The fire crackled softly in the corner of the room, casting warm light over the wooden walls. You sat beside Giyu, your knees just brushing as he stared into the flames, his expression unreadable as always.

It had taken time—weeks of quiet walks, rare smiles, and long silences that slowly turned comfortable—for you to understand him. Giyu wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions spoke in volumes: the way he always walked on the outside of the path, the way he checked the tea water before you reached for it, the way his hand sometimes lingered near yours like a question he was still afraid to ask.

Tonight, though, was different. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said softly, surprising you.

You smiled faintly. “Just enjoying the moment.”

Giyu looked down, as if considering your words carefully. Then, without speaking, he reached for your hand and held it in his own—cool, calloused, but steady.

“I’m not good at saying things,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But… I care. Deeply.”

Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice, so rare and raw. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and his body relaxed ever so slightly.

“You don’t have to say it all,” you murmured. “I already know.”

And in the quiet that followed, Giyu closed his eyes, finally letting himself believe it.