Summary: Sanemi bought you a gift but, unfortunately, faith planned something cruel—too cruel.
Warnings: angst, Husband!Sanemi x wife!reader, pregnant!reader, mention of death.
Characters: Sanemi Shinazugawa.
A/N: I love gloomy weathers—they inspire me to write angst and then force me to cry—fun right? :)
***Many flashbacks and dreams***
The wind had never felt this gentle.
He walked the narrow road back toward the quiet village where you waited, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange against his shoulders. His uniform was still marked with faint streaks of blood—not his, not anymore—and his sword tapped lightly against his hip with every step. For once, the scent of iron and death didn’t cling to him as much as it used to.
Maybe it was because he was almost home.
He adjusted the small bundle in his hand—a paper-wrapped package he’d been absurdly careful not to tear. Inside was a comb, lacquered dark red, with tiny etched cranes that caught the light like tiny wings. He’d bargained hard for it in the last town. Not because it was expensive, but because he knew you’d run your fingers over the carvings and smile that little smile you always tried to hide when he spoiled you.
You’d told him not to bring anything back this time. That his safety was enough.
And yet, he could already imagine your pout when you saw the gift—how you’d cross your arms and scold him, voice soft and trembling because you couldn’t stay mad at him for long. He’d laugh, brush your hair back, and murmur something teasing like,
“Then don’t look so damn cute when you do it.”
The wind brushed against his scarred cheek. He found himself smiling.
He hadn’t meant to think of it, but the warmth in his chest pulled him into a memory—soft and fleeting, like sunlight between leaves.
He was in your home, the small one you’d both rebuilt together near the edge of the forest. The morning light filtered through the shōji screens, and you stood there with your hair undone, yawning quietly as you stirred a pot over the fire.
“Sanemi,” you’d said, not looking up. “If you sneak up behind me again, I swear I’ll burn your breakfast.”
He had grinned, all teeth and mischief, before wrapping his arms around your waist anyway.
You’d laughed—light, almost musical. It wasn’t something he heard often enough. Not in this world.
And when you turned in his arms, resting your head against his chest, he’d realized how easily you fit there—how your warmth seeped through all the cracks the world had left in him.
“You always smell like blood,” you’d murmured once, quietly.
He had stiffened, unsure what to say.
But then you’d looked up and smiled that soft, understanding smile that made him hate and love you all at once.
“It’s alright,” you’d whispered, brushing your thumb against his jaw. “As long as it’s not yours.”
A crow screeched above, yanking him back to the present.
Sanemi tilted his head up. The sky was darkening now, the last rays slipping away behind the mountain ridge. He’d been walking for hours, but it didn’t matter. Every step closer meant one step nearer to you— to the sound of your voice, the scent of home-cooked rice, the warmth that waited behind that paper door.
He wondered if you’d eaten yet.
You never did until he came back. He’d scold you for it every single time, and you’d always shrug, smiling, saying, “Food tastes better when you’re here.”
Damn woman. Always making him weak in ways no demon ever could.
He reached into his uniform's pocket and brushed against something small—the folded scrap of paper you’d tucked there before his last mission. He’d read it more times than he’d admit.
Come back safe, Sanemi. Not strong—safe. I’ll be waiting.
He chuckled under his breath. You always added that last line to make him roll his eyes.
But the truth was, he loved it. He’d even kept the old ones—hidden in a small box under the floorboards. He didn’t know why. Maybe because he never knew when a mission would be his last.
The thought flickered through his chest like a blade’s edge—but he pushed it away.
Not tonight. Not when he was this close to you.
The forest opened up, and he caught the first glimpse of the house through the trees.
The lantern by the door was dark.
Strange—you always lit it when sunset came, even if he wasn’t home yet. You said it was to help him find his way back, as if he’d ever get lost.
He slowed, boots crunching softly against the dirt path.
The night wind brushed through the trees, carrying the faint scent of rain. He listened—no laughter, no clatter of dishes, no hum of your voice from inside.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Years of battle had taught him to recognize silence like this—the kind that wasn’t peace, but aftermath.
The comb in his hand suddenly felt heavier.
You were sitting under the same porch’s eaves, knees drawn to your chest, the evening light painting your face gold. He was sitting beside you, pretending not to stare.
“Hey,” you said softly, not looking at him. “If something ever happens to me—”
“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t talk like that.”
You had smiled, sad and knowing.
“Sanemi, we live in a world where people disappear every day. You know that better than anyone.”
He’d wanted to shout, to cover your mouth, to tell you to shut up—but your eyes had softened, and your hand found his, fingers brushing over the calloused skin of his palm.
“If something ever happens to me,” you whispered, “I just want you to promise you’ll live. Even if it hurts.”
He had scowled then, looking away, the weight of that promise too heavy to carry.
Now, as the wind howled through the empty trees, Sanemi’s hand clenched tight around the gift.
He realized he was standing still, heart pounding too fast, the air thick with something metallic and wrong.
He took a step toward the door.
The wood creaked under his touch.
And somewhere inside—faint, nearly gone—the scent of blood.
Nothing. Just the hollow echo of his own voice.
