Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The battlefield stank of blood and scorched earth. Smoke twisted in the broken sky, a veil of gray that clung to the dead and dying.

Sakura’s hands trembled as she pressed them against his chest, her chakra blazing in brilliant, frantic bursts of green. He was so cold—far too cold—and growing colder by the second.

“No, no, no—” she gasped, forcing more of her strength into him, weaving desperate, intricate patterns of healing chakra through his shattered body. His chest was a ruin of blood and broken bone, his once-proud armor torn to shreds. She could feel the terrible damage inside him—organs shredded, chakra pathways frayed like snapped threads.

“You’re not—!” Her voice cracked. She bit down on the rising sob in her throat, gritting her teeth so hard it hurt. “You’re not allowed to die, dammit!”

She could feel his chakra, faint and flickering, like a candle in a storm. Every second, it dimmed a little more. Every second, she lost him a little further.

Don’t die!

Her own reserves burned low, but she didn’t care. She pressed harder, her vision blurring at the edges. Her chakra flooded into him, wild and uncontrolled, ripping through her own body in the process. Blood dripped from her nose, her fingertips, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

His hand, limp against the dirt, twitched once.

Sakura’s heart leapt, only to crash a moment later when it stilled again.

“Please,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, raw with fear. “Please… don’t leave. Not like this. Not alone.”

Another surge of chakra—bright, blinding. The green light around her hands flared, then guttered, flickering weakly like the dying embers of a fire.

But it was slipping through her fingers, no matter how hard she fought, no matter how much she gave.

The world around her twisted. The very air seemed to shudder, the ground beneath her hands growing warm, then searing hot—chakra, dense and ancient, rose up around them like a storm.

Sakura didn’t notice the crack forming beneath his broken body. She didn’t see the jagged threads of time, unwinding and fraying like snapped strings on a loom.

All she knew was the feeling of his fading pulse under her hands, and the raw, bottomless agony in her chest as the world tilted, shattered—

—And swallowed her whole.

Chapter Text

​​The dim light of the hospital’s laboratory flickered above Haruno Sakura as she hunched over her desk, scribbling a complex sequence of kanji on the parchment in front of her. Her brow furrowed, eyes sharp and focused, she barely noticed the passage of time. The air was thick with the scent of ink, parchment, and the faint, sterile smell of antiseptic that permeated the hospital’s walls. Outside, the moon cast its pale glow over Konoha, but within the lab, only the flicker of a lightbulb overhead and the soft rustle of paper filled the space.

Sakura’s fingers moved with precision, guided by the faintest memory of her days as a student under Tsunade, and now driven by her own unyielding need to push the boundaries of medical ninjutsu. Her gaze darted between the scroll in front of her and the half-completed diagrams on the blackboard. In front of her, a thick stack of research materials on Senju Tobirama’s Hiraishin no Jutsu lay open, their contents unraveling the mysteries of space-time ninjutsu. But it wasn’t just for battle strategy that she sought this power.

She needed it to save lives.

“I can’t afford to fail…” she muttered softly to herself, her voice barely a whisper in the silence of the room.

The world outside of the hospital felt so distant, so far removed from the life she’d left behind. Her friends, all married now, with children running around their homes or busy with their own lives, had long since moved on. The thought of her own failed relationship with Sasuke—of what could have been, but never was—seemed like a distant memory now, one she preferred to push away.

She'd loved him fiercely. In a way, perhaps too fiercely. But when it became clear that Sasuke’s version of love was a quiet, solitary existence, filled with the weight of his past and the demands of his own mission, she had made the painful decision to let him go. She had learned to be content with the idea that some things—some people—were meant to be unfulfilled, and that her own happiness didn’t depend on him.

The sharp rustle of her sleeve caught her attention, and she refocused on the jutsu scroll she’d been studying. Her hand tightened around the brush, ink splattering against the edges of the paper as she roughly corrected a mistake. It was as though every line she drew, every formula she constructed, was an attempt to force order into the chaos that swirled within her.

There was no time for love. Not now. Not when there were lives on the line.

She took a deep breath, her shoulders tensing before relaxing again, focusing her chakra and her concentration into the task before her. Her goal wasn’t glory or recognition. She had no time for those trivialities. What mattered now was perfecting the Hiraishin formula in such a way that she could safely transport injured shinobi directly from the battlefield to the hospital—before they bled out, before their chances of survival grew slimmer with each passing moment.

Her mind raced with possibilities. The technical challenges were immense: calibrating the Hiraishin jutsu’s coordinates to the exact location of Konoha's hospital, manipulating the space-time vectors without risking injury to the patient, and, most importantly, ensuring that the transition was smooth enough to keep the shinobi alive in the process. One wrong move, and lives would be lost.

Her fingers drummed against the edge of her desk in rhythm with her thoughts, her mind unraveling the logistics in a way only someone like her, with years of medical expertise, could understand. The design had to be perfect—precision was the key. But as much as her intellect guided her hands, there was something more driving her: an unspoken promise she’d made to herself after the Fourth Shinobi World War.

She wouldn’t fail again. Not like she had with Sasuke.

The memories of their time together flashed through her mind. The quiet nights on the road, the long stretches of silence, the way Sasuke had always been so distant, even when they were together. His eyes, so full of pain and unresolved guilt, had never been able to give her what she needed. And in the end, she had realized that. But even though the relationship had ended, the ache in her chest lingered, like an old wound that refused to heal.

Sakura shook her head, willing the thoughts away. Focus.

A soft knock echoed from the door behind her, pulling her from her reverie. She glanced up, her sharp eyes momentarily startled by the interruption. The door creaked open, and her assistant, a young medic-nin, stepped inside.

“Sakura-senpai… I’ve brought the data from the latest batch of trials.”

Sakura nodded absently before adverting her eyes back to the diagram before her. "Leave it on the table. I'll go over it later."

The assistant hesitated but nodded, placing the report gently on the desk and exiting without a word. Sakura barely noticed the young medic’s departure. She was already lost in the equations again, tracing and retracing the intricate steps of Tobirama’s Hiraishin, her focus unbroken, her heart hardening with every stroke of her brush. If she could just perfect this, if she could just crack the formula, then maybe, just maybe, she could prevent the kind of deaths that haunted her even in her sleep.

Her work was all she had now. And she would make it count.

The soft creak of the door caused Sakura’s hand to still over the scroll. It wasn’t a knock this time—just a faint presence in the doorway. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. She recognised the chakra signature easily.

“Are you still at it, Sakura?” Hatake Kakashi’s voice was a quiet, concerned drawl as he entered the office. The soft, familiar cadence of it pulled her from the tangle of her thoughts, even if just for a moment.

She exhaled sharply, her fingers brushing over the inked kanji with a little more force than necessary. Kakashi’s arrival had interrupted her flow, and she resented it in the same way a river resisted a stone in its path. But there was no escaping him. Not when he was in one of his rare, overprotective moods.

Kakashi’s figure loomed in the doorway, his slouched posture all-too-familiar. He wasn’t wearing his Hokage robe (not that he ever did) and was clad in his black long-sleeved shirt and matching pants. Over his shirt, he wore a long, dark green flak jacket with high collars and red Uzumaki clan symbols on the shoulders. His eyes seemed to fixate on her, despite his mask of casual indifference. Sakura could feel the weight of his concern even before he spoke again.

“You know… you should be aware of the time. A few of the medics came to me. They’re worried about you, Sakura. They’ve mentioned that you’ve been overstaying your shifts. Again.”

Sakura’s shoulders tensed at the mention of it. She hadn’t realized the rumors had reached him. The thought of being coddled—of someone worrying about her when there was so much to be done—made her uncomfortable. The words of her colleagues felt like a distant echo to her, but hearing Kakashi speak them made it real.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. It was well past 10 at night.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, though the words came out more automatic than reassuring. “I just need to finish this. The calculations aren’t right yet. Just a little longer…”

Kakashi didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on her, his eyes narrowed with something close to regret. He had always been keenly aware of the struggles that lay beneath Sakura’s seemingly unshakable exterior, even when she hid them from everyone else.

"You've always been like this." His voice was quieter now, less the Hokage and more the older, trusted friend. "When you were younger, I should have been there more. I should’ve looked out for you… for all of you. Instead, I let you push yourself like this."

Sakura’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected him to say that. Kakashi had always been the detached, sardonic sensei—more concerned about getting his ramen order just right than giving advice. Yet here he was, showing the kind of care that only a true mentor could offer.

She blinked, surprised by the wave of emotion that surged within her, but quickly shoved it down, forcing her focus back onto the scroll in front of her.

Kakashi cleared his throat, his tone lifting again. “But... I think it’s time you take a break, Sakura. It’s late, and you’ve been at this for hours. How about we go out for a late-night dinner? Ichiraku’s still open. My treat.”

Sakura’s eyes narrowed, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite herself. “I don’t think I have time for—”

Kakashi raised a hand, cutting her off with a lazy grin. “I wasn’t asking.”

Sakura hesitated, the weight of her work still pressing on her, but something in Kakashi’s insistence softened her. He had a way of breaking through her stubbornness, even when she didn’t want him to.

“Fine,” she sighed, pushing the scroll aside and stretching her arms above her head. “But only because you’re buying.”

The warm, comforting scent of broth and fried garlic filled the air as Sakura and Kakashi entered Ichiraku. The ramen shop was practically empty at this hour, the only sounds were the sizzling of noodles being dropped into boiling water and the soft clink of chopsticks against porcelain bowls. The night outside was quiet, the soft chirp of crickets carrying through the air.

Sitting next to each other, Sakura leaned back in her seat, hands wrapped around a steaming bowl of ramen as she took a long sip. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Kakashi wasn’t the type to fill the air with words unless he had something important to say.

“So… how’s the experiment going?” Kakashi asked casually, his gaze gentle, though his tone was that of someone who knew exactly how much weight Sakura carried.

Sakura shrugged. “It’s not perfect yet. The space-time calculations are more complicated than I expected. I need to adjust the positioning, or the jutsu might not transfer the patient safely… I’ve been trying to perfect it, but there are too many variables.”

Kakashi nodded thoughtfully, swirling his noodles around his bowl. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. I get it, though. You always have, Sakura. But you’ve already achieved more than most ever will. You’re already the strongest kunoichi in the entire Five Nations.”

Sakura’s eyes flitted away, her thoughts turning inward. The compliment made her heart swell, but there was always that lingering feeling that no matter how strong she became, it wasn’t enough. Not yet. She wasn’t… finished.

“I don’t know, Kakashi-sensei,” she said quietly. “Even if I am the strongest, I still feel like something’s missing. Like I’m not enough.”

Kakashi smiled behind his mask, a small, soft expression. “You don’t have to be everything, Sakura. You’re enough as you are.”

Then, as though the words weighed heavier than the world itself, he reached across the table and ruffled her hair—just like he used to when she was younger. Sakura froze, blinking at the unexpected gesture.

“You’ve come a long way, Sakura. I’m proud of you.”

And in that moment, the dam she’d built around her emotions cracked. A tightness in her throat threatened to choke her, and she quickly looked away, blinking back the sudden rush of tears.

“I… thank you sensei.” Her voice trembled, but she quickly regained control, forcing a smile. “I just want to make sure I don’t fail anyone.”

Kakashi's gaze softened further, his tone full of sincerity. “You won’t fail. You’ve already done so much. You’ll figure this out, just like you always do.”

Sakura nodded, wiping her face discreetly as she looked back at him. Then, with a sudden spark of inspiration, she spoke up again, more energized than before.

“Kakashi-sensei, you know a thing or two about space-time ninjutsu, right?” she asked, leaning in slightly. “You’ve used Kamui before. What do you think I’m missing in the formula? Any ideas?”

Kakashi paused for a moment, his eye reflecting a quiet recollection. “Well, Kamui relies on being able to stabilize the dimensions while maintaining a fixed target point… If you’re looking to transfer living tissue, you’ll need to account for the strain on the body’s chakra network, too. Try adjusting the field of distortion just slightly—focus on not just the destination but the continuity of the journey.”

Sakura nodded vigorously, her mind racing with possibilities. “Right. The journey itself…”

“You’ll get it,” Kakashi reassured her, finishing his ramen with a satisfied sigh.

But Haruno Sakura didn’t get it.

The equations swam in front of her, shifting and twisting in ways that felt almost beyond her grasp. She adjusted the chakra channels, recalculated the angles, focused on the precision of every movement, but it wasn’t enough. Every attempt left her with a deeper sense of frustration, a growing knot in her chest.

Her brow furrowed as she traced the symbols again. Focus, she told herself. Concentrate. But her mind was scattering in too many directions. Each misstep in the formula was like a personal failure, a reminder that she wasn't good enough. The thought of the lives she could save—should save—pushed her harder, but the harder she pushed, the more the pieces eluded her.

She slammed her fist down on the desk in frustration, knocking a small stack of papers to the floor. "Dammit!"

The quiet stillness of the lab seemed to press in on her, the ticking of the clock mocking her lack of progress. The equations—once clear in her mind—had begun to twist into a labyrinth, no matter how many times she retraced them. She wasn’t just battling the complexities of space-time; she was battling herself.

Sakura, why can’t you get this? The thought gnawed at her. You’ve been through so much. You’ve mastered medical ninjutsu, you’ve seen wars, you’ve stood side-by-side with some of the greatest shinobi in history...

Her chest tightened as doubt crept in. Was she really capable of pulling this off? Was she really the best candidate for this responsibility, or had she just been deluding herself?

Her hand hovered above the paper, trembling slightly as she felt the weight of failure closing in.

Senju Tobirama… what would he have done?

The question lingered in her mind, and she couldn’t help but let her thoughts drift to the one shinobi who had captured her attention even as a child.

She’d never seen Senju Tobirama in person—he was long gone by the time she was born—but in the academy, when her classmates fawned over Senju Hashirama’s leadership and nobility, Sakura was drawn to Tobirama. She couldn’t help herself. There was something about his cold, unyielding intellect that fascinated her.

Tobirama hadn’t been the shining, charismatic leader like Hashirama. He was a strategist, a master of space-time ninjutsu, and a fierce protector of Konoha’s future. His mind was sharp, his calculations precise. No hesitation, no doubt. He saw the world for what it was, a series of interconnected events to be manipulated, controlled, and ultimately mastered. He wasn’t a hero in the traditional sense, but he was something even more: a force of nature who shaped the very fabric of Konoha’s survival.

She had admired him from a distance, in the silence of the academy classroom, while her peers fawned over Hashirama’s stories. In the history books, Tobirama’s brilliance was clear. And Naruto, after all the battles they’d fought together, had told her more about him—about Tobirama’s ability to think many steps ahead, his unflinching resolve, his command over his chakra, and how he’d invented jutsu that others would later call legendary.

Naruto spoke of him with a mixture of awe and respect, even though he knew Tobirama's cold exterior had often kept him apart from others.

"You know," Naruto had once said, "The Second Great Face Stone Guy never hesitated. Even when things were impossible, he pushed forward. It’s like he didn’t let anything hold him back."

Sakura leaned over the desk, staring down at the diagram she had been working on. What would Tobirama have done if he were in her place? Would he have let something like a simple miscalculation defeat him? No. He would have recalculated and adjusted, using his unyielding intelligence to find the perfect formula. He wouldn’t have doubted himself.

Tobirama would have pushed through.

The thought stirred something within her—something that flickered with the light of determination. She wasn’t Tobirama. She wasn’t going to be him. But the resolve to keep going, to rise above her doubts and fears, that was something she could emulate.

Sakura took a steadying breath, her fingers returning to the ink. "I won’t give up," she whispered to herself. "I can’t."

Her chakra surged again, this time more controlled. She recalculated the coordinates, adjusted the angles, and poured her focus into the chakra signature she needed to create. The lines on the scroll blurred in front of her as she applied all the mental energy she had left. Her body was growing weary, but her mind burned with the fire of someone who wouldn’t stop until she reached her goal.

Just one more try.

Her hand moved, each stroke deliberate, her fingers tracing the kanji carefully as she wove the complex seals together. She focused on Tobirama’s brilliance, on his relentless pursuit of perfection. If she could think like him—calculate like him—maybe this would work.

But then—something went wrong.

It was small at first. A sudden shift in the air, a brief ripple in the space around her. Her fingers faltered.

No, she corrected herself, her mind still sharp. She had it—just a slight shift, a final recalibration—and she’d—

No!

Before she could adjust, the space around her twisted. The air hummed with energy, like a sudden surge of electrical current flooding through the room.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had done the math, she had—

The world around her distorted in a flash.

Her body felt weightless, pulled by an invisible force as the air seemed to snap, like the very fabric of reality was being torn apart. She gasped, reaching out, trying to stabilize herself, but the world was spinning—twisting, and then—

—gone.

The room, the lab, the walls of Konoha, all disappeared in a violent rush of wind, leaving only the sensation of disorientation in her chest, her mind flooded with confusion. The edges of her vision blurred and shimmered. The weight of her body felt wrong, distant.

And then, silence.

Kakashi had been heading back home after his late-night ramen run with Sakura, thinking that he’d made a small dent in her stubbornness. He had hoped that the dinner had given her some peace of mind, but his thoughts faltered as he felt the unusual surge of chakra from the hospital.

A pulse of power. And then… nothing.

His heart sank.

He turned around and sprinted toward the hospital entrance, but when he reached the spot where Sakura had been just moments before—there was nothing. No trace. No ripple of chakra. No lingering signature of her presence.

“Sakura…?”

Kakashi’s voice was a whisper, a breath of disbelief in the wind.

It was as if Haruno Sakura had never existed at all.

Chapter Text

The sharp scent of pine and damp earth filled Sakura’s lungs as she jolted upright, her hands braced in the moss-covered soil. Birds chirped overhead, oblivious to the wild tangle of confusion in her chest. Morning light filtered softly through the treetops, casting warm gold across the forest floor. She blinked once, then again, disoriented by the stillness.

This wasn’t the research lab.

The last thing she remembered was the flicker of unstable chakra surging through the equipment in the hospital’s sealed research room—a pulse of ancient energy that crackled like a live wire. Then, a rush of wind, the lights blinking out, and complete darkness swallowing her whole.

And now... this.

A sharp tug yanked her back to the present—something was pulling her hair.

“What the—?!” she swatted reflexively, only to see a squirrel scurrying up a nearby tree, tail twitching in irritation. A twig was stuck stubbornly in her bangs.

Sakura sighed, brushing herself off as she stood. Her sleeveless qipao dress was slightly dirtied, her gloves smudged with soil. She turned in a slow circle, trying to get her bearings. The tree trunks were familiar, yes—but something was off. The forest was quieter. Untouched. Less traveled.

It didn’t feel like the Konoha outskirts she knew.

With a deep breath, she started walking, guided by instinct and distant hints of civilization. Her knee-high boots crunched softly over fallen leaves and underbrush, and after several minutes of weaving through the trees, the greenery gave way to a dirt path leading toward a modest village in the distance.

A wooden sign swayed gently at the entrance, the name painted in clean, faded characters: Shukuba Town.

Sakura paused.

Her brow furrowed.

That wasn’t right.

Shukuba was supposed to be a bustling place—a colorful mess of street vendors, seedy bars, overpriced brothels, and enough drama to keep Tsunade entertained for hours between gambling sprees. But this... this place was quiet. Smaller. The buildings were made of untreated timber and stone, low and narrow like they hadn’t seen modern carpentry.

She stepped through the town's gate, eyes scanning the modest market stalls. There were no flashy signs or drunk shinobi stumbling into the streets. No smell of grilled squid or bad sake. Just quiet murmurs, the clink of a hammer from a blacksmith, and the slow pace of a town still finding its feet.

“What the hell…” she muttered under her breath.

The clothes, the dialect, the architecture—it was all familiar, yet… not quite right. She wandered into a narrow alley, where fewer people passed, and closed her eyes, focusing on her chakra. She hadn’t sensed any genjutsu. No seals. No space-time signatures. 

The village looked small, humble, like something out of the oldest history books. Chickens scattered as she passed, and a few wary faces peered at her from behind doors left slightly ajar.

Near the center of the village, a handful of people gathered around a battered well, chatting and filling buckets. Sakura edged closer, pretending to fuss with the strap of her pouch so she could listen in.

“…heard the Chuunin Exams are being held earlier this year,” a middle-aged man said, setting his bucket down with a grunt. “Since they only started last year, they say Nidaime-sama wants to make adjustments.”

Sakura’s breath caught. Nidaime…? Last year…?

She moved before she could think better of it, approaching the group. “Excuse me,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “Did you say the Chuunin Exams started last year?”

The villagers exchanged glances. An older woman with a sun-wrinkled face frowned at her. “Of course,” she said slowly, like she was speaking to a child. “The Nidaime Hokage himself established them. Where have you been, girl?”

Sakura opened her mouth, then closed it, struggling to find a response that didn’t sound insane.

A younger man leaned toward the others and tapped his temple meaningfully. “Probably hit her head,” he whispered a little too loudly. “Or maybe she’s one of those poor wanderers from the border.”

The old woman clucked her tongue. “Best see a healer. Maybe she can knock the sense back into you.”

Sakura took a step back, blood rushing in her ears. The villagers’ murmurs blurred into white noise. Tobirama… the Nidaime… the Chuunin Exams had only just been created…

She was in the past.

Far, far earlier than she had ever imagined.

And there was no telling how—or if—she could get back.

Her breath caught in her throat.

How was this even possible?

She needed information. The few details she had were unsettling. From whispered conversation she’d picked up in passing, she gathered that the current Hokage was Senju Tobirama—second of his name and notoriously untrusting of outsiders. That alone was enough reason to keep her identity under wraps.

Sakura kept her head down and blended into the ebb and flow of the crowd, doing her best to remain inconspicuous. She passed by a group of children practicing throwing kunai at a wooden post and caught wind of a jounin lecturing them on “Chuunin exam protocols.” That confirmed it: she was in Tobirama’s second year of his reign. The exams were new. The world hadn’t yet fully stabilized after the wars. Everything was still… raw.

I can’t draw attention, she reminded herself as she ducked into the shade of a tall building. Not until I figure out a way back.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion down the street.

A blur of movement. A child. Running, panicked. He clutched a bundle of rice cakes and a small pouch, face smeared with dirt and desperation. Three grown men barreled after him, shouting obscenities. The boy turned sharply into an alley, but his foot caught on a loose stone. He tumbled forward with a sharp cry, skidding across the ground. Blood bloomed across his knees.

The men didn’t stop.

Sakura froze, heart twisting. People nearby paused, glanced, then turned away just as quickly. Some muttered about "thieves" and "bratty orphans." No one moved to help.

The boy whimpered as the first man grabbed him by the collar and raised a fist. Sakura's hands curled into trembling fists at her sides. No… don't get involved... Not yet...

But the boy screamed.

And nobody moved.

She stepped forward before she could stop herself.

"Hey!" she shouted, voice cutting clean through the noise. "Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?!"

The men stopped and turned, sneering. The leader, burly and foul-tempered, scowled at her. “What’s it to you, pinky?” he spat, eyes flicking with disdain to her hair. That nickname snapped something inside her.

She narrowed her eyes. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she said coldly. “Three grown men against one hungry child? What kind of cowards are you?”

The man sneered. “Kid’s a repeat thief. Someone’s gotta teach him a lesson.”

He stepped toward her, cracking his knuckles. “Last warning. Walk away, little girl.”

Sakura smiled—dangerously. “Too late.”

She reached out, lightning-fast, and grabbed his shoulder. In one fluid motion, she twisted and flipped him over her shoulder, slamming him into the ground with a satisfying thud. The impact echoed down the alley.

The other two blinked in shock before charging at her.

She moved effortlessly. Ducking the first swing, she stepped to the side and landed a clean strike to the ribs of the second man, sending him crashing into a stack of crates. The third came at her from behind with a short dagger, but she sidestepped and slammed her elbow into his back, knocking the wind out of him.

Within seconds, all three were sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain.

The crowd that had been watching silently now murmured with surprise and awe. Some stepped back. Others leaned in.

Sakura knelt beside the trembling boy, who looked no older than ten. Blood streaked down his scraped knees, and his thin arms clutched tightly to a bundle of bread and a small pouch of ryo coins. Her eyes narrowed as she looked down at the stolen goods.

“Stealing isn’t okay,” she said firmly, though her voice wasn’t unkind. “Even if you’re desperate.”

The boy flinched and looked down, tears brimming in his dirt-smudged eyes. “I know,” he mumbled, voice small and shaky. “I don’t want to be a thief… but I don’t have a choice.”

Sakura’s expression shifted, softening. “Why?” she asked gently.

“My sister,” he said, sniffing. “She’s really sick. She hasn’t gotten out of bed in a week. She won’t eat, won’t talk. I… I didn’t know what else to do.”

A beat passed, heavy with silence and the distant hum of a town that didn’t care. Sakura hesitated. Her instinct told her to be cautious—changing the past could have consequences she couldn't begin to predict. But another part of her, the medic who had sworn to protect life no matter the circumstances, tightened in protest.

She couldn’t ignore a sick child. Not when she could help.

“Take me to her,” Sakura said, her voice steady with resolve. “I can help.”

The boy’s eyes widened with suspicion. He pulled the bread tighter to his chest and took a hesitant step back. “Why should I trust you?”

Sakura sighed and reached out. “Then let me prove it to you.”

She placed her hand just above his bleeding knee and summoned a soft green glow of chakra. His eyes widened as the torn skin mended beneath her palm, leaving smooth, unbroken flesh in its place. His mouth fell open.

“…Whoa,” he breathed.

She smiled slightly. “My name’s Sakura. What’s yours?”

“Kenta,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Well, Kenta,” she stood and extended a hand to him, “take me to your sister.”

He nodded and led the way.

They wound through the narrow streets of Shukuba Town, eventually making their way toward the outskirts where buildings were fewer and more run-down. They stopped before a battered, barely-standing hut nestled between overgrown trees and crumbling stone. Kenta broke into a sprint.

“Asuka-nee!” he called as he rushed inside.

Sakura followed, ducking under the low doorway. The air inside was musty and heavy, laced with the faint smell of mold and sickness. The room was sparsely furnished—an overturned crate served as a table, and an old blanket hung in place of a door to the back room.

Kenta led her to a corner where a girl lay on a thin futon. She looked to be in her early-teens, her long dark hair clinging to her forehead slick with sweat. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, her skin pale and flushed with fever.

Sakura dropped to her knees and pressed two fingers to the girl’s wrist. Her pulse was fast—too fast. Coughs wracked her thin frame as Sakura placed a glowing hand over her chest.

“Pneumonia,” Sakura murmured to herself. “She’s fighting, but barely.”

She wasted no time. Channeling precise medical chakra into Asuka’s lungs, she targeted the bacterial infection, burning it away while carefully preserving the surrounding tissue. Her hands moved steadily, her face calm and focused. Kenta knelt nearby, silent and wide-eyed as the process continued.

After ten minutes, the girl’s breathing eased. Her face lost some of its pallor. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open.

“...Who…?” Asuka rasped.

Sakura smiled gently, keeping her voice low and warm. “My name is Sakura. I’m a medic.”

Kenta scooted close to his sister, taking her hand. “She helping you, Asuka-nee. You’re gonna be okay now.”

Asuka gave a weak smile and closed her eyes again, this time from relief. Her breathing was steady as she slipped into restful sleep.

“She’s no longer in danger,” Sakura said, sitting back. “But you’ll need to get her some medicine—just to make sure the infection is completely gone.”

Kenta nodded, wiping at his eyes. “Thank you… Thank you so much.”

Sakura waved it off, standing. “It’s what I do.”

“Where are you from?” he asked curiously.

Sakura paused for half a second before answering. “The Land of Rivers.”

It was vague, distant, and harmless. The kind of place no one would look too closely into.

Kenta tilted his head. “What about your family?”

Her chest tightened. “They’re gone,” she lied.

His gaze dropped, understanding blooming in his young face, which added to Sakura’s guilt. “Asuka-nee and I lost our parents in the war. We only have each other now.”

He looked up at her, eyes bright with quiet determination. “But one day… I wanna become a shinobi. So I can protect her the way she’s always protected me.”

