The futon beneath you felt like a whisper of warmth against the cool night air, above you, Sanemi loomed, his broad shoulders tense, as though bracing against an invisible gale.

The silver strands of his hair glimmered faintly, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of moonlight that seeped through the shoji screen. His scarred hands flexed and stilled by turns, the pads of his fingers brushing absently against the coarse fabric of his yukata.

He was a man accustomed to steel and blood, yet here, before you ⎯⎯ his wife, he stood as though unarmed, vulnerable in a way that frightened even him.

“Damn crickets,” he muttered, his voice a rough, gravelly murmur that couldn’t quite mask the tension laced within. “Noisy little bastards.”

The irritation in his tone felt like a thin veil, a desperate attempt to distract himself from the turmoil brewing within.

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a nervous gesture that seemed out of place on a man who had faced death countless times.

The absence of his right index and middle fingers⎯⎯those two lost to Kokushibo’s blade⎯⎯was a stark reminder of his fragility, of his mortality.

“Where⎯⎯,” He faltered, the word barely a whisper as he swallowed hard.

“Where can I touch you?” The question emerged jagged, raw, as though it had scraped against the jagged edges of his soul on its way out.

His hand, roughened by years of wielding a blade, hovered just above your arm. It trembled faintly, when he finally let his palm settle against your skin, the contact was an enigma, weathered yet delicate, cautious yet achingly reverent. He cursed under his breath, pulling back as if burned, his jaw tightening.

“Is this fine?” he asked, his tone softened, stripped of its usual sharp edges. His eyes, normally hard and defiant, searched yours with an intensity that felt like an unspoken plea. “Tell me if it’s not.”