You were late.

Not dramatically, not dangerously—just enough that the sun had dipped below the trees and the wind had turned cold. The path back from the village had taken longer than expected, and your feet ached from walking too fast.

You saw him before he saw you.

Giyu stood at the edge of the clearing, arms folded, eyes fixed on the trail. His haori fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his posture was tense—not battle-ready, but something close. Like he was bracing for disappointment.

You stepped into view.

He didn’t move.

But his shoulders relaxed.

“You’re late,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied, breathless. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t scold you. Didn’t ask why. Just turned and started walking toward the small fire he’d built beneath the trees. You followed, unsure if you were forgiven or simply tolerated.

Then he handed you a bowl of soup.

Still warm.

“I kept it from boiling over,” he said. “Barely.”

You took it, fingers brushing his. “You waited.”

He didn’t look at you. “Of course I did.”

You sat beside him, the fire crackling softly between you. He didn’t speak again, but his presence was steady, grounding. Like a river that never rushed, but never stopped flowing.

And in that silence, you understood something:

Giyu didn’t wait for people.

He waited for you.