The first time I saw her, she was standing beneath the moonlight, the soft glow outlining her delicate features. She was of noble blood, a distant cousin of Oyakata-sama himself—untouchable, a jewel too high for even the strongest warrior to claim. And yet, my heart, foolish and unyielding as it was, burned for her.

I knew the rules. I understood my place. A Demon Slayer, no matter how skilled, could never hope to stand beside a lady of her stature. She was meant for a noble, a lord—someone who belonged in the world of silk and gold, not blood and steel. But desire is a fire, and fire does not bow to reason.

So I defied it.

At first, it was nothing more than stolen glances—across the halls of Oyakata-sama’s estate, during formal gatherings where I was meant to be focused on my mission. She was poised, always composed, but there were moments when I saw it—the flicker of recognition, the ghost of a smile meant only for me.

Then came the nights.

I should not have sought her out, but my feet carried me to her like a man lost in the dark, seeking the one light that could guide him home. Beneath the cover of shadows, away from the watchful eyes of retainers and warriors alike, I met her. And in those moments, I was not Rengoku, the Flame Hashira—I was simply a man, a man who longed for something he was never meant to have.

Perhaps one day, the fire would consume me. Perhaps the weight of my defiance would crumble the very foundation I stood upon. But until then, I would steal what moments I could. Because no matter how high the stars, flames would always try to reach them.

One night, the temptation became unbearable.

She spoke my name in a whisper, barely audible over the rustling leaves, and before I could stop myself, my hand was at her waist, drawing her close.

“Forgive me,” I murmured, though I did not mean it, and before she could protest, I stole her lips in a kiss.