Sakura smiled softly and reached out to pat his head. “That’s a wonderful dream, Kenta. Wanting to protect the ones you love… that’s what makes you strong.” She let her hand drop, glancing briefly outside. “I haven’t really figured out where I belong yet.”

His face lit up. “You can stay with us, if you want. If you don’t have anywhere else to go. We don’t have much, but… we can share.”

Sakura’s heart warmed, and she shook her head lightly. “I’d like that but I must move on. But first… I need to go into town. There’s something I have to look into.”

Kenta blinked. “What is it?”

“I need to find the library,” she said. “Can you show me the way?”

The town’s library was a modest structure nestled between a fragrant bakery and a weather-worn tailor’s shop, its wooden beams creaking softly with age. Inside, the scent of old parchment and varnished oak filled the air—a stillness clung to the space, heavy and ancient, like the breath of knowledge long forgotten.

Sakura moved silently through the narrow aisles, her fingers grazing the brittle spines of scrolls and tomes as her eyes darted from title to title. Her pulse quickened with every shelf she passed—dimensional theory, chakra flow anomalies, specialised jutsu theories—close, but never close enough. Her breath grew shallow as the hope that had kindled in her chest began to flicker.

She knelt beside a crumbling scroll stand, unrolling one brittle document after another, only to find diagrams that stopped at theory, jutsu that looped back on themselves, and vague footnotes trailing off into mystery. Her frustration boiled beneath her calm exterior. She clenched her jaw and shoved another useless scroll aside, its faded ink smearing faintly under her thumb.

Nothing.

Not a single reference to the jutsu she’d been developing. No mention of advanced temporal distortions or the specific chakra resonance patterns she knew had to exist. It was like trying to find the edge of a mirror in the dark—every lead reflecting back emptiness.

A low, bitter sigh escaped her lips as she stood. Her knees ached from crouching, her mind from overreaching. She hated this—this helplessness, this crawling uncertainty. Every hour wasted here meant more time unraveling in a world she didn’t fully understand anymore.

She crossed the room to the front desk, where the librarian sat hunched over a scroll of poetry, the dim light catching in her silver-streaked hair. The woman squinted down, nose nearly touching the parchment.

Sakura hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward.

“Excuse me,” she said, voice low but tense. “Do you have any scrolls or records on space-time ninjutsu?”

The woman slowly looked up, her gaze measured, and after a beat, shook her head.

“Not here, I’m afraid,” she replied. “That sort of information is tightly regulated. If you want anything useful on that subject… you’d need access to the archives in Konoha.”

The name landed like a weight in Sakura’s chest. Her heart gave a hard, anxious thud. She forced her expression to remain neutral, but her stomach twisted.

Of course. Konoha.
Where everything had started. Where everything had gone wrong.

She turned away quickly, gripping the edge of a nearby table to steady herself. Her thoughts raced, panic and dread clawing at the corners of her mind. She already knew in the back of her mind that she should avoid the village—for her safety, for their safety. But if Konoha held the only real answers… if it was her only hope of understanding what had happened to her, of undoing it…

Then she had no choice.

She would have to go. And this time, she would have to walk its streets like a stranger. No one could know who she really was.

Not yet. Not ever.

The sun had just begun to climb the sky in the morning when Sakura knelt beside Asuka for the final time.

After her frustrating and fruitless search at the town’s library, she hadn’t planned on staying long. But Kenta had found her again—this time more insistent, worry etched deep into the lines of his face—and asked her to stay with them at least for the night. With nowhere else to go and Asuka’s condition taking a sudden turn for the worse, Sakura agreed.

One night had turned into three.

Three days of carefully monitoring the girl’s fever, of adjusting her chakra flow, coaxing shallow breaths into deeper ones, and gently easing her body back from the edge. Three days of sleepless nights and tense silences broken only by Asuka’s coughing or Kenta pacing just outside the door, too anxious to rest.

But in those three days, the silence had changed.

Kenta had made her tea every morning—clumsily, but with such earnest effort that Sakura found herself smiling into the cup despite the bitter taste. He’d asked questions, too—not the dangerous kind, not the kind she had to deflect—but gentle ones. About herbs. About healing techniques. About chakra. About being a shinobi. They sat together in the evenings, watching over Asuka while she slept, and though Sakura offered little about herself, Kenta never pressed.

Asuka, on the other hand, had won Sakura over almost immediately. Fierce in spirit despite her frail body, she clung to consciousness as long as she could—apologizing for being a burden, asking if she’d ever be able to walk again, trying to mimic Sakura’s hand seals with trembling fingers. Even in illness, the girl was full of life.

Now, as Sakura ran her chakra over the girl's chest one last time, a faint green glow shimmered beneath her palm. She moved slowly, deliberately, scanning every inch of her lungs. The fever had broken. The rasp in her breath was gone. Her pulse no longer raced in that frantic, erratic rhythm. The worst had passed.

“All clear,” Sakura murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from Asuka’s forehead. “She should sleep as much as she can for the next couple of days. And don’t forget the medicine—twice a day, even if she says she feels better.”

Kenta stood nearby, clutching the small brown packet from the pharmacy as if it were precious. “I will,” he said quickly. “I promise.”

Asuka stirred beneath the blankets, her eyes fluttering open. She blinked up at Sakura with bleary warmth, then smiled. “You’re really leaving?”

Sakura straightened, pulling her cloak around her shoulders and adjusting the strap of her pack. Her heart ached with the familiar pull—the one she was supposed to ignore. “I have something I need to do,” she said softly. “But you’re strong, Asuka. You’ll be alright.”

The girl nodded, her small hand peeking from the blankets to grasp Sakura’s fingers. “Thank you, Sakura-san. For everything.”

Sakura held her hand a moment longer than she meant to. Then she looked up at Kenta. His eyes met hers—grateful, steady, and understanding. She gave him a small nod, a silent thank you that didn’t need words.

But then she paused, hesitating at the doorway.

“Kenta,” she said quietly, turning back to him. “If you’re serious about wanting to protect your sister… about being strong enough to keep her safe…”

He straightened, eyes wide with attention.

“…you should consider going to Konoha,” she continued. “They have a Shinobi Academy there. If you want to become a real shinobi—learn how to fight, how to heal, how to survive—it’s the best place for it.”

Kenta blinked, caught off guard, then nodded slowly, clutching the medicine packet tighter to his chest. “You really think I could?” His tone lingered with a touch of uncertainty.

Sakura gave a faint smile, the kind that held both sorrow and hope. “I think if you care enough to ask… you’ve already taken the first step.”

His expression softened into something quiet and determined. “Then I will. For her.”

She gave one final nod.

Then she turned, stepping out into the morning light. The door creaked shut behind her with a finality she didn’t like.

Don’t get attached, she told herself again.

But it was already too late for that.

The trees loomed tall and ancient as Sakura sped through the forest, her boots whispering across bark and leaves as she leapt from branch to branch. The sky above was clear, the wind brisk, carrying the scent of pine and dew-soaked earth. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a river bubbling through the undergrowth.

Konoha wasn’t far now—only a few miles to the east. Her chakra reserves were steady, and the weight of her small pack sat comfortably against her shoulders. She’d managed to gather a few supplies in Shukuba Town: basic rations, bandages, and a new canteen. She didn’t have her weapons but at least she still had some ryo stashed away.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Her mind, however, refused to be still. It circled endlessly around the story she would have to spin to survive what came next.

Tobirama will see through a weak lie. 

She remembered the stories too well—of how sharp he was, how quickly he could dissect a threat, how ruthless he could be if something didn’t sit right. And Sakura, as an unknown kunoichi with high-level medical jutsu and no paper trail, would stick out like a kunai in a bundle of senbon.

She would have to give him her real name. Haruno Sakura. A false name would collapse under his scrutiny, and she couldn’t afford a single crack in her story. She would tell him she hailed from the Land of Rivers, from a minor clan wiped out during the skirmishes of the last war. It wasn’t uncommon. Entire clans had vanished during those brutal years, and with her civilian background, it would be difficult to trace anything definitively.

Her medical knowledge? Taught by a traveling medic-nin—her mentor and shishou, now deceased. It was a plausible enough cover. Rare, yes—but not impossible.

She considered a transformation jutsu to alter her appearance, but dismissed the idea quickly. Too much chakra output. A henge required a continuous stream of chakra—detectable, suspicious. Tobirama would sense it in minutes, if not sooner.

She thought briefly of Tsunade, how her master had maintained her transformation for years. Kami, Sakura thought, she really was insane. 

Even with her Byakugou seal, Sakura wasn’t about to waste chakra on vanity or fear. Not now.

Suddenly, a prickle danced at the edge of her senses.

Her breath caught. She skidded to a halt on a thick branch, crouched low. Still. Listening.

Eyes narrowing, she inhaled deeply, then closed her eyes. In one fluid motion, she pulsed her chakra outward in a controlled wave—thin, barely detectable. A sensory net unfurled in every direction. One of the many original techniques that she mastered over the years to allow her to expand her senses.

Eight chakra signatures.

Fast. Closing in.

Hostile.

Her eyes snapped open.

Kumogakure.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she dropped to the forest floor. Branches cracked underfoot as she sprinted through the underbrush, dodging trunks and twisting around brambles. But it was no use. She could feel the gap closing—shadows tightening around her like a noose.

They were herding her.

Changing direction, she surged into a wide clearing just ahead. Shafts of golden light pierced the canopy, dancing on the grass and catching in the swirls of disturbed dust. The wind whispered through the leaves above—an eerie calm before the storm.

She landed silently and straightened, shoulders squared, cloak fluttering behind her.

If it came to a fight… so be it.

Moments later, the shinobi emerged.

They spilled into the clearing like shadows unfurling, dark and poised. Eight in total, moving with predatory grace, surrounding her in a loose arc. Their flak jackets bore the distinct Kumo design—storm-gray with dark arm guards, lightning insignias etched into metal. And their hitai-ate gleamed with the cloud emblem, glinting like polished blades.

The leader, a lean man with a long scar cutting across his jaw, stepped forward. His eyes swept over her, dismissive.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “A little Konoha kunoichi all alone in the woods.”

Sakura’s stomach twisted.

Her hitai-ate. Still visible. Still strapped on her head like a headband.

Stupid.

She kept her voice calm. “I should be asking you what Kumo shinobi are doing this deep into Fire Country.”

The man gave a humorless chuckle. “That’s none of your business. But since you’ve stumbled on us…” His grin widened. “You won’t be leaving in one piece.”

A shinobi to his left sneered. “Might keep her around a little longer than that, if you know what I mean.”

The laughter that followed was cold and ugly.

Something deep inside Sakura snapped.

“Shannaro!”

Her roar tore through the clearing—and with it, her chakra surged violently. She slammed her fist into the earth with bone-shattering force.

The ground erupted.

Stone and soil exploded upward as a shockwave split the clearing in two. Trees cracked like matchsticks. The earth fractured outward in a spiderweb pattern, ripping through roots and throwing debris skyward. Two of the shinobi were flung back with startled cries, crashing through the undergrowth like ragdolls.

The others scattered, some vaulting into the trees, others springing to opposite edges of the clearing. Shouts rang out, followed instantly by the hiss and crackle of Raiton.

Lightning danced through the trees.

A bolt arced toward her—searing white, fast as a thrown knife. She ducked under it, the heat singing her cheek, and rolled across the ground as three more bolts lanced toward her in rapid succession. Explosions of light erupted all around her, each one slamming into the earth and sending arcs of electricity jumping across the ground.

One shinobi dropped from the treetops, hands crackling with voltage. Sakura twisted aside, grabbed his wrist mid-strike, and crushed it with a sickening crunch before slamming her elbow into his sternum. He collapsed in a heap.

Another charged from behind, kunai drawn and coated in chakra. She pivoted, deflected the blade by hitting his wrist to disarm him, then drove her knee into his ribs—a sickening, sharp crack—and flung him into a shattered tree trunk.

But they were organized. Experienced.

They moved like a pack—attacking in overlapping bursts, flanking her with coordinated precision. A pair of shinobi launched twin lightning spears from opposite sides, forcing her to leap skyward to avoid them. She landed hard, breath ragged, only for another barrage of arcs to slice toward her from above.

One bolt grazed her shoulder, searing her cloak and numbing her arm. Gritting her teeth, she powered through the pain, chakra already flowing to her fists again.

She slammed both fists into the ground.

The world shattered.

A massive fissure tore through the clearing, sending earth and splintered stone soaring skyward. The sheer force sent three shinobi flying, their jutsu fizzling mid-form. A tree to her left buckled and collapsed in a cloud of splinters.

But she was slowing down. Her lungs burned. Her chakra thinned. Her body ached with every movement.

She had taken down five. Brutally, efficiently.

But the remaining three were getting smarter—driving her, bit by bit, into the open. A net of lightning began to form around her. Tendrils of chakra flickered between them, humming with raw, unstable power. Sakura felt a surge of panic well up as she frantically analysed the dire situation that she was in.

Then—suddenly—they stopped.

Mid-attack, all three stiffened.

Their gazes turned sharply, past her.

She felt it too.

Two chakra signatures. Familiar. Strong. Moving fast.

Konoha.

The three exchanged a silent glance.

Without a word, they picked up their incapacitated teammates and swiftly vanished—gone in a blur of movement and static—retreating through the trees as swiftly as they’d come.

Sakura didn’t follow.

She stood still for a moment, chest heaving, vision pulsing at the edges. Slowly, she stumbled back against the trunk of a scorched tree. Her fingers found the hitai-ate on top of her head, and with trembling hands, she tore it off and shoved it deep into her pack.

Too close.

She heard them before she saw them—two sets of footsteps moving with practiced caution through the trees, not careless, but confident. Shadows flickered at the edge of the clearing before two figures emerged, weapons drawn, eyes scanning.

The first was lean and wiry, with sun-bronzed skin and a mop of wild brown hair. His eyes—deep, intelligent, and sharp as a hawk’s—missed nothing. He wore gray shinobi battle armor over a black jumpsuit. His posture radiated quiet readiness. There was something grounded about him—weather-worn but alert, like a mountain prepared for a storm.

The second was quieter, paler, his presence more unsettling in its precision. Short black hair framed his face in untamed layers, windswept and carelessly beautiful. His attire is almost identical to the first shinobi’s. His grey eyes were cold steel—measuring, dissecting, always calculating. His gaze settled on her like a scalpel. Reserved, composed, dangerous.

Both wore the Leaf’s symbol on their hitai-ate, proudly displayed across their forehead, glinting in the dappled light. Both couldn’t have been older than twenty, but there was nothing green or untested about them. They moved like seasoned predators.

The brown-haired one spoke first, his voice clipped but not unkind. “What happened here?”

Sakura didn’t waver. “I was heading toward Konoha. They followed me. Ambushed me.”

The dark-haired shinobi’s gaze sharpened. “Why would Kumogakure shinobi pursue a civilian?”

Sakura steadied her breathing. “They mistook me for a Konoha kunoichi.”

The brown-haired one stepped forward a little, head tilting. “You're not from Konoha?”

“No,” she said. 

That gave them pause.

“What clan are you with?” the dark-haired one asked, eyes narrowing.

Sakura hesitated, then forced the words out. “None. The war… took them all.”

A beat passed.

The hawk-eyed one’s posture shifted slightly—tension pulling at his jaw—but his eyes stayed fixed on her. The dark-haired one’s expression softened, barely, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“You survived alone?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “I’m a medic. I’ve been traveling for a while now. I was hoping… to find refuge in Konoha.”

The two exchanged a glance—a silent exchange of years of shared battlefield instinct.

The brown-haired one eventually sighed. “You’re not under suspicion… but we can’t take chances. Not after what just happened. You’ll need to speak with the Hokage directly. Until then…”

He stepped forward and drew a slip of paper from his pouch—inked with intricate kanji, pulsing faintly with chakra.

“…we’ll have to seal your chakra.”

Sakura’s chest tightened at the words.

But she gave a slow nod. “I understand.”

The tag pressed to her collarbone. Instantly, her chakra stilled—locked down like a trap snapping shut. The coldness hit her first, then the strange emptiness, like breathing in with no air.

She winced.

The dark-haired shinobi’s eyes didn’t leave her face.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

There was a pause.

“…Sakura,” she said finally. “Haruno Sakura.”

Neither man pressed her for more. But they watched her, silently, as if cataloguing every twitch, every unspoken word.

She clenched her fists and followed them wordlessly, the forest swallowing the wreckage behind her.

The path ahead wound toward Konohagakure no Sato.

Toward Senju Tobirama.

Toward her past… and maybe her future.

Chapter Text

The path into Konoha felt like walking through a living memory.

Sakura passed under the looming wooden gates of Konoha with her chakra sealed and her hands loose at her sides, but her senses were alight—drinking in every detail as if trying to memorize the scent of the earth and the wind that drifted through the trees. The Konoha of the past was quieter, more modest. It bore the bones of the village she once knew, but none of the polish. Everything felt rawer, younger—like a forest sapling that had yet to stretch to the canopy.

She slowed her steps as the dirt road unfurled before her, her eyes flicking left and right, scanning the buildings.

There it was—Ichiraku Ramen.

Or… the earliest version of it. Just a tiny food stand tucked beneath a wooden awning, its sign hand-carved and sun-bleached. A single elderly man stood behind the counter, stirring broth as steam rose into the morning air. No daughter beside him. No Naruto bursting in, demanding extra chashu with his ramen. Just the quiet hum of everyday life.

Further down the road, her gaze caught on a flower shop—its windows adorned with hand-painted lilies, marigolds blooming in a small pot out front. A wooden placard above the door read simply: Yamanaka Flowers. A young girl inside was arranging a bouquet, her short blonde hair tied back with a red ribbon. A precursor, perhaps. A woman who would one day perhaps give birth to the future clan head Sakura knew so well.

Her heart squeezed with a sudden pang.

Even here, in this past life, the threads of her future ran quietly beneath the surface.

She kept walking.

The two shinobi flanking her—Uchiha Kagami, calm and unreadable, and the brown-haired Sarutobi Hiruzen, more openly observant—whom she learnt the names of, said nothing, but she could feel the weight of their gazes as they noted every flicker of familiarity on her face. They exchanged a brief look, silent and sharp. They noticed.

But still, they didn’t question her.

Not yet.

As they turned a corner, the Hokage Tower came into view—though it wasn’t quite a tower yet. The structure was broader and lower than she remembered, built from dark timber reinforced with pale stone, its lines stark and functional. The crimson-tiled roof sloped at a sharper angle, and iron-braced wooden doors marked its entrance. It didn’t yet carry the graceful curves and prestige of the later structure, but it commanded presence in a colder, heavier way.

Around it, the village’s shadows were not empty.

They watched her.

Perched along the rooftops, stationed at the alley mouths, hidden behind false walls and painted shutters—ANBU. Their chakra was carefully restrained but unmistakable to someone trained to sense it. Tense. Ready. Measured like drawn wire.

Each mask was different—porcelain animals stripped of warmth. Each movement, when it came, was smooth, synchronized. No wasted gestures. No chatter.

Sakura swallowed.

She had known the ANBU in her time—mysterious, dangerous, ever-watchful—but there had still been space between them and civilian life, a certain distance upheld by years of bureaucracy and evolving ideals. Here, in Tobirama’s era, the system was young, untempered, and brutal in its precision. The ANBU weren’t just shadows in the corner—they were everywhere . Embedded. Alert. Enforcers of doctrine, not just protection.

This wasn’t just surveillance—it was control. Surveillance sharpened to a blade’s edge.

She could feel them analyzing her movements, cataloguing her expressions, gauging the way she walked and breathed under the chakra suppression tag. A test. A threat.

Her eyes lifted to one masked operative crouched along a high beam, half-concealed by shadow and height. The air around him was still, like a coiled trap.

Tobirama is a genius, she thought, the chill creeping down her spine, but not without a hint of admiration.

They reached the doors of the tower—tall, iron-riveted, and flanked by two more ANBU in dragon and dog masks. Uchiha Kagami stepped forward and gave a signal.

The doors creaked open, slow and heavy.

Whatever came next—whatever plan she had—she would have to tread with care.

Because in this version of Konoha, nothing slipped by unnoticed.

They reached the main doors.

Sarutobi Hiruzen stepped forward and knocked once—firm, deliberate.

A pause.

Then, from within, a voice. Low. Controlled. Absolute.

“Enter.”

The doors opened, and they stepped inside.

The office was sunlit, austere in its simplicity. A large scroll hung on the wall behind the desk, bearing the characters for duty, will, and loyalty. The floor was polished wood, the windows thrown open to allow the autumn breeze to drift in. No clutter. No plants. No stacks of paper threatening collapse.

And behind the desk was Senju Tobirama.

Sakura froze for half a heartbeat.

He was younger than she imagined—perhaps late-thirties—but already the full weight of leadership sat effortlessly on his broad shoulders. He wore a black long-sleeved turtleneck beneath a crisp white yukata, its sleeves modestly tucked at his elbows. A navy hakama sat low on his hips. His silver-white hair slightly tousled from long hours of work.

No happuri. No armor.

Just crimson markings on his face, sharp and regal—and eyes the color of freshly spilled blood.

He didn’t look up.

Not at first.

Only when the door clicked shut behind them did he raise his gaze—piercing straight through her.

Sakura’s spine straightened automatically.

That gaze didn’t simply look at her—it measured her. Weighed her. Threatened to undo her with its sheer intensity. She kept her face neutral, her eyes respectful, but her pulse thundered in her ears.

“Report,” he said.

Kagami stepped forward and delivered a concise summary—her engagement with the Kumo shinobi, the state she was found in, and her stated origins.

While they spoke, Sakura found herself studying the man before her.

The Nidaime Hokage… in the flesh. Alive. In his prime.

He was taller than she thought. Sharper. His jawline clean and strong, the cut of his cheekbones as elegant as they were severe. The lines around his mouth spoke of responsibility, not age. Everything about him felt precise. Like a weapon honed to perfection and sheathed only for the sake of diplomacy.

When Kagami mentioned her intention to seek asylum in Konoha, Tobirama’s attention slid back to her like a blade re-sheathing.

“You wish to join the village.”

Sakura bowed slightly. “Yes, Hokage-sama.”

“Your name?”

“Haruno Sakura.”

“Origin?”

“Land of Rivers. My clan was small—non-shinobi. Wiped out during the war.”

His crimson eyes narrowed, their color stark against the pale, unyielding light of the office.

“You engaged eight Kumogakure shinobi and sustained no serious injury,” Tobirama said, his voice as precise and cutting as a blade. Not a question—a judgment.

Sakura’s pulse ticked in her throat, but she met his gaze without flinching. “I’ve trained to survive,” she said, keeping her voice low but steady. “My shishou taught me medical ninjutsu… but the rest I learned through necessity. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the full truth, either. And she knew—he knew that .

Silence settled like a weight.

Tobirama didn’t blink. His expression didn’t flicker. But she could feel the pressure of his mind dissecting her words—slicing them open, inspecting what lay beneath. Cold intellect and suspicion rolled off him in waves, and behind him, the shadows of ANBU flickered—silent sentinels, waiting for his signal.

She felt like she was standing on the edge of a blade.

“She claims to be a medic,” Kagami said, voice calm but measured. “Skilled.”

Tobirama didn’t respond right away. His fingers tapped once against the dark wood of the desk, the only sound in the room.

“We could place her under surveillance,” Hiruzen offered. His voice was lighter, almost cautious, but held no naivety. “Let her work in a lower role while we verify her story.”

Sakura took a breath. Then stepped forward—a small motion, but in this room, it felt monumental.

“If I’m under suspicion,” she said, her voice firmer now, “then let me be of use. I can stabilize critical patients in less than half the time your current protocols take. Let me prove it.”

The room went still. Even the air seemed to stop moving.

Tobirama’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing further as he studied her—not just what she said, but the conviction behind it. She could feel her heartbeat echoing in her ears. If she pushed too far, if she looked too desperate, he would sense it. And she wouldn’t walk out of this tower.

Finally, Tobirama leaned back slightly. “Fine,” he said.

The word dropped like a stone.

Sakura kept her posture still, but relief rippled under her skin like a distant aftershock. She dipped into a bow—measured, respectful, but not submissive.

“You’ll work under direct supervision,” Tobirama continued, the chill never leaving his voice. “Step out of line, and you’ll regret it.”

“Understood, Hokage-sama.”

“There will be a probation period. Three months. During that time, your movements, assignments, and contacts will be monitored. Any deviation will be treated as hostile intent.”

She nodded again. “I accept.”

Tobirama turned slightly, crimson gaze flicking to the two men behind her.

“Kagami—take her to the apartment near the hospital. You may remove her chakra seals. Saru, inform the hospital staff. She begins tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” both men responded in unison.

Sakura stepped back, heart still hammering in her chest. The moment they moved to escort her out, she cast a final glance over her shoulder.

Tobirama’s eyes were already lowered back to the scroll on his desk, hand calmly moving across it in steady strokes.

But she knew.

He was still watching her.

Even without looking.

And something about that—about the precision of his awareness, the calculated nature of his trust—unsettled her more than anything else she’d faced since arriving in this timeline.

The moment she stepped into his office, Tobirama knew something was off.

The woman—Haruno Sakura, as she called herself—stood with poised tension, like a kunoichi trained not just in battle but in evasion. Her posture was careful, her words measured, her energy subdued under the weight of the sealing tag.

But her appearance was anything but forgettable.

Shoulder-length hair as soft and vivid as cherry blossoms, an unnatural pink that drew the eye like flame in snowfall. Emerald green eyes—not innocent, but ancient. Eyes that had seen war, death, grief… and something deeper. Something unspoken. And that purple diamond mark on her forehead—something familiar. Decorative or perhaps some sort of seal.

She looked to be in her twenties—young, but not naïve. She moved with the grace of experience, not training.

And her attire…

A tight, sleeveless red qipao, trimmed in white, hugging her form and ending at mid-thigh. Black spandex shorts underneath, snug over her strong thighs. A black sash wrapped around her waist, lilac elbow guards adorning her arms, black combat gloves covering her hands. And those boots—knee-length, heeled, purposeful.

Not traditional. Not modest.

Bold.

Perhaps even brash.

His generation wasn’t as prudish as the elders before him, but Tobirama still felt the sting of caution. The way she dressed, the way she held herself—this was someone who made decisions strategically. Calculated. She chose to show strength. Not skin.

He noted all of it, filing the details away behind a cool expression.

But it wasn’t her clothing that set off the alarms in his head—it was her presence. Her chakra, even sealed, carried an echo. A weight. Something that tugged at his senses.

Like she didn’t belong here.

Like she came from somewhere else entirely.

She hadn’t flinched under scrutiny. No stammering, no cracks in her story—only a quiet tension threaded through carefully measured words. Composed, but calculated.

Too much so for a medic-nin with no allegiance and no home.

Tobirama tapped his ink-stained finger against the desk.

She was a variable. One he couldn’t yet solve.

And he hated unsolved things.

Konoha comes first, he reminded himself. And he will protect it—no matter the cost.

This girl, Haruno Sakura, was an enigma. And right now, his duty was to ensure she remained just that—a puzzle with the correct solution.

Uchiha Kagami was a man of few words, but what he did speak was delivered with purpose.

As they walked down the streets of Konoha, past the bustling marketplace and the occasional patrolling shinobi, Kagami glanced over at Sakura. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a softness to his expression—a calm curiosity that contrasted with the severity of his role in the village’s ANBU.

“This will be your home for now,” Kagami said, as they arrived at a modest three-story building near the heart of the village. “Sorry, it’s nothing special.”

Sakura nodded, absorbing the sight of the building. It wasn’t large or imposing—rather, it was simple and practical. A familiar kind of structure, the kind that Konoha of this time seemed to favor—function over flourish. The building looked lived-in, with soft light peeking through windows on the upper floors. There was a small courtyard out front with a giant plum tree in the center, a couple of stone benches, and a few shrubs—humble, but peaceful.

He led her to the third floor, stopping outside a door with a simple wooden plaque labeled Apartment 304. Kagami fished a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to her with a polite nod.

“Your chakra seal will be lifted now. It’s just a precaution,” he explained, his tone both reassuring and professional.

Sakura hesitated, then nodded. “I understand. It was fair.”

