The forest was quiet now. The demon they’d just fought lay in pieces behind them, its body already dissolving into ash. The moon hung low, casting silver light across the clearing.

Sanemi sat on a fallen log, shirt torn, blood dripping from a gash along his ribs and around his arms. He grunted as he wrapped the bandages himself—tight, efficient, like he’d done it a hundred times. Because he had.

You knelt in front of him, your own wounds already healed—flesh knitting back together with unnatural speed. But your breath was uneven. Your fingers twitched. Your throat burned.

His blood was rare. Potent. Intoxicating. Even for a demon like you—one who didn’t eat humans, who fought beside the Hashira—it was hard to ignore.

You were drooling. Growling softly. Eyes flickering between restraint and hunger.

Sanemi didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just glanced down at you, expression unreadable.

“Tch. You’re doing it again,” he muttered, voice low. Not angry. Just… tired. Familiar.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to look away. Your claws dug into the dirt. You hated this part. Hated the way your body betrayed you.