For the Hope of It All {Sanemi Shinazugawa KNY}
Chapter 26.
Ever since that mission, something had shifted between them. Or perhaps it had always been there—planted quietly long ago, hidden beneath the weight of duty and unspoken words—and only now had it finally begun to bloom.
Hikari found her days slowly filling with Sanemi's presence, as if the world itself had shifted to carve out space for him. Every idle moment, every quiet corner, he seemed to appear—sometimes walking beside her during patrols, sometimes offering a rare, quiet nod from across the room, or showing up unannounced at the training grounds just to check if she was pushing herself too hard.
It wasn't overbearing; it wasn't possessive. It was steady, like a current she couldn't fight, but didn't want to. And somehow, that steady presence stitched small threads of calm into the ragged edges of her life, threads she hadn't realized she'd been longing for.
Sometimes, he didn't even need to speak. He would just be there—leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed, a quiet sentinel watching her practice until dusk. Other times, he'd grumble about her form, step in too close under the pretense of correcting her stance, his calloused hands briefly brushing hers before pulling away.
Hikari found herself looking forward to it—the sound of his boots on the gravel, the faint scent of wind and steel that lingered after him. It was strange, how something so simple could make her heart settle and stir all at once.
Sanemi, for his part, never admitted to seeking her out, but she noticed the way his scowl softened when she smiled, or how his shoulders eased when she laughed. They never spoke about what had happened that night, yet in every glance and every silence between them, the memory lived—not as a wound, but as something that bound them quietly, tightly, and perhaps, inevitably.
One evening, as the sun sank low and painted the training grounds in shades of amber and rose, Hikari sat on the engawa, wiping down her blade. The cicadas had begun their steady chorus, and for once, everything felt peaceful.
She sensed him before she saw him—the faint crunch of his steps on the gravel, the shift in the air that always seemed to announce him. Sanemi stopped a few paces away, hands shoved into his uniform pockets. "You skipped dinner again," he muttered, tone gruff but not unkind.
Hikari glanced up, a teasing glint in her eyes. "You keeping track of my meals now?"
He snorted, looking away. "Someone has to. You'll faint in the middle of training one of these days."
"Then you'll have to carry me," she said lightly.
Sanemi's gaze flicked back to her, the corners of his mouth twitching, as if fighting back a smile. "Don't push your luck," he muttered, though the edge in his voice was softer than usual.
She tilted her head, studying him. "You're here a lot lately."
He hesitated, his jaw tightening for a heartbeat before he replied. "Maybe I just got bored of the quiet," he said.
But they both knew that wasn't the truth.
Hikari smiled faintly, turning back to her sword, pretending to accept his answer. "Then I must be very good company," she murmured.
Sanemi didn't reply at first. He walked over instead, settling down beside her on the engawa, close enough that their shoulders brushed when she shifted. For a long while, neither of them spoke. The sound of the cicadas, the rustling leaves, the soft scrape of cloth on metal—everything wove together into something calm, something fragile.
Finally, Sanemi broke the silence. "You've been sleeping better?" he asked, eyes fixed on the fading horizon.
Hikari paused mid-motion, lowering her blade into her lap. "Sometimes," she said honestly. "Not every night."
He gave a short grunt of acknowledgment. "Nightmares?"
"Sometimes," she said softly. "I just have a bad feeling... Kinda like an omen..."
Sanemi's hands tightened over his knees, the faint scars across his knuckles catching the last of the sunlight. "If it ever gets bad," he said after a moment, "you can come find me. I'm usually awake anyway."
Hikari looked at him, eyes shimmering with something unspoken. "You mean that?"
He finally turned to meet her gaze, and for once, he didn't look away. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."
Hikari's lips parted as if to respond, but no sound came out. Instead, she simply nodded, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The weight in her chest eased—just a little—but enough for her to breathe easier.
The last of the sunlight slipped beneath the horizon, and the world was painted in twilight blues and silvers. Fireflies began to blink in the grass below, their light faint and fleeting, like tiny embers refusing to die.
Sanemi leaned back on his hands, exhaling through his nose. "What do you think happens?" he said after a while. "After everything is finished."