Kagami pressed a tag to her wrist, murmuring a few words. The sealing script shimmered, then burned away. She held her breath as her chakra stirred back to life, the barrier falling away like a second skin peeling off. Warmth flooded her limbs. She hadn’t realized how dulled everything had felt until that moment.

She flexed her fingers slowly. “It’s… strange. Having it back.”

“You handled it better than most,” Kagami remarked. “We’ve had seasoned shinobi unravel under the seal.”

“I’ve learned to keep myself contained,” Sakura replied carefully. “It’s the first thing you master when you're alone.”

Kagami gave her a long look. Not intrusive, but thoughtful. “You’ve been alone a long time, then.”

“Yes,” she said softly. Then added, “But solitude teaches you things teamwork doesn’t. Doesn’t mean I prefer it.”

Kagami’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture eased slightly. “Just remember: nothing in this village stays hidden forever. Not for long.”

Sakura met his gaze evenly, her voice quiet. “I’m not here to hide. Just… wanting to find a place to call home.”

A pause. Then Kagami gave a faint smile, as though granting something unspoken.

“Then I welcome you to Konoha, Sakura-san. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m not far.”

She bowed slightly. “Thank you, Kagami-san.”

With that, he gave her one last courteous nod before turning and walking back down the hall. Sakura stood there for a moment, staring after him, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over her. She hadn’t expected this from him—he was a warrior, a member of the Uchiha clan, someone with duty ingrained in him. Yet, he had been kind, even respectful.

If only he was as half as courteous as Kagami-san, she thought, a small, bitter smile curling on her lips. The image of Sasuke and his signature scowl flashed through her mind for a brief second.

The door clicked shut behind her as she entered the apartment, and she sighed deeply, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like weeks. She finally had a moment to herself.

The apartment was simple, but it felt comfortable—there was a sense of lived-in warmth, as though someone had put care into making it functional. A single window overlooked a quiet street, the pale light of the evening sun filtering in. The floors were wooden, the walls painted in a soft beige that gave the space an airy feel. There was a small living area with a modest couch, a wooden table, and a few chairs. The kitchen was compact but well-equipped, with a stove, sink, and a small fridge.

She took a breath, feeling the weight of the day’s events hit her all at once.

Walking through the space, she found the bedroom—a simple room with a wooden desk tucked in the corner and a double bed, covered in plain white sheets. No frills. Just a bed. But it felt… right .

The bathroom was equally modest, but she couldn't help but feel relieved. A simple toilet, a shower with a small tub. Nothing luxurious, but it was exactly what she needed.

Sakura caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror and paused. Her face was streaked with dirt from the battle earlier, her hair a messy tangle of pink, and her clothes—once pristine—were now showing the signs of a long journey. The exhaustion was evident in her eyes.

She frowned, realizing how rugged she looked. The battle had taken a toll, but it was more than that. It was the weight of fear and uncertainty.

With a sigh, Sakura turned on the shower, letting the hot water rush over her, washing away the grime of the day. As the steam enveloped her, her thoughts drifted back to her interaction with Senju Tobirama—the Nidaime Hokage.

He’s so cold, she thought, scrubbing her arms as the water cascaded over her. So rigid. He doesn’t even blink when he’s staring right through you.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized how difficult it would be to avoid him. He’s sharp. Too sharp. And he’ll be watching.

But despite the chill in his demeanor, she couldn’t help but feel a thread of admiration . The way he carried himself, the authority in his every word—it was hard not to respect him. Still, she reminded herself that her survival depended on staying beneath his radar. At least for now.

Avoid him. Stay out of trouble, she told herself firmly. Just keep your head down.

When she finished her shower, Sakura stepped out, wrapping herself in a simple towel. She glanced back at the bathroom mirror, wiping the fog away, and took a moment to take in the changes in her reflection. Despite everything, despite the layers of tension and the uncertainty that hung over her, she felt a tiny flicker of hope.

She could make this work. She had to.

After getting dressed again, she went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, searching for something to eat. It was sparse—just a few basic ingredients: some rice, a couple of eggs, a small block of tofu, and a head of lettuce. It would be enough for two meals, but that was it.

Her stomach churned, reminding her just how low her funds had gotten. She should’ve brought more with her, she thought bitterly. But who would have known that she would be taking an unexpected trip to the past anyway?

She closed the fridge, her hand clenching into a fist as frustration bubbled up. She will have to figure something out. There’s no way she was going to survive on this alone.

But before she could dwell on it further, a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Sakura’s brow furrowed. Who could that be?

She opened the door to find Sarutobi Hiruzen standing on the other side, his usual friendly smile in place, though his eyes held a trace of curiosity as he looked at her.

“Good evening, Sakura-san,” he greeted. “I just wanted to inform you that your shift at the hospital starts at 8 a.m. tomorrow. I’ve already spoken to the staff about your arrival.”

“Oh! Thank you,” Sakura said quickly, stepping aside to allow him in. “Would you like to come in?”

Hiruzen inclined his head politely and stepped into the modest apartment. His eyes swept the room briefly—neat, sparsely furnished, everything in its place. He didn’t comment on the simplicity of it, but there was a quiet note of assessment in the way he studied the space, as though checking how she carried herself even here.

“I’m glad you’re settling in,” he said, his tone warm but measured. “If there’s anything you need, you’re welcome to reach out to me—or to Kagami. We’ll be… keeping an eye on things, but that doesn’t mean you’re unwelcome.”

“I appreciate that,” Sakura replied, folding her hands in front of her. “I know I have to earn my place.”

Hiruzen gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Most who come here seeking refuge only want peace. You, however… seem like someone trained for more than survival.”

Sakura didn’t flinch. “Peace doesn’t always come without a fight.”

That seemed to amuse him. He gave a small hum of approval, then moved toward the door.

But Sakura hesitated.

“Um… Hiruzen-san,” she said, biting her lip, “I don’t mean to trouble you, but... would it be possible for you to ask Hokage-sama if I could receive my payment for the shift in advance? I, uh… I’m running low on funds.”

Her voice was steady, but her cheeks warmed with quiet embarrassment.

Hiruzen paused, then turned back to her with an arched brow and a wry smile. “Not prepared, I see,” he teased gently, his tone light but not unkind.

“I didn’t want to take more than I’d earned,” Sakura said quickly, shaking her hands in front of her. “But until I can cover my own expenses, I’ll need something. Just enough.”

“I’ll speak with sensei,” Hiruzen replied. “He’s not known for generosity, but practicality? Yes. He’ll understand the need.”

Sakura inclined her head. “Thank you. I won’t make you regret it.”

Hiruzen studied her again—just for a moment. “See that you don’t.”

She met his gaze, steady.

He gave her a final nod and reached for the door. “Rest well, Sakura-san. And welcome again to Konoha.”

“Goodnight, Hiruzen-san,” she replied softly as he disappeared into the hall.

When the door clicked shut behind him, Sakura let out a slow breath.

Great. Now I feel even more out of place.

But she couldn’t dwell on that. Instead, she decided to cook herself a simple dinner—rice and tofu, enough to fill her for the night. Afterward, she collapsed onto the couch, not willing to dirty the bed with her clothes and not willing to sleep naked with watchful eyes everywhere. The exhaustion from the day slowly creeped back into her bones.

For the first time in a long time, Sakura allowed herself to relax.

She just hoped tomorrow would be a bit easier.

Chapter Text

The sun had already risen over Konoha’s horizon when Sakura found herself standing at the threshold of the Konoha Hospital, the scent of antiseptic and the muffled sounds of hurried footsteps filling the air. The hospital, as usual, buzzed with activity, but there was an underlying chaos to it that Sakura quickly noticed.

She pushed open the double doors, the cool breeze of early morning brushing past her as she entered. The lobby was teeming with people—nurses and doctors moving between the reception desk and the treatment rooms, a cacophony of hushed voices and the shuffle of shoes on tile floors. A few medics in white coats rushed by, heads down, intent on whatever task they were assigned.

Sakura paused, surveying the scene.

It was... disorganized.

Files were scattered haphazardly on the counter, some folders out of place, others half-open, with patient records spilling out. The charts were not updated, and there was a general sense of disarray that made it clear to her that the hospital was far from running at its most efficient.

She exhaled slowly, taking in the scene. Her eyes instinctively scanned the area, already categorizing the chaos. In her experience, a well-functioning hospital had a rhythm to it—like a finely tuned machine where every gear moved in unison. Here, it felt like the gears were slipping.

As she took a step deeper into the hospital, a frail, elderly woman with graying hair and glasses approached her. She wore the traditional Konoha medic coat, her posture upright despite her age. The woman’s sharp eyes, though tired, seemed to hold a certain warmth as she studied Sakura for a moment before speaking.

“You must be the new medic,” the woman said with a faint but kind smile.

“Yes,” Sakura replied, returning the smile. “I’m Sakura, here to help out.”

“I’m Naori, the head medic here,” she introduced herself, extending a hand to Sakura. “I’m glad to have you. We could use all the help we can get.”

Sakura shook her hand, grateful for the cordiality. “I’m happy to be of assistance.”

Naori gave a small nod and gestured for Sakura to follow her. “Come, I’ll show you around and get you settled in.”

They walked through the hospital, passing various rooms where medics tended to patients, some looking rushed and others seemingly overwhelmed by the work piling up. Naori led Sakura down a hall that smelled faintly of disinfectant, opening a door to a small office.

She handed Sakura a white hospital coat. “Here, this is for you. It’s standard, so you’ll blend in. I’ll make sure you’re assigned to the right shifts.”

Sakura accepted the coat, slipping it on over her clothes. She felt the weight of it, both a symbol of her temporary position and the seriousness of the work ahead.

She hesitated before speaking up. “Naori, how many medics do you have here right now? What kind of system are you running?”

Naori's expression shifted slightly, the warmth replaced by a faint hint of frustration. “We don’t have many staff, unfortunately. It’s a skeleton crew. Medics are hard to come by, especially those with actual training. We’re understaffed, and sometimes, we have to recruit children from the clans to help out with inventory and basic tasks.”

Sakura raised an eyebrow. “Children? You mean... younger clan members?”

Naori nodded. “Yes, mostly younger members from the clans who can’t perform full medic duties yet but are good for basic labor. We don’t have the luxury of a fully staffed hospital, especially in these times. It’s been hard to get proper training and resources.”

Sakura bit her lip, thinking about how this would affect her work. Despite her own ability, the hospital’s lack of resources would likely make things far more complicated. But she understood the reality now—it wasn’t just about saving lives; it was about making do with what was available.

“Understood,” Sakura said after a moment. “I’ll do my best to help wherever I can.”

Naori nodded approvingly, though there was a hint of concern in her eyes. “We’re grateful for any help. Don’t be afraid to ask if you need anything—though I suspect you’ll find that the work here doesn’t leave much room for error.”

Sakura smiled faintly. “I’ll be careful.”

With that, Naori guided her back into the main hospital. The room buzzed with noise—nurses running between patients, doctors talking over patient charts, medics gathering supplies for the day’s tasks. Sakura felt the tension in the air, but she was ready.

The hospital was more chaotic than Sakura had imagined, and her mind sharpened as she surveyed the disorder. Files were scattered haphazardly on the counter, some folders out of place, others half-open, with patient records spilling out. The charts were not updated, and there was a general sense of disarray that made it clear to her that the hospital was far from running at its most efficient.

She exhaled slowly, taking in the scene. Her eyes instinctively scanned the area, already categorizing the chaos. In her experience, a well-functioning hospital had a rhythm to it—like a finely tuned machine where every gear moved in unison. Here, it felt like the gears were slipping.

A nurse with frazzled hair and a stressed expression passed by her without a glance, and Sakura quickly fell into step beside her, pulling her attention back to the task at hand.

“I can help with the charts,” Sakura offered, glancing over at the nurse’s stack of disorganized files. “Where should I start?”

The nurse gave her a tired look, clearly grateful for the offer. “If you can check the records in the back and make sure they're properly logged, that would be great. We’ve got a backlog—patients' files are being mixed up.”

With a nod, Sakura moved toward the back, her thoughts sharp. The work didn’t feel unfamiliar to her—it was second nature. Sorting medical files, assisting in patient care, tracking prescriptions—it all felt like a routine she could have done with her eyes closed.

As she passed down the hall, Sakura nearly collided with a small, slender girl rounding the corner. The girl stumbled back a step, dark hair tied into a messy bun that looked like it had been hastily done in the early morning rush. Her eyes—large, brown, and slightly startled—flicked up to meet Sakura’s.

The girl’s gaze dropped to the hospital coat Sakura wore, then quickly returned to her face.

“Are you… new here?” she asked, her voice soft but polite.

Sakura smiled, offering a gentle nod. “Yeah. I’m Sakura. I’m supposed to be helping out today.”

“Oh,” the girl said, visibly relaxing. She smoothed her tunic with nervous fingers before offering a tiny smile. “I’m Yanagi. From the Senju clan. I help with supplies and sometimes clean instruments in the back.”

“Nice to meet you, Yanagi,” Sakura replied warmly. “You’re braver than I was at your age. I would’ve been terrified to step into a hospital like this.”

Yanagi blinked at that, then let out a tiny laugh. “I still get nervous. Especially around the older medics. They’re very… strict.”

Sakura grinned. “Strict means they care. Mostly.”

Yanagi giggled, covering her mouth with her sleeve. “You don’t seem strict.”

“I try not to be,” Sakura dryly but with a smile.

Yanagi giggled behind her hands. “Are you really a medic-nin? Like a real one?” she asked excitedly.

“I’ve trained to be, yeah,” Sakura said gently. “I’m still proving myself here, though. Same as you.”

Yanagi’s eyes lit up at that. “Well… if you need anything, I’ll be in the supply room! The back closet with the green tag. Just knock first. Sometimes I’m reorganizing the jars and… it’s kind of a mess.”

“I’ll remember that,” Sakura said, watching as the girl gave a shy little wave and scurried off down the hall.

Something about Yanagi tugged at her chest—a quiet familiarity. Not unlike Ino, once, when they’d both been little girls trying to grow into something bigger than themselves.

And maybe, just maybe, a reminder that the future wasn’t lost. It was still growing, here in the past, one step at a time.

Smiling to herself, Sakura returned to her work, moving methodically, scanning the patient files, noting the errors in the charts, updating information where needed. Despite the chaos around her, she found a kind of peace in the rhythm of her tasks. The sensation of helping, of putting things right, was something she hadn’t realized she missed until now.

But her work would soon be interrupted.

A sharp commotion broke the relative quiet of the hospital. There was shouting from down the hall, and the hurried footsteps of a team of medics rushing toward the entrance. Sakura’s senses immediately sharpened—something urgent was happening. She instinctively followed, stepping aside as they wheeled a gurney past her.

The man on the gurney was pale, drenched in sweat, his face contorted in pain. He was barely conscious, his breathing shallow, his body covered in bloodstains and gaping wounds. But it was the look of the man that immediately stopped her in her tracks.

A familiar scar that criss-crossed his chin, his hair a disheveled mess of black, streaked with blood. The man was none other than Shimura Danzo—a name that she would never forget.

Sakura’s heart stuttered in her chest. Danzo—the man who had caused so much pain to Itachi and Sasuke. The man whose name was synonymous with the shadows of Konoha's darker history. He was here, badly wounded, on the brink of death.

Her immediate instinct was to step back, to turn away. To refuse to help this man—no one would blame her. He deserved this.

But then, she realized something else—something that chilled her to the bone.

History.

She had no choice but to help him. She couldn’t allow the timeline to be disrupted. If she let him die here, the consequences would ripple through history, changing everything she knew about the future. Konoha needed Danzo to survive—he was a key player in the formation of the village’s political landscape.

She swallowed her feelings of disgust and stepped forward, her voice sharp as she addressed the medics who had already begun assessing his injuries.

“Move him to the emergency room,” she ordered. “I’ll stabilize him.”

The medics hesitated, confusion and doubt in their eyes. But they didn’t question her authority. They wheeled Danzo into the ER, and Sakura followed.

The room fell into chaos as she worked with precision, ignoring the doubts that flickered in the back of her mind. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned chakra to her hands, immediately beginning the delicate process of extracting the poison from Danzo’s system. She hadn’t done this particular technique in years—perhaps never—but the desperation of the situation pushed her forward.

The medics gathered around her, momentarily frozen, their eyes wide with awe. Sakura's hands moved in a blur—fluid, deliberate, impossibly fast. Her chakra pulsed brightly, casting a soft glow that illuminated the deep gashes and discolored veins of the wounded shinobi. It surged with purpose, curling around the poisoned areas like sentient light, isolating and drawing out the toxins with breathtaking precision.

There was no water, no external medium. She didn’t need it anymore. This was an evolved form of the poison extraction technique she had once used on Kankuro years ago. Now, her chakra itself acted as the extractor—binding to the poison and pulling it free as if magnetized. It was faster, cleaner, and far less painful for the patient.

With each pass of her hands, wounds closed seamlessly, skin knitting together under the soft hum of healing energy. Her chakra obeyed her like a living extension of her will, refined by years of experience, desperation, and brilliance. The medics could only watch in stunned silence as Sakura worked, redefining everything they thought they knew about medical ninjutsu.

When she finally finished, the room fell silent, all eyes on her.

“W-What was that technique?” one of the medics asked, awe in his voice.

Sakura wiped the sweat from her brow, her eyes flickering to the unconscious Danzo. “Advanced healing,” she murmured, then added more pointedly, “It’s a technique I developed myself.”

The medics exchanged looks, clearly impressed, but also puzzled. “We don’t have anyone in the hospital who can do that. You... you're something else.”

Sakura nodded curtly, suppressing the weight pressing against her chest. She had just saved someone who, by all accounts, might have been considered an enemy—someone responsible for pain, betrayal, and scars still healing among those she loved. But that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that she had done what needed to be done. The timeline had to remain intact, and she had followed every necessary step to ensure that history continued down its rightful path.

Unbeknownst to her, a silent witness stood in the doorway of the emergency room.

Senju Tobirama’s crimson eyes never left her.

He had come upon hearing that his student—Shimura Danzo—was in critical condition, clinging to life by a thread. Expecting chaos, perhaps even futility, he had prepared himself for the worst. What he found instead was a young woman wielding chakra with a mastery he had never seen before.

From the shadows, he watched her every movement—each precise gesture of her hands, the seamless transitions of technique, the clarity of her focus. Her chakra danced to her will like an extension of her soul, coiling around the poison, guiding it out without force, without pain. She moved with the quiet intensity of someone who carried the burden of knowledge beyond her years.

And though he said nothing, his eyes narrowed a fraction. This was not ordinary medical ninjutsu. This was innovation. Control. Power.

This was something—or someone—not to be underestimated.

Later that evening, Sakura’s shift had ended, and she made her way to the Hokage’s office with a heavy heart. She could feel the weight of the day on her shoulders—her encounter with Danzo, the surprise of seeing his life slip through her fingers—but she knew this was just the beginning.

Should she have left him to the care of the hospital staff? Perhaps. Would they have been able to save him? Possibly not with the current abilities of the medics. Sakura knew that deep down she had made the right choice. 

Either way, Danzo would live and history would repeat itself. 

As she entered the Hokage’s office, the cool, sterile room seemed to close in on her. Tobirama was seated behind his desk, his posture straight and unwavering, his gaze sharp and assessing.

“Hokage-sama, you requested to speak with me?” Sakura asked, her voice calm but tinged with an underlying wariness.

Not much for greetings, Tobirama cut straight to the point.

“You said your clan was wiped out during the last border skirmish near the Land of Rivers.”

Sakura nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. “I had my ANBU check the records. No mention of a clan matching your chakra signature, fighting style, or medic techniques in that region.”

Sakura tensed but held her gaze at the Nidaime Hokage. “Do your records account for every small clan that’s been erased over the last two decades, Hokage-sama? Or just the ones you remember?” She couldn’t help but rebuke him. 

Crimson eyes narrowed. “You’re quick with words.”

“I’ve had to be,” Sakura shot back without missing a beat, despite hearing the pounding of her heart loud in her ears.

A pause.

“Your chakra signature is unusual. Your medical ninjutsu exceeds most Jounin, yet you claim to be unaffiliated,” Tobirama remarked, with his fingers interlaced in front of his face. His eyes observing her closely for her reaction.

Sakura met his gaze evenly, not betraying a single flicker of uncertainty. “I wasn’t aware surviving meant I needed to be less skilled.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed, his sharp gaze never leaving her. “Skill without origin is suspicious. So is a medic with techniques I’ve never seen before.”

He leaned back against his desk, his eyes studying her like a puzzle, a mystery he needed to solve.

“You used a jutsu I’ve never seen. That wasn’t improvised—it’s something you’ve mastered.”

Sakura didn’t flinch but her fist clenched at her side. Her voice was unwavering as she replied, “Innovation is born from necessity. You think I survived this long just by following scrolls?”

Tobirama’s gaze flickered to her eyes, and his expression shifted, hardening. “You speak like someone who’s seen more than their years should allow.” His tone was cold but Sakura can sense the hint of accusation.

Sakura’s gaze lowered for a moment, but she did not look away. “Maybe I have,” she whispered quietly, feeling the weight of her past pressing down on her.

Tobirama’s suspicion grew, but there was also something else—an understanding of her words, a recognition of the burden she carried, though he wouldn’t admit it.

He stood with slow precision and made his way over to her and stood until they were just a few inches apart. 

Sakura looked back up at him. 

Emerald clashed with crimson. 

“Haruno Sakura,” he said, voice low and edged with steel as he took a single step forward. “You may have preserved the life of a Konoha shinobi—but do not mistake that for earning my trust.”

Sakura inwardly swallowed but nodded. “Understood, Hokage-sama.” Before adding in with a hint of defiance and challenge, “Then I guess you better watch closely.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. His eyes lingered on her unwavering form for a few more seconds before he moved back to his desk and sat down to continue to review his scrolls.

“You are dismissed.”

Sakura bowed stiffly and turned on her heel and left promptly. 

The door clicked shut behind Sakura, and for a long moment, Tobirama remained motionless, his gaze locked on the empty space where she had stood just moments before. The echo of her words still lingered in the room— “Understood, Hokage-sama.” That calm, collected response was expected, as he had known it would be. But it was what came after that stirred something within him.

“Then I guess you better watch closely.”

Tobirama’s brow furrowed slightly, and his crimson eyes narrowed as the weight of her defiance settled in. He had known from the start that Sakura was not a typical kunoichi, but there was something in her response—an underlying challenge—that was unfamiliar to him. Something bold, something... brash .

A slight shift in the air—the room felt different after her departure. He exhaled through his nose, the sharpness of her words still ringing in his ears. It wasn’t the usual respect or fear he commanded in his position. It wasn’t the typical subservience of those who were new to Konoha or those who had yet to understand the weight of his authority. No, what he had seen in Sakura was something rare. A refusal to cower. A glint of defiance that had caught him off guard.

He had never seen this from a woman .

Tobirama had always been surrounded by strong-willed individuals—leaders, warriors, fellow shinobi who understood the importance of duty and sacrifice—but they had all learned to temper their emotions, to show restraint in the face of authority. The few women he had known—his mother, his sister-in-law, his grandniece—had all been formidable in their own right, but they had known their place. They had never dared to challenge him in such a direct, unapologetic manner. Sakura, though, was different.

It intrigued him.

He leaned back in his chair, his hands folding in front of him as he thought, his gaze lingering on the door she had exited through. The words that followed her departure replayed in his mind. He had expected submission, or perhaps a quiet acknowledgment, something that fit within the bounds of respect. But instead, she had thrown that respect aside, almost as if daring him to test her.

Why? He wondered. What drives her to be so bold, so sure of herself in front of me?

Perhaps it was her survival instinct. He had not forgotten the story she told of how she had lived through the destruction of her clan, and had lived to be here. That kind of history could breed an unusual kind of person—someone who had been shaped by hardship, by loss, and had learned to carve their own path, regardless of what others might think.

Tobirama’s mind drifted back to her performance earlier that day—her work in the hospital, the ease with which she had healed Danzo. He had never seen someone of her age wield medical ninjutsu with such confidence. The poison extraction technique had been something he had never encountered before. Even he, with all his years of experience, was unsure of how she had done it. The level of skill she demonstrated was unnatural , like a talent born not from the formal study of jutsu, but from necessity—something honed in the crucible of experience.

She’s not who she says she is, Tobirama thought, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated her.

Sakura had been carefully evasive with her origins, and for good reason. His initial inquiry had been met with an answer that was too clean, too rehearsed. But even then, when she had spoken about her training, her tone had been steady. She had given nothing away. She had lied so effortlessly, yet it hadn’t been the lie that had caught his attention—it was how easily she had deflected his probing. Most people, most shinobi, would have shown a flicker of hesitation when confronted with his questions. But not Sakura. There was a fortitude to her that he couldn’t ignore.

The challenge in her voice echoed in his mind again, and the edge of curiosity sharpened in his chest. She had fought back . He had seen that spark of defiance in her words— Then I guess you better watch closely . It had been subtle, but unmistakable.

Tobirama was a man who believed in the duty of the village above all else. Konoha’s security, the welfare of its people, was his singular focus. He had no time for distractions, for emotions that could cloud his judgment. And yet, the woman who stood before him—the medic who had walked into his office with the stoic calm of a trained shinobi—had challenged him in a way that none before her had. It was a challenge that he wasn’t sure how to process, nor how to react to.

This was no ordinary woman. 

He leaned forward in his chair, his sharp gaze staring into the empty space of the room, still feeling the tension from her visit. It was an unusual feeling for him. He had seen countless people bow before him, show respect, and recognize his authority, and that had always been enough. But this woman—this kunoichi—had not bent. She had stood straight, met his gaze with a challenge, and left the room without hesitation.

It is not often I encounter someone like her, he thought, a strange flicker of something in his chest—whether it was curiosity or annoyance, even he couldn’t tell.

Tobirama was not accustomed to being defied. Few ever dared—and none without consequence. The only exception had been his elder brother, Hashirama, who had challenged him more than once with that infuriating idealism of his. But this... this was something else entirely. Sakura’s defiance wasn’t based on some larger ideal or on some belief in her own righteousness. It was grounded in her survival, in her unwavering confidence in her abilities, and in her recognition that no one could touch her if she didn’t let them.

It was not arrogance. It was… a kind of silent power.

Tobirama’s fingers drummed lightly against the surface of his desk as he thought about her—about the way she had walked into his office, the way she had stood before him, the way she had responded to his questions. Her defiance wasn’t born of foolishness. It wasn’t reckless. It was calculated. And that only made him more suspicious.

She was hiding something. And now, she had caught his attention in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

I will watch her closely, he thought again, the words lingering in his mind. But this time, they carried more weight. And I will learn what it is that makes her this way.

For a brief moment, Tobirama allowed himself a single, faint smile—one that was more bemusement than anything else. He had never quite been faced with this level of challenge from someone who wasn’t a direct threat, at least for now. It intrigued him more than it should have.

The thought lingered in the back of his mind as he turned back to his paperwork, but one thing was clear. Haruno Sakura would not be easily forgotten.

And he would not let her slip through his grasp.

The shadows of the room grew longer as the sun set outside, but within the Hokage’s office, the wariness in Tobirama’s chest remained. Yet, there was also something else—something new , something he wasn’t ready to fully name.

The knock on his door brought him out of his thoughts. Tobirama looked up as the door to his office creaked open again. Hiruzen stepped in, carrying a file in hand, his usual calm demeanor in place. His smile, though, was different—a knowing glint in his eyes as he placed the file down on the desk.

"Sensei," Hiruzen greeted him, his tone light and friendly. There was a subtle undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

Tobirama glanced up, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. "Saru, what is it?"

The younger man paused for a moment, then spoke, clearly amused. "Actually, there’s something I should mention about Haruno Sakura."

Tobirama’s gaze sharpened instantly, his mind shifting gears. "Go on."

Hiruzen’s smile grew a little wider. "She… asked if she could receive her payment in advance. Seems she’s running a bit low on funds."

Tobirama's brows furrowed slightly in surprise. "Advance payment?" His voice remained low, but a trace of amusement flickered in his eyes. How bold.

Hiruzen gave a knowing nod. "Yes. Apparently, she didn’t come fully prepared for village life. She’s got the skills, but not quite the savings to go along with them."

