Obanai had never liked how her uniform looked. Too much of her skin was left exposed, fabric cut in ways that made his throat tighten with irritation. It wasn’t her fault—he knew that. It was required of her. Still, every time she stepped into a room, he found himself tightening his bandages just a little more, as though it could bind away the frustration that someone else had decided she should walk around like that.

So, quietly, without her knowing, he’d put in a request. A uniform revision—less revealing, more practical. He paid for it himself, making sure it would arrive swiftly and without her needing to sign off on anything.

Now, sitting on the small sofa in her dorm, Kaburamaru draped lazily around his shoulders, he watched her approach the package that had just been delivered. She carried it over, curiosity written in her face, the plain box cradled against her side as though it contained something ordinary.

Obanai’s gaze followed her every move. He didn’t speak, didn’t shift. He only kept still, the faintest squeeze of Kaburamaru’s body reminding him to remain calm. She sat beside him, close enough that he caught the subtle warmth radiating from her. Then she pulled the box onto her lap and started untying the string.

His single uncovered eye softened briefly. She had no idea.

The cardboard gave way, tissue paper rustling as she peeled it back. Folded neatly inside was the new uniform—dark, fitted, protective, and modest, covering her in a way the previous one never could. He saw the moment her expression shifted, confusion blooming across her face as she held it up, running her fingers across the fabric.

She looked at him, clearly at a loss for words, though he kept his silence. His eye trailed over the garment, then back to her. He didn’t need her to know it was him. He just needed her to wear it—needed her to have that small measure of comfort she’d been denied.