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Chapter Text

The mission had gone smoothly. The demon was a weak one—newly turned, rash, and sloppy. Kyojuro Rengoku had ended its brief reign of terror within minutes, his katana slicing through the icy forest night with blazing precision. He was unscathed, energized even, as he strode back toward the nearest village, his breath leaving great plumes in the frigid air.

His gait was steady, boots crunching softly over the thin layer of frost. The moon hung low, casting a pale sheen across shuttered homes and deserted alleys. The village was still. Too still, perhaps. But he chalked it up to the cold. Not even the dogs barked.

Then he heard it.

A sound—high-pitched, barely a whisper beneath the wind. He paused.

"Mm?"

He turned his head, but the world was mostly quiet to his right ear. The distant hum of the wind, the rustle of dry leaves, but then—

Again, that faint sound. A cry? A...whimper?

He took a step toward the alley, narrowing his eyes.

Rengoku had long since adapted to the deafness in his right ear, but pinpointing the origin of sounds still proved troublesome. He moved in slowly, the darkness thickening between the clustered buildings.

The sound grew clearer, urgent. A mewling, broken cry. Desperate. Weak.

Then, he saw it.

A wooden box—cracked and splintered—wedged between two refuse bins. A bundle of cloth barely distinguishable from the rags piled around it. Something stirred inside.

He stepped closer.

His pupils constricted as he dropped to one knee and pulled aside the flap of threadbare cloth.

His stomach turned.

A baby.

No more than a few weeks old, if even that. Her tiny frame was skeletal, ribs clearly defined against her chest. Her skin was tan but pallid from the cold, lips tinted a sickly blue. She was wrapped in a single thin blanket—stained and damp—providing little warmth in the freezing night.

Her eyes fluttered, then opened—dull brown orbs, unfocused, swimming in quiet agony. She didn't even have the strength to cry properly anymore. Her mouth opened, but only a thin, breathless sound came out.

"Great Flame of the Heavens…" Rengoku breathed, and for once, his smile was gone.

Without hesitation, he pulled his Flame Hashira cape from his shoulders, wrapping the baby inside the thick fabric lined with his warmth and scent. He brought her close against his chest, cradling her head gently in his palm, feeling the faintest flutter of life beneath her skin.

He rose.

There was no time to think. No time to shout. No time to look for whoever had done this. Whoever had thrown away a human life like garbage.

He ran.

His legs were a blur beneath him, kicking up frost and dirt as he launched forward, wind tearing at his uniform. He felt her faint breaths through the cloth. So shallow. So light.

Don’t die.

The Butterfly Mansion wasn’t close. But it wasn’t unreachable either. Not if he pushed himself.

He vaulted over fences, skidded across stone paths, heart hammering louder than the storm of thoughts in his head. He kept whispering to her even though she likely couldn’t hear him.

"You’re strong… you’re going to make it. Just a little longer. I promise."

His body burned, not from fatigue, but from sheer resolve. The warmth of his flame breathing lit within him as he poured all his strength into each step. Every second mattered.

By the time the lights of the Butterfly Mansion came into view, the baby in his arms had stopped moving.

But she was still breathing. Barely.

"Shinobu!!" he shouted as he crashed through the gates. "Someone! Emergency!"

Attendants came running, startled by the sight of the Flame Hashira—panting, frantic, holding a bundle so small and still in his arms. Shinobu Kocho appeared moments later, her usual calm expression giving way to urgency as she laid eyes on the child.

“She’s freezing,” Rengoku said hoarsely, handing her over with trembling hands. “Starving. Alone. Abandoned.”

Shinobu nodded once and barked orders. The baby was swept away into warm light, out of the darkness.

Rengoku stood in the cold, watching the door she had vanished behind. His cape was gone. He didn’t feel the cold.

Only the fire in his chest.

Chapter Text

The doors swung shut behind Shinobu as she disappeared into the treatment wing, the infant wrapped in the Flame Hashira’s cloak, her cries no louder than the wind whispering through bare winter trees.

Kyojuro remained by the entrance, standing motionless like a statue forged from purpose and fire. His fists were clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on the direction they’d taken her. His heart hadn’t slowed.

One of the attendants brought him a blanket and a steaming cup of tea, but he barely noticed. He stood as though rooted to the floor, staring into the corridor like he could will the child back to life through sheer force of presence.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

Kyojuro paced the hallway, boots echoing softly on the polished wooden floors. A hush had settled over the mansion, the kind that comes when life hangs in the balance. The kind he knew well on the battlefield—but this was different. This wasn’t a demon or a blade. It was a child. Fragile. Innocent.