Tobirama leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together as he considered this request. On one hand, it was unorthodox—newcomers rarely asked for such things. But on the other hand, he wasn’t entirely surprised. Sakura had struck him as someone who moved quickly, someone who wouldn’t wait around to be given what she needed.

"I’ll arrange it," Tobirama said after a moment, his voice firm. "But make it clear to her that this isn’t a free pass. She will be watched. Every action she takes will be scrutinized."

Hiruzen nodded, a faint chuckle escaping him. "Of course, sensei. I’ll take care of it."

Tobirama waved a hand dismissively, turning his attention back to his desk. As the door closed behind Hiruzen, his mind returned to Sakura once again. Her request for an advance payment was certainly a peculiar one, but then again, so was everything about her. A woman of defiance and skill, unwilling to bow to the norm.

His thoughts wandered once more. I’ll keep a close eye on her, he thought, the wariness still gnawing at his chest. But beneath it all, there was no denying the intrigue. And when the time comes, I will find out exactly who she is—and what she truly wants from Konoha.

“I’m such an idiot,” Sakura cursed under her breath as she walked out of the Hokage’s building. The cool wind of Konoha’s streets did little to soothe her frustration. Why did I even say that to him?! Her temper had flared in a moment of vulnerability, and now she regretted it. She’d challenged him to watch her closely, openly defying Tobirama’s commanding presence, and the guilt gnawed at her insides.

But there was something else too—something beneath the guilt that she couldn’t ignore. The suspicion, the scrutiny, the way he watched her... It was suffocating, and yet, he's not the only one with power, she told herself. I have my own skills. And I won’t be afraid to show them.

Sakura wandered through the village, trying to clear her mind, her hands subconsciously reaching into her pockets. She needed to buy something to eat, something to ground her. The markets were bustling with villagers, children playing in the streets, and merchants shouting to draw customers in. As she strolled past fruit stalls and vegetable vendors, her thoughts still circled back to Tobirama, his cool demeanor, and that subtle flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. It didn’t help that she had completely forgotten to ask him about her advance payment.

Oh well, she thought bitterly, maybe it's for the best. He probably would have refused anyway.

She selected a few vegetables from the stall, her eyes scanning the marketplace absentmindedly as she mentally prepared for another long day. With a sigh, she began the walk back to her apartment, noting once again the presence of ANBU watching her from rooftops and street corners. Their hawk-like gazes never wavered, and she could feel their eyes following her every movement. She clenched her fists in frustration, trying not to let the oppressive gaze of her invisible watchers break her focus.

Suck it up, Sakura, she mentally told herself, though the anxiety in her chest told her otherwise. How was she supposed to get through the next few months like this? Every step, every breath, every decision was being scrutinized by the village’s most elite shinobi. They weren’t just watching her—they were judging her.

Her thoughts shifted to people she loved and missed, faces that were now far beyond her reach. Naruto, with his boundless optimism. Kakashi, with his calm wisdom and humor. Ino, always so fiery and loyal. Tsunade, the only one who had ever truly understood her. What would they think of me now? The thought made her stomach twist. What if she never saw them again? What if she was stuck here, under Tobirama’s watchful eye, forever?

She blinked quickly, trying to stop the tears from welling up. She refused to cry, not now—not with them watching. Not with her reputation on the line. She finished her shopping and made her way back to the apartment. Her room was quiet, save for the steady hum of her own thoughts, and she quickly busied herself with preparing a simple meal.

The food was bland, unsatisfying, but it was enough. She ate in silence, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand, but the heaviness in her chest didn’t ease. After dinner, she made a vow to herself, pushing away the emotional weight. Starting tomorrow, I’ll keep my head down. No more talking back to Tobirama. No more showing him any more of my temper. I’ll stay under the radar, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll stop suspecting me.

Sakura awoke to the soft light filtering through the curtains. The familiar sounds of Konoha outside her window—the chirping of birds, the distant bustle of the village—seemed quieter today, as if the world was giving her a moment of peace. She stretched, still feeling the weight of the previous day’s events settle in her bones. The conversation with Tobirama, the defiance she’d shown, the scrutiny she now knew she would be under—it all weighed heavily on her mind.

Today, I need to keep my head down, she reminded herself. No more talking back. No more... making waves.

She made her way to the small kitchen, eyes scanning the space as she moved. Her stomach growled, reminding her of her need to prepare something for breakfast, but first, her attention was caught by something sitting on the dining table.

A small leather pouch.

Sakura blinked and walked over to it, her heart rate quickening slightly. The pouch hadn’t been there the night before, so it could only mean one thing. She opened it carefully, unrolling the top. Inside, there were several bundles of ryo—enough to make her eyes widen in disbelief.

A note accompanied the money, and she quickly picked it up. Her eyes skimmed the words written in familiar handwriting.

“Advance payment approved by the Hokage. Use it as you see fit. - Hiruzen.”

Sakura's breath hitched. He actually went through with it. Her fingers brushed over the money, eyes widening in disbelief. Tobirama had approved it—and the amount was more than generous, more than enough to sustain her for some time.

A quiet huff escaped her, a flicker of frustration bubbling up again. Maybe he’s not as terrible as she thought... But still—she wasn’t ready to let her guard down just yet.

As she stood there, staring at the money, she couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of gratitude and uncertainty. Maybe I was wrong about him... or maybe he's just playing me. I guess I'll never really know.

But the reality of her situation slowly settled back in. She still needed to figure out how she was going to make a living in this world—how she was going to survive in a Konoha that seemed to watch her every move. And today, she needed to go to the market, to stock up her fridge. Her shift at the hospital didn’t start until noon, leaving her with some time.

Sakura sighed, tucking the money back into the pouch. She slipped it into her bag, then walked to her room to get dressed. The weight of the pouch was still in her hand, but it didn’t feel as heavy as it had before.

It was a step forward—at least for now. But she couldn’t let it distract her from what was really important.

I need to focus. I need to stay low. I can’t let them see me coming.

Before leaving, Sakura hesitated at the doorway. A flicker of unease crept up her spine. The thought that anyone could slip into her apartment so easily—it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Instinctively, her hand rose to her forehead, brushing over the place where her Byakugou seal lay dormant beneath her hair. With a furrowed brow, she pressed two fingers to the doorframe and etched a discreet chakra seal—nothing elaborate, just a silent alert that would let her know if someone entered while she was gone.

It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t stop anyone determined. But it was something—for now.

I’ll need to set traps later, she reminded herself, the thought settling in the back of her mind like a coiled thread. Real ones.

Satisfied—for the moment—she stepped out into the crisp morning air, pulling her cloak tighter. She kept her head low, blending in, moving through the village with quiet purpose.

Just a few months, Sakura. Keep your head down. Just a few months.

Sakura moved through the bustling market, the late morning sun casting golden light across the rows of wooden stalls. The scent of fresh herbs, roasted chestnuts, and sun-warmed vegetables filled the air as she tucked a head of cabbage into the woven basket on her arm. With each item added, the weight grew steadily, grounding her in the present—but her mind remained elsewhere.

She couldn’t shake thoughts of that morning—the unexpected gesture from Tobirama. His approval, his surprising generosity. It wasn’t trust, not by a long shot, but a small flicker of relief stirred in her chest all the same. Maybe... just maybe things will hold steady. For now.

Lost in that fragile thread of hope, Sakura slipped a hand into her pouch to check her folded list. Her fingers brushed parchment—and then she heard it. The soft clink of metal.

She froze.

A few ryo coins had tumbled from the open flap, glinting as they dropped toward the dusty stone path.

But they never hit the ground.

A hand—tiny, but quick—shot out and caught them mid-fall with practiced ease.

Sakura’s eyes snapped toward the movement, heart jolting with alarm as she met the stranger’s gaze, only for her eyes to widen in surprise. The person who had taken the ryo was a young girl, no older than five, her honey-brown eyes gleaming with mischief as she grinned at Sakura. She held the ryo in her hand, teasingly dangling them just out of reach.

"Hey!" Sakura stepped forward, extending her hand. "Give that back!"

But the little girl simply giggled, eyes sparkling with playful defiance. She stuck her tongue out and turned to run off, but before she could get far, a voice called out sharply.

"Tsunade."

The girl froze, her back straightening at the stern voice. Sakura froze too at the realisation of who the little girl was. 

A woman appeared beside her, so silently that Sakura nearly flinched. Her presence was striking—elegant, poised, yet undeniably commanding. She wore a flawless white kimono embroidered with faint crimson patterns that shimmered subtly in the sunlight, like seals hidden in plain sight. Her long, dark red hair was styled with meticulous care, twisted into two symmetrical buns atop her head. Delicate golden clips held her bangs in place, catching the light with every small movement.

She stood with the calm dignity of someone used to being listened to—someone used to power. Though her expression was serene, there was something ancient in her gaze. Not age, exactly, but depth—a stillness that made Sakura’s instincts tighten, as if this woman carried more chakra than she let on.

Those around them instinctively stepped aside, drawn by her grace and held back by the unspoken weight of her presence.

Sakura blinked in surprise as the woman approached, her gaze shifting between the young girl and the woman. Tsunade stared up at the older woman, face scrunching in defiance.

“Give it back, Tsunade,” the woman repeated, her tone softer now but still commanding.

Tsunade hesitated for a moment, her small hands clenching the ryo tightly. She looked up at the woman and pouted, but after a long moment of consideration, she reluctantly handed the ryo back to Sakura.

"Sooorry..." Tsunade mumbled, though it didn’t sound particularly sincere.

Sakura hesitated, watching the girl for a second before looking back at the woman. She didn’t know what to say, unsure if she should be upset or amused by the child's boldness.

The woman offered a small, apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry for her behavior. She’s... a bit of a handful.” She then turned her attention to Tsunade. “Go on and grab your dango Tsunade. I will come find you shortly.”

Tsunade scowled, but she darted off without saying another word, disappearing into the crowd.

The woman turned to face her fully, her movements fluid, deliberate. With a graceful incline of her head and a soft, composed smile, she offered a formal bow.

“I am Uzumaki Mito. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. And you are?”

Sakura’s breath caught for the briefest moment. Uzumaki?

The name rang loudly in her mind, stirring a flicker of recognition and unease she quickly masked. She returned the bow, a touch more reserved but still respectful.

“Haruno Sakura,” she answered smoothly, offering a faint smile. “I’m... new to the village.”

Her tone was careful, her words measured. As much as she wanted to ask more, to know more, she kept her curiosity buried beneath polite composure.

Mito raised an eyebrow, clearly curious. “I see... Are you visiting, or...?”

Sakura didn’t want to reveal too much just yet, but she also didn’t want to be rude. “I’m staying here for now. I was... traveling for a while before I came to Konoha.”

Mito studied her for a moment, then asked with a gentle curiosity, “What do you think of the village so far?”

Sakura thought for a moment before answering, choosing her words carefully. “It’s... different from where I’ve been. But it feels like a place I can start over. It’s peaceful here.”

Mito nodded, her gaze shifting a little distant. “I’m glad to hear that. Though peace... can be fleeting.” She studied Sakura with a keen eye. “But I’m sure you’ve already seen that for yourself.”

Sakura’s expression tightened just slightly, but she kept her composure. She’s perceptive. Too perceptive...

Sensing the subtle shift in Sakura’s demeanor, the woman offered a warm, disarming smile, her tone light as she asked, “So, what do you think of the Hokage—Tobirama?”

The question caught Sakura off guard. Her grip on the basket tightened slightly. “Hokage-sama? Um... I’ve met him a few times already,” she said, unsure how much to reveal.

The woman’s lips curved into a knowing smile, clearly amused by Sakura’s surprised tone. “Ah, I see. He must’ve left an impression.”

There was a hint of mischief in her eyes, but it softened almost immediately into something gentler—almost wistful.

“My brother-in-law has always been... difficult,” she said, her voice dipping with the weight of memory. “Cold, yes—but not cruel. He’s simply never known how to wear his heart on his sleeve. Emotions, attachments... those aren’t things he lets in easily.”

She paused, her gaze drifting momentarily to the sky as if seeing a distant time. “But Tobirama has always carried the village on his shoulders. Everything he does, every sharp word, every long silence—it’s for Konoha. He doesn’t show it, but he feels it. Deeply.”

Sakura blinked, her mind catching on a detail that hadn’t quite registered until now. “Brother-in-law?” she echoed cautiously.

The woman turned back to her with a gentle, wistful smile. “Yes. My late husband—Hashirama—was his elder brother.”

Sakura’s heart gave a sudden, startled lurch. Wait... Hashirama's wife? She stared at the woman more closely now, as if seeing her for the first time. She’s an Uzumaki? I didn’t know the First Hokage’s wife was an Uzumaki...

The revelation left her momentarily speechless. She had known names, histories, titles—but the woman before her was a living thread in the fabric of legends. For a brief second Sakura's thoughts drifted to Naruto, and she couldn't help but wonder—was there a connection between them? Could this elegant, composed woman somehow be part of his lineage? The idea settled in her chest like a whisper, subtle but impossible to ignore. She snapped back into reality when she realised Mito was still talking.

“Tobirama is a man of logic and loyalty,” Mito continued, unaware—or perhaps unfazed—by Sakura’s internal shift. “But he builds walls to protect what he loves—perhaps even from himself. That’s how he survives. That’s how he serves.”

Sakura absorbed her words in silence, her thoughts spiraling. The image she’d built of Tobirama—stern, unyielding—began to fracture, reshaped by this unexpected glimpse into the man behind the title. So much history... so much weight. No wonder he’s the way he is.

And yet, it only made him more complicated.

Noticing the quiet look on Sakura’s face, Mito quickly switched topics, though she still seemed curious. “And you? You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” Her voice was warm, but Sakura couldn’t help but feel the subtle pressure behind her words.

Sakura hesitated. How much should I tell her?

“I’ve had my share of challenges,” she said carefully, choosing to leave out most of the details. “But... I’m here now. That’s what matters.”

Mito studied her for a moment, as if trying to read between the lines. “I understand.” She smiled softly, though it didn’t reach her eyes as much. “Konoha can be a sanctuary for those seeking refuge, though the past can sometimes follow us. Even here.”

Sakura nodded politely, but a flicker of unease stirred beneath the surface. Mito was kind—graceful in her approach—but there was a quiet persistence in her words, a gentle pressure that urged Sakura to open up. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. Her past was still hers to guard.

As the conversation drifted, Sakura noticed a subtle shift. Just for a moment, Mito’s gaze dipped to her forehead, lingering on the faint outline of the Byakugou seal beneath her fringe. The movement was so brief it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else—but Sakura caught it.

Her breath stilled.

She recognized it.

Of course she would. The seal wasn’t just familiar—it was shared. Mito had one too. That quiet, unspoken connection settled between them, heavy with meaning neither of them voiced.

After a few more exchanges, light and courteous, Mito rose gracefully to her feet, brushing a bit of dust from the hem of her immaculate kimono. “Well then, Sakura,” she said with a soft smile, her tone gentle but edged with something deeper, something knowing. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. I imagine we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

She gave a slight incline of her head. “Take care of yourself.”

Sakura stood as well, returning the smile with a composed nod, though something in her chest fluttered. “You too, Mito-sama.”

They parted with quiet civility, but Sakura couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman had seen far more than she let on.

Mito turned to leave, walking away with Tsunade at her side, who had returned to her mischievous ways, though now quiet as she clutched a small bundle of sweets in her arms.

Sakura watched her go, thoughts churning beneath the calm mask on her face. Mito’s gentle questions, the way she circled topics without quite touching them, her ties to Hashirama—and maybe even to Naruto—the subtle way she spoke of Tobirama, and that final, cryptic remark… it hadn’t been a casual conversation.

She’s sharp. She knows more than she lets on.

Sakura drew in a slow breath, steadying herself as she turned back toward the market stalls. There were still errands to finish, still a list of tasks waiting to be crossed off—but her mind remained elsewhere.

Even as she walked away, the weight of Mito’s words lingered in her chest.

Konoha is a sanctuary, she had said.

Sakura wasn’t sure what she meant. Not yet. But something told her… she would understand, eventually.

In time.

The Hokage’s office was cloaked in its usual stillness—orderly, austere, and heavy with unspoken burdens. The soft click of the door breaking the quiet was the only sound as Mito stepped inside, her presence a contrast of elegance and quiet strength. Her white kimono whispered with each graceful step, but Tobirama did not turn to greet her.

He stood by the wide window, arms folded neatly in front of his chest, gazing down at the village below. From this height, Konoha looked peaceful—small, even—but Mito knew the weight it placed on his shoulders was anything but light.

“Mito,” he said without moving, his voice low and composed, threaded with the usual frost that never quite thawed, even for her. “What brings you here today?”

She crossed the room with calm purpose and lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk, folding her hands in her lap. There was no need for formalities between them—not after all these years.

"I came across someone interesting today," she said evenly, her gaze steady. "A young woman by the name of Sakura. Said she was new to the village." Mito paused, then added with a knowing edge, “You have your ANBU in the shadows watching her like hawks.”

That, at last, made Tobirama’s head shift slightly. His posture remained rigid, but she could tell he was now fully attentive.

“She’s a kunoichi of unknown origin,” he said, finally turning halfway toward her. “Exceptional chakra control. Unusual techniques. Claimed to have no affiliation with any known village, but carries herself like someone who has been through war.”

A pause.

“You’ve spoken to her. What’s your impression?”

Mito’s eyes softened, though her voice remained steady. “She’s composed. Respectful. There’s a sweetness to her—gentle, even—but it feels... measured. Like she’s trying not to take up too much space.”

She paused, fingertips brushing the lacquered edge of the desk, as if searching for the right words.

“There’s a presence about her,” she continued, “a power that doesn’t match how quietly she carries herself. And something else—like she’s wrapped herself in layers, careful not to let anyone see beneath them.”

Finally, Tobirama turned his head toward her, the faintest crease between his brows. He said nothing, but Mito knew that look. He already suspected as much.

“She’s hiding something,” Mito said quietly, her voice now tinged with curiosity—and caution. “I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s not simple.”

Tobirama’s eyes sharpened, his usual stoic expression slipping for just a moment. "Explain."

"She has this air about her," Mito explained, her tone thoughtful. "Like she’s seen more than she should, and she doesn’t quite fit in with the usual types of newcomers we’ve had in Konoha. She’s cautious, not just with her words, but her whole demeanor. She’s careful around people—like she’s watching them just as much as they watch her."

Tobirama didn’t respond immediately, his gaze narrowing slightly as he considered Mito’s words. He had already been suspicious of Sakura from the start. After a pause, he finally spoke, his tone thoughtful but edged with quiet authority. “If you happen to cross paths with her again... observe. Get a sense of who she really is beneath the surface. She’s here for a reason, and I’m not sure I trust that reason yet."

Mito nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I’ll keep an eye on her, Tobirama. You know I’m good at reading people." She paused, then added in a lighter tone, "Though I do think she’s not as dangerous as you might think. There’s something almost innocent about her. I don’t believe she’s here to harm Konoha."

Tobirama’s jaw tightened slightly, but he gave a slight nod. "I’ll reserve judgment. But better to be cautious now than too late."

Mito smiled softly, as if she understood the depth of his concerns. "Of course. Caution is always wise." Her voice softened again, becoming almost wistful. "But you know, Tobirama, she’s not the only one with things they’re hiding."

Tobirama glanced at her, his eyes narrowing in quiet interest. "What do you mean?"

Mito gave a small, understanding sigh, her expression softening. "I know you, Tobirama," she said gently. "You’ve never been one to show much of what you’re feeling. And I also know that you’ve never truly had time to grieve Hashirama properly. The position of Hokage... it was thrust upon you too quickly."

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier at her words, and for the first time, Tobirama’s gaze faltered, just for a split second. His brother’s death was still a wound too fresh, too raw, one that he had never had the luxury to mourn. His responsibilities as the Hokage had swallowed him whole, leaving little room for personal feelings.

"I don’t need to grieve," Tobirama replied, his voice steady but with an underlying coldness. "The stability and safety of the village come first. That’s what Elder Brother would have done if the positions were reversed."

Mito studied him closely, a faint sadness in her gaze. "I know," she said softly. "I know that better than anyone. But just because you’re the Hokage now doesn’t mean you have to carry that burden alone. You can still talk about him. About how much he meant to you. I can’t replace him, but if you ever need someone to listen... you know where to find me."

Tobirama remained silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t used to this kind of softness, this kind of understanding. It had been a long time since anyone had offered it to him without expectations. Hashirama had been his anchor, his elder brother, his friend. Losing him had left an unfillable void, and the position of Hokage had become the only thing he could focus on to fill it, to keep his mind occupied with something—anything—other than the grief.

"I appreciate your offer," he said at last, his voice quieter than usual. "But the village needs me. And that’s enough." His gaze hardened, the steely resolve returning. "I will carry that responsibility alone, just as I have always done."

Mito didn’t press the matter further. She knew better than to push him. Instead, she smiled warmly, understanding his need for solitude. "I know you will. But don’t forget, you’re not alone in this, Tobirama. You have people who care about you."

Tobirama simply nodded, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. "Understood."

She rose to leave, offering him one last soft smile. "Take care of yourself, Tobirama. And remember, if you ever need someone to talk to... I’m here."

With that, she turned and exited the office, leaving the Hokage to his thoughts.

Tobirama stood by the window for a long time, arms still folded tight across his chest. The weight of his duties had never felt so heavy. Even as he focused on the village below, a part of him could still feel the ghost of his brother’s presence, lingering in the back of his mind. Hashirama had always been the bright spark, the warmth in their world. Tobirama, the cold pragmatist, had followed in his footsteps, but never with the same ease, the same natural ability to connect.

He let out a quiet breath, pushing the thoughts aside. He had a job to do.

Chapter Text

The days passed by in a blur of routine and quiet anticipation. Sakura was beginning to settle into life in Konoha, her steps becoming more familiar with each day as she adjusted to the rhythms of the hospital and the cautious, ever-watchful eyes of the ANBU hidden in the shadows. Despite her best efforts to keep a low profile, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of being an outsider, a thread pulled taut in the web of Konoha’s secrets. But she was used to that feeling.

In the hospital, the pace was relentless, but she had an uncanny ability to pick things up quickly. It didn’t take long before she noticed the gaps in the system. Files were misplaced, patients often had to wait far longer than necessary for basic care, and some of the medics had little understanding of advanced medical techniques. The sight of it frustrated her, but it was nothing she hadn’t seen before. She rolled up her sleeves and set to work—tidying up what she could, organizing the records, and helping the staff improve their efficiency where she could.

It wasn’t long before two young apprentices were assigned to her: Senju Yanagi, a bright-eyed 14-year-old girl with a strong foundation in chakra control, and Uchiha Saya, a 16-year-old with a sharp mind but a quick temper. Both had potential, but they were still learning, still shaping their abilities in ways that would take years to fully hone. Sakura felt a sense of responsibility for them. In a sense, she saw them as a bridge to the future of Konoha’s medical ninjutsu, a future she hoped to improve.

Sakura spent her days teaching them the basics of first aid, chakra control, and the foundations of medical ninjutsu. Yanagi caught on quickly, her hands steady, her control of chakra already impressive for someone so young. Saya, on the other hand, was more stubborn, less eager to accept guidance, but with a sharp analytical mind. She wasn’t going to be easy to teach, but Sakura could see the potential in her, and she wouldn’t give up on her.

"Focus," Sakura would say as they practiced chakra healing, guiding their hands over a simulated wound on their dead fish, ensuring that the energy was focused and precise. "Remember, it's not about how much chakra you have—it's about how well you can control it. Control over your chakra is the key to healing."

Yanagi nodded, her eyes bright with determination. "Like this, sensei?" she asked, showing the form.

"Exactly," Sakura smiled, a small sense of pride swelling in her chest. "Good."

Saya crossed her arms, watching from the side. "So, we don’t just push chakra into the wound until it heals?" she asked skeptically, her voice dripping with skepticism.

Sakura turned to face her, an eyebrow raised. "You can try that, but you'll only burn the tissue or cause more damage. Healing is about precision. You’re not just pushing chakra into the wound—you're guiding it, controlling it, letting it flow where it needs to go."

Saya rolled her eyes but muttered quietly, "I’ll get it, sensei."

Sakura chuckled quietly under her breath. "Keep practicing. If you get frustrated, step away for a moment and take a break. You’re not going to master this overnight."

Over the weeks that followed, Sakura continued to refine the system in the hospital. She taught the younger medics when she could, offering pointers and techniques that would improve their work, but she also noticed something that made her pause. Most of the hospital staff were simply incapable of healing with advanced medical ninjutsu. The techniques she had learned in her world, the ones that were second nature to her, were virtually unknown here. They couldn’t perform surgeries with the finesse that she could, nor could they perform any of the high-level jutsu she had mastered.

It disturbed her.

Sakura knew the village needed more than just the basics of healing—if Konoha was going to survive long-term, especially with all the threats from the past, the medical corps needed to be stronger. Much stronger. And that’s where she came in.

After hours, when the hospital had mostly cleared out, she would pull aside those medics she deemed worthy and began teaching them advanced techniques. She was selective, only picking those who showed promise and a willingness to learn. Yanagi, of course, was the first to join, eagerly soaking up every lesson. Saya, despite her resistance, couldn’t help but be intrigued by the idea of improving her skills beyond the basics.

Sakura would lead them through exercises—healing on a cellular level, sealing wounds before they even fully formed, manipulating chakra to speed up the body’s natural regenerative process. The exercises were demanding, both physically and mentally, but she knew it would benefit Konoha in the long run. If she could teach the next generation of medics, she could ensure that the village was better prepared for whatever threats lay ahead. She couldn’t afford to keep these skills to herself, especially when it was clear that the majority of the medical corps were falling behind. Whether her decision would alter the future remained uncertain, but Sakura’s pride as a medic-nin wouldn’t allow her to stand by and do nothing.

But every night, as she made her way back to her apartment, the knowledge that she was being watched clung to her like a shadow she couldn’t outrun. The ANBU were always there, lingering in the shadows, their presence a constant reminder that her every move was being scrutinized by Tobirama and the village. She couldn’t quite decide how she felt about that. On one hand, it was unsettling to have eyes on her every moment. On the other, she understood the necessity of it. She was an outsider—someone unaccounted for in the fabric of this timeline. And if she were to make a real difference, she would need to earn their trust.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel the walls closing in. I can’t live like this forever , she thought to herself. I need to find a way to make them trust me. To make them see that I’m here to help, not to harm.

Unbeknownst to Sakura, every evening after her shift, ANBU would report back to Tobirama on her progress. They observed how she interacted with the hospital staff, how she worked with her apprentices, and how her skills surpassed those of most medical ninjas in the village. Tobirama remained silent as he listened, his mind calculating, piecing together the puzzle that was Sakura. Her skills were undeniable, her calm and composed demeanor was effective, but something still unsettled him. The nagging feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away—there was something about her that didn’t fit and it unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

He would continue to observe her. But one thing was becoming clear. Haruno Sakura was a force to be reckoned with.

The gentle afternoon sun cast long shadows over the quiet streets of Konoha. Sakura brushed a stray pink strand out of her face as she trudged home from the hospital, her steps slow and heavy. She had started her shift at the ungodly hour of five in the morning, and now, at just past one in the afternoon, she was finally free.

No matter how many times she adjusted her schedule, Sakura doubted she’d ever get used to such erratic hours. Yawning quietly into her hand, she thought longingly of her warm bed.

As she rounded a corner, a flash of movement caught her attention. Two familiar figures approached—Sarutobi Hiruzen and Uchiha Kagami, both waving cheerfully when they noticed her.

“Sakura-san!” Hiruzen called, the warmth apparent in his tone. “How have you been settling in these past few weeks?”

Sakura smiled softly, appreciating their kindness. “I’m well, thank you. It’s… a bit strange being watched all the time, but I understand the reasons behind it.”

Kagami chuckled, pushing his sleeves up lazily. “Precautions, yeah. You can’t be too careful these days.”

“Where are you two off to?” Sakura asked, shifting her weight onto one foot.

“Training grounds,” Kagami answered with a grin. “We’re sparring. Gotta stay sharp.”

Sakura’s interest sparked instantly. “Mind if I tag along?”

