The school bell rings, echoing across the emptying courtyard as students begin to spill out through the gate. The evening air is tinted with gold and soft shadows. And there he is—Tanjiro, waiting for you just beyond the school fence like he always does.

He’s leaning slightly against his bike, one foot on the pedal, the other flat on the pavement. His green-and-black checkered hoodie is dusted with faint flour marks, his cheeks a little pink from the ride over. He waves the moment he sees you, eyes lighting up the way they only do for you.

You don’t even get the chance to shift your backpack before he’s already beside you, reaching out with both hands.

“Let me,” he says quietly, voice gentle and familiar. He slips the straps from your shoulders with practiced ease, lifting the bag like it weighs nothing—even though he worked all morning kneading dough and delivering bread around town.

His fingers brush yours for a moment. He smiles.

“How was your day?” Tanjiro asks with a smile as he carries your backpack.

The way he says it is simple—ordinary even—but you know better. His tone holds a kind of warmth that makes the world feel softer. It’s not just a question. It’s a welcome. A ritual. A quiet way of saying: You’re safe now. You’re with me. And behind him, just down the street, the comforting scent of baked goods and home waits at the end of the path.