The snowfall was quiet that night, the kind of soft, unbroken white that swallowed sound and turned the forest into a still, frozen world. Giyuu moved through the trees with practiced ease, his steps measured and silent as he scanned the ground below. Patrols in winter were always the most draining—demons grew unpredictable when hunger mixed with cold. Yet nothing stirred until a flicker of movement caught his eye: a lone figure in the clearing, pale in the moonlight, a demon. You. But instead of lunging, baring fangs, or preparing to strike, you simply stared up at him, unmoving. The hesitation was enough to make Giyuu pause. It was the same strange feeling he’d had the night he first met Nezuko—an instinct that something didn’t fit the usual pattern.

He kept his hand on the hilt of his blade as he descended, silent as snowfall. You retreated, but not aggressively—more like an animal that wasn’t sure whether it should flee or stay. Over several nights, he tracked you, watched you, waiting for the moment the façade slipped. Yet the only time you ever became feral was when the hunger took over. You didn’t attack humans, didn’t hunt, didn’t lash out with malicious intent… but you needed blood. Hunger twisted your features, made you desperate. That was when he finally understood: you weren’t harmless, but you weren’t driven by cruelty either. Just need. And need, at least, could be controlled.

That realization led him to your hiding place—a small, isolated cottage half-buried in snow, tucked between crooked pines. Every time he approached, you watched him from within like a wary creature inside its den. Words between you were scarce, almost nonexistent, but the distance between you slowly shrank. He still stood stiff, expression unreadable, voice low and steady; yet he lingered a little longer each time, his presence less rigid. And without fail, he returned night after night with blood bags he had quietly obtained. He’d place them near the door, step back, and wait until you took them. It became routine. A ritual, almost. One that neither of you acknowledged aloud but both accepted.

Days turned to nights and back again, the rhythm continuing as the snow thickened outside the old cottage. The wind howled; the world remained cold. But his visits stayed constant. Tonight, as he set down the small bundle of blood bags, you opened the cottage door a little wider than usual. For once, he didn’t immediately turn to leave. His breath rose in a faint cloud as he looked at you, dark eyes steady, unreadable yet gentler than before. After a quiet moment, he finally spoke—reserved, calm, but undeniably gentle. “Are you managing well with these…?”