They exchanged glances before Hiruzen gave a wide grin. “Of course not!”

Together, they made their way to the nearest training grounds. The area was relatively empty, save for a few genin teams practicing shuriken throws under the supervision of their jounin-senseis. The sharp clang of steel meeting targets echoed lightly in the air.

Once they reached a suitable clearing, Hiruzen stretched his arms over his head and smirked. “Since you’re here, Sakura-san, why don’t you spar with us?”

Sakura lifted a pink brow, bemused. “Two against one? That hardly seems fair.”

Kagami snickered. “What’s wrong? Afraid we’ll kick your butt?” His tone was teasing.

Sakura’s smirk turned feral, her earlier exhaustion forgotten. “You wish.”

The trio spread out across the clearing. News of the upcoming match quickly spread—soon, a crowd formed along the perimeter. Uzumaki Mito stood tall and regal, Tsunade perched next to her, eyes wide in excitement. Even the genin teams abandoned their drills to watch.

The air crackled with tension as the spar began.

Kagami’s Sharingan flared to life, the three tomoe spinning lazily in his eyes. He moved first, weaving hand seals at an almost blinding speed. “Katon: Goukakyu no Jutsu!”

A massive sphere of flame roared toward Sakura. Without hesitation, she sidestepped, the heat brushing her skin. She darted forward—fast, much faster than either Kagami or Hiruzen had anticipated.

Hiruzen intercepted her, engaging her in a flurry of taijutsu. He was precise, fluid, and well-practiced, his strikes aiming to disable rather than injure. Sakura matched him effortlessly, parrying each blow with calm control.

Hiruzen moved to block a punch—but the moment her fist connected with his forearm, a sickening crack resounded through the field. His body was launched backward like a ragdoll, smashing through a thick tree trunk that splintered on impact. He slumped to the ground, clutching his now grotesquely bent arm.

The entire training ground fell silent. Even Kagami’s confident smirk faltered into a look of open shock.

Sakura exhaled slowly, lowering her hand. She let a small, knowing smirk play at her lips.

She turned to Kagami. “You’re up next,” she said, eyes gleaming.

Kagami snapped out of his stupor, swallowing hard. His Sharingan spun rapidly, analyzing her every movement. He moved with greater caution now, firing off smaller bursts of flames to limit her mobility while trying to ensnare her in subtle genjutsu traps.

Unfortunately for Kagami, Sakura was immune to genjutsu of this level. Her battle-honed instincts and fierce chakra control allowed her to break through the illusions with sheer brute force, disrupting the genjutsu by pulsing her chakra violently.

They clashed across the training ground, Sakura’s fists carving craters into the earth whenever they missed, while Kagami weaved agilely out of range. Sweat trickled down his brow; dodging her strikes was like dancing on the edge of a kunai.

Desperate, Kagami lunged in low, aiming to sweep her legs—and succeeded in slicing a shallow cut along her thigh with a kunai, crimson staining her pale skin. At the same time, a rogue ember from his fire style caught the ends of her pink hair, singing them slightly.

Gritting her teeth through the pain, Sakura retaliated with a feint to the left before slamming her fist into the ground. The resulting shockwave toppled Kagami off-balance, twisting his ankle badly as he stumbled backward.

Panting, Sakura straightened up, brushing ash from her hair. She grimaced at the slow burn at the ends of her hair and the aching cut on her leg, but otherwise stood tall and proud.

It was only then that she noticed the crowd—and among them, the sharp, unblinking gaze of Senju Tobirama.

The Hokage’s arms were folded, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight, his expression impossible to read. His cold, calculating eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

Sakura stiffened under the intensity of his scrutiny, her heart skipping a beat.

She suddenly had the feeling that this little sparring match had been more important than she’d realized.

Tobirama didn’t bother glancing up from his paperwork when the soft rustle of movement announced the ANBU’s arrival. Without preamble, the masked operative knelt before his desk and gave a short report.

“Haruno Sakura has engaged in a sparring match with your students, Sarutobi Hiruzen and Uchiha Kagami.”

Tobirama’s pen stilled.

Interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands before him in thought. Thus far, Sakura had kept to herself—dutiful, cautious, well-behaved. The full extent of her abilities remained largely an unknown, aside from the brief glimpses he’d gleaned from her chakra signature and medical prowess. A real spar, however… that could reveal more.

Without a word, he rose to his feet.

The ANBU dipped his head lower, understanding the unspoken command. Tobirama moved swiftly through the village, keeping to the rooftops and slipping into the shadows once he neared the training fields.

Already, a crowd had gathered: genin teams, their sensei, even Mito and the young Tsunade. They ringed the clearing in a loose circle, murmuring excitedly. Tobirama chose a high branch at the periphery, blending into the dappled shade.

From there, he observed.

Sakura was smaller than both Hiruzen and Kagami, lithe in build—but there was no mistaking the power rippling beneath her movements. Every punch, every sidestep, was deliberate, measured, economical. There was a certain grace to her style, a coiled efficiency that reminded him more of seasoned battlefield veterans than of any kunoichi he had ever seen.

Most kunoichi were trained in espionage, sabotage, assassination. Precision and subtlety were their strengths. Raw power… was rare.

But not with her.

She moved with a contained violence, every strike seeming to carry the weight of mountains behind it. Kagami’s Sharingan was fully active, yet even with its enhanced perception, he barely evaded her blows. Hiruzen, too, struggled to find openings.

Tobirama narrowed his eyes. No wasted movement. Minimal chakra loss. Highly trained muscle control.

It was clear she wasn’t just strong—she was dangerous.

Still, it was not until Hiruzen misjudged her—attempting to block a straightforward punch—that Tobirama’s critical gaze sharpened.

There was a sickening crack.

Hiruzen’s body was flung backwards like a broken doll, crashing through a thick tree with a brutal impact that rattled the nearby ground. The tree groaned and split apart, toppling noisily.

Tobirama, despite himself, tensed.

One strike.

One strike was all it took.

And Hiruzen—one of his most promising students—lay crumpled, his forearm grotesquely bent, pain etched deep across his face.

A slow, thoughtful hum stirred in Tobirama’s throat.

Sakura didn’t hesitate. She turned on Kagami, pressing her advantage, showing no hesitation, no mercy. Kagami fought smart, using his flames and genjutsu to slow her down, but even then—even then—it was clear he was fighting defensively, buying time.

Tobirama observed everything. The small cut blooming crimson on her thigh, the slight singe at the end of her hair. She was injured, but she remained focused, calm.

When the match came to a halt, Tobirama slipped silently from his vantage point and made his way toward the clearing. The crowd instinctively parted for him.

Sakura noticed his approach immediately. Her spine stiffened, her hands folding neatly behind her back. Despite the dirt and blood smudging her uniform, she managed a curt, respectful bow.

He stopped a few paces before them, his sharp eyes sweeping first over Hiruzen, then Kagami.

“You both have a long way to go,” he said coldly, voice slicing through the heavy air. “Do not underestimate an opponent based on their appearance.”

Both young men straightened despite their injuries, bowing sharply.

“Understood, sensei.”

Tobirama allowed his gaze to slide to Sakura.

He said nothing—simply studied her, dissecting every detail from the subtle tension in her shoulders to the flicker of wariness in her green eyes. There was a rare fire there, tempered by discipline.

She’s dangerous. And hiding much, still.

He lingered there a moment longer than necessary, then withdrew his gaze.

It was Hiruzen who broke the silence, wincing slightly as he stepped forward. “Sakura-san, that was impressive. You should join us on a mission sometime.”

Sakura smiled faintly but glanced toward Tobirama, her expression cooling into something far more careful. “It would be good… but that may not be possible for a while,” she said, tone clipped.

Kagami, perceptive as ever, caught the implication immediately. His dark eyes flicked toward Tobirama. “Sensei,” he said carefully, “would it be possible to allow Sakura-san to accompany us on our next mission? Her skills would be invaluable… and after today, it’s clear she would be a formidable ally.”

The request hung heavily between them.

Tobirama stared at the three of them—his wounded students and the deceptively delicate-looking kunoichi who had bested them both.

He said nothing for a long beat, considering.

An asset. Certainly.

A threat, possibly.

A mystery, undeniably.

At last, he said, “I will consider it.”

Without another word, he turned and strode away, the crowd parting again in his wake.

Internally, however, his mind whirred. 

Haruno Sakura was not what she seemed.

And he fully intended to see what other surprises she was hiding.

As Tobirama’s figure disappeared beyond the training grounds, the oppressive tension seemed to lift with him. Sakura let her shoulders relax slightly, though a faint thread of wariness still lingered under her skin. She forced it down—there were more immediate matters to attend to.

She turned toward Hiruzen first. His face was pale and drawn, sweat beading along his brow as he cradled his broken forearm awkwardly against his chest. Beside him, Kagami shifted his weight, favoring one ankle, but still tried to wear an easy smile.

Sakura knelt gracefully in front of Hiruzen and summoned a glow of green chakra to her hands. The gathered genin teams and spectators watched in awe as she worked—movements smooth, practiced, confident.

“Hold still,” she said, her voice slipping naturally into the steady calmness of a healer.

Hiruzen gave a small grunt of acknowledgement. As Sakura’s chakra sank into his broken limb, he flinched slightly—then exhaled as the pain ebbed away, replaced by a soothing warmth.

“You’re really something else,” Kagami said, crouching nearby to observe. His voice was light, but there was real admiration in it. “Most medics I know can’t knit bone this cleanly. And certainly not after a spar like that.”

Sakura smiled faintly but kept her eyes focused on her work. “I just do what I was trained to do.”

With a final pulse of chakra, Hiruzen’s arm straightened, the bones setting with a soft click. Sakura sat back on her heels and moved to Kagami without missing a beat.

His ankle was already swelling under his sandal. With careful hands, she pressed against the joint, releasing chakra in precise doses, coaxing the tissues to knit and the blood vessels to mend. Kagami hissed once but otherwise bore it with good humor.

“You know,” Hiruzen said, flexing his newly healed arm thoughtfully, “you fight… differently than any kunoichi I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” Kagami agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No offense, Sakura-san, but… women don’t normally fight like that.”

There was no malice in their voices—only open surprise. Even so, Sakura’s hands froze momentarily against Kagami’s ankle, tension prickling at the nape of her neck.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, dusting her palms against her skirt with deliberate precision. Her green eyes were cool but calm as they met theirs.

“I was trained,” she said, voice steady but carrying an edge of steel, “by my shishou. One of the greatest woman to ever live.”

The words settled heavily between them, leaving no room for argument.

The boys shifted, suddenly sheepish. Kagami gave a crooked smile, and Hiruzen coughed into his hand.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean for it to sound…” Hiruzen trailed off. 

Sakura tilted her chin slightly, allowing herself a thin, sardonic smile. “Maybe,” she said, “it’s time that changed.”

Before either of them could reply, the shrill sound of a child’s voice cut through the air.

“Sakura-nee!”

Sakura turned just in time to see Tsunade barreling toward her like a miniature storm, her golden hair bouncing wildly with each step. Mito followed at a more stately pace, her red hair gleaming under the afternoon sun.

Tsunade skidded to a halt in front of Sakura, eyes wide and sparkling. “You were amazing! Like boom! And crack!” She mimed a terrible punch that nearly toppled her over.

Mito laughed, her voice warm. “You handled yourself beautifully, Sakura. Truly impressive.”

Sakura flushed slightly, offering a humble bow. “Thank you, Mito-sama.”

But Tsunade was already bounding toward a nearby boulder, her fists clenched with excitement. “I can do that too!” she cried.

Sakura’s eyes widened. “Tsunade, wait—!”

It was too late.

The little girl punched the boulder with all her might. There was a sharp crack—but not from the stone.

Tsunade recoiled instantly, clutching her tiny fist, her face crumpling in betrayal and pain.

“It hurts!” she wailed.

Sakura was by her side in a flash, kneeling to gather the sniffling child into her arms. Green chakra bloomed between her palms as she cradled Tsunade’s injured hand gently.

“You’re very brave,” Sakura murmured, brushing a thumb over the girl’s messy bangs. “But you shouldn’t try that without proper training, Tsunade-chan.”

Tsunade hiccupped, rubbing at her teary eyes. “But I wanna be strong like you…”

“You will be,” Sakura said firmly. “When you’re older, I’ll teach you how to do it the right way. I promise.”

Tsunade’s lip quivered—then she broke into a brilliant grin. “Promise?”

Sakura held up her pinky.

The little girl latched on eagerly, binding them in a solemn pinky swear.

The moment was tender, sweet.

And then —

“Careful, Tsunade,” Hiruzen called from behind them, his voice dripping with amusement. “If you keep it up, you’ll end up with the strength of a female gorilla.”

The words rang out across the training field.

For a split second, silence reigned.

Sakura froze, her hand still wrapped gently around Tsunade’s.

Then a tick started at the corner of her jaw.

The tick grew into a faint tremor in her fingers.

A flash of irritation—sharp, familiar, comforting in its own strange way—sparked to life in her chest.

She rose slowly, turning on her heel with deliberate calm.

Hiruzen was grinning, proud of his own joke, utterly oblivious to the storm gathering in Sakura’s narrowed green eyes.

Without a word, Sakura stalked toward him, her boots crunching softly against the grass. She stopped just in front of him, expression unreadable.

And then, very precisely, she thumped him hard over the top of his skull with her knuckles—no chakra-enhancement needed.

Hiruzen yelped, clutching his head as he staggered back, his eyes wide with comical betrayal.

Kagami howled with laughter, nearly doubling over. Even the genin teams, standing awkwardly on the sidelines, burst into giggles. Tsunade cheered, clapping her hands enthusiastically, and even Mito covered her mouth in a delicate, amused chuckle.

Sakura simply huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Maybe next time,” she said primly, “you’ll think before speaking.”

Despite himself, Hiruzen grinned sheepishly. “Duly noted.”

The laughter swelled, warm and bright, wrapping around them all.

For the first time since arriving in this unfamiliar past, Sakura allowed herself to bask in it. In the camaraderie, the teasing, the normalcy.

There were no battles to win, no secrets to guard for this fleeting moment.

Just laughter, friendship, and the faintest hope that maybe—just maybe—she could build a life here too.

It had been several days since Sakura’s sparring match with Kagami and Hiruzen.

Since then, it seemed like she couldn’t step two feet outside her house without running into one—or both—of them. Whether it was for casual spars, training sessions, or simply dragging her into town under the excuse of “strategy discussions,” they had made it a routine to seek her out.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately for them—there had been no more broken limbs since their first encounter. Though Kagami still limped on rainy days, much to Sakura’s private amusement.

Word of her prowess had spread like wildfire through Konoha’s grapevine.

The villagers whispered about her—the strange kunoichi with monster strength and healing hands, the outsider who fought like a seasoned jounin, the pretty medic who was still single.

Sakura had learned quickly that nothing traveled faster than gossip—except maybe chakra-enhanced fists.

Still, she couldn’t deny the faint warmth she felt whenever she overheard snippets of conversation about herself in the market or at the training grounds. Slowly, carefully, she was carving a place for herself here.

That tentative peace was disrupted when a messenger bird landed on her windowsill early that morning, summoning her to the Hokage’s office.

Now, standing before the heavy oak door, Sakura took a slow, measured breath before knocking once and pushing it open.

Her instincts immediately prickled.

Inside, Tobirama sat behind his desk, face as unreadable as ever.

Lined up before him were Kagami and Hiruzen, both standing at easy attention.

Shimura Danzo was there too, arms folded tightly across his chest, his dark eyes suspiciously flickering over Sakura.

Beside him stood two unfamiliar faces. A broad-shouldered man, his posture rigid with the quiet discipline of a seasoned shinobi. His dark hair was cropped short, and his scarred knuckles hinted at countless hours spent in hand-to-hand combat. A stern mouth sat beneath a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, and his eyes, though sharp behind his glasses, held a calculating calm rather than open hostility.

Next to him stood a slim woman with a composed air, her long dark hair in a twin bun, held in place with a hairpin. Her eyes were sharp and slanted, reminiscent of a fox on high alert—intelligent, wary, and far more observant than she let on. She held herself with practiced poise, but there was a tension in her jaw that betrayed a quick mind already assessing the room.

Sakura’s muscles tightened automatically.

Carefully, she closed the door behind her, schooling her face into neutrality, and moved to stand beside Kagami, mimicking their formal posture.

Tobirama’s cold, sharp gaze swept over them before he began speaking, voice low and commanding.

“You have been summoned,” he said, “because you will be participating in a mission critical to Konoha’s alliances.”

Sakura blinked once, carefully hiding her surprise.

She hadn’t expected to be deployed so soon—much less on something Tobirama personally considered critical.

“The Kumogakure shinobi you encountered,” Tobirama continued, his gaze briefly cutting to her, “was returning to his village after a raid on Uzushiogakure.”

Sakura tensed.

“The Uzumaki Clan,” Tobirama said, his tone even, “has long been an invaluable ally to Konoha. Particularly to the Senju Clan, to which I belong. The scroll they stole contains secrets vital to the Uzumaki—and, by extension, to us.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“It is not our concern what the scroll contains,” Tobirama added sharply, anticipating any curiosity. “Our task is to retrieve it and return it to the Uzumaki unscathed.”

Sakura inclined her head respectfully, digesting the information quickly.

“You are to assemble at the village gates by 1700 hours,” Tobirama finished. “We move out at dusk.”

With a curt wave of dismissal, he sent them on their way.

The group filtered out of the office silently, the door thudding shut behind them.

Outside, the sun had begun its slow climb over the rooftops, casting a golden sheen across the village streets. Kagami turned to Sakura the moment they stepped out, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “First real mission together,” he said, a wide grin stretching across his face. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Hiruzen chimed in, clapping her lightly on the back. “It’ll be good to have you with us.”

Sakura returned a small, practiced smile, but inside, her thoughts spun like a shuriken caught in a whirlwind.

From the moment she’d found herself in this time—this strange, dangerous past—she had sworn to keep a low profile. No risks. No drawing attention. No standing out.

But that resolve had already started to crumble.

After the sparring match—after that display of strength—there was no going back. She’d felt it the instant Tobirama’s cold, assessing gaze had landed on her. The way his eyes narrowed, cataloguing every detail, as if peeling her apart layer by layer.

He was already watching her. Too closely. Too carefully.

Still…

Maybe that wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

If she played this right—if she handled this mission with precision, control, and just the right amount of competence—then maybe she could earn his trust. Even a sliver of it. And if not trust, then at least enough credibility to dull the edge of his suspicion.

It was a gamble. But Sakura had never been one to shy away from a challenge.

She was still lost in thought when Hiruzen’s voice floated back to her, casual and unbothered:

“It’s been a while since we’ve gone on a mission with sensei, huh?”

Sakura stopped mid-step. Her foot hovered just above the ground before settling back down, the motion stiff and deliberate. Slowly, she turned to face him, her head moving as if on a hinge, disbelief creeping into every line of her face.

“…Sensei?” she echoed, her voice quiet but sharp.

Kagami blinked, confused by her reaction. “Yeah,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Tobirama-sensei. He’ll be leading us personally.”

For a moment, silence pressed in around her like a weight.

Sakura’s breath hitched. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, a sudden, jarring rhythm that matched the flood of realization crashing over her.

Senju Tobirama.

The Nidaime Hokage. The genius strategist. The cold, formidable master of water-style techniques.

He was going to be their team leader.

He was coming with them. Personally.

She hadn’t expected this. Not so soon. Not like this. And now, the stakes had just risen far higher than she’d ever anticipated. Her stomach twisted in a complicated knot of apprehension and anticipation.

Kagami laughed at her expression, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s strict as hell, but he’s a good commander.”

Hiruzen smirked, adding, “Mostly strict though.”

Sakura managed a stiff nod, but her mind was already racing.

This mission was no longer just about retrieving a scroll.

It was a test.

And not just any test—it was his test.

She squared her shoulders, a slow determination building inside her.

If Tobirama wanted to observe her up close…

Then she would make damn sure he saw her exactly how she wanted to be seen—capable, reliable, and absolutely indispensable.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the village gates where his team was set to assemble.

Tobirama stood with his arms folded in front of his chest, clad in his battle armor—plates a dark, weathered steel that had seen countless wars—and his signature grey happuri across his forehead. His eyes, sharp and vigilant, scanned the surroundings without any outward impatience.

He noted with some measure of approval that Sakura arrived early, just as he expected from someone who claimed to want to prove herself.

She came at a brisk, purposeful pace, dipped her head respectfully to him and Kagami, and then stood quietly to the side, falling into silence without prompting.

Good. She understood the importance of discipline without having to be told.

Hiruzen arrived shortly after her, exchanging a grin with Sakura before taking his position. Then Shimura Danzo appeared—his expression as sour as ever—with his usual wary glance cast at Sakura, as if she might sprout wings and turn traitor at any moment.

Last to arrive were his other two students, Utatane Koharu and Mitokado Homura.

Still on time, but only just.

Tobirama allowed himself a silent note of irritation at their tardiness before stepping forward, voice cutting through the evening air.

“We will move swiftly and precisely,” Tobirama began, his voice cutting through the still air like a blade. Each word was clipped, commanding, devoid of anything resembling warmth. “Our destination lies deep within the Land of Lightning. Tonight, we reach the border. We camp there. Tomorrow, we infiltrate.”

He let his gaze sweep over the assembled team—a slow, deliberate pass that felt more like an inspection than a glance. His crimson eyes, sharp as frost, measured them in silence. Weighing their readiness. Judging their resolve.

“The journey will take longer than a single day,” he continued, his tone leaving no room for error. “Maintain formation at all times. You know your assigned positions. Stay sharp. Do not make me repeat myself.”

Then, with a curt jerk of his chin—no encouragement—he turned on his heel.

“Fall in.”

The command snapped the group into motion. Without hesitation, they moved into formation with the fluid coordination of seasoned shinobi. Their movements were silent, purposeful, precise—the product of relentless training and drilled-in discipline.

Tobirama took the lead, his silver hair catching the fading sunlight like a banner of war. As they passed through Konoha’s great gates and slipped into the dense forest beyond, he let his chakra expand outward in measured pulses—scanning the terrain, testing for signs of movement, always alert, always calculating.

The air was cool, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. Leaves whispered overhead in the breeze, and the soft crunch of their boots on the forest floor was the only sound that followed them into the trees.

At intervals, his gaze drifted to the team behind him—to Kagami’s alert posture, to Hiruzen’s steady pace—and eventually, to her.

She ran near the center of the formation, the designated position for a field medic—protected, but not idle. Sakura's movements were smooth and efficient, her stride long, deliberate. Her breathing was even, her expression calm. Those vivid green eyes were narrowed slightly, focused not on any one thing but everything at once.

She was taking this seriously.

Tobirama observed her in silence for a beat longer than necessary. No missteps. No hesitation. Only that quiet, self-contained determination she wore like armor.

He allowed himself the smallest nod. A flicker of approval—fleeting, but real.

Still…

One mission would not be enough.

Strength displayed in a sparring ring was one thing. Composure during a briefing, another. But consistency—the ability to endure, to adapt, to survive under pressure again and again—that was what defined a shinobi.

Tobirama narrowed his eyes slightly and faced forward once more.

He would continue to watch her.

Every step of the way.

Sakura deliberately arrived early at the gates, heart steady but fingers curling and uncurling in slight anticipation.

She knew how much first impressions mattered—and second and third ones even more so.

She wasn’t surprised to see Tobirama already there, standing like a sentinel of war, battle armor catching the fading light, his figure cut from the same unyielding mold as a storm about to break.

Kagami, who was already there, offered her a lazy smile and she gave a small nod in return before slipping into silence.

They waited in companionable quiet until Hiruzen jogged up, adjusting his equipment with a sheepish grin.

Danzo followed, his narrow gaze dissecting her with suspicion that she politely ignored.

Finally, the two unfamiliar shinobi—a stern-faced man and a hawk-eyed woman—appeared at a swift pace.

Tobirama wasted no time launching into his briefing.

Sakura listened intently, admiring the ruthless precision of his words.

It was clear he had thought out every contingency, every route, every possible obstacle.

It was no wonder he was renowned not just for his power, but for his strategic brilliance.

As they moved out, Sakura found herself slotted neatly near the center of their traveling formation.

She wasn’t surprised—after all, the center was the most protected part of a group, especially where a medic was concerned.

Sakura couldn’t help but feel a faint hum of admiration for Tobirama’s genius in designing such formations.

Everything he did had a purpose.

The world around them grew dimmer as the journey stretched on, the light fading to a dusky gold that bled slowly into muted blues and purples. The dense forests of the Fire Country gave way to the harsher, more uneven terrain of its northern border—the ground rockier, the trees sparser and windblown, their branches gnarled like the fingers of old warriors.

The last rays of sunlight vanished behind the distant hills just as Tobirama raised a hand, signaling a halt.

They set up camp in a shallow hollow nestled beside a glimmering lake. The water was still, glasslike, catching the moonlight and reflecting the silhouettes of the surrounding trees, which whispered faintly in the cool breeze. Crickets had begun their nightly chorus, the rhythmic hum a quiet undercurrent to the rustle of tents being pitched and gear unpacked.

Sakura secured her tent last, brushing a few stray pine needles from her clothes. As she turned to retrieve her water flask, Kagami appeared at her side, stretching with a groan. “Man, I forgot how rough the terrain gets out here,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders.

“You forget a lot when you haven’t done a field op in a while,” Hiruzen said dryly, dropping down onto a rolled mat nearby.

Kagami shot him a look. “I’ll pretend that didn’t come from someone who tripped on a root an hour ago.”

“That was a tactical stumble,” Hiruzen replied primly. “To assess terrain instability.”

Sakura gave a small snort, surprising even herself. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shook her head. “You two always like this?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Kagami grinned. “Get used to it.”

She gave a small nod, a real smile flickering briefly across her lips. Sakura nodded goodnight to them both before turning away, the quiet call of the lake pulling at her.

She walked slowly, weaving between the trees until she reached the water’s edge. The moon hung low above the lake, bathing everything in a silver sheen. The surface shimmered with reflected starlight, the ripples like soft sighs against the shore.

Sakura let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She removed her sandals and stepped into the shallows, wincing slightly as the cold water lapped at her sore feet. After a few seconds, she sat at the edge of a smooth, flat rock and lowered both legs in, letting the cool soothe away the dull ache from hours of travel.

Her gaze wandered across the still lake, its tranquility a sharp contrast to the constant hum of vigilance that came with being in enemy-border territory.

This part—the quiet moments after the day’s tension—always reminded her of her own team. Team Seven.

How many times had she, Naruto, and Sasuke camped like this? There had been awkward silences at first, and then… laughter. Bickering. Late-night watches where they traded whispered stories or stared into the fire pretending not to care.

Kakashi, always a shadow just beyond the firelight, offering sharp observations and unexpected wisdom between pages of his book.

Those nights had felt like the eye of the storm—fleeting pockets of calm in a life shaped by chaos.

Her chest ached a little, the memory bittersweet. She wondered where they were now. If they missed her. If they even knew she was gone.

Sakura closed her eyes, letting the coolness of the water ground her again.

Then she felt it—the barest shift in the air. A gentle ripple of chakra, faint enough that an ordinary shinobi wouldn’t have noticed it. But she wasn’t ordinary.

She didn’t turn around.

“If you’re trying to sneak up on me,” she said quietly, her tone even, “you’ll need to be more subtle.”

There was a pause—a long one, filled only by the soft lap of water and the rustling of leaves overhead.

Then: “I wasn’t trying to sneak,” came the calm, cool reply.

Tobirama emerged from the shadows like he’d always been part of them. His arms were folded, his expression unreadable beneath the silver light of the moon. He stood a few paces away, not crowding her but close enough that his presence was unmistakable.

Sakura didn’t look at him directly, keeping her gaze on the water.

“Just needed a moment,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “Long day.”

“I’m aware,” he said simply. There was no sympathy in his tone—only observation.

Another silence stretched between them.

Tobirama’s gaze lingered on her, his eyes flicking once to the water, then back to her still form. “You didn’t ask permission to leave camp.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Not quite. But it wasn’t a casual statement either.

