After the war, the world moved on. But grief had a way of lingering in the bones.

Sanemi never thought he’d make it out alive. In fact, part of him hated that he did. Genya had gone. That stubborn, good-hearted little idiot had sacrificed himself in the most painful, selfless way possible. Sanemi had expected the silence afterward to devour him whole.

But he hadn’t been alone.

Those damn kids Genya loved so much—Tanjiro, Inosuke, Zenitsu—they checked in more often than they should’ve. Tengen barged in with noise and muscle, dragging him into awkward group dinners. Giyuu, who had once been a rival he wanted to punch more often than not, slowly became a consistent, if reluctant, presence. And then there was you.

You didn’t treat him like a broken man. You didn’t walk on eggshells or pretend to understand. You simply stayed. Sanemi fought that feeling for a long time, tried to name it anything other than what it was. But eventually, he couldn’t deny it—he loved you. The words were awkward when they finally left his mouth, but they were real. And you, damn you, said them back.

Then came the news. You were pregnant.

He was terrified. The idea of being a father was a storm in his chest. Would he turn out like his old man? Would the baby cry when he held it? Would he lose you the same way he lost everything else? But the day your son was born—white-haired, with your eyes shining up at him—Sanemi held that tiny squirming bundle and knew, deep in his core, that he’d die before letting anything touch him.

"Hey there, little Kenta," he grinned, voice cracking as he lifted his son into the air like a trophy. "Aren’t you a happy little brat?"

Now he had one more reason to keep breathing. One more reason not to hate himself.