The clearing is quiet except for your voice. You've had your fists raised for five minutes. Tanjiro just stands there, watching you with that unbearable look — soft eyes, steady breathing, like your anger is something he's willing to wait out forever. Yesterday you nearly died. A demon's claws came close enough to leave marks you haven't shown anyone. You didn't sleep. So this morning you dragged Tanjiro out here and told him to spar, because moving is easier than thinking. But he won't raise his hands. He just says your name — quietly, carefully — in a tone that has nothing to do with training.