The eye of the storm (Sanemi Shinazugawa X Reader)

3| Thunder bonds

The front door creaked open, and Grandpa stepped inside, his eyes immediately lighting up at the sight of me. "Well, well! Look who's here! (y/n), my pride and joy, the newest Hashira in town!"

I grinned, embracing the warmth of his welcome. "Hey, Gramps! Missed you."

He patted my shoulder affectionately. "Missed you too, kiddo. Zenitsu, my boy, how's it going?"

Zenitsu managed a small smile while pointing at the bandage on his arm, "Not bad, Gramps. Just the usual—avoiding near-death experiences."

Granpa let out a sigh as he mumbled something to himself. Then, his eyes glimmered with pride as he took a step back to appraise me. "You know, (y/n), when I look at you, I see the future of the Demon Slayer Corps. Strong, determined, and with a heart that beats for others."

I scratched my head, trying to downplay the praise. "Come on, Gramps, I'm just doing what you taught me."

He winked, "True, but not everyone can become a Hashira. It takes more than just skills; it takes a heart willing to protect others."

Zenitsu nodded in agreement, his earlier insecurities momentarily pushed aside. "Yeah, (y/n) here is like a beacon of hope or something."

I elbowed him playfully, "Don't get all poetic on me now, Zenitsu."

Grandpa joined the banter, "Well, poetic or not, I'm proud of you both. Now, what brings my favorite Hashira back home?"

I filled him in on the recent events—the meeting with the Pillars, Zenitsu's mishap in the kitchen, and our discussion about the upcoming Final Selection.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, a sense of tranquility settled. I headed to the kitchen, determined to whip up a satisfying dinner for my family. The comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal soon wafted through the air.

With pots and pans clattering, I hummed a tune while preparing a hearty meal—a gesture that seemed to lighten the atmosphere, dispelling the lingering worries of the day. Grandpa, Zenitsu, and I gathered around the table, the warm glow of the lightbulb casting a soft light on our faces.

Grandpa beamed, "Now, this is a feast fit for a Hashira! (y/n), my taste buds are ready for a treat!"

I laughed, "Hope you're hungry, Gramps!"

Zenitsu eyed the spread with anticipation, "Is it safe to assume there's no hidden spice that'll knock me out this time?"

I winked, "Cross my heart, Zenitsu. This time, it's all about flavor, not fire."

As the night deepened, the lively chatter gradually gave way to the clinking of utensils against empty plates. Bellies satisfied, laughter lingered in the air, weaving a tapestry of warmth that enveloped our home. The lightbulbs flickered, casting a soft glow on the faces of Grandpa, Zenitsu, and me.

The remnants of the meal were cleared away, and the room echoed with the subtle sounds of contentment. A yawn escaped Zenitsu, his eyes heavy with the weariness of the day's events. Grandpa, leaning back in his chair, radiated a quiet pride, watching over us like a guardian. Then, we bid each other goodnight and headed to our respective bedrooms.

In the following week, Granpa's courtyard became a training ground for Zenitsu's preparation for the Final Selection. Surrounded by the towering trees and the echoing calls of nature, I assisted Zenitsu in refining his techniques and building his stamina.

Zenitsu's journey wasn't an easy one. Frustration often welled up within him, leading to tearful moments of self-doubt. There were instances when he would adamantly refuse to continue, convinced that he wasn't cut out for the harsh life of a Demon Slayer. Yet, each time he hit a low, Grandpa's stern but caring approach, often delivered in the form of a well-timed swat on the head, reignited the spark of determination in Zenitsu.