Abandoned.

His jaw tensed. He couldn’t stop replaying the image in his mind: her curled in that box, skin like paper, her lips nearly purple. That sound—the broken, pitiful cry—still echoed inside him like a curse.

Then—

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

Shinobu emerged at last from the far corridor, her face unreadable beneath the flicker of candlelight. Her gloved hands were clasped neatly in front of her as always, her composure calm, but her gaze settled on him with something gentler. Quieter.

“She’s alive,” Shinobu said softly.

Kyojuro’s chest sagged with breath.

“She was severely malnourished. Hypothermic. But…” Her voice grew thoughtful, then a bit surprised. “She’s a fighter. That much is clear.”

He nodded, jaw tight, eyes bright. “Thank the gods…”

“She’ll need warmth. Food. Constant care. Around-the-clock monitoring. But…” She paused again, watching him closely. “I believe she’ll recover.”

Kyojuro finally exhaled, his shoulders loosening.

“She didn’t have anything on her,” Shinobu continued. “No name. No note. Nothing but the cloth and your cape. Whoever left her didn’t expect her to live through the night.”

“I know,” Kyojuro said, voice low.

There was a long silence between them. Shinobu studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unkind.

“Do you know what happens now?” she asked. “If she survives?”

“She goes to the orphanage,” he said flatly. “If she’s lucky. If she’s not, the streets.”

Shinobu tilted her head slightly. “We don’t usually place infants with demon slayers. Our lifestyle isn’t…conducive.”

“I’m not just a demon slayer,” Kyojuro said, eyes lifting to meet hers fully. “I’m the one who found her. The one who heard her cry when no one else did.”

A beat passed.

“She is alive because of you,” Shinobu agreed. “And you…would keep her?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

There was a fire in his eyes now—not the one of battle, but of something quieter. Fiercer.

“I’ll raise her. She was born in the cold but survived it. That is flame. That is strength.”

Shinobu’s expression softened, then gave way to something close to a smile—brief and faint. “Then she’ll need a name.”

Kyojuro’s gaze turned distant, searching.

He thought of that cry. Of how small she was. Of how, even in that pitiful state, she hadn’t given in to silence.

“A name worthy of survival,” he murmured. “A name worthy of fire.”

His voice dropped, reverent, almost whispering it into the world like a vow:

“Hotaru.”

Shinobu blinked. “Hotaru?”

“It sounds like flame,” he said. “Like fire dancing on water. Gentle, but impossible to extinguish.”

Shinobu nodded slowly. “A beautiful name.”

Kyojuro turned to the hallway, his hands curling into loose fists.

“I will protect her,” he said, as if swearing an oath to the air, to himself, and to something larger than both. “And she will grow strong. She’ll know warmth, laughter, love. She will never know the cold again.”

Chapter Text

“Come,” Shinobu said quietly, turning without another word.

Kyojuro followed her, his steps quieter now, reverent. The halls of the Butterfly Mansion were serene this time of night, dimly lit with lanterns that cast gentle gold onto polished wood and shoji doors. He could hear the distant rustle of nurses, the rustling of wind against paper screens.

They stopped before a room near the rear wing. Shinobu slid the door open.

Warmth washed over him immediately. The room was small and softly lit, filled with a comforting heat that seeped into his bones. A specially prepared futon lay in the corner, layered with soft quilts. A small iron heat stone glowed faintly beside the child, its warmth radiating gently through the air.

And there, cocooned in layers of thick cotton blankets, lay the baby girl.

She looked better already. Her skin had taken on a healthier tone. Her lips were no longer blue. Her tiny chest rose and fell with fragile consistency. Her short brown hair was damp at the roots, gently cleaned and brushed, now lying like fine threads across her forehead.

Kyojuro stepped inside and knelt beside her, his massive form suddenly so careful, so small in posture. His hands didn’t touch her—he didn’t want to disturb her rest—but his eyes lingered on her face, his voice a low, gentle hum:

“You’re warm now… That’s good.”

Shinobu stood a few paces behind, arms folded loosely.

“There’s something else,” she said. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you before.”

Kyojuro looked up, eyes alert.

“Her features… her skin tone… even her bone structure—it’s subtle, but different. She’s not fully Japanese,” Shinobu explained quietly. “In fact, from what I’ve seen, I suspect she may be Italian.”

