The courtyard of the Butterfly Mansion was warm with late morning sun, dappling the stone path with flecks of golden light.

Somewhere, a cicada buzzed lazily in the trees.

The air was clean, peaceful—the kind of peace rarely afforded to Demon Slayers, and rarer still for someone like Genya Shinazugawa.

He stood at the edge of the garden, shirt loose over his shoulders, sleeves pushed up and bandages peeking out from under the folds.

Recovery hadn’t been easy, but he’d gotten restless fast. The healers had reluctantly agreed to let him move around a bit more, provided he didn’t strain himself.

Which meant, of course, that he was already pushing it.

He’d been trying to carry a crate from the supply shed to the porch. Stubborn, silent, jaw clenched in determination.

It didn’t look all that heavy—until he stumbled.

The edge of the crate clipped his foot, and with a graceless thud, it dropped straight onto his shin. “Shit!”

The word tore out of him sharp and loud, like a reflex. Sharp enough that birds scattered from the trees above.

And then, silence.

He froze. You did too.

He turned, very slowly, and saw the expression on your face. Wide-eyed. Mouth parted in pure disbelief.

There was no judgment in your stare—only shock. As if you’d just heard a kitten growl or seen a flower throw a punch.

Genya blinked. His ears burned red almost instantly. “I—” His voice cracked halfway through the syllable. “Shit. I mean—no, wait—dammit.”