“I didn’t leave the perimeter,” Sakura replied. Calm. Controlled. “I kept my senses active. I would’ve returned immediately if anything felt off.”

He didn’t respond right away, but she could feel the scrutiny sharpen.

“You’re disciplined,” he said eventually, but there was no praise in it—just fact. Cold and clinical.

“Thank you.” She met his gaze now, expression cool, unreadable. “But I assume that’s not why you followed me.”

“No,” he said bluntly. “It isn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t like unknown variables,” Tobirama continued, voice low and steady. “And you—for all your skill—remain exactly that. Unknown.”

Sakura didn’t flinch, though her pulse kicked up slightly.

“I understand,” she said softly. “Being careful is wise.”

“I’m not careful,” he replied. “I’m cautious. There’s a difference.”

She gave a slow nod, turning her gaze back to the lake. “Then I’ll just have to make myself… less unknown.”

He studied her for a moment longer. “We’ll see,” he said finally.

Sakura sat still for a moment, the cold water swirling gently around her ankles.

“My ANBU have reported back about your work at the hospital,” he said finally after a brief moment of silence. “Your progress is… satisfactory.”

Sakura suppressed the urge to laugh at the grudging compliment.

“You still have two months left on your probation,” Tobirama continued, tone clipped.

“Do not squander it.”

Rising to her feet and straightening her back, Sakura turned to him and lifted her hand into a firm salute—not the casual kind Hiruzen or Kagami often gave, but a crisp, proper gesture of military respect.

“I’ll do my best, Hokage-sama,” she said, her voice steady.

For a brief moment—no more than a flicker—Tobirama looked faintly taken aback.

Then the emotion was gone, smoothed back into cool professionalism.

He studied her for a moment longer before he turned and disappeared into the shadows once more—no rustle of branches, no snap of twigs. Just gone.

From a tree above, Koharu watched the scene with a sharp frown etched across her features.

Perched silently on a high branch overlooking the clearing, Koharu kept her eyes on the lake below. The night air was crisp, biting gently at her cheeks as she scanned the darkness for signs of movement beyond the perimeter.

She didn’t expect to see anything unusual—but then she saw them.

Tobirama-sensei.
And her. The unknown kunoichi on their team. The one who she heard Kagami and Hiruzen sing praises for. 

Sakura sat at the water’s edge, her feet in the shallows, the moonlight casting a soft glow over her pink hair. Tobirama stood near her, his posture as unreadable as ever, arms folded across his chest. Their voices didn’t carry this far, but their silhouettes were clear enough.

Koharu’s brows drew together. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but the quiet tension between them was unmistakable.

She watched Tobirama for a long moment, hoping—irrationally—that he would simply turn and leave. That whatever reason had brought him there would pass quickly.

But he lingered.
Longer than he needed to.

Koharu’s grip on her kunai tightened.

And then there was Sakura. Sitting so still. So calm. Her gaze never left him—not even as he finally turned and melted back into the trees. The expression on her face didn’t shift. It remained composed, unreadable.

Too composed.

Koharu's stomach gave a faint, unpleasant twist.

She didn't like it. Not the scene she’d just witnessed. Not the quiet intensity in Tobirama's posture.

And especially not the way Sakura looked at him—steady, confident. Familiar.

It wasn’t just suspicion that stirred in Koharu’s chest. It was something sharper. Something she couldn’t quite name—or maybe didn’t want to.

Jealousy wasn’t a word she would ever use. Not for him. Not for her.

But still…

She didn’t like this.

Not one bit.

Morning came early and without mercy.

The chill of the pre-dawn air clung to Sakura’s skin as she stirred from her light sleep, the sky still smeared with deep blues and the faintest hints of gray.

The camp was already stirring to life.

Sakura quickly doused her face in the cool lake water to wake herself before joining the others by the small, crackling fire where breakfast was being distributed—simple rice balls and strips of dried meat. Functional. Efficient.

Just like their team leader.

She took her portion handed to her with a polite nod, finding a seat slightly apart from the main group. Kagami and Hiruzen gravitated toward her naturally, each offering her easy smiles.

Danzo sat a little ways off, as stiff and closed off as ever.

The two unfamiliar shinobi—the stern man and the sharp-eyed woman—murmured quietly to each other, faces unreadable. Mitokado Homura and Utatane Koharu, the future Elders of Konoha alongside Danzo. 

She didn’t care much about Homura.

He was quiet, dutiful, and largely kept to himself. If he had any opinions about her, he didn’t voice them—and for now, that was enough.

Koharu, however, was a different story.

From the moment they set out that morning, Sakura had felt it—that ever-present sense of being watched. Not with curiosity, or caution, but something heavier. Sharper.

Whenever she glanced back during breaks in the march, Koharu’s eyes would be there—cool and narrowed, lingering just a second too long before flicking away as if nothing had happened.

It hadn’t stopped there.

Earlier that day, when they were reviewing formation changes after crossing uneven terrain, Sakura had offered a quiet suggestion—a small adjustment to avoid a blind spot on their left flank. Whilst everyone gave a small nod of agreement, Koharu hadn’t said a word.
But her scoff had been soft and unmistakable.

Later, when they broke for a quick midday meal under the trees, Sakura had sat near Hiruzen and Kagami, the three of them sharing casual chatter over dried rice balls. Koharu had approached briefly, looked as though she might sit with them—and then abruptly turned away, choosing a spot several meters off.

Sakura caught the glance before she turned: sharp, assessing, and simmering with something like quiet resentment.

Koharu sat alone, chewing with mechanical precision. Her eyes flickered between Sakura and where Tobirama stood a few meters away, methodically checking the seals on a storage scroll. Her expression gave nothing away—and yet it said everything.

Sakura looked back down at her food and took a slow breath.

Don’t engage. Don’t rise to it.

She focused on Kagami’s light banter and Hiruzen’s dry wit, and tried to lose herself in the small normalcy of shared meals and campfire warmth.

But it lingered—that cold, unspoken weight behind her back. That glance, like Koharu was waiting for her to slip. Like she already expected her to.

Sakura didn’t understand it.

She hadn’t done anything to provoke the girl. If anything, she’d gone out of her way to stay professional—courteous, even.

So what the hell is her problem?

A flicker of irritation lit in her chest, low and slow. She pressed it down.

Now wasn’t the time. She had a mission to focus on. A long journey ahead. The last thing she needed was a petty rivalry—especially with someone who clearly hadn’t decided whether she disliked Sakura as a shinobi… or as a woman standing too close to Tobirama.

Either way, Sakura made a quiet decision.

She would keep her distance too.

After lunch was cleared, the team settled into a brief, tense silence—the kind that wrapped itself around the bones and refused to let go. The air was thick with anticipation, the quiet hum of chakra resting just beneath the surface of their collective stillness.

Then Tobirama spoke.

His voice, low and measured, cut cleanly through the morning mist like a blade through silk.

“Double-check your equipment. We move in five.”

No further words. None were needed.

Sakura didn’t hesitate. She dropped into a crouch, fingers moving quickly to inspect her gear. Her hands were steady—too steady—as she checked the contents of her medical pouch: bandages, antiseptics, explosive tags, and a small collection of field antidotes. A second pass confirmed her kunai and shuriken were all in place, along with the emergency chakra threads.

She rose just as Tobirama did, nodding once to herself.

By the time the team assembled again, the mood had shifted. The warmth of midday had long faded beneath the creeping gray of low-hanging clouds. The forest around them was still—too still. Even the birds had gone quiet.

There was a heaviness in the air now, something unspoken but deeply understood.

They were no longer within the safety of Fire Country’s borders.

This was hostile ground—unfamiliar, unpredictable, unforgiving. One wrong step could cost a life.

Tobirama moved to the front of the formation, every motion precise, his senses extended outward like a finely tuned net. His gaze scanned the trees ahead—not looking, but reading. Calculating. Already anticipating the worst.

No one spoke as they followed.

The dense woods gradually gave way to harsh terrain: jagged rock formations jutted from the earth like broken teeth, and the narrow ridgelines offered little cover, forcing them into tighter, more vulnerable formations. The air grew colder, sharper—a biting wind threading its way between exposed cliffs and stone pathways slick with mist.

Despite it being close to noon, the morning fog had not lifted. Instead, it thickened around them like a shroud, dampening every sound, making every step feel both deafening and eerily muted. Footfalls echoed strangely against the stone, as though the land itself was holding its breath.

Sakura moved near the center of the group—standard formation for a medic—her eyes sweeping constantly across their surroundings, muscles taut beneath her cloak.

Every broken branch felt like a signal. Every distant rustle, a possible ambush. Even her teammates seemed to move quieter now—as if the very act of breathing too loudly might summon danger.

They pressed on.

And as the last tree of Fire Country faded behind them, Sakura couldn’t shake the feeling that something unseen had taken notice of them.

Watching.

Waiting.

Tobirama moved through the terrain like water flowing around rocks—precise, fluid, deadly.

His senses extended outward, every slight shift of wind, every displaced pebble cataloged and analyzed.

His team followed in tight formation behind him, disciplined and silent.

He took careful note of each member’s behavior.

Hiruzen, sharp-eyed but still too casual in the way he carried his steps.

Kagami, alert, his Sharingan active in faint pulses as he scanned their surroundings.

Danzo, stiff but cautious—as always, more focused on calculating threat over smooth movement.

Koharu and Homura kept to their roles well enough, though Tobirama noticed Koharu’s occasional glances toward Sakura with narrowed eyes.

It wasn’t overt enough to interfere, not yet—but he would not allow personal jealousy or distractions to compromise a mission.

His gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, to Sakura.

She moved like a seasoned operative—light on her feet, posture correct, yet with an unconscious economy of motion that spoke of deep, ingrained training.

Unlike many medics he had seen, she was not shrinking back, not overly cautious.

She advanced with a quiet kind of confidence, her green eyes sharp and scanning the environment almost in rhythm with his own.

Tobirama frowned inwardly.

She wasn’t what he expected from a kunoichi trained primarily for healing.

Not at all.

He watched as she adjusted her hand subtly, shifting her balance as they approached a trickier incline.

Small details—but important ones.

She adapts, he thought, filing the observation away. Quickly.

Still, admiration was not trust.

It would take far more than a few competent steps and respectful words to ease the caution that coiled in his gut every time he regarded her.

The mission was still young.

There would be plenty of time to see whether her hidden depths were an asset—or a liability.

As they pressed deeper into the rugged terrain, the mist thinned, and the broken silhouette of their target region loomed faintly ahead.

Lightning Country’s unforgiving heart awaited them.

And Senju Tobirama would tolerate no weakness in its shadow.

The journey stretched into the late afternoon, the sun cutting long, slanting rays through the canopy as they moved deeper into Lightning Country’s outer territories.

The landscape was harsher here—jagged cliffs, narrow ravines, and boulders as large as houses loomed overhead, forcing them into tighter formation.

Sakura stayed close to the center, scanning each bend and outcropping with careful precision.

It wasn’t only about spotting enemies; it was about reading the land, predicting ambush points, and understanding the natural traps laid by a ruthless, untamed landscape.

It was exactly this instinct that made her slow, almost imperceptibly, as they approached a natural bottleneck between two ridges.

The ground ahead looked normal at first glance—dry, rocky soil, tufts of stubborn grass growing between stones.

But there, just barely noticeable under the shadows, was a series of thin tripwires woven cleverly into the terrain, attached to explosive tags buried out of sight.

A standard shinobi trap.

Well-hidden.

Deadly.

Sakura shifted her hand subtly, a silent signal commonly used in her time—one she knew Tobirama would absolutely recognize. Because he was the one who invented it, after all. 

Three fingers: hazard ahead.

She saw his head tilt by the barest margin.

He had noticed.

Of course he had.

Without a word, he adjusted the group’s path slightly, leading them in a broader arc around the danger zone without alerting the others.

Efficient. Clean.

Sakura continued without breaking stride, though she caught the brief, sharp glance Tobirama cast over his shoulder at her.

Approval.

And something else—something closer to grudging respect.

She allowed herself a tiny, hidden smile.

Step by step, trust was earned.

By the time the sun sank low enough to bleed the horizon into hues of molten gold and bruised violet, the forest around them began to change. Trees grew sparse, giving way to jagged stone and windswept ridges. The air was colder here—thinner, as if the mountain itself held its breath in anticipation.

They had arrived.

Their objective lay nestled at the base of a craggy hill, half-swallowed by the natural contours of the land. From a distance, it might have passed for nothing more than an outcropping of stone—weathered and silent, cloaked by dusk. But Tobirama’s eyes, honed by years of battlefield experience, saw through the deception instantly.

It wasn’t just a cave or a hollow.

It was a fortified outpost—masked from view by layers of clever terrain manipulation and powerful earth-release jutsu. A trap for the untrained eye. But not for his.

From a high vantage point overlooking the ravine below, Tobirama crouched low, shrouded in the shadows of twisted pine and rough granite. His eyes scanned the terrain with lethal precision, every flicker of movement noted, every breath of wind analyzed for the unnatural.

He closed his eyes and placed two fingers against the cold, cracked earth. A pulse of chakra slid outward from his touch, threading into the land itself. He felt them immediately.

At least twenty shinobi.

Their chakra signatures pulsed faintly through the rock—some pacing behind the illusioned walls, others stationed atop hidden outposts dug into the surrounding cliffs. They were well-spread, alert, and heavily armed.

The scent of burning oil clung faintly to the air, mingled with iron and ash—the telltale marks of prepared defenses. Somewhere below, steel scraped lightly against stone. Voices, hushed but firm, traded brief murmurs. Instructions. Check-ins.

Guards preparing for the inevitable.

Tobirama opened his eyes slowly, the scarlet gleam of his pupils catching the last light of the setting sun. His gaze swept across the terrain, sharp and unblinking. Every crevice, every tree root, every blind spot etched itself into his mind as he calculated.

No, this would not be a simple breach.

The enemy wasn’t complacent.

They were ready. Expecting retaliation.

Good.

Let them be ready.

Tobirama’s lips pressed into a thin line, unreadable. His fingers twitched slightly against the hilt of his kunai—not from tension, but precision. Anticipation.

Because when the strike came, it would be clean. Efficient. Unforgiving.

And he would make sure of it.

He turned to the assembled team, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

“The western flank is their weak point. 10 guards. I will move alone and eliminate them first.”

Several of the younger shinobi—Hiruzen, Koharu, even Danzo—shifted at those words, instinctively tense.

But they knew better than to argue.

“You will approach the eastern entrance,” he continued, eyes narrowing. “Sakura, you will remain in the center of the formation. Prioritize healing if necessary, but if the opportunity arises to incapacitate the enemy without compromising yourself, take it.”

His gaze flickered across the group, lingering for half a second longer on her—a silent warning: do not fail me.

Sakura met his look steadily, her spine straight, her hands calm.

She simply nodded.

Tobirama inclined his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Good.

No dramatics.

No foolish bravado.

Just understanding.

He rose without another word, vanishing into the growing shadows like a silver specter.

Time to test her—and the rest of them—in earnest.

The air was crisp and thin as dusk folded into true night, the sky above a vault of cold stars.

Sakura tightened her gloves at the command signal from Kagami—two sharp hand signs—and moved with the rest of the team toward the eastern flank of the enemy outpost.

She could already feel the thrum of chakra barriers pulsing faintly ahead, a tension that prickled across her skin like static.

Every step they took was deliberate, calculated, measured to blend into the darkness.

Kagami and Hiruzen took point. Kagami’s Sharingan and sharp instincts peeling apart the shadows ahead.

Koharu, and Homura flanked the sides, Danzo at the back, while Sakura remained at the heart of their formation—a role both crucial and, frustratingly, passive.

But she knew better than to break ranks.

Tobirama’s plan was precise.

Deviating would be reckless.

Still, her blood stirred under her skin, the yearning for action simmering low in her gut like a banked fire.

They crept forward until they were within sight of the entrance: a massive stone door etched with crude Lightning Country markings, guarded by four Kumo-nin wearing black and grey flak jackets.

Now.

At Kagami’s signal, the team launched into motion.

Kagami blurred forward, fire erupting from his hands—Katon: Goukakyuu no Jutsu—engulfing the ground between them and the enemy in a sheet of roaring flame.

Hiruzen followed close behind, his staff sweeping out to catch the first guard under the ribs with a brutal crack.

Danzo’s wind release shuriken hissed past Sakura’s ear, clean and surgical, pinning a second guard to the wall with a wet thud.

Sakura moved.

She ducked under a thrown kunai, her senses sharp and focused, and reached the third guard before he could react.

One precisely timed blow—not even at full strength—struck his solar plexus.

The chakra laced into her fist exploded outward on impact.

The man’s eyes rolled back into his skull, and he flew back and crumpled without a sound.

She exhaled quietly, heart hammering not from fear, but exhilaration.

It had been too long.

Another shinobi lunged at her from the side—a blur of movement, the glint of a blade.

Sakura pivoted sharply, grabbing his wrist mid-swing and twisting.

Bones ground against each other in a sickening crunch, and she finished him with a neat, chakra-threaded strike to the neck.

Minimal blood.

Maximum efficiency.

Just as Tsunade-shishou had taught her.

From his perch high on the western cliff, Tobirama watched everything unfold—his team mere flickers of movement against the stone.

His own work had been swift and brutal; the western flank’s guards lay scattered, dead, their alarm silenced before it could rise.

But his attention was drawn, unerringly, back to the center of the battlefield—to her.

Sakura.

He narrowed his eyes, arms folded loosely across his chest, the steel plates of his armor catching the faintest gleam of starlight.

Her fighting style was… unusual.

Not sloppy, not wild.

Controlled.

Precise.

She did not waste motion.

Every strike was intentional—a surgeon’s hands, turned toward violence.

Even more striking was the power behind her movements.

He had seen elite shinobi crumble under the weight of similar chakra-enhanced strikes, but few could wield that strength without sacrificing speed or balance.

Yet she moved like a seasoned predator: swift, flexible, utterly without hesitation.

Tobirama frowned slightly.

This was no civilian medic trained hastily in chakra basics.

This was the product of rigorous, deliberate training. Years of it.

His fingers drummed against his forearm silently.

Suspicion—his constant companion—whispered sharp warnings in his mind.

Where had she learned such skill?

What had forged her so ruthlessly?

Yet even as his instincts prickled warily, a quieter, rarer thought stirred in the back of his mind.

Potential.

He watched as Sakura deftly subdued another enemy, this one larger and stronger than her—but rendered helpless by a clever feint and a brutal, chakra-enhanced uppercut to the jaw.

Efficient, Tobirama thought again.

No wasted energy. No mercy.

A thin smile ghosted across his lips.

Yes.

He would continue to watch her very closely.

For now.

The air grew thicker as they approached the lair, the stench of metal and dampness seeping into the night. The stone entrance loomed before them like the mouth of a great beast, hungrily swallowing the dark shadows that surrounded it. Tobirama’s team moved with silent precision, their steps measured, calculated.

Sakura was in the middle of the group again, her senses heightened, every muscle tense. She had learned not to rely solely on her eyes—chakra detection was just as important. Every ounce of her training screamed that something wasn’t right.

They reached the stone doors that sealed the entrance to the lair. The seal was complex, interwoven with ancient chakra threads, but there was something unusual about it.

Sakura’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the markings, tracing the intricate layers. Something felt off. The seal was more than just a barrier. There was a residual energy here—one that didn’t feel like a mere guard against intruders. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Her hand subtly brushed the seal, feeling its structure, the faint pulse of its chakra. She didn’t speak immediately, but her suspicion grew.

“Hokage-sama,” Sakura murmured. 

Tobirama, ever perceptive, noticed her hesitation. His eyes flicked toward her, and in that moment, Sakura’s heartbeat quickened. She knew he was watching, but she couldn’t help herself. Something about this didn’t sit right with her.

“I don’t think this is just a security measure.” Sakura’s voice was low enough for only him to hear.

Tobirama’s gaze sharpened. He had his own theories, but she had a point. The seal was far too complex, far too deliberate. He made a mental note to consider the possibility that the contents of the scroll might be more valuable than they were initially led to believe.

“I’ll handle the seal,” he replied tersely. “Stay sharp.”

As he moved forward to begin dismantling the intricate layers of chakra guarding the lair, Sakura stepped back, eyes still scanning the environment. Her instincts were telling her to be ready. She knew that something was about to break—something bigger than a simple mission for a stolen scroll.

And she was right.

The air crackled, and something in the atmosphere shifted. It was too quiet—eerily still.

They had breached the lair’s entryway and retrieved the scroll, but the moment they did, a heavy tension filled the air. Figures, dark as shadows, began to materialize from the depths of the lair, their chakra oppressive and sharp. The first attack came without warning—shuriken and kunai slicing through the air in a deadly arc.

Before anyone could react, more of them appeared—swift, like phantoms—surrounding them with lethal intent.

Tobirama was the first to move—a blur of motion faster than thought.

His hands came together in a rapid-fire sequence of seals, each one executed with the precision of a man who had long since mastered the art of killing in silence and speed. The moisture in the air responded instantly, coiling toward him like a living thing. Then—

“Suiton: Suijinheki!”

The words rang out low and commanding, and in the next breath, a towering wall of water exploded upward in front of them with a thunderous roar. It surged like a tidal wave crashing into stone, the force of it shaking the earth beneath their feet. The wall curled and locked into place, a shimmering barrier of rippling liquid chakra that intercepted the incoming volley of kunai and shuriken with a harsh metallic hiss.

Steel met water—and was swallowed whole.

Blades sank into the current and vanished, dragged down or deflected with vicious force as the defensive technique held firm, unyielding and absolute.

“Form up!” Tobirama barked, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade.

Sakura didn’t hesitate. The moment Tobirama’s command rang out, her body was already in motion, muscle and instinct reacting in perfect sync. Adrenaline surged through her veins like fire, sharpening her senses to a razor’s edge.

From the mist, a kunai whistled toward her—a gleam of silver slicing through the haze. She twisted, weight shifting onto the balls of her feet, and deflected it with a sharp clang of metal against metal. Sparks flared in the dim light as the weapon ricocheted off her own and buried itself harmlessly into the ground.

But there was no time to breathe.

The situation shifted in an instant—the air thickened with killing intent, enemy chakra signatures flaring to life all around them.

This wasn’t a simple patrol squad.

They were surrounded by eight shinobi—all of them radiating power that prickled along Sakura’s skin like needles. Jōnin-level, without question. Their movements were fast, their teamwork seamless, and their bloodlust unmistakable.

This wasn’t a skirmish.

It was a full-on trap.

The enemy surged forward from all angles—shadows exploding from the rocks and ridgelines above, chakra flickering through the air as ninjutsu lit up the gloom in flashes of violent color.

Sakura caught a glimpse of Kagami fending off two attackers with blistering speed, his Sharingan blazing crimson. Hiruzen was already weaving through hand seals, unleashing a wave of fire that roared across the hillside. But even as their teammates fought back with deadly precision, the enemy pushed harder—pressing the advantage, forcing them to split, to scatter.

And then came the first blow.

It was almost too fast to see—a flicker of movement, the glint of a katana catching the dying light. One of the enemy shinobi—tall, masked, his chakra flaring with brutal intensity—lunged toward Koharu with terrifying speed. She turned, just a second too late.

The blade struck cleanly.

There was a sickening sound as the katana tore through fabric and flesh, the impact sending a wet spray of blood arcing into the dirt.

Koharu’s scream tore through the chaos like glass shattering.

She crumpled to the ground, her hands flying to her side, fingers clamping down over the wound now spilling scarlet into the dirt. Blood seeped fast, dark and thick between her palms. Koharu’s face contorted in a mix of disbelief and raw pain—her breath hitching, teeth clenched so tightly her jaw trembled. For a split second, everything slowed.

The clang of steel, the distant roar of fire jutsu, Kagami’s frantic footsteps—all of it seemed to vanish beneath the deafening rush of blood in Sakura’s ears.

Then—

“No!” Homura’s voice tore through the din, ragged with panic and fury.

But there was no time to process it.

The enemy shinobi, katana still gleaming red at the tip, stepped forward with deadly purpose. His eyes locked on Koharu’s bleeding, vulnerable form—and narrowed. Murder radiated from him, cold and certain.

Sakura’s heart slammed in her chest, each beat like a drum of war echoing through her ribcage. Her instincts surged, sharp and inescapable. She was already moving, body snapping into action before thought could catch up.

In a flash of motion, she lunged forward and interposed herself between Koharu and the incoming blade. Her kunai met the descending katana with a scream of metal against metal—sparks arcing outward as the weapons collided. The force jolted up her arm, but she held firm, feet digging into the dirt, refusing to give an inch.

Koharu lay behind her, gasping, trying and failing to push herself upright.

Sakura’s jaw set. This wasn’t about grudges or tension. It wasn’t about staying hidden anymore.

Despite her animosity, Koharu was part of Konoha.

And that was all that mattered.

Sakura pivoted sharply, twisting her torso, and in a seamless motion channeled raw chakra into her punch. Her fist crashed into the enemy’s jaw with bone-shattering force. The sound was like a hammer striking stone. His body lifted off the ground and flew backward, slamming into the hillside with a sickening crunch, limbs splaying limply as dust and rock exploded around him. He was dead upon impact.

Koharu blinked up at her in stunned silence, blood still flowing freely from her side.

Sakura immediately dropped to her knees, hands already alight with healing chakra. The soft green glow pulsed between her fingers as she pressed them gently to the wound.

“Don’t move,” she said tightly, her voice clipped with focus. “You’re bleeding too fast.”

Koharu flinched under her touch—more from shock than pain now—her dark eyes still wide with something unreadable. Suspicion. Confusion. Shame.

But she didn’t argue.

There was no time for pride.

“Sakura-san! Koharu!” Kagami’s voice cut across the battlefield like a warning bell.

Sakura’s head snapped up. Her blood ran cold.

A second enemy was barreling toward them—faster than the last, his chakra blazing with lethal intent. The glint of his katana caught the gray light as he bore down on them, not slowing, not hesitating. His blade was angled low—not for her, but for Koharu’s unguarded back.

There was no time to think.

Sakura shoved Koharu aside with a hard, protective burst of chakra-enhanced strength. The girl tumbled across the dirt, gasping as she landed—out of the blade’s path.

But Sakura remained where she stood.

Wide open.

The katana struck her cleanly.

Agony tore through her abdomen in a single, brutal stroke. The blade drove deep, metal grating through flesh and muscle, punching out the other side in a rush of hot blood.

Time fractured.

Pain stole her breath. The battlefield muted. Even the wind seemed to vanish.

She swayed slightly, the world tipping around her. Her legs locked to keep from falling. The warm flood of blood soaked through her qipao, trailing down her legs in rivulets.

From somewhere behind her, she heard Hiruzen and Kagami shout her name—voices raw with panic, nearly drowned by the rush of her pulse pounding in her ears.

The shinobi before her sneered, mistaking her silence and stillness for defeat.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Sakura’s eyes snapped up, glowing with a cold, lethal light. There was no panic there. No fear. Only fury—sharp and controlled, burning in the depths of her emerald gaze like tempered steel in a forge. Blood dripped from her lip, from the open wound in her gut, but she didn’t falter. Her spine straightened. Her stance stabilized. She was a silhouette of stillness in a storm, carved from something unbreakable.

Then, she moved.

Her hand shot up like a viper, lightning-fast and unerring. She caught the attacker’s wrist mid-motion—just as he tried to wrench his sword free—and stopped it cold. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Her grip was like iron.

“You picked the wrong person to mess with,” she ground out, voice low, venomous.

With a twist of her wrist and a brutal torque of chakra-laced strength, she snapped his wrist. The bone gave with a sickening crack. The shinobi screamed, letting go of the katana—still slick with her blood—as his body reeled.

But Sakura wasn’t done.

In one fluid motion, she yanked him forward by his arm, brought her knee up with punishing force, and drove it into his solar plexus. He choked, breathless, all air torn from his lungs in a single violent instant.

Then she pivoted.

Still holding him by the ruined limb, she spun on her heel and slammed him into the ground hard enough to make the earth quake. Dust exploded in a halo around the impact site, his body crumpling motionless at her feet.

Sakura exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, blood still pouring down her side.

Her fists were clenched. Her expression was unreadable. But her eyes burned like a forge fire.

She was done hiding.