Kyojuro’s brows furrowed faintly. “Italian…”

Shinobu nodded. “We’ve seen a handful of mixed-heritage children over the years. Travelers, merchants… sometimes foreigners come through port cities. But it’s not always met with kindness. Especially if the father isn’t involved.”

She glanced toward the sleeping infant.

“My guess?” she said carefully. “Her mother may have been afraid. Or ashamed. Maybe she hid the pregnancy. And when the baby came out looking different…”

Shinobu trailed off. She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Kyojuro’s jaw tightened. His gaze fell back to the child.

“She was punished for her bloodline,” he said, voice low. “Thrown away like waste because she didn’t look like her mother.”

The thought burned hotter than any flame in his chest.

“Then it is even more important,” he said, “that she be shown love. That she be wanted.”

He reached out now, slowly brushing the back of his finger along her cheek. Her skin was soft. Still warm. Still alive.

“I’ll see to it she never questions her worth.”

Shinobu gave a soft, nearly imperceptible smile behind her sleeve.

“She’ll need to stay here for at least a week,” she said. “We need to monitor her organ functions, get nutrients into her little body carefully. Sudden overfeeding could be dangerous. We’ll do it properly.”

Kyojuro nodded, understanding.

“You may visit her any time you like,” Shinobu added, her tone warmer now. “In fact… I think your presence will do her good.”

“I’ll come every day,” he said without hesitation. “Before training. After missions. As long as it takes.”

He looked down again, studying the tiny bundle that now had a name. Hotaru.

Even wrapped in warmth and stillness, she had an energy about her—a flame that refused to go out.

Shinobu quietly excused herself, sliding the door shut as she left him alone with the child.

Kyojuro sat there in silence, the heat stone crackling softly beside them.

And for the first time in many years, he whispered—not to himself, not to the dead, not to fallen comrades—but to someone new.

“Hello, Hotaru,” he murmured. “My name is Kyojuro Rengoku. I will be your home now.”

Chapter Text

The Butterfly Mansion was still dressed in winter’s hush, but inside, warmth bloomed brighter each day.

It had been ten days since Kyojuro first found her, and Hotaru—once a silent scrap of life tucked in a broken box—now kicked and flailed with quiet strength beneath layers of cotton and fleece. Her cheeks had begun to round out. Her eyes had grown clearer, sharper, tracking movement with startling attentiveness. She even made soft sounds when Kyojuro entered the room—tiny warbles of recognition that made his heart leap every time.

Each morning, just after sunrise, before anyone else had fully woken, he would arrive, his voice echoing softly through the hallway.

“Good morning, my little flame!”

And every evening, when the sky faded to indigo, he returned again, sometimes with books, sometimes humming gentle melodies he remembered from childhood, and always—always—with a wide, radiant smile just for her.

Today was no different.

Kyojuro knelt beside her futon, peering down with absolute reverence at the small girl wrapped in a soft blanket, freshly laundered and folded beneath her like a bedroll. Hotaru blinked up at him, her fist stuffed halfway into her mouth, making unintelligible cooing sounds.

“You grow stronger every day,” he grinned, brushing her forehead lightly. “Soon you’ll be grabbing swords and lighting the world ablaze, ha-ha-ha!”

He paused, then lowered his voice with a kind of sacred softness.

“But for now… just breathe easy, little one.”

Behind him, the door slid open.

Shinobu entered, clipboard in hand, her expression—predictably—neutral, but not cold. She gave a quiet nod.

“She’s stabilized,” she said. “Gaining weight. No fever. Good color. Strong response to sound and motion.”

Kyojuro turned to her, posture attentive. “And…?”

Shinobu allowed herself the faintest of smiles. “She’ll be ready to leave in three to five days. Maybe sooner.”

His eyes lit up with such joy it nearly startled her. “Only days?!”

He stood quickly, barely able to keep his excitement contained. “I’ll prepare the room! I’ll have everything ready! I—Shinobu, what do babies eat after this phase? When they start to move more? Should I be boiling rice into paste already?!”

Shinobu raised a hand, trying to suppress a laugh. “She’ll still need a formula base for now, Rengoku. But yes, we’ll give you a list.”

He nodded vigorously, turning back to Hotaru, who now blinked up at the sound of his raised voice.

“Just a few more days and we’ll go home,” he whispered to her, voice rough with emotion. “I’ll carry you there myself.”

Shinobu tapped her clipboard. “You’ve done well. You kept your word.”

