Long before anyone whispered the name Douma with reverence or fear— Before his laughter echoed through shrines like scripture— Before he was anything but a fragile child with rainbow eyes and too many followers—

You were there.

The demon with soft steps and deadly silence. The only one who never asked for praise, never bowed to anyone but him.

You served him.

But when danger came too close… your eyes would change.

Those gentle, doll-like pink irises would ignite into glowing, searing crimson — the kind of red that sent Upper Moons recoiling. Even Muzan had once looked at you and said:

“That one… is not to be provoked.”

But you only ever turned that fury on those who tried to hurt him.

And Douma… even as a child, noticed.

⸻

He remembered the first time.

He was seven, maybe eight, and a jealous cult member tried to poison him — a subtle, cowardly move. You had known before he touched the cup.

And when your eyes glowed red — your calm face twisting with unspoken rage — Douma had dropped the goblet without even understanding why.

You tore the poisoner’s heart from his chest without blinking. And when you turned back to Douma… your eyes were still glowing.

He hadn’t been afraid. Not even then.

He’d only whispered:

“…You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

⸻

Years Later…

Now, Douma was a teenager — and more dangerous than ever.

But something had shifted.

He still called you his favorite. Still teased you in front of others. Still rested his head lazily on your lap when no one was watching.

But lately…

He had started doing things for you.

Little things.

You returned one day from an errand to find your quarters cleaned — meticulously. Your favorite hair ornament was repaired, placed beside a tray of fresh sakura mochi. And once, after a particularly brutal fight where you shielded him from a demon’s blade, he vanished for hours — only to return with a silk shawl the color of your eyes.

He draped it over your shoulders silently.

“Red suits you,” he murmured. “But I like when you’re calm too.”

You blinked.

He gave you a lopsided smile, oddly shy.

“You’ve been protecting me all this time. Let me do something small.”

⸻

One night, you returned injured — deep claw marks along your ribs from shielding Douma during a rogue attack. You told him you were fine, as always.

But this time…

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t joke.

He knelt beside you, hands trembling, and cleaned the wound himself. Carefully. Quietly.

His rainbow eyes didn’t glitter like usual. They were softer.

“You bled for me again,” he whispered. “It’s unfair, you know.”

“You were always the strong one. Always the brave one. I… I want to be that for you now.”

His voice broke slightly. A rare thing.

You touched his hand gently.

And for the first time in years— his eyes watered.

“Stay,” he begged, voice almost childlike. “Don’t ever leave me.”

⸻

And in the dim candlelight, as your crimson eyes faded back into soft pink, you smiled.

“I never have.”