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Their first kiss happens in the house chosen for the fake marriage ceremony meant to lure out the demon. It sits at the edge of the village, its wooden threshold worn smooth by years of bare feet and weather.
As Shinobu kneels beside Giyuu, she feels the cool tatami press through the thin layers of her kimono into her knees. She keeps her hands folded neatly in her lap, thumbs touching just enough for her to notice the faint tremor running through them.
She listens to the officiant’s voice rise and fall, the words of union delivered with the same practiced cadence used for every couple before them. Beside her, Giyuu sits way too straight, his chest barely moving beneath his uniform, as though he is rationing each breath.
When the officiant pauses, Shinobu knows this is the moment their performance demands its final proof.
She can feel his warmth through the narrow gap between their sleeves. He turns his head toward her, cautious like a child stepping onto an unfamiliar playground. Shinobu lifts her face in response, tilting her chin just enough to meet him halfway. His lips touch hers, pressing forward with neither motion nor urgency: a single point of warmth against her skin.
And then he pulls back just as quickly. The entire exchange lasts less than the time it takes to draw a full breath.
As the villagers murmur their approval and the ceremony resumes, Shinobu keeps returning to the gentleness of it all—a softness she has never seen him use in battle or conversation, something far removed from the stoic, unreadable Giyuu Tomioka she has always known.
_
The second time is entirely her own doing.
Giyuu arrives at the Butterfly Mansion without announcement, as he usually does, his footsteps measured along the outer corridor. Shinobu hears him before she even sees him, and looks up from the table where bandages and medicine jars are laid out in careful rows.
He removes his sandals at the threshold as she gestures for him to sit closer so she can examine his wounds. He complies right away, closing the distance until his knees line up with the edge of the mat, shoulders held still as though he expects pain the moment he shifts.
Shinobu steps in front of him and leans down to inspect the scratches.
Her fingers lift the edge of his uniform just enough to check the tightness of the bandage, the pads of her fingers brushing fabric warmed by his body. At this distance, his eyes fill her vision entirely, dark irises steady and unblinking as he watches her work. His pupils adjust naturally to the light, narrowing when she moves, widening again when her shadow falls across his face.
And then, inevitably, she finds herself staring at his mouth. At the way his lips part when he breathes, the lower one pushing forward slightly with each exhale, catching the light. Her own breath stalls mid-inhale, and before the pause can stretch too long, she leans forward and closes the narrow space between them.
Just like in their so-called marriage, her lips meet his in a brief touch, a single press that barely lasts long enough for the warmth to sink in before she draws her head away. Cool air rushes against her mouth where he had been.
She has just enough time to register the thud of her pulse in her ears, though, before his hand reaches out to close around her wrist.
He pulls her toward him a little brusquely—more than usual—and his lips surge to meet hers. Deeper and deeper, it lasts long enough for the room to blur at the edges, the clean lines of the walls and the light filtering through the corridor losing their sharpness.
For some reason, he tastes like salt on her tongue. She finds it oddly addictive.
As he trails his mouth along her jaw, Shinobu thinks that she may very well need to schedule a medical examination for herself.
_
The third, and the fourth… she no longer remembers each one clearly, because they all blur together; one kiss folding into the next without a clear beginning or end. What Shinobu does remember is the searing warmth of his body when it curls into hers, and the almost possessive, hungry way his fingers grip at her waist or across her back.
Giyuu does not speak much during these moments. Yet, she can tell how attentive he is from the way his grip adjusts minutely when her balance shifts, or how his mouth follows her without fail when she tilts her head or leans closer. The moans and breaths she lets slip no longer embarrass her, and she allows her thoughts to thin and scatter until there is only one thing she can hold onto: this man is mine.
Time loses its shape. She no longer knows how many times he kisses her. Like now—his lips have just parted from hers, and he draws back only far enough to look at her properly. His hands still rest at the small of her back, thumbs pressing lightly.
“Are things still alright?” he asks, probably worried since she hasn’t responded to his kiss as eagerly as she often does. His shoulders tense, his grip loosening just a tiny bit, as if ready to pull away the moment she asks him to. Ever the gentleman—he is so cute today.
“I’m alright. No worries,” she reassures him with a smile, a happy, genuine one, and draws him back down into another kiss.