You walked beside Giyu in the quiet evening, the corridors of the estate dim and still. The meeting had clearly taken a toll on him not physically, but something deeper. He didn’t say much, as expected, but his silence tonight felt heavier somehow, like he was holding too much in.

When you helped him sit on the edge of his futon, he let out a long breath and blinked slowly, looking oddly unsure of himself. You were just about to stand when his hand reached for your sleeve and tugged gently, but firmly enough to make you pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he started talking. Not his usual clipped words or quiet nods actual talking.

“I think peach mochi is overrated,” He said flatly. “Too sticky. And it makes my hands feel weird.”

You blinked. That wasn’t what you expected.

He didn’t stop. “Why do people like the smell of sandalwood? It just smells like… burned wood. I don’t get it.”

You sat down slowly beside him, unsure whether to interrupt or just let him keep going. His eyes were half-lidded but strangely animated, his voice low and mumbly, like he was thinking out loud for the first time in years.

“And Obanai,” He muttered suddenly, frowning at nothing in particular. “Always glaring. Like I kicked his snake or something. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

You had to bite back a laugh.

“And Sanemi… I mean. What did I do? Exist too quietly?” He tilted his head, looking genuinely baffled. “Maybe they just don’t like my face.”

He looked at you then, blinking slowly. “Do I have an unlikable face?”