The paper door slid open with a faint, trembling sound.
Sanemi’s hand stayed on the frame for a moment, knuckles white, his heart heavy with a dread he couldn’t name—not yet.
Usually, your home smelled of fresh herbs, warm rice, and the faint sweetness of the soap you made yourself. But now, it smelled…wrong. Sharp. Iron. The kind of scent he’d spent a lifetime chasing down, killing through, and yet—this time—it froze him in place.
“[Name]?” His voice came out low. Careful.
No answer. Just the soft whisper of the wind outside and the gentle sway of the curtain by the kitchen.
He walked forward, each step slower than the last.
There were overturned dishes on the floor. The small wooden stool he’d carved for you lay broken near the table. And then—the faint drag of blood, thin but deliberate, like something had been pulled, or tried to crawl.
The room tilted slightly. He couldn’t breathe for a second.
His fingers tightened around the package in his hand—the comb. The paper tore slightly. He didn’t notice.
Sunlight entered through the shōji screens, your laughter bubbling in the background. He was sitting there on the porch, polishing his blade while you brushed your hair beside him.
You had looked over, grinning.
“Sanemi, do you ever stop glaring at everything?”
He’d raised a brow. “I’m not glaring.”
“You’re glaring,” you’d said again, smiling. “Even at the sunshine.”
He’d snorted, but you reached over and poked his cheek anyway. “You should learn to smile more.”
“Don’t need to,” he’d grumbled.
Then your expression softened—a little shy, a little bold.
“You smile when you look at me.”
He’d gone quiet then. Completely undone.
And for once, he hadn’t known what to say.
Now the silence pressed against him again. He forced his eyes forward.
His stomach turned as he followed the faint trail across the floor—toward the room you both slept in.
The door there was half-open. He could see the outline of a body—you.
As if that was not enough, something else made his heart stop completely—a sudden rush of dread filled his still body.
Smaller compared to his bigger one was still, curled loosely over your stomach as if protecting something precious.
His breath caught, harsh and uneven.
He stumbled forward, the wooden floorboards creaking under his boots, every step feeling like it tore through him.
The word fell from his lips, useless.
He dropped to his knees beside you. His fingers shook as they reached out— hesitant, terrified, unbelieving—before brushing against your cheek.
“[Name],” he whispered. “Come on Darling, wake up.”
He pressed his forehead against yours, trembling.
The world spun. He could hear his own heartbeat crashing in his ears—too loud, too fast, too real.
The scent of a demon still lingered faintly in the air, weak, fading. He could tell it had been here not long ago.
You were sitting by the fire again, that soft light painting your features golden. You were smiling shyly, hands folded over your lap.
“Sanemi,” you said quietly, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
He’d looked up, wary. “What is it?”
You bit your lip, cheeks pink. Then you took his hand, placed it over your stomach, and whispered—almost like a secret, almost like a prayer—
“We’re going to have a baby.”
He’d blinked. The words didn’t make sense at first.
Then they hit him like a warm rush of wind, like sunlight through clouds after months of rain.
He’d pulled you close, a rare smile breaking through his rough exterior, the kind that reached his eyes—the kind only you ever saw.
“...A kid?” he’d murmured, voice trembling.
You’d nodded. “So you’d better stop doing reckless things, you hear me?”
He’d laughed then—really laughed—and kissed your temple, whispering,
“I’ll protect you both. No matter what.”
He was still in the room, kneeling on the cold floor.
And the silence screamed.
His hand hovered over your stomach, trembling.
The faint swell was there. Small, new. Fragile.
He felt the weight of that promise—the one he’d made in that memory—shatter inside him.
His voice cracked. He tried again.
“I was supposed to protect you.”
He bowed his head, clutching you against his chest, his body shaking with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but something rougher, older, rawer.
He’d seen hundreds of deaths. Thousands. Friends, comrades, strangers. But this—this wasn’t something his blade could cut through. It wasn’t a wound he could close.
He stayed there for a long time, rocking slightly, murmuring things that made no sense—your name, fragments of apologies, curses meant for himself, the demons, the gods, everything that allowed this to happen.
At some point, he realized his knuckles were bleeding—he didn’t even remember hitting the floor.
The comb lay beside you now, its red lacquer cracked, one of the carved cranes chipped away. He stared at it through the haze of tears he refused to acknowledge.
He saw you standing—soft light, laughter, the smell of cooking rice.
You were there, smiling. The air was golden.
“Don’t cry,” you whispered. “It’s alright, Sanemi.”
He shook his head, tears slipping free. “No, it's not—”
“You did you best.” you said, voice warm, fading, a whisper carried by the wind. “That's all I ever wanted.”
And he was left kneeling in the dark again, the sound of the wind and night echoing through the broken door.
When dawn finally came, the sky was pale and silent.
Sanemi stood outside the house, your body wrapped gently in his haori. Comb wrapped in your hands, pressed together like prayer.
He had cleaned the blood from the floor, set everything right—as if pretending could change anything. His movements had been mechanical, empty, like someone else’s.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t curse. Didn’t cry anymore.
He just sat there beside you until the light changed color, until the birds began to sing again—as if the world didn’t care that his had ended.
