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    Summary

    Zenitsu hears him before he sees him. Always. The sound of Tanjiro’s sandals on the gravel path is so specific—too specific. He knows the difference between Tanjiro walking tired and Tanjiro walking focused and Tanjiro walking like he’s thinking about something too hard. Today it’s the last one. His feet shuffle in a rhythm that’s uneven but not aimless. That’s the kind of walk Tanjiro does when he’s being gentle with his own thoughts, like he’s scared they’ll break if he presses too hard. Zenitsu loves that walk. He hates how much he loves that walk.

    Tanjiro smells like burning timber and charcoal and… faintly, always faintly, peach blossoms. Zenitsu doesn’t know why. No one else smells like that. No one else has ever smelled like that. It’s his—Tanjiro’s scent is just his. It’s clean and heavy and good. It’s the kind of scent that wraps around the base of your skull and sits there, safe. Safe in a way Zenitsu doesn’t remember being. Safe in a way he wants to deserve.

    So when the door creaks open and Zenitsu doesn’t look up, it’s not because he doesn’t hear him. It’s because he does.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    5,892
    Chapters:
    2/2
    Comments:
    14
    Kudos:
    219
    Bookmarks:
    22
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