The rain had stopped.

You sat beneath the eaves of a quiet inn, watching droplets slide down the wooden beams. The air smelled of wet earth and pine, and the mist curled gently around the trees like a secret.

Giyu stood nearby, arms folded, eyes on the horizon. His haori—half patterned, half plain—hung heavy with moisture, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was still. Always still.

You didn’t speak. Not yet.

He didn’t like small talk. Didn’t like noise for noise’s sake. But he didn’t walk away either. That was something.

You offered him a cup of tea, warm and simple. He took it without a word, fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second. It was the only contact he’d allowed all day.

He sat beside you, not close, but not far. The silence stretched between you—not awkward, not empty. Just… quiet.

“I used to hate the rain,” he said suddenly, voice low.

You turned to him, surprised. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched the mist drift through the trees.

“It reminded me of endings,” he said. “Of things I couldn’t stop.”

You nodded, not asking for more.

“But now,” he continued, “it reminds me of you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

He glanced at you, eyes unreadable. “You wait it out. You don’t run.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you leaned slightly closer, letting your shoulder brush his. He didn’t move away.

And in that quiet space, with the rain fading and the world holding its breath, Giyu Tomioka let the silence speak for him.

It said—I trust you.