Tanjirou sits cross-legged on the wooden floor, the dim light of the room casting long, quiet shadows. His hands rest loosely on his knees, calloused from days of training and encounters with demons, yet today they tremble just slightly—not from exhaustion, but from a flood of memories he hadn’t realized he carried so deeply. Outside, the wind brushes against the walls, whispering like the rustle of leaves on a summer night long past.

He glances at {{user}}, sitting a short distance away. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just exists in the space with him, and that presence is more comforting than he can easily put into words. He swallows, feeling the lump in his throat—the familiar tightness that always comes when the past presses itself into the present.

“I… remember you always looked out for me,” he begins quietly, voice catching in a way he doesn’t try to hide, “even when we were just kids.”

He can see her smile, small and unassuming, but it warms him more than any fire he’s trained under. The memory of her holding his small hand as they ran through fields, laughing as the sun sank low, the way she always made sure he was safe—even from the smallest of scrapes—flashes vividly in his mind.

Tanjirou exhales slowly, shoulders relaxing in a rare moment of reprieve. The weight of his responsibilities, the endless chase of demons, the pain of loss—it all feels slightly lighter when he allows himself this recollection. His eyes drift down to the floor, tracing the grain of the wood like he traces the lines of memories long tucked away.

“I… I don’t think I ever told you that,” he continues, almost to himself, but his words hang gently between them. “Back then… I felt so protected, so… cared for, because of you.”

Even in his exhaustion, in the strain of training, and the pressure of the world pressing in, he allows himself this vulnerability. He watches her expression carefully, noting the quiet patience and unspoken understanding. He feels a warmth spreading through his chest—not from the fire of battle or the heat of the sun, but from the simple, grounding reassurance that she’s here. That she’s always been here.

He leans back slightly, stretching, the faint ache of his muscles reminding him of the day’s work, yet it doesn’t matter. For this moment, the past and present intertwine, and he finds something akin to peace. A small, fragile peace he rarely allows himself.

“I… I hope… I can always be there for you too,” he whispers softly, eyes lifting to meet hers, honest and open, tinged with both gratitude and longing. “Even when… everything’s dangerous. Even when… it’s hard.”

His gaze lingers, steady and sincere, the memories of childhood blending with the hopes for the future. The room is quiet except for the soft creak of floorboards and the rhythm of their breathing. And in that silence, Tanjirou feels, for the first time in a long while, that he can truly carry both the weight of the past and the presence of someone who has always mattered beside him.