The sun rose quiet that morning, now there were no birds, no warmth, just light that felt too sharp.
Sanemi sat there beside you, his haori was still draped over your still form. The edges fluttered slightly in the wind, the same wind that used to make you laugh when it tangled your hair.
He tucked the comb into your hair, just like the way you used to do. His own hands were steady now, though his chest felt hollow— the kind of emptiness that didn’t fade, only settled deep, permanent.
The crow had come and gone, leaving messages, orders, the next assignment— but he hadn’t answered.
He’d already failed the only mission that had ever mattered.
The ground near the edge of the forest was soft—the kind that held wildflowers in the spring. You had always loved them, bending to touch each bloom like it was a miracle.
That’s where he buried you.
The shovel felt heavy, every motion mechanical.
He didn’t pray. He didn’t speak. He just dug until his muscles ached and the blisters reopened across his palms, until the silence became unbearable enough to drown out his thoughts.
When it was done, he sat back on his heels, staring at the small mound of earth.
A light breeze stirred the grass, carrying a faint scent of the wild lilies that grew nearby.
His voice came out low, raw.
The words hung in the air, unanswered.
He reached into his uniform's pocket and pulled out the last letter you’d written him— the one that had survived in his pocket. It was wrinkled, smudged with ash and blood, but he could still make out the handwriting.
Come back safe, Sanemi. Not strong—safe. I’ll be waiting.
He let out a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob—and pressed the paper to his forehead.
“You waited,” he whispered. “You always did.”
The wind blew harder, lifting a few petals from the ground. They danced briefly in the sunlight, pale and fleeting, before fading into the trees.
You were sitting in the field again, sunlight painting your hair gold. You looked alive— glowing, even. There was a small flower tucked behind your ear, and you were humming softly.
“Sanemi,” you said, smiling up at him. “You’re late again.”
You laughed—that warm, unguarded laugh he’d fallen in love with.
“Don’t look so scared,” you teased gently, reaching for his hand. “You can rest now. You did enough.”
He wanted to tell you he hadn’t. That he’d never done enough. That he still needed to make it right.
But when you touched his cheek, all the fight drained out of him.
Your voice was soft—like wind through leaves.
He woke up—and you were gone again.
The field, the sunlight, everything faded back into black.
He continued the night, staying by your grave.
He didn’t light a candle or whisper a prayer—you’d once told him you hated how people only prayed after losing something.
So instead, he just talked. Quietly. Awkwardly. Like he used to when he came home late, trying not to wake you.
“I bought that damn comb because you said your old one cracked,” he muttered, voice low. “Spent half an hour arguing with the merchant over it. Told him my wife deserved something decent. Motherfucker was showing some cheap ones.”
He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Guess I’m the idiot now, huh?”
The wind rustled the trees above, a soft hum that might’ve been an answer.
He looked up, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red.
“I wanted—” He stopped, breath catching. “I wanted to see the kid. To…to hear you say my name again.”
For a moment, the only sound was the wind.
Then, very faintly, he swore he heard your voice—a whisper threaded through the breeze.
He closed his eyes. The tears came silently this time.
No rage, no screams—just grief, quiet and endless, like the night sky above him.
Days passed. Weeks, maybe.
He returned to the Corps eventually, blade in hand, face hard as ever. But something in him stayed missing—something no training, no victory, no blood could fill.
They said the Wind Hashira had grown colder. That his temper was worse.
What they didn’t see were the moments between battles—when he’d reach into his pocket and touch that folded scrap of paper, or the faint smile that sometimes crossed his face when the wind carried a familiar scent.
When the others weren’t watching, he still talked to you sometimes. Quietly.
Before a mission, he’d whisper, “I’ll be careful.”
When he saw a blooming field, he’d murmur, “You’d like this one.”
And at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, he’d close his eyes and see you standing there—smiling, reaching out your hand.
The door slid open, and this time, the air was warm.
You stood there by the fire, back turned, humming softly. When you looked over your shoulder, your eyes met his—bright, alive.
“You’re home,” you said simply.
He smiled—a small, trembling smile—and walked toward you.
When he reached you, his hand found yours. Your fingers laced together, warm, real.
No blood. No pain. Just peace.
You leaned into him, whispering,
“The wind brought you back.”
And for the first time in forever, Sanemi Shinazugawa let himself breathe.
Years later, when the fields bloomed again, the wildflowers near your grave grew thicker than anywhere else.
The villagers said it was because of the soil—rich, blessed by sunlight.
He’d stand there sometimes, sword slung over his shoulder, the wind tugging at his haori, and whisper your name into the breeze.
And when the petals stirred and the air turned warm, he’d almost hear your laughter again—faint, soft, carried by the wind that never left.
The comb was now kind of visible—thanks to the soil erosion—half-buried by flowers, its cracked surface catching the light.
A small, broken promise—but one that still glimmered with love.
“As long as it’s not yours,” you’d once said.
Now, the wind answered for him.
Not shiny outro because Tumblr only allows 10 images :p, and thank you @saradika-graphics for making these godly dividers for us—lowly humans T^T and the headers on her account are just <3.LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!
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