"I have never really thought that far out," Hikari murmured. "I've always imagined myself dying someday, in some battle."
Sanemi glanced at her, his jaw tightening as if the words struck something deep. "You're not gonna die. Not before I do."
Hikari blinked, caught off guard, a quiet laugh escaping her. "That's a lot of confidence."
He hummed low in his throat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. After a pause, he said, "Consider it a promise."
Hikari turned toward him, lips parting slightly as if to respond, but the words caught somewhere in her throat. The air between them shifted—thick, fragile, the kind of silence that seemed to echo louder than any sound. Sanemi's gaze met hers—steady, unflinching, but softer than she'd ever seen it.
The fading sunlight filtered through the trees, tracing lines of gold across his face, catching in the pale strands of his hair. For a fleeting moment, he didn't look like the Wind Hashira who tore demons apart with his bare hands—he just looked like Sanemi.
Her heart stuttered. Before she realized it, her hand moved on its own, reaching up, brushing her fingertips along the scar that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw. His skin was warm, and the roughness of it grounded her in the moment.
His breath hitched, sharp and unguarded, and his hand came up, wrapping around hers—not to stop her, but to keep it there. His thumb brushed against her knuckles, rough calluses meeting soft skin.
"Hikari..." he murmured, her name sounding almost foreign in his mouth, stripped of all the bite it usually carried.
She didn't answer. Her chest rose and fell, each breath shallow, trembling. The world around them faded—the cicadas, the wind, even the faint scent of pine. It was just him. Just the faint heat radiating from his body. Just the half-inch of space between them. She only leaned in, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his breath against her lips, close enough that the rest of the world fell away. His eyes flickered down, then up again, and for once, he didn't pull away.
But then, just before their lips met, a gust of wind swept between them—cool and sharp, carrying the rustle of distant leaves and the faint call of a crow overhead. The moment broke like fragile glass.
Hikari blinked and drew back slightly, her pulse still racing. Sanemi exhaled, slow and steady, though his eyes lingered on her, unreadable.
"Guess that's the wind telling us not to get ahead of ourselves," she said softly, trying to mask the tremor in her voice with a faint smile.
Sanemi smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Yeah... maybe."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—just heavy, charged. They didn't move apart, didn't look away. The distance between them was still too small, the kind that burned and comforted at once. The wind had died down again, leaving behind the faint hum of crickets and the rustle of leaves above. Hikari exhaled slowly, trying to calm the frantic rhythm in her chest.
Sanemi's eyes flicked toward her, watching the way a loose strand of hair clung to her cheek. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed it back behind her ear. His touch was brief—careful, almost reverent—and yet it left a trail of warmth that lingered longer than it should have.
"If somehow, by some miracle," he said finally, voice quieter than usual. "We both live after everything..."
Hikari tilted her head, her breath catching slightly at the softness in his tone. The world seemed to still around them—the night air, the faint rustle of leaves, even the whisper of crickets fading into the distance.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Sanemi didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, though there was nothing there to see—only the dim glow of moonlight brushing against the edge of his sharp features. "Then I think..." he started, his throat working around the words, "I'd like you to... come home with me."
Hikari blinked, the words striking her like a soft but unexpected blow. For a heartbeat, she thought she'd misheard him—the infamous Wind Hashira, blunt and untouchable, asking her something so quietly human.
The wind lifted the hem of her haori, carrying the faint scent of pine and rain between them. "Alright," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I like the sound of that."
His eyes snapped back to her then, pale lilac meeting warm amber. "Really?"
"Yes," she replied, a small, sincere smile tugging at her lips. "Let's pinky promise."
"Tch. Don't be childish," he muttered, but she held up her finger stubbornly.
Sanemi let out a frustrated huff, but after a long pause, he finally relented. "Fine," he said, and their fingers intertwined.
For the rest of that quiet evening, neither of them let go. The wind whispered around them, carrying away the world's chaos, leaving only the steady, grounding presence of each other—a promise made without words, sealed in the simple intertwining of fingers beneath the fading light.
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