She was done holding back.

And anyone who thought she was an easy target was about to learn just how catastrophic a mistake that was.

Another attacker lunged at her, katana raised high. But Sakura didn’t flinch. With a brutal yank, she pulled the blade from her own abdomen without hesitation—her body trembling only slightly from the raw pain. Blood squirted out from the wound in a crimson arc. But Sakura paid no heed to this.

With a ferocity that surprised even herself, she drove the katana into the neck of the second attacker, her chakra pushing the blade deeper. He fell instantly, dead before his body hit the ground.

Sakura stood amidst the fading echoes of battle, blood slicking her torn garments, dripping steadily into the earth. Her chest rose and fell with each labored breath, but her spine remained straight, her stance unyielding. She wouldn’t fall. Not here. Not when Koharu still lay defenseless behind her.

Pain flared hot and sharp in her abdomen—a constant reminder that she was running on borrowed time. Gritting her teeth, she pressed her hands together in a familiar seal. The diamond on her forehead pulsed, and in the next breath, black lines unfurled from the Byakugou seal like veins of power, crawling across her skin.

Warmth spread through her limbs as chakra surged, knitting muscle and mending flesh with practiced precision. Relief seeped into her bones—not from the healing, but from the clarity it brought.

Her gaze drifted to where Koharu lay, half-curled in the dirt, blood still staining the side of her uniform. Her eyes were wide—not just with pain, but with something like disbelief. Amazement. Guilt.

“You… you saved me,” Koharu said, voice hoarse. “After everything, I…”

She trailed off. Couldn’t finish. Couldn’t meet Sakura’s eyes.

Sakura crouched beside her, ignoring the tug of her recently-healed muscle. Her hands moved quickly, green chakra flaring to life as she pressed them to Koharu’s side again, reinforcing the healing she’d started earlier.

“You don’t have to like me,” Sakura muttered, not unkindly. “But I wasn’t going to let you die.”

Koharu flinched—not from pain this time, but from the weight of her own words unspoken. Her mouth tightened. Her eyes shone, though no tears fell.

Sakura didn’t look at her again. She kept her focus on the injury, her movements brisk, efficient—but there was a gentleness in her touch she didn’t try to hide.

“You’re a part of Konoha,” she added, softer this time. “That’s enough for me.”

Koharu swallowed hard, guilt creasing her brow.

Sakura didn’t need an apology. Not now. Not here.

The battlefield didn’t wait for grudges to resolve.

But as she rose again, rolling her shoulders and shifting her weight back onto her feet, she caught Koharu staring up at her—not with irritation this time, but something closer to respect.

Maybe not trust.

But it was a start.

Her eyes flicked toward Tobirama, who stood off to the side, watching. Silent, calculating, as ever. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t intervened. He was studying her—waiting.

But Sakura could feel it—something had changed. She had made her mark. They were all watching her now. No one would forget this.

Tobirama’s gaze swept the battlefield with the precision of a hawk. Every movement, every shift of chakra, was catalogued and assessed. His team moved as trained: Kagami’s counters were sharp, Hiruzen’s timing was steady, Danzo’s mercilessness’s strikes and Homura’s defense held—barely.

But it was Sakura who disrupted the equation.

He had expected her to remain on the perimeter—standard positioning for a medic. Support was priority, not frontline engagement. She had struck him as composed, intelligent, perhaps overly cautious. Not unskilled, but not someone who would risk herself unnecessarily.

Then Koharu fell.

The scream, Koharu’s blood on the earth—it snapped the rhythm of the battlefield. For a fraction of a second, it threatened to fracture the team's formation.

But Sakura didn’t hesitate.

She was already moving, pushing past the chaos like a current through water. The katana strike meant for Koharu should have ended her. Instead, Tobirama watched with narrowed eyes as Sakura flung herself between them and parried the steel with her kunai. 

Then, Sakura shoved Koharu out of the way—just before steel tore through her. She didn’t even scream.

He stiffened.

Not at the blood—he’d seen enough of that in his lifetime—but at the expression she wore. Not pain. Not panic. Focus. Purpose.

And then, astonishingly, she fought back.

Even impaled, Sakura moved with terrifying precision. She caught the enemy’s wrist, locked eyes with him, and dropped him in a single blow. Her body moved like she had trained for this moment her entire life—not the way medics were trained, but how soldiers were bred.

The second enemy approached. She didn’t flee, didn’t wait for backup. Instead, she tore the katana from her own body—her own body—and drove it into her attacker with cold efficiency.

His fingers twitched slightly at his side, the only sign of his reaction.

Tobirama stood, a silent observer, his thoughts racing. This was a warrior, a protector—a force in her own right. He had seen many battle-hardened shinobi in his time, but Sakura… She was different.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed, a trace of something like admiration—or perhaps curiosity—flashing through his mind. She had done something most would never dare: she had sacrificed herself for Koharu.

And yet, she hadn’t faltered. She hadn’t even wavered. She stood there, bloodied, bruised, but unyielding. And that… that was something he couldn’t ignore.

He watched as the seal on her forehead pulsed with chakra, and strange black lines unfurled down her body like living ink. In the next breath, her wounds began to knit closed with unnatural speed—the deep gash from the katana sealing as if it had never been there.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed.

It wasn’t just medical ninjutsu. It was something else—something ancient, refined, and entirely unfamiliar. Dangerous in its potential. His mind raced to catalogue it, to fit it into what he knew of known techniques, but came up short.

It was impressive, yes. But more than that—it was unsettling.

He heard Koharu whisper something to her. Broken, ashamed.

And Sakura… Tobirama saw the way she softened—only slightly—but chose restraint. A medic would offer comfort. A comrade might scold. Sakura did neither. Her nod was brief, her words measured. She simply continued healing.

Efficient. Focused. Unflinching.

Tobirama said nothing, but he did not look away. Not even as another blast of enemy chakra shook the ridge behind them. His thoughts remained on her.

It wasn’t admiration that stirred in him. Not yet.

But it was something close to recognition.

Tobirama felt the weight of her gaze, and for the first time, he realized something. Haruno Sakura was no mere medic. She was a force, a storm hidden beneath the surface. And he had no idea just how much potential she held—potential that he had underestimated.

This woman—this mystery of a kunoichi—had just rewritten the battlefield around her. Sacrificed herself, survived, and stood again. Not for accolades. Not to prove a point. But because it had to be done.

She wasn’t here to impress him.

That made her even more dangerous.

He watched as she returned to her position without fanfare, still bloodied, her seal still glowing faintly. There were no dramatics. No words.

Just resolve.

And Tobirama realized, with a grudging twist in his gut, that Haruno Sakura was not the anomaly he had assumed.

She was a variable.

And variables had to be watched.

The camp was quiet now.

The fire burned low, casting long, tired shadows across the clearing. Koharu had fallen into a restless sleep, her wounds fully healed thanks to Sakura’s efforts. Kagami and Homura spoke in low murmurs nearby, too exhausted to argue the day’s events. Hiruzen sat watch, eyes ever alert even in his fatigue.

Sakura couldn’t stay.

The blood dried on her uniform, the heavy weight of the day pressing against her skin—she needed to wash it away, if only for a moment. Slipping from the edges of the firelight, she moved through the trees, her footsteps light on the soft earth. The others didn’t notice. She preferred it that way.

The cool night air wrapped around her like a balm. The forest parted to reveal a lake, silvered by the glow of the full moon. She moved to the edge, her red qipao dress torn and stained in places, but still vibrant against the shadows.

Kneeling, Sakura unbuttoned her dress and peeled the fabric aside to examine herself.

Where there should have been a gaping wound in her side, there was only flawless skin.

No bruising.

No lingering ache.

The Byakugou seal was potent—years of training had made her body a vessel of perfect regeneration. But even she still could not help but feel a pang of awe at how clean the healing had been.

Still, Sakura thought wryly. I’ve got to get out of the habit of always being stabbed in the stomach. 

Memories of her time fighting Sasori and Madara flashed before her eyes. She could still feel the sting of Sasori’s poisoned blade spearing through her abdomen, and the crushing force of Madara’s weapon that had torn through her defenses and split flesh from bone. It had been almost a decade since then, yet she still couldn’t suppress the chill that ran down her spine whenever those memories crept up on her.

The lake reflected her like a mirror—bloodstained, battle-worn, but alive. She’s alive, and that’s all that matters. 

She dipped her hands into the cold water, washing away the last traces of the fight. The pain she had endured earlier felt distant now, almost unreal.

The cold breeze swept over her exposed skin, but she didn’t flinch. The chill was grounding. A reminder of why she was still alive.

Koharu.

Sakura exhaled quietly, her reflection rippling in the water.

She hadn’t hesitated. Despite the bitterness Koharu had directed at her, Sakura had still taken a blow for her without a second thought.

Because it was the right thing to do.

Because that was what it meant to be a shinobi of Konoha.

Now, as the moon rose higher and the rippling lake reflected the cool silver and darkened sky, a rare stillness settled over her. The chaos of battle felt distant here—drowned in the hush of rustling leaves and the rhythmic lapping of water against stone.
The ache in her limbs had dulled. Her mind, for a moment, unclenched. It was the kind of peace that came only in the aftermath of survival—fragile and fleeting, but precious all the same.

She let out a soft breath and closed her eyes for a second, letting herself feel it—the gentle warmth of the moonlight on her skin, like a quiet reassurance from the night itself.

Then—movement.

Her senses went taut, instincts honed through war snapping into place. She didn’t startle. She didn’t need to turn. That chakra signature was impossible to mistake—sharp and focused like a blade honed to perfection.

She pulled her dress back on and buttoned it to preserve her modesty, her movements calm and deliberate. She didn’t look at him. She kept her gaze trained on the water, letting the silence stretch, waiting.

Tobirama’s sharp eyes tracked Sakura without needing to move his head. She slipped away from the circle of firelight, disappearing into the woods beyond. Not suspiciously—but with a kind of quiet resignation, like someone weighed down by too much blood and too many unanswered questions.

He rose, silent as a passing breeze, and followed her.

Not out of distrust, he told himself. It was a habit—observe, assess, understand. She was still a variable he hadn’t solved yet, a shinobi whose power and instincts didn’t align with her supposed experience. It was only prudent to keep her within sight.

The moon was high, casting a pale glow over the landscape. He followed the soft impressions of her footsteps in the dirt until he found her by the lake’s edge.

The moonlight caught her hair, turning it a muted pink. Her face, usually guarded and practical, was softened by the stillness of the moment. The reflection in the water mirrored back something almost ethereal—otherworldly.

Tobirama stiffened slightly, unsettled by the thought.

Ethereal was not a word he used lightly, nor did he entertain such distractions easily. Yet here he was, standing in the shadows, studying the way the light played across her features, feeling…something he could not quite categorize.

Sakura knelt at the edge, her red dress vivid against the silver and blue hues of the night, the fabric clinging to the elegant lines of her figure.

There, under the open sky, she knelt by the water. She had peeled away her blood-soaked dress, exposing the pale skin of her back and the sharp lines of her muscles. She leaned over the water, her hands carefully cleaning away blood and dirt, her movements methodical.

Tobirama slowed, lingering at the treeline, his presence carefully masked. His gaze sharpened—not in lust, but in the keen manner of a strategist, a man studying an unknown, potentially dangerous variable.

But what surprised him was seeing her pale skin—smooth and unblemished.

No scar.

No wound.

Not even a hint of infection.

Impossible.

Even for an elite medic, it should not have been so flawless. Healing left traces—discolorations, fatigue, lingering chakra distortion. But Sakura’s body was pristine, unmarred, as if the battlefield had never touched her.

His eyes narrowed slightly, thoughts quick and cutting. What manner of technique is this?

Even within the Senju clan, there was no one with mastery approaching this level. At least, no one who was still alive. 

He stepped forward, his footfall deliberate enough that she would hear him approach and unmasked his chakra. She tensed, briefly, before relaxing when she recognized him but quickly pulled her dress back on to conserve her modesty. 

Tobirama came to a stop a few paces behind her, arms crossed over his chest, posture casual—but his mind was far from at ease. 

“You saved my student today,” he said finally, his voice low, cutting through the night air. “But it was reckless of you to do what you did.”

Sakura didn’t look up immediately. Her voice steady but soft. “I would be happy to give my life for a fellow Konoha shinobi.”

He frowned, his brows pulling together. Recklessness was one thing. Blind devotion was another.

He stepped closer, watching the way she deliberately avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the water lapping at her fingers.

“Is that so?” he mused aloud, the suspicion clear in his tone. “You barely know them. Yet you chose to take a blade for one. Why?”

He watched her carefully—measured the slight tensing of her shoulders, the quiet strength in her posture.

Sakura’s expression softened faintly, but her gaze, when she finally turned it toward him, was steady and unyielding. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Would you not have done the same, Hokage-sama?”

Yes, he would. 

Her words were simple. Honest. Yet they held a weight that many older, more seasoned shinobi often lacked.

Tobirama said nothing for a long moment. He simply regarded her, eyes sharp and calculating.

The right thing to do.

It was so naive—and yet, so profoundly difficult to maintain, especially in the brutal reality they lived in. He should have dismissed it as idealism.

And yet, he found he couldn’t.

The way she stood, battered but unbroken, stubbornly clinging to her ideals—it was maddeningly… and also compelling.

He turned his gaze away, back to the moonlit surface of the lake, schooling his features into neutrality.

It was foolish to be fascinated. Dangerous.

She was a puzzle, an anomaly wrapped in soft features and steely willpower.

His gaze slid briefly to her side again, to the place the katana had pierced through her only hours ago.

No sign of weakness. No wound. Nothing.

“What technique did you use?” he asked, voice quieter now, the curiosity more difficult to hide.

Sakura only smiled faintly, the curve of her lips almost secretive. “Just something I learned along the way,” she replied, offering no further details.

Tobirama frowned inwardly. He hated vagueness. And yet… something about her composure, the sheer weight of her presence, made it difficult to press further without seeming petty.

And yet, as he listened to the sound of her breathing and the quiet lapping of the water, he realized that no matter how he tried to reason it away, he could not deny that Haruno Sakura was quickly becoming an enigma he could no longer ignore. Most shinobi, even veterans, would still be shaken from a near-fatal wound, from the chaos of battle. But Sakura sat there like the eye of a storm—quiet, contained, and unreadable.

He told himself he was merely observing, studying her for the sake of the mission. That was the reasonable thing to do. The prudent thing. And yet, beneath that logic, something else flickered—something he hadn’t yet found the words for.

Approval? No. Not yet. But something adjacent to it. An awareness, perhaps. A reluctant recognition that she had not only met his expectations… she had exceeded them.

Tobirama narrowed his eyes at the lake, as if the dark waters might reflect something back to him he hadn’t noticed. But the surface only rippled softly, offering no answers.

Still, he said nothing. Let the silence stretch.

And for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, Tobirama found himself strangely comforted by her silent, heavy presence under the vast, endless stretch of the moonlit sky.

Chapter Text

The gates of Konoha rose before them, warm and familiar under the morning sun.

Their mission was complete. Successful and without a cost. They passed through the bustling streets—villagers and shinobi alike pausing to nod respectfully at the returning team, specifically giving their regards to Tobirama. Sakura walked a few paces behind Tobirama, with Koharu, Homura, Kagami, Hiruzen, and Danzo trailing after, each marked by the weary air of battle and the bittersweet satisfaction of survival.

When they reached the administrative building, it was like shedding armor. The heavy tension that had wrapped around them during the mission loosened. Inside Tobirama’s office, they stood in a loose line, each giving a crisp, matter-of-fact debrief of the events.

Tobirama listened with his arms crossed, his crimson eyes sharp and unreadable. He offered few words in response, only short, precise acknowledgements, and areas for improvement. Yet when Sakura finished her report, she caught the faintest flicker of something—approval? curiosity?—before his expression smoothed back into its usual stoicism.

“Well done,” he said simply, before dismissing them with a nod. “Rest. You’ll be summoned again when needed.”

The team bowed in unison and filed out, the echo of their footsteps trailing down the long corridors.

Outside the building, the morning sun kissed the village rooftops in gold. One by one, her teammates peeled away—Hiruzen slinging an arm around Kagami’s shoulder with a laugh, Homura and Danzo muttering to each other about training schedules.

Sakura exhaled slowly, letting the familiar sights and sounds of Konoha seep into her bones.

She had just started down the path leading to the residential district when—

“Sakura-san.”

A voice called out behind her.

She turned to see Koharu jogging after her, her cheeks flushed, her dark hair slightly mussed from the hurried motion. A few strands came loose from her bun. 

Sakura waited, a little curious.

When Koharu reached her, she stopped, hands nervously clasped in front of her, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“I—” Koharu began, then paused, clearly forcing herself to continue. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Sakura glanced over, her expression neutral but curious. “Alright.”

Koharu drew in a short breath, her posture stiff even as a faint flush rose to her cheeks. “I owe you… an apology.”

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. “An apology?”

Koharu gave a terse nod, eyes briefly dropping before fixing back on Sakura with her usual intensity—though something about the look lacked its usual sharpness. “I was… unprofessional. Distrustful. And perhaps unnecessarily hostile.” The words came out clipped, as if admitting them cost her something.

She exhaled through her nose, tone firm but quieter now. “I misjudged you. And you still risked your life for me.”

There was a beat of silence, and then she added, almost reluctantly, “That isn’t something I take lightly.”

Sakura’s expression softened, but before she could respond, Koharu pressed on, the words spilling faster than she likely intended.

“The truth is,” she said, voice low but hurried, “you’re the first woman sensei has ever really paid that much attention to.”

Sakura arched a brow, mildly amused. “Oh?”

Koharu’s eyes widened a fraction—realizing how it sounded—and a rare flicker of embarrassment crossed her face. She straightened, almost defensively. “Not like that,” she said quickly, her tone clipped. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Sakura’s lips curled into a subtle, teasing smile. “Didn’t you?”

Koharu gave a sharp exhale and looked away for half a second before turning back, irritation and embarrassment warring in her expression. “You’re insufferable.”

That only made Sakura’s smirk grow.

With an audible sigh, Koharu continued, tone cooler now, but tinged with honesty. “What I meant is he has always taken me seriously. Trained with me. Trusted me with real assignments. That kind of thing… means a lot to a kunoichi, especially in this village.”

Her voice grew quieter, more composed. “I’ve admired him for a long time. Maybe I thought that made me… unique. That I’d earned his regard. Then you showed up—skilled, respected, and somehow his attention is all on you now. It caught me off guard.”

She didn’t fidget, but her jaw flexed slightly as if resisting the urge.

“I got agitated. That’s on me.”

Sakura regarded her for a long moment before her eyes softened, then gave a small nod. “Thanks for telling me. I appreciate the honesty. And for the record—he’s still your sensei. My presence here will never change that.”

Koharu gave a sharp nod in return, something easing in her shoulders.

A brief, awkward silence passed before Koharu cleared her throat.

“Anyway,” she said, tone shifting back to brisk. “A few of us are heading to the onsen tonight. Thought I’d extend the invitation.”

Sakura blinked at the sudden pivot. “The onsen?”

“Hot water, quiet, relaxation,” Koharu clarified, arms crossing loosely. “You in?”

The idea of warm steam and peace after a brutal mission was more tempting than Sakura expected. A real smile curved her lips—calm, bright, genuine.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Koharu gave a single, pleased nod—almost reluctant to look too enthusiastic—but her eyes flickered with relief.

“Good. Seven sharp. Don’t be late,” she added, then turned crisply on her heel and strode off with practiced poise… though Sakura didn’t miss the slightly quickened pace in her step.

Sakura stood there for a moment, watching her go.

A strange warmth unfurled in her chest—relief, maybe. Gratitude. She hadn’t realized how much that lingering tension with Koharu had weighed on her until now, when it had lifted like a cloud blown away by the breeze.

She exhaled softly and tilted her face toward the sky.

Somehow, it reminded her of someone.

Her heart tugged unexpectedly, and her thoughts drifted—across time and distance—to another girl who used to grab her hands in excitement. Who used to drag her to hot springs and restaurants and shopping trips.

Ino.

Sakura’s chest ached faintly with longing.

She wondered where Ino was now—what she was doing, if she was smiling, if she was safe.

Her gaze grew faraway, the bustle of Konoha around her fading into a soft, muffled background.

I’ll find a way back to you, Ino.

She promised silently.

Someday.

For now, though, there was still tonight—still the warmth of new friendships being forged.

Sakura smiled again, steadier this time, and turned to head toward her apartment, the morning sun glinting in her hair like little shards of light.

Tobirama stood at the window of his office, arms loosely crossed over his chest, the soft rustle of papers from the window breeze behind him the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Outside, the village moved in its usual rhythm—children laughing as they darted between vendors, jounin gliding silently across rooftops, civilians chatting over morning produce. Familiar. Predictable.

And yet, his gaze did not linger on the village at large.

It narrowed, instead, to the edge of the administrative building, where two figures stood in quiet conversation.

Sakura and Koharu.

He hadn’t intended to watch them. He simply happened to glance down—and stayed there longer than he cared to admit.

Koharu's posture was tight, her chin lifted in that stubborn, defensive way of hers. But there was something else, too—something uncertain in the way she shifted her weight, a flicker of discomfort in her expression. Tobirama’s eyes flicked to Sakura, who stood across from her, relaxed, almost amused, but saying little.

Then Koharu gave a small, curt nod. Not stiff with rejection, but... begrudgingly pleased. An offering of approval, restrained but genuine.

Tobirama’s expression didn’t change, but he filed the exchange away with practiced precision.

Sakura adapts quickly.

The conclusion formed naturally, without effort. He’d already seen the signs—how she moved fluidly in battle, how she held her ground under pressure, how she made hard choices without flinching. But this... this was different. Earning the respect of someone like Koharu—stern, proud, guarded—was no simple feat. And yet, it had happened, and swiftly.

In a world where bonds were fragile and trust was more dangerous than kunai, she had managed to forge something solid. Not by force, not through manipulation, but through quiet persistence. Through action.

He recalled her figure in the field—bloodied, impaled, and yet unshaken. Pulling a blade from her own abdomen to stand between an enemy and her teammate. Healing without hesitation. Fighting without recognition. Moving not for praise, but because it was right.

Strength and compassion.

He had seen shinobi with one or the other. Rarely both.

Tobirama has come across many shinobi in his lifetime—ones who were brilliant, capable, and ruthless. But few possessed the kind of stubborn loyalty Sakura had displayed. Fewer still could bear such wounds with silent determination and stand tall because of them.

His gaze lingered for a beat longer as Sakura smiled to herself, a small, private expression that softened the sharp lines of her face.

Tobirama’s fingers twitched—a nearly imperceptible movement, but it was there all the same.

A frown ghosted his lips, faint but thoughtful.

She affects others. Changes them.

And not just others .

The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

With a sharp breath through his nose, Tobirama turned away from the window, his armor glinting briefly in the light.

There was work to be done. Reports to file. Missions to plan.

He would not allow himself to be distracted.

Still…

Even as he sat back down at his desk, his mind, disciplined and razor-edged as it was, drifted once more—unbidden—to the image of Sakura standing under the sun, her hair catching the light like flame, her qipao a brilliant splash of red against the village’s muted hues.

Tobirama set his pen to parchment, but for once, his strokes were slower.

More deliberate.

And somewhere, buried deep beneath the logic and strategy that governed him, a flicker of something unfamiliar took root.

Interest.

The sun was dipping low behind the rooftops of Konoha, casting the village in a soft, golden glow. Lanterns along the main streets flickered to life one by one, painting the cobblestone paths with warm pools of light. The air smelled faintly of grilled street food and blooming summer flowers as Sakura made her way toward the famed Central Onsen.

It had been a long time since she last allowed herself this kind of luxury.

Tonight, she was dressed differently—gone was her usual battle-ready attire. Instead, she wore a simple but elegant pale blue yukata, embroidered with faint silver waves along the hem. She had bought it just days ago from a market vendor, using some of the advance payment Tobirama had personally authorized for her hospital work. It had felt strange at first—buying something so… frivolous—but now, as the cool evening breeze stirred the loose fabric around her legs, she was grateful for it.

The Central Onsen rose up ahead, a sprawling traditional bathhouse with its curved tiled roof and thick clouds of steam billowing lazily from behind bamboo fencing. Its reputation had been legendary even in her time—an oasis of calm and comfort tucked within the heart of a shinobi village.

Sakura slowed as she approached, her wooden sandals clacking softly against the stones. A nostalgic ache curled through her chest.

She hadn’t visited often back home—just a handful of times with Naruto, Kakashi, Yamato and Sai, and a few treasured evenings with Ino, Hinata, and Tenten.

It’ll be nice… Just to breathe. To be a girl again for a little while.

Stepping inside, she was immediately enveloped by the familiar scents of mineral water, fresh wood, and faint floral soap. Warmth pressed against her skin like a welcoming embrace.

Scanning the reception area, she quickly spotted them.

Koharu stood with her arms crossed, though the slight lift of her chin and the quick glance she threw Sakura’s way betrayed a flicker of anticipation. Her usual sternness was intact, but there was a notable effort to temper it, as if she didn’t want to seem too eager. Beside her stood two unfamiliar girls. The first was petite, with short brown hair that framed her youthful face, her large brown eyes bright with open friendliness. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

She stepped forward, offering a polite bow. “Hello, Sakura-san. My name is Biwako,” she said, her voice sweet with a hint of shyness.

Sakura returned the bow with a small smile, about to introduce herself—when her gaze caught the second girl.

And for a brief moment, the world around her tilted.

The woman—older than Biwako, perhaps twenty or twenty-one—had a sharp, striking beauty. Platinum blonde hair, cut to her chin, stylishly short to frame her angular features, and those vivid blue eyes—the same shade as Ino’s.

Sakura’s steps faltered ever so slightly, her breath catching without her meaning it to.

The woman stepped forward with an easy, charming smile.

“I’m Yamanaka Inori. Nice to meet you, Sakura!” She grinned, offering her hand in a very non-traditional, casual manner.

Sakura blinked, struggling for a moment to gather her composure.

Koharu glanced over, her brow tightening slightly. “You look pale,” she said evenly. “Are you alright?”

Biwako watched her too, concern flickering across her face.

Sakura cleared her throat quickly, pulling herself together with a practiced, if tight, smile. “It’s nothing,” she assured them, waving a hand. “Inori-san just… reminds me of someone from my past. That’s all.”

The three girls exchanged puzzled looks but didn’t press.

Without missing a beat, Inori laughed and grabbed Sakura’s arm, looping it through hers. “Well! Whoever it is no heavy thoughts tonight!” she chirped. Her platinum hair caught the lantern light, flashing gold for an instant. “Come on! You’re here to relax, aren’t you?”

Before Sakura could respond, Inori was already tugging her along toward the women’s changing area. Koharu and Biwako trailed behind, chatting animatedly about who would get the best spot in the main bath.

Sakura allowed herself to be pulled along, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to unwind slightly and couldn’t help but smile. 

In the changing room, they quickly disrobed, neatly folding their yukata and garments into small wooden baskets. Sakura’s pale skin gleamed softly under the lantern light, her movements instinctively graceful. The bathhouse hummed with the quiet murmurs of other women relaxing, the distant splash of water the only other sound.

As they wrapped towels around themselves and headed toward the steaming pools beyond, Sakura spared a glance at Inori once more. That shade of blonde, those mischievous, sharp eyes—they weren’t Ino’s.

But still… they were close enough to hurt.

For a second, she wondered what Ino was doing right at that moment.

Was she laughing somewhere? Training? Missing her?

Sakura’s heart gave a soft pang, a homesick ache she was learning to carry.

But she shook it off.

Tonight was for healing.

For friendship.

For finding small, steady pieces of peace.

She smiled as Inori flung an arm around her shoulders, dragging her forward toward the misty embrace of the hot spring.

And for the first time in a while, Sakura let herself relax.

The hot spring was blissfully warm, the mineral-rich water swirling in lazy ripples around them. Sakura let herself sink deeper into the soothing embrace of the pool, her body finally, blessedly relaxing after the weeks of constant tension. She let out a sigh of content. 

I could get used to this. 

