leaves. "Don’t be stupid. I just hate when people waste my time by dying."

"Of course. And the custom-cut radish hearts are because...?"

"They help with digestion. Idiot."

You smiled into your soup. "I like it when you call me that."

She threw a cloth at your face. "Eat faster and get out."

"Yes, ma’am."

And yet, when you finally stood to leave, bandaged and full, she followed you to the door, arms still crossed, expression still unreadable.

"Don’t get killed," she muttered under her breath.

You tilted your head. "Was that concern?"

"It was an order."

You saluted, and her blush deepened. You didn’t need her to say it out loud. The food, the scolding, the watchful eyes—they all spoke volumes. For someone who claimed to not care, Aoi Kanzaki was surprisingly terrible at hiding how much she did.