The battle had ended hours ago, but the memory of her hadn't.

Blood still crusted the hilt of his dual blades, and his flamboyant haori was tattered, torn in places by the demon’s wild claws. Tengen Uzui, the Sound Hashira, stood at the edge of the battlefield, bathed in the glow of a setting sun. And his eyes? They weren’t on the carnage. They were on her.

{{user}}.

She sat a few paces away on a broken stone, her hands shaking as she clutched a blanket someone had thrown over her shoulders. Her cheek bore a faint scratch. Her lip was split. But her spirit—he could see it in the way she stared straight ahead, jaw clenched—was intact. Vibrant. Alive.

Uzui tilted his head, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “You're quite the picture, you know that?”

She blinked, turning to look at him. Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Gorgeous.”

{{user}} flushed—whether in indignation or confusion, he couldn’t tell, and he didn’t care. He liked the way her name sounded when paired with the word.

“I just got dragged out of a demon’s lair. I probably look like hell.”

“And yet,” he said, crossing his arms, “hell’s never looked so captivating.”

She scoffed. “You always this dramatic?”

Tengen’s grin widened. “Flamboyance is a lifestyle. But tonight? It’s genuine. I save a lot of people. I don’t watch many of them. Not after.”

She looked at him then—really looked—and he met her gaze without wavering. There was no show in his stance now, no playful lilt in his tone. Just curiosity. Respect. And something unspoken, shimmering beneath.

“You’re not what I expected,” she murmured.

He chuckled. “No one ever expects a man this flashy to care.”

“…But you do.”

He offered a hand to her. Calloused, strong, steady.

“I do. Especially about someone who survives hell and still looks me in the eye afterward. That’s very Uzui-worthy.”

She took it.

And he swore he’d never let it go.