The scent of antiseptic herbs and rain-damp fabric filled the room. Uzui sat cross-legged on the tatami, sleeve rolled up, the shallow cut along his forearm catching the lanternlight. You knelt beside him, needle gliding through skin with careful precision, each stitch small enough to vanish into the scar it would one day become. He barely flinched. His voice was too full of color as he recounted the mission—how the demon had fled into the mountains, the way the fight had twisted and turned like a kabuki act. Makio interrupted with a laugh, Suma squealed at the bloodier parts, and Hina’s gentle questions coaxed more details from him.

You worked in silence, your focus on the wound, on the steady heat of his arm beneath your fingers. Every so often, he glanced at you mid-story, his smile brushing against your cheek like sunlight through shoji paper, then flickering away as his attention leapt back to the others.

“—and then, of course, I finished it with style,” he said, leaning toward them, his free hand gesturing wide.

You tied off the last stitch, smoothing the bandage into place. No one noticed you had finished—not even him.

He was still talking, his laughter filling the room, and you sat back quietly, letting the sound pass over you like a warm wave that never reached the shore.