“I made a promise,” he said, kneeling again beside Hotaru. “She’s family now. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Shinobu gave one last nod, then turned and left quietly, murmuring, “Just… let the other Hashira know before you show up at headquarters with a baby strapped to your back.”

At that, Kyojuro winced.

He hadn’t told any of them.

~Meanwhile, at the Demon Slayer Corps Headquarters…~

“Where the hell is Rengoku these days?” Sanemi asked, voice rough as always, slouched against a wooden post with his arms crossed.

“Not dead,” Tengen said, leaning lazily on a bench. “I’d have sensed the drama. Probably off being flashy somewhere.”

Gyomei sat in silence, prayer beads clicking softly in his palms.

Muichiro, as usual, didn’t seem to care.

Obanai narrowed his eyes. “He doesn’t miss training. He doesn’t skip meetings. And yet he hasn’t been sparring.”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly. “He’s… been different.”

Mitsuri pouted. “I saw him leaving the Butterfly Mansion again this morning! That’s the fourth time I’ve seen him there!”

“Maybe he’s sick,” Sanemi muttered. “Or dying.”

“No,” Giyuu replied quietly. “He smiles like someone with a secret.”

~Back at the Mansion~

Kyojuro held Hotaru in his arms as she rested, warm and content. Her tiny fingers clutched a lock of his red-and-gold hair, tugging softly as she blinked up at him with wide eyes.

“My little ember,” he whispered.

And as the winter wind howled just beyond the walls, Kyojuro Rengoku felt a warmth inside that no mission, no flame, no battle had ever given him.

In a couple days, she would be his to raise. And the world would burn a little brighter.

Chapter Text

The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when Kyojuro arrived at the Butterfly Mansion, walking with the stride of a man with purpose. His uniform was crisp, his hair tied back neatly, but tucked under one arm was a sheet of parchment—Shinobu’s handwritten list—carefully folded and annotated with red ink and flourishes.

“I added some optional items at the bottom,” Shinobu had said, mildly amused, “in case you wanted to go above and beyond. Though with you, that seems inevitable.”

Indeed.

Within the hour, Kyojuro was storming the merchant districts of the city with such enthusiasm that shopkeepers nearly scrambled to reorganize their entire inventories.

“Ah! Yes—this crib, the sturdiest one you have!”
“I’ll take that rocking chair—no, two of them! One for the nursery, one for the veranda!”
“Soft things! What are your softest things?! Blankets, toys, pillows—I’ll take them all!”
“And this bunny, yes! And that tiger—very fluffy! She’ll like that!”
“Oh! And socks! Her little feet must never be cold!”

By midday, Kyojuro’s cart was piled high—blankets in warm flame tones, intricately carved furniture, toys that squeaked and jingled and crinkled, and an entire mountain of stuffed animals: bears, foxes, bunnies, even a fluffy orange cat with stitched gold eyes. All chosen carefully. Lovingly.

There were bottles, pacifiers, gently scented soaps, tiny combs, little slippers, a delicate wind chime for her window, and even a small mobile of painted flame butterflies to hang above her crib.

Money had never been a concern. Hashira pay was generous, and Kyojuro rarely spent more than what he needed. But today, he spared no expense.

This was for his daughter.

By evening, he returned home—his estate modest in size but well-kept, traditional, and warm. He wasted no time. He set to work in the room directly beside his own, a room he'd never truly used for anything. It was close—deliberately so—so that even the faintest sound from her during the night would wake him. He wanted it that way.

He swept the floors, scrubbed every corner, dusted every ledge.

Then came the transformation.

The walls were lined with soft panels in red and gold, a mural of dancing flames painted on one side—the same kind that burned in her name. He arranged the crib beneath the window, ensuring the morning light would greet her each day. The rocking chair sat in the corner, flanked by baskets of plush toys. The mobile of flame-painted butterflies hung from the ceiling, already catching the breeze and twirling softly.

He stacked her blankets neatly, sorted her tiny clothes—each one folded with reverence—and placed her bottles in order near a warming basin.

Then, with care, he arranged the stuffed animals.

A small fox curled in the crib’s corner. A bear sat beside the pillow. The orange cat, fluffy and smiling, was perched atop a cushion near the rocking chair.

When he stepped back, he let out a breath, surveying the space.

It wasn’t just a nursery.

It was a haven.

A place for warmth and safety. For love. For Hotaru.

Kyojuro sank into the rocking chair, arms crossed behind his head, a rare calm settling over him.

