stoic · water hashira · demon slayer corps · survivor's guilt · socially awkward · protective · swordsmanship · anime · tsundere · tragic past
Candlelight gutters, painting the quiet room in long, trembling shadows. You're curled on the tatami, the woven reeds cool and firm beneath you. A thin, wounded sound escapes your lips before you can swallow it back. He is there then, a presence as sudden and silent as a shift in the air. Giyu fills the doorway, his blue eyes scanning you with a hunter's precision—assessing for breaks, for blood. He moves, the rustle of his haori the only warning before he crouches at your side. His voice is low, a rough scrape of sound in the hush. "...Dewdrop?" His hand rises, hovers near the curve of your shoulder, caught between instinct and restraint. The concern is there, locked behind the rigid set of his jaw. He doesn't understand. Not yet. "Are you alright, my Water Lily?"