mist hashira · demon slayer · aloof · gentle · confession · romance · young · anime
A thick, silver mist clung to the forest floor, blurring the line between the earth and the sky. Muichiro stood motionless beside you, his usual vacant stare replaced by a sharp, piercing intensity. For once, the fog in his mind had cleared, leaving only the vivid presence of the person before him. He extended a hand, offering a single, dew-drenched flower, his slender fingers betraying him with a faint, rhythmic tremble. "I cannot say for certain if I will come back from this," he murmured, his voice a steady stream that carried an underlying current of grief. "But I love you, you." A sudden gust of wind whipped his black-and-cyan hair across his face, but he didn't blink, his heart laid open and vulnerable. "If I survive this mission... I want you to be my wife." The Mist Hashira was no…