In a few days, the silence of this room would be broken by soft cries, gurgles, the sound of tiny hands thumping stuffed animals and reaching for light. And he would be there. Every step. Every sleepless night. Every first laugh.

He glanced through the open sliding door into his own room—just steps away—and smiled.

“I’m ready,” he murmured.

A stuffed rabbit tumbled off the shelf behind him.

He caught it before it hit the ground.

Chapter Text

The morning was gentle. Pale sunlight streamed through the paper screens of the Butterfly Mansion, casting long stripes across the polished floors. A breeze carried the scent of early plum blossoms—too early for spring, but a promising omen.

Kyojuro stood in the corridor just outside Hotaru's room, posture straight, hands behind his back, as he had every day for the past days. He wasn’t pacing, but his fingers tapped quietly against each other, a rare fidget for the ever-composed Flame Hashira.

He could sense it. Today was different.

The door slid open behind him.

Shinobu’s soft steps approached, and her voice, even more so.

“She’s ready.”

His heart gave a fierce, impossible thud.

Kyojuro turned, eyes brightening immediately. “Truly?”

Shinobu smiled, rare and warm. “She’s gained the weight we needed. No signs of infection. Vitals are stable. She’s alert, curious, and very attached to you, Flame Hashira. I’d say the sooner she goes home with her father, the better.”

His breath caught slightly at the word father. It wasn’t said mockingly or with doubt. It was matter-of-fact. Honest. As if no one could doubt it anymore.

He stepped forward, bowing deeply—genuinely. “Thank you, Shinobu. Truly. For saving her when I couldn’t.”

Shinobu waved it off lightly. “You did more than enough. Most would have walked past that alley. You ran toward it.”

Kyojuro gave a soft chuckle. “Well, she cried. I had to answer.”

Inside the room, the futon was folded, and Hotaru was already dressed—tiny and swaddled in a freshly laundered pale red wrap. Her little fists peeked from the cloth, and she squirmed softly as the sunlight touched her cheeks. She looked up as soon as he entered.

Her wide brown eyes met his.

She gave a soft, bubbly hiccup that almost resembled a giggle.

Kyojuro knelt beside her, beaming. “There’s my little flame.”

She squirmed harder, waving her arms—recognizing his voice, perhaps, or simply happy to hear it. He reached down, scooping her up carefully, supporting her head with practiced ease. She snuggled immediately into his chest.

“You’re coming home today,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her soft brown hair. “Your home. Our home.”

He turned back to Shinobu, who offered a small satchel.

“Her formula is inside. Instructions are written down in detail. But you may write if you have questions. We’ll send anything you need.”

“I will raise her well,” he promised.

“I know,” Shinobu said.

As he turned, Hotaru nestled her head under his chin, letting out a long sigh that made his chest feel like it might split open from the warmth of it.

Back at the Flame Estate…

By midday, Kyojuro stepped through the front gate, Hotaru in his arms, fast asleep. Her tiny mouth hung slightly open, her cheeks full, healthy, her breath slow and even.

He removed his boots carefully, padded quietly across the floor, and into the nursery.

He hadn’t told the others.

Honestly… how did one explain something like this?

“Hey everyone, I found a baby in a box, now she’s mine.”

He could already hear Sanemi’s expletives. Tengen’s flamboyant confusion. Mitsuri’s happy tears. Giyuu’s silent stare.

He sighed, then looked down at Hotaru, who squirmed a little in his arms.

“…Eventually,” he whispered. “I’ll tell them eventually.”

He stepped into the nursery and stopped.

The room was exactly how he left it—warm and golden in the late afternoon light. The stuffed animals looked like a small army standing guard. The mobile above the crib spun gently, casting slow, flame-colored shadows across the walls.

He set Hotaru down on the soft bedding, tucking the red blanket around her.

She opened her eyes again, blinking up at the painted flames on the wall.

He smiled, then sat in the rocking chair beside her crib, leaning forward on his knees, watching her as if she were the only thing that mattered.

Because she was.

“You’ll never be cold again,” he murmured. “You’ll never wonder where you belong. You’re mine, Hotaru. And that’s all that matters.”

As the sun dipped low outside, Hotaru closed her eyes again, drifting to sleep in the safety of flame, love, and soft things.

Kyojuro stayed in the chair long after she’d fallen asleep, rocking slowly, guarding his daughter with a flame no demon could ever touch.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since Hotaru came home.

