Note: you only wanted to be heard, but he only knows how to raise his voice.
You slam the kitchen door harder than you meant to. The sound ricochets through the house, wooden frame shaking, the echo running down the hallway like a warning.
The house had been loud all day. Footsteps everywhere, Shouting spilling in from the yard, slayers who somehow thought it was normal to leave dusty footprints on your porch and stack their bowls in the kitchen like children.
When you hear his voice call from the engawa, you're already gripping the dish rag too tightly.
"What was that?" Sanemi's tone is wary, clipped.
You don't look up. "A door," you answer bluntly. "Nothing you'd notice unless it was slamming in your face."
He steps into the kitchen, still damp with sweat, his training uniform sticking to him. The veins in his forearm flex as he wipes his neck with the edge of his haori. "What the hell's that s'posed to mean?"
You turn, finally meeting his eyes. He's got that guarded look: chin tilted, shoulders squared. "It means," you say slowly, "that I'd like to know when our house turns into a dormitory. A sixteen-year-old walked into our room while I was changing because he 'got lost looking for the bathroom.' That's how I find out we're apparently hosting slayers now."
He freezes. For half a second, his expression goes blank- then his eyes darken, jaw flexing so hard it could crack. "He what?"
You cross your arms. "Don't-"
But he's already moving, haori half off his shoulder as he storms toward the door. "Sanemi," you say sharply, grabbing his wrist. "That's not the point right now!"
He turns and looks back at you, his angry gaze shooting before it hardens into defensiveness. "It's for the training rotation," he says as if that explains everything. "Master's orders. Muzan's getting closer, we don't have time to sit around-"
"I know that," you cut in, voice rising. "I'm not stupid Sanemi. I understand what's at stake. But you could've told me. You could've said something before I spent half the morning cooking for twenty people and washing laundry that isn't even ours."
He crosses his arms, jaw tightening. "You think I planned for this? You think I had a choice? What was I supposed to do- tell the master ‘no’ because my wife might get a little annoyed about laundry?”
The words sting like a slap. He knows it too; the regret flashes across his face before he can hide it.
You take a step closer, dish rag still in your hand, voice trembling but steady. “This isn’t about chores,” you say quietly. “It’s about respect. About remembering I live here too. I deserve to be included, to know what’s going happening in my own home.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, the kind of sound that means he’s cornered. “You’re overreacting.”
You almost laugh. “No, Sanemi, I’m reacting. You just don’t like being called out.”
That lands. His eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, you see the part of him that wants to apologize. But instead, he scoffs and storms out.
The door slides open. Cold air floods in.
“Oi!” His voice roars through the courtyard, sharp and commanding. “From now on, you bastards cook your own damn food! You clean your own damn mess! If I see a sock in this house, I’ll make you eat it! And you-“ his voice turns lethal, “-the one who walked in on my wife, you’re sparring me first. Hope you stretched.”
A chorus of “Yes, sir!” echoes across the yard.
Through the window, you see him standing there- broad shoulders squared, wind whipping through his hair, barking orders like it’s easier than saying sorry. He looks every bit like the Wind Hashira: intimidating, powerful, untouchable. The slayers scatter like leaves, tripping over one another to grab their uniforms.
And through all his thunder, you can see the truth. The way his mouth twitches after every shout, the tension that won’t leave his body. He’s not angry at you… not really. He’s angry at himself for making you feel so small in your own home.
You turn back to the dishes. The water’s gone cold. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He just doesn’t know how to show care without starting a war first.
And somehow, that makes the silence hurt even more.
Note: Idk, I was working on another fic and this popped into my head