Later that night, you watched Giyuu stand in the courtyard, body poised to leap into the midnight air.
"I'll be back soon," the Water Pillar promised. But who really knew if Giyuu would ever come back again?
"I need to meet up with Mitsuri Kanroji."
"Mitsuri?" you repeated when you heard the unfamiliar name. Mitsuri was a no doubt girl's name, and you felt your heart sink a little at the realization.
So, Giyuu is hanging out with a girl?
Of course, he could (and he should!). But then why did you feel so upset? Why did you feel that you only wanted Giyuu for yourself?
Although you knew better to say more, the devil on your shoulder got the best of you.
"Are you friends with her?" you finally blurted out with a bit of caution.
"No."
"Oh." Not that you expected him to say yes.
But you felt a hint of relief.
"She's just another Pillar," Giyuu continued.
You arched an eyebrow. "For another mission?"
"No, I just need something from her."
When you didn't respond further, Giyuu silently nodded goodbye and disappeared once more into the darkened sky.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
The next morning, you woke up with dark circles under your eyes and a headache that raged whenever you tried to think. You had trouble falling asleep, and exiting your room, you would have given up your soul for just another hour of shut-eye, wanting nothing more than to sink back into the covers to avoid facing your problems.
"Breakfast with me?"
Closing the room door behind you, you blinked like you just saw a flying cow. "Huh?"
Although there was no emotion in his silvery voice, you couldn't believe that Muzan had spoken to you. Passing by your husband in the halls, he would typically ignore you as if you were a minuscule ant in the corridors.
Plus, when was the last time you ever ate with the man? After your wedding day, you've never seen Muzan at the dining table.
Does he even eat?
What does he eat?
Rubbing your tired eyes, you wondered if last night's outing had brought upon his good mood.
"I haven't made breakfast yet," you quietly admitted. Since you never shared meals with Muzan, you rarely thought about ever preparing food for him.
"We'll cook together," he suggested, tucking a loose lock of his jet black curls behind his right ear.
"Y-yeah, I guess we could do that," you replied. You brought your arms across your chest, completing your morning stretch.
When Muzan nodded and headed to the bathroom to freshen up, you thought about going to the kitchen before him. You wanted to start prepping before Muzan would arrive.
After all, that's what a good wife would do, right?
Not that you really know what good "wifery" is, but at least you were trying.
You rushed to the fridge, opening to a large display of vegetables, meats, and herbs.
Since you weren't at all familiar with your husband's taste, you randomly plucked a set of ingredients as if you were choosing numbers for the lottery, hoping that something would go right.
You sighed as you looked at the various items from your forage—salmon, lettuce, and more—all carefully arranged on the marble countertop.
You grabbed the yellow onion, its round shape perfectly fitting into the palm of your hand. You were excited to add the bulb into a delicious plate of stir-fried chi—
Oh.
Right.
You were a terrible cook.
You had so hurriedly agreed to Muzan's offer that you totally forgot that you had the incredible ability to turn anything you prepared into a blackened brick that would resemble a lump of coal.
Where was your mother when you needed her? Probably working already.
Gulping, you knew that you couldn't mess up this meal. You grabbed the chef's knife conveniently within an arm's reach and began strategizing how to chop the spherical vegetable.
Longitudinally? Laterally?
When you finally decided to make a cut through the middle, the knife's sharp blade made a satisfying slash through the onion's off-white flesh.
Perfect, you thought, complimenting yourself.
You made several more attempts at dicing the onion but had to stop when the bulb's unleashed chemicals began stinging at your eye.
Vision blurred by involuntary tears, your later attempts to cut the vegetable proved futile.
"Am I even doing this right?" you mumbled to yourself as you tried to make shapes from your blurred vision.
At some point, you lost your grip on the knife, and in one swift, graceful movement, the blade created a red streak on your forearm.
"Ow!" you shouted, wincing from the pain. Pain radiates up the length of your arm.
You instinctively placed your hand on the cut, trying to clot the blood that continually oozed from the injury. Red, warm liquid seeped from the wound, eventually dripping onto the tiled floor.
Unconsciously, you bit your bottom lip, as if the new tiny pain can distract you from your torn skin.
Where's the first aid kit? Face contorted in pain, you opened some of the bottom kitchen cabinets with no luck. You could have sworn that your mother placed the kit in one of these cabinets. Had you misremembered?
C'mon, c'mon! you scolded yourself. You can't let Muzan see you like this! You can't! You can't! You can't!
You began frantically searching the cupboards, even as your dripping blood created a splotchy path like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs.
I can't embarrass myself like this. He's going to think I'm worthless and clumsy and stup—
"Y/N?"
Your hand froze at a cabinet knob when you heard the deep voice that called your name.
Hesitantly, you turned to the tall figure standing at the kitchen doorway.
"Muzan-sama..." you started, your voice trailing off in shame.
Your husband's sharp almond eyes were not focused on you, but the small puddles of red. His eyelids fluttered as he slowly approached you in a dazed fashion as though he was locked in a trance.
You were utterly ashamed of yourself for causing such a scene in front of the man. You explained the situation at breakneck speed, worried that you had humiliated yourself:
"I was trying to prep some ingredients before you came so that I could be a good wife, but all I do is make mistakes, and I let go of the knife, and I cut myself, so now I'm bleeding."
Running out of breath, you huffed at the end of your long monologue. You looked at the man, whose eyes remained on the maroon blotches.
Muzan swallowed hard.
"Y-your blood..."
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