Seven days of soft blankets, warm bottles, tiny yawns, and a dozen new expressions Kyojuro didn’t know a baby could make. Seven days of little coos that made his heart melt and even littler hands reaching for the ends of his hair.

And seven nights of—

Screaming.

Not from fear, not from pain—no, Hotaru was simply fussy. A healthy baby, Shinobu had assured him. Just sensitive. A bit clingy. Possibly colicky.

Kyojuro, who had slain demons with a smile, now stood bleary-eyed in the soft orange glow of the nursery lantern, gently bouncing Hotaru against his chest as she let out a loud, angry wail for reasons known only to herself.

“Hush now, my little flame,” he whispered, rocking side to side. “You’re not cold, you’re not hungry—unless you are again, which is remarkable. But still. All is well.”

Hotaru screamed louder.

He winced. “You wound me.”

But even through his exhaustion, he smiled. She was warm. Safe. Loud. And alive.

He would endure a thousand sleepless nights for that.

~+~

-Two Days Later – Demon Slayer Corps HQ-

The courtyard was filled with the clatter of sparring swords, the occasional bark of instructors, and the brisk winter air biting at sleeves. The Hashira were gathered in the meeting hall for routine updates.

And Kyojuro Rengoku looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

His eyes were slightly red-rimmed. His bright expression remained—but it was a shade slower, a little more dazed. His posture was impeccable, as always, but every so often, he blinked slowly, long and heavy, as though his mind was catching up with the present.

Sanemi leaned over, squinting. “Is it just me, or does Flame-boy look like he got run over by a demon?”

“He looks like he’s been fighting in his dreams,” Tengen said, frowning. “Is this a new kind of training? Or did you lose a bet and get cursed?”

Mitsuri, concerned, raised her hand. “Rengoku, are you okay?! You don’t look like yourself…”

Kyojuro gave a soft, delayed laugh. “Ha! Nonsense. I feel… radiant.”

“You look exhausted,” Obanai muttered.

Even Giyu raised an eyebrow slightly. “You haven’t been showing up to group sparring. Again.”

“Oh yes,” Kyojuro said. “Yes, quite right. I've had... responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities?” Sanemi scoffed. “You’re not a squad captain. What responsibilities could possibly—”

Before he could finish, Kyojuro let out a stifled yawn—a full yawn—a rare occurrence from someone who once stayed awake for three straight days on a mission without blinking.

There was a long, loaded silence in the room.

“…You’re hiding something,” Mitsuri whispered, eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion and sparkle. “Is it a lover?!”

“No,” Kyojuro said firmly.

“Then what?” Tengen leaned in, dramatic as ever. “You’re gone constantly, you’re sleep-deprived, and you’ve been sneaking around like a man with a scandal.”

Kyojuro sighed, long and heavy, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He loved his comrades. But how was he supposed to say it?

“I found a baby in a box and now she cries every night unless I sing to her like a bird and pace the room forty-seven times while carrying a plush fox.”

“Guys…” Mitsuri said slowly, her eyes widening. “What if it’s a secret mission?”

“It’s not a mission,” Kyojuro muttered under his breath.

Shinobu, who had been standing just outside the door, sipping her tea in silence, finally stepped into the room.

“I’m sure he’ll explain when he’s ready,” she said sweetly, but the way her eyes glinted said she was enjoying this immensely.

“I’m fine,” Kyojuro said again, smiling too wide. “Truly.”

Sanemi narrowed his eyes. “Fine, my ass. You look like you’re one cradle song away from collapsing.”

At that, Kyojuro blinked, smile twitching slightly.

The words cradle song hit a little too close to home.

“Just… give me a few more days,” he said, rising and bowing politely. “And then… perhaps you’ll understand.”

Without another word, he left, his footsteps fast but a little too quiet for someone with that much energy.

~+~

-Back at Home-

That night, Hotaru refused to sleep unless Kyojuro held her.

Not just held her—walked with her.

He circled the room for the twelfth time, bare feet soft on the wooden floor, his daughter tucked against his chest, making little hiccupping sounds as she finally settled into calm.

He whispered into her hair, voice soft:

“You are lucky you’re perfect.”

Hotaru let out a sigh.

He smiled through the tiredness. "One day, you're going to make a liar out of me when I say I'm the strong one in this family."

And then, just as he lowered her gently into the crib… her eyes popped open.

The crying resumed.

Kyojuro sighed, scooped her up again, and chuckled softly.

“So be it.”