The world outside never stopped bleeding, but here—just for now—it was still.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth of the small mountain home you shared with Yoriichi. Evening light filtered through the shoji screen, golden and warm, casting gentle patterns on the floor where he sat, sharpening his blade with slow, steady care.

You watched him from across the room, wrapped in a worn haori of his that still smelled faintly of cedar and ash. His presence, even in stillness, had a weight to it—like standing beside an ancient tree that had weathered a thousand storms.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly, without looking up.

You smiled. “I’m allowed.”

He glanced over then, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—rare, fleeting, but real. “You always look at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You stood, crossed the room, and knelt beside him. “Because you always carry the world like it’s yours to save alone.”

He paused, set the blade down gently, and looked at you fully. The mark on his forehead was more pronounced tonight—he must have pushed himself again. His hand reached up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek like you were made of something delicate.

“I don’t know how long I have,” he whispered. “But I want what time there is… with you.”

You leaned into his touch. “Then stay. Even just for tonight.”

And he did. The sword lay forgotten beside him as his arms wrapped around you, firm yet careful, as if he feared he might break you—or perhaps, feared he might break if he let go.

Outside, the world waited. But here, in the silence between battles, you both allowed yourselves to be something more than warriors.

For tonight, he was not the man who bore the sun. He was simply yours.