Koharu, Biwako, and Inori lounged nearby, their faces flushed pink from the heat, their hair pinned loosely atop their heads to keep dry. Light laughter floated across the misty surface as they traded casual chatter—talk of missions, favorite food stalls in the market, new techniques they wanted to master.

It was… nice.

Normal.

Sakura savored it.

As their chatter flowed, she gradually learned that Inori and Biwako were both chuunin—an impressive feat, especially at this time where kunoichi were still slowly gaining ground in the shinobi ranks.

Inevitably, the conversation took a sharp, mischievous turn.

“So,” Inori said, grinning slyly as she nudged Biwako with her elbow. “Speaking of favorites… tell me, Biwako-chan, how’s your little crush on Hiruzen going?”

Biwako, who had been sipping water delicately from a lacquered cup, promptly choked and spluttered, her face turning a violent shade of red.

“I—I—!” she stammered, nearly sinking into the water out of sheer mortification.

Sakura, eyebrows arching in curiosity, leaned forward slightly. “Hiruzen?” she repeated, intrigued. “You mean Sarutobi Hiruzen?”

Inori’s eyes lit up. “Go on, Biwako-chan. Tell Sakura the story!”

Biwako looked like she wanted to melt into the water, but under their expectant gazes, she managed to stammer out an answer.

“When I was younger…” she mumbled, her cheeks burning. “Before I officially joined Konoha… I got into trouble outside the village walls. Hiruzen-kun… he saved me. He didn’t even hesitate.” She hugged her knees to her chest, her voice growing softer. “Ever since then… I’ve admired him from afar. He’s so kind. So strong. I know I’m not on his level or anything, but…”

Her voice trailed off in a shy, wistful sigh.

Sakura’s expression softened. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short, Biwako,” she said warmly. “You’re already strong—and you’ll only get stronger.”

Inori nodded sagely. “Exactly!” she said, smirking. “Besides, if you want him to notice you, there are ways…”

At the tone in her voice, Sakura, Koharu, and Biwako all stiffened slightly, sensing where this was going.

“W-what ways?” Biwako asked, wide-eyed.

Inori leaned in dramatically, her voice dropping into a teasing, suggestive purr. “Men are easy, Biwako-chan. You just gotta smile a little more, lean in a little closer, accidentally brush your hand against his…” She let the word hang tantalizingly in the steamy air.

Biwako let out a strangled noise and buried her face in her hands, while Sakura turned a light shade of pink.

Koharu shot Inori a sharp look, her cheeks also tinged with pink despite her best efforts to appear unfazed. “Inori, honestly,” she muttered, voice clipped. “She’ll pass out at this rate—enough already.”

Inori just laughed. Then her mischievous gaze slid toward Koharu.

“Hmm,” Inori hummed, stretching languidly in the water. “Speaking of crushes… What about you, Koharu-chan? Rumor has it someone holds Tobirama-sensei in very high regard…”

Koharu stiffened but didn’t flail—her eyes narrowed slightly. “Admiration isn’t the same as infatuation,” she said curtly. “He’s a brilliant shinobi and a leader worth learning from. That’s all.”

Her tone was clipped, but the faint flush across her cheeks didn’t go unnoticed.

Then, almost too casually, she added, “Besides, if anyone’s caught his attention lately… it’s probably not me.”

Her gaze slid meaningfully toward Sakura, cool but assessing.

Inori and Biwako perked up immediately, their curiosity flaring as they followed her line of sight.

Sakura, sensing the sudden shift in attention, let out a slow groan and sank deeper into the water until only her mouth remained visible above the surface.

“Hokage-sama does not like me. If anything, he thinks I’m a nuisance. A… threat,” she muttered, 

But the gleam in Inori’s eyes only grew sharper. “A threat, huh?” she teased. 

“Funny… I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that before,” Koharu chimed in. 

“Like what?” Inori asked excitedly. Her eyes widened with curiosity. 

“He looked at her like he was trying to analyze every thread of her chakra,” Koharu said flatly, her arms crossed on the edge of the bath. Her tone was dry, but her eyes held a glint of something too knowing.

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Koharu gave a small shrug, almost imperceptible. “It was intense. Focused. Not the way he usually looks at people.” A beat passed, then she added with the faintest smirk, “Almost like he was trying to solve you.”

Inori let out a dramatic gasp. “That’s even more suspicious than a crush! Tell me more,” she demanded in excitement. 

“You’re all reading way too much into this,” Sakura groaned, clearly exasperated. “Believe whatever you want, but for the record, we’re not interested in each other. Not even a little.”

“Fine, fine,” Inori said with a sly grin. “If it’s not Hokage-sama, then you must have someone on your mind?”

The pool went quiet.

Sakura paused, thinking.

A certain pair of dark eyes flashed across her mind—Sasuke’s. The memory came like a blade to the ribs. Sharp, swift, and just as quickly buried. That cold gaze, once everything to her, now felt like a shadow from another life.

She had loved him with everything she had. Waited, bled, begged for his return. And for what? A fragment of the boy he used to be. A bond that had unraveled in silence.

But that felt like a lifetime ago. A different world. A different Sakura.

“There’s actually no one,” she said honestly, lifting her chin. “No one I’m interested in right now.”

Inori tilted her head, studying her. “How old are you anyway, Sakura?”

“Twenty-four,” Sakura answered without thinking.

Three jaws dropped simultaneously.

“TWENTY-FOUR?!” they shrieked in unison.

“Y-you look so young,” Inori gasped, grabbing Sakura’s hands with both of hers. “I thought you were maybe… eighteen!”

Biwako looked floored. “That’s older than any of us.”

Koharu didn’t gape like the others. Her brow creased instead, thoughtful. “You’ve carried a lot,” she said softly, almost more to herself than to the others. “More than someone your age should have to.”

Sakura blinked, startled by the quiet observation.

Koharu met her gaze, her expression gentle. “You must’ve given up so much… for other people. It shows in how you fight. How you protect.”

There was a quiet understanding in Koharu’s voice that Sakura hadn’t expected, but deeply appreciated. For a beat, silence hung between them, softened by the steam rising gently off the water.

Then Inori broke it with an incredulous squeak. “Wait, seriously—how the heck are you still single?!”

Sakura blinked, momentarily thrown. Her eye twitched. “Is that supposed to be a problem?” she shot back, arms crossing over her chest.

Inori threw up her hands, grinning. “Not a problem! Just a complete mystery!”

Sakura could help but roll her eyes. In her time, being single at twenty-four is completely normal! Hell, Tsunade-shishou is over sixty and still single, and she’s one of the strongest kunoichi alive.

“I’m not in a rush,” Sakura huffed, arms still crossed beneath the water. “I’m not going to settle for someone unworthy. And besides—”

Her voice drifted, her gaze turning distant. There were more important things to focus on.

Like getting back home.

Inori pouted in exaggerated dismay but held her tongue, sensing something deeper behind Sakura’s words.

The conversation was just beginning to settle again when Sakura abruptly froze. Every muscle in her body locked into place, her spine straightening like a drawn blade. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, as the faintest ripple of chakra brushed against the edge of her senses.

There it was.

Not an accident. Not some passive leak of chakra from a careless shinobi. This presence hovered—subtle and deliberate. A whisper of chakra signature that clung to the steam, worming its way from the men’s side of the onsen.

Sakura knew that feeling all too well. It was the sixth sense she’d honed through years of training…and experience. The telltale tickle of being watched, assessed—peeped on . She’d felt it countless times back in her Konoha, especially whenever Naruto got one of his bright ideas. He was hopeless at hiding his chakra back then, but over the years he’d learned to mask it just enough to fool the average kunoichi. Unfortunately for him, she’d also refined her ability to recognize the specific chakra fluctuations of someone with dishonourable intentions.

She’d taught him that lesson herself. Repeatedly. Painfully.

A vein twitched in her temple.

Silent now, Sakura extended her senses with the precision of a scalpel, tracing that subtle current like a hunter catching the scent of prey. She recognised this chakra.

A tight smile curled on her lips. Not in amusement. But in fury.

“Ladies,” she said softly, her voice like a thread pulled taut. Emerald eyes glared at the wooden wall separating the female and men’s side. “Stay in the water. Don’t move.”

“W-What? Why? What is it?” Inori stammered, glancing toward the wooden partition.

Sakura didn’t answer. She was already on her feet, water rolling off her in shimmering sheets as she grabbed her towel and wrapped it snugly around herself. Her expression was unreadable—but her eyes burned.

She moved like a predator now, quiet and deliberate, each step echoing on the warm stone. Her gaze scanned the wall—then locked on a tiny, perfectly round hole drilled near eye level.

Her brow twitched.

No. Her eye twitched.

A beat passed.

Oh hell no.

Then she moved.

Without a sound, Sakura drew her fist back, chakra concentrating in a surge of pinpoint force. Her knuckles glowed faintly with raw power as she aimed.

“Shannaro!”

And struck.

The impact was instant. Her fist smashed through the wooden fence, splinters exploding like shrapnel—and collided squarely with a face on the other side.

There was a sickening crack, the crunch of cartilage meeting chakra-enhanced force, followed by a sharp yelp as someone was violently flung backward.

The force of the blow didn’t just leave a hole—it shattered the structural integrity of the panel entirely.

With a groaning creak and a final snap of splintering wood, an entire section of the fence collapsed in on itself, crashing to the ground in a ruined heap of timber and steam.

Muffled groans drifted through the curling mist and screams could be heard from the women’s side as some of them scrambled to the changing room in fear.

Sakura stood tall, one hand still smoking faintly with residual chakra, her expression carved from stone.

As the dust cleared, there, slumped on the ground in all his naked, humiliated glory, was none other than Sarutobi Hiruzen—sporting a freshly broken, blackened eye socket.

Biwako shrieked in horror, submerging herself up to the nose. Inori and Koharu both wide eyed. 

Sakura, utterly furious, stomped over, grabbed Hiruzen by his hair, and began shaking him like a misbehaving puppy.

“You disgusting little pervert!!” she roared. “What kind of shinobi are you supposed to be, spying on women at a public bathhouse?!”

Hiruzen squeaked—actually squeaked—as Sakura’s furious tirade rained down upon him. His legs scrambled against the wet stones as he tried uselessly to escape her iron grip, but Sakura was far too strong. Each shake rattled his teeth in his skull.

Future Sandaime Hokage be damned. Sakura hated perverts.

Her mind flashed, unbidden, to the countless times she had caught Naruto sneaking around the women’s side of the baths back home, only to end up pummeling him into the ground. And now, here she was, generations earlier, doing the exact same thing to one of Konoha’s so-called “future legends”.

Are all men perverts?! she thought furiously, tightening her grip until Hiruzen yelped in terror.

Hiruzen’s face was comically pale, bruised, and sweating profusely under her merciless grasp. His eyes darted frantically, as if searching for someone—anyone—to save him from the enraged, towel-clad demon shaking the soul out of him.

“Did you think you’d get away with this?!” Sakura snarled, giving him another particularly vicious shake. “Do you not have shame?! You’re supposed to be a damn shinobi! A protector of Konoha!”

Hiruzen whimpered something unintelligible, but it only further stoked Sakura’s rage.

She barely registered the gasps and splashes around her until she suddenly felt them—two more familiar chakra signatures nearby.

Slowly, dreading what she would find, Sakura looked up.

There—lounging in the men’s hot spring, very much naked and completely unbothered—sat Uchiha Kagami and Senju Tobirama.

Both men were watching the scene unfold with different expressions. 

Kagami looked like he was valiantly trying not to laugh himself sick.

Tobirama, on the other hand, sat with cool composure. His arms were draped casually along the rim of the pool, steam curling lazily around his sculpted frame. Water clung to the planes of his chest and shoulders, beading and sliding down over taut muscle with maddening indifference.

But it was his eyes —those piercing, crimson eyes—that held her in place. Unblinking. Intense.

And locked squarely on her.

More precisely… on her towel-wrapped body.

Sakura froze, mortification crashing over her like a tidal wave.

Oh fuck.

Every muscle in her body tensed. Her breath caught. She suddenly became acutely aware of everything —the thin fabric clinging wetly to her skin, the sharp contrast between the heat of the springs and the cool night air on her exposed shoulders, the way his gaze didn’t falter, didn’t stray.

He was watching her. Not leering. Not ogling. Assessing . Like a predator might assess a creature that surprised it—unexpected, intriguing… not yet classified.

The realization made her want to sink straight into the earth.

Her cheeks lit up in a furious flush, pink blooming across her skin and racing down her neck. Her instincts screamed retreat, hide, disappear.

And she tried.

She really tried.

But then her gaze drifted—just a flicker. A slip of curiosity she couldn’t choke down fast enough. Stupid. Traitorous.

Her eyes dropped.

Just for a second.

And she immediately regretted it.

Tobirama lounged in the water with the kind of effortless dominance that couldn’t be taught—only born into. There was nothing posed or artificial in the way he reclined, arms stretched along the stone ledge, his body half-submerged in the steaming pool. And yet… every inch of him demanded attention.

The mist curled around his form like it obeyed him, wrapping his lean, battle-hardened frame in a shroud of intrigue. His silver hair, damp and tousled, slicked back to reveal the sharp angles of his face—chiselled cheekbones, a strong jawline, and those arresting, blood-red eyes that gleamed beneath the lantern glow like molten garnet.

He was beautiful in a way that was dangerous. Unforgiving. Wild.

His shoulders were wide and powerful, leading down to a chest sculpted through years of merciless discipline—scarred in places, but no less flawless for it. The water clung to him, beads gliding over defined pecs and down the lines of his torso, highlighting every ridge of muscle as if nature itself couldn’t help but worship him.

Sakura’s eyes betrayed her before she could stop them—sliding lower.

His abdomen was tight, each cut of muscle defined and perfectly aligned, narrowing into a tapered waist that disappeared beneath the waterline. The steam danced teasingly across his hips, obscuring just enough to torment the imagination but revealing too much to leave any innocence intact.

It was like something out of a forbidden painting, some long-lost portrait of a warrior god.

Sakura swallowed hard and could feel the heat crawl up the back of her neck. 

Dear Kami, he’s fucking gorgeous. 

Sakura quickly snapped her gaze back up, horrified at herself—and even more horrified to find Tobirama watching her.

Those crimson eyes glinted with unmistakable sharpness, as if he’d seen exactly where her eyes had wandered.

There was no smirk, no teasing tilt of his mouth—just that steady, unreadable stare, intense enough to burn straight through her towel and leave her feeling somehow even more exposed.

Sakura felt her heart hammering. She could practically hear the women shrieking in the background now.

“I—” she croaked, her voice embarrassingly high.

Tobirama merely tilted his head slightly, a gesture that somehow made him seem even more predatory.

“Was there something else you wished to inspect?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.

With as much dignity as she could muster, she dropped Hiruzen like a sack of potatoes, turned on her heel, so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet, muttering something unintelligible under her breath, and made a beeline back toward the women’s side without looking back once.

But Tobirama’s voice—deep, low, and rough-edged with heat—rumbled across the air.

“Sakura.”

She froze.

Towel clutched desperately against her chest, she turned her head slowly to meet his gaze.

Finally, a faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

“The repairs,” he said coolly, “will be coming out of your next paycheck.”

Face burning hotter than the steam around her, Sakura practically bolted back to the women’s side, clutching her towel like a lifeline. Behind her, Kagami’s unrestrained howls of laughter echoed through the onsen, making her want to sink straight into the floor and never resurface.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere inside Konoha’s hospital had shifted dramatically over the past few weeks.

Sakura, with her sleeves rolled up and her hair tied back, moved with the confident air of someone who owned the space—because in many ways, she did.

The staff greeted her warmly whenever she passed by; younger medics and even seasoned nurses subtly deferred to her judgment, and shinobi patients visibly relaxed when they realized Haruno Sakura would be the one handling their injuries. Yanagi and Saya, her two most promising students, hovered close, practicing diagnostic jutsu and basic wound treatment under her watchful eye.

It was during one such moment—surrounded by the rustle of paper files and the scent of antiseptic—that she felt him.

Sakura froze, hand stilled midair over a stack of re-organized archives, before she slowly turned around.

Tobirama stood in the doorway, arms crossed, impassive as ever.

Her breath caught for a second.

“Hokage-sama!” she said, hastily straightening. “What brings you here?”

“I will be observing the management of the hospital personally for the next few days,” he said, voice even. 

Sakura blinked once, absorbing the information without visible reaction.

“I understand, Hokage-sama,” she said, bowing her head respectfully.

Tobirama studied her a moment longer before continuing, his tone clinical. “Reports of your contributions have been favorable. However, I prefer first-hand evaluations before finalizing conclusions.”

The message was clear. No matter how many good words had been spoken about her, Tobirama trusted only what he saw himself.

Sakura nodded again, trying to appear calm and composed—though inwardly, she was anything but. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest, each beat a reminder of the humiliating memory that had lodged itself firmly in her mind. The onsen, the steam, the way her gaze had lingered —and where it had lingered.

She had literally eyed up the Nidaime Hokage in all his naked glory.

His voice was cool, even—professional. Completely unaffected. Meanwhile, the mortifying image of her ogling Tobirama like some love-sick academy girl looped mercilessly in her head. She could feel the heat crawling up her neck, blooming across her cheeks like wildfire.
She desperately hoped he couldn’t hear how loud her heartbeat felt in her ears, or see the way she shifted her weight just slightly—unable to stand perfectly still under the weight of her own embarrassment.

Stupid hormones! Stupid Sakura! Stupid good-looking Nidaime Hokage!

“Of course, Hokage-sama. I understand,” she managed stiffly, bowing slightly. 

And so began a new, nerve-wracking chapter of her probation.

Tobirama’s method of supervision was… infuriatingly quiet.

He said little. He didn’t interrupt. He simply watched.

When Sakura pored over mountains of paperwork, reorganizing patient records with crisp efficiency, she could feel his sharp gaze assessing her from across the room.

When she deftly mixed antidotes and poisons in the small apothecary wing, his crimson eyes followed every measured pour and precise grind of the mortar and pestle.

When she guided Yanagi and Saya through chakra control exercises, he leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed, completely silent.

He sometimes left without so much as a word, and every time he did, Sakura realized only after the door clicked shut that she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

Why does he have to be so… so intense? she thought in frustration.

The sheer presence he commanded, even without speaking, made it impossible for her to relax.

Worse still was her own traitorous mind that kept replaying embarrassing flashes of the onsen incident whenever their eyes accidentally met.

​​The warm afternoon light filtered through the windows of the hospital, casting soft gold across the sterile white walls. Sakura worked with steady hands, methodically healing a deep cut on a chuunin’s arm. The man flinched every few moments, not from pain, but from something else—his cheeks were flushed a bright, telltale pink.

“Um… Sakura-san?” he ventured, his voice a blend of nerves and hopeful anticipation. “After this, would you maybe… consider having dinner with me sometime? There’s a place in the village that makes amazing yakitori—”

Sakura paused, her chakra faltering mid-heal as surprise flickered across her face. She parted her lips, ready to respond gently—though she was no stranger to sudden confessions from patients, and never enjoyed turning them down, no matter how necessary it was. But before she could speak, the chuunin’s entire body went rigid.

“Hokage-sama,” he breathed, eyes locked over her shoulder.

Sakura turned.

Senju Tobirama stood at the threshold of the treatment room—not in the gleaming battle armor she had grown accustomed to seeing him in, but clad in a crisp white yukata layered over a high-collared black long-sleeved shirt, the dark folds of his hakama giving him a stately silhouette. The effect was immediate. The room, already quiet, seemed to still further under the weight of his presence.

There was no need for him to speak. His silver hair, the controlled strength in his posture, the quiet gravity of his gaze—it was enough.

Sakura exhaled through her nose, forcing her muscles to remain loose, her expression neutral. She finished off the healing with precise motion, aware of how her patient’s eyes kept flicking between her and the Hokage like a rabbit caught between two predators.

She rose smoothly to her feet, offering a respectful—if slightly brisk—dip of her head. “Can I help you, Hokage-sama?”

“I was just passing through,” Tobirama said, his tone perfectly even, as if that simple explanation warranted no further elaboration.

Sakura clasped her hands in front of her in a form of politeness, keeping her voice composed. “I hope nothing urgent required your attention with all your time being spent here at the hospital.”

“Delegation exists for a reason. It frees me to observe things directly when necessary.”

Though his tone remained neutral, Sakura caught the underlying weight of the statement—a reminder that nothing escaped his scrutiny. She offered a faint, practiced smile. “Of course. Though your presence here did seem to catch a few people by surprise.”

She wasn’t wrong. She could already feel it—the way the staff and patients alike tensed whenever Tobirama entered the room. Even now, the atmosphere was taut, the air sharp with unease. His presence commanded attention, demanded respect, and instilled a quiet apprehension wherever he went.

Tobirama’s crimson eyes drifted pointedly to the chuunin still sitting upright on the bed, back painfully straight. “Does my presence here bother you?”

The chuunin nearly jumped. “N-no, Hokage-sama! It’s an honor to have you here!”

A brief pause followed, silence stretching just long enough to be noticeable—until Tobirama’s gaze returned to Sakura. The faintest flicker of dry amusement touched his features, subtle enough to vanish if one blinked.

“Then I see no reason to leave.”

Sakura resisted the urge to sigh, schooling her expression into polite neutrality. “Understood, Hokage-sama.”

But inwardly, her thoughts churned—still flushed with memories she would much rather forget.Tobirama’s unreadable expression only unsettled her further, his very presence a quiet pressure she couldn’t quite ignore. 

If anything, she couldn’t shake the creeping suspicion that he found this whole situation vaguely amusing.

Tobirama remained at the threshold, arms loosely crossed over his chest, his sharp gaze following the deliberate movements of Haruno Sakura as she organised her supplies and set them aside with practiced efficiency.

She didn’t say another word, not directly—not to him—but the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she exhaled, the subtle pinch at her brow as she rubbed at her temple spoke volumes.

She was irritated. With him, no doubt. With his timing, his presence, the invisible weight he cast over every room he entered. And while she made no overt complaint, she wasn’t exactly hiding it either.

Tobirama observed in silence, the corners of his mouth unmoving, his expression unreadable.

Blunt honesty. A trait he had always regarded with both respect and caution.

Especially when it came from someone like her.

His thoughts flickered, unbidden, to the onsen incident a few nights prior. 

Tobirama rarely visited the public onsen, far preferring the quiet and seclusion of the private spring tucked within the Senju compound. But after much persistence—no, badgering—from Hiruzen and Kagami, he’d reluctantly agreed to join them for one night. It was, after all, a rare evening free of council meetings, missions, or reports, and they’d insisted he needed to “learn how to unwind”.

He’d noticed Hiruzen’s lecherous behavior the moment the man started edging suspiciously close to the partition separating the men’s and women’s baths, which had him shaking his head inwardly from disappointment at such behaviour. However, rather than stopping Hiruzen himself, Tobirama held himself back having sensed Sakura approaching—her chakra unmistakable, bright and fierce as ever—and, with a flicker of dry amusement, he decided not to interfere. He was, if he was being honest, curious to see how she’d respond.

She had not disappoint.

When Sakura had caught Hiruzen peeping through the fence, she promptly launched him halfway across the bathhouse with a furious, chakra-enhanced punch. In the aftermath, as the dust settled and the steam curled lazily in the air, she’d turned—and spotted him. Clad only in a towel herself, she’d frozen. Her gaze had dipped, lingered a fraction too long on his bare chest, then lower, before she snapped her eyes away with a startled breath and flushed cheeks.

That moment, brief but unmistakable, lingered in the back of his mind like the echo of a kunai just barely missing its mark. Curious. And not easily forgotten. He hadn't called attention to it at the time—but inwardly, he’d been... amused.

And he’d taken in his own share of details, albeit with far more subtlety. Her pale, smooth skin, still wet from the bath, seemed to glow in the misty light. The towel clung to her curves, the elegant taper of her waist and powerful definition of her thighs. Her arms, lithe and toned, bore the quiet strength of someone who trained relentlessly. 

She was not soft, not fragile—there was strength in every line of her, honed like a blade polished to gleam beneath its beauty. But that strength didn’t dull her femininity; it moved with her, wrapped in the graceful curve of her waist, the softness that lingered in the slope of her collarbone and the delicate lines of her neck. She was power and poise, wrapped in a disarming elegance that struck just as sharply.

He had seen that—and, despite himself, appreciated it. A flicker of something unspoken stirred beneath the usual calm of his thoughts. But, as always, he kept it buried, filed away like any other observation. 

For now.

“Okay, you’re all set to go.” Sakura’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. 

He remained silent and moved aside as the flustered chuunin excused himself with a series of hasty bows and muttered apologies, disappearing down the hall without so much as a backward glance. Sakura bid the chuunin farewell before sighing heavily, then turned her attention to back the medical supplies on the tray beside her, movements stiff and rushed.

Tobirama’s gaze sharpened slightly.

A part of him wondered if her irritation now stemmed not just from his presence, but from her lingering embarrassment of the onsen encounter. Understandable. But still something that needed tempering. Emotion and precision did not coexist easily in the world of shinobi—a truth he knew better than most.

He approached, steps nearly silent.

Sakura didn’t notice until he was standing beside her, reaching for the bandages she was fumbling with. She stiffened, eyes widening as she looked up at him.

Without waiting for a reply, he deftly reached past her, hands moving with the economical efficiency of someone used to handling fragile systems—supply chains, battlefield logistics, unstable alliances. He reshuffled the cabinet’s contents swiftly. Stacking gauze correctly, lining up bottles by size and use, tucking antiseptics and salves into logical, easy-to-reach places.

Sakura watched him, unmoving, as if trying to decipher his intentions.

When he finished, he closed the cabinet softly and turned to face her, expression unreadable.

Tobirama studied her for a long moment.

She was… still a variable. An anomaly with unknown origins, dangerous knowledge, and extraordinary strength. He could not afford to trust her completely.

Not yet.

But he could acknowledge what was in front of him—and what he saw was someone who, despite everything, threw herself into service without hesitation.

Someone who, even under scrutiny, still chose to lead, teach, and heal.

And, on a recent occasion that he discovered, someone who could be startlingly easy to fluster. He had seen the way her composure cracked when caught off guard, how color rushed to her cheeks, how her words sometimes tangled when she was embarrassed. For all her strength, for all her fire, there was still a streak of raw, human vulnerability in her that he found… curious.

The thought lingered, but he gave it no voice. Tobirama turned and strode out of the room, his footsteps swallowed by the polished floors. He didn’t glance back, but he could feel her gaze lingering on him—perceptive, puzzled, as if trying to make sense of what had just passed between them.

Outside in the corridor, he paused briefly.

The ANBU guards hidden overhead awaited silent orders, but Tobirama waved them off.

His mind still lingered—against his better judgment—but this time on the image of Sakura by the lake during their last mission, bathed in the gentle glow of moonlight, her expression serene and momentarily unguarded. He remembered again the flush that bloomed across her cheeks when she’d been caught sneaking a glance at him near the onsen, and the unwavering focus in her eyes as she moved through the hospital with tireless resolve, all strength and precision.

These weren’t the kinds of memories he allowed himself to dwell on. He was a shinobi—more than that, the Hokage. Discipline, detachment, duty. There was little room for idle sentiment.

And yet, those images persisted.

But it was another moment—sharper, heavier—that clung to him more than the rest.

He saw it again. Sakura taking the enemy’s blade without hesitation in place of his student, chakra flaring too late to shield herself fully. It wasn’t a maneuver born of recklessness—it was deliberate. Calculated. She had chosen to take the blow because she could withstand it better than the younger kunoichi could.

Not many shinobi, even among Konoha’s finest, had the instinct—or the spine—to make that call.

She had it—that same unspoken creed he lived by.

The village comes first.

What struck him wasn’t just her loyalty, but the shape of it. It wasn’t vague or performative; it was bone-deep, unwavering. It reminded him of how it had once burned in his brother, and how it still burned in himself.

She belonged to this village—not just by name or duty, but in spirit. And that, these days, felt rare.

Tobirama exhaled through his nose, a short, silent breath. He had not dropped his guard. He would not make that mistake.

But…

The gates of suspicion he had placed around her were no longer as immovable as before. There was room now—just a sliver—for consideration. Acceptance, if it came, would be gradual. Earned.

And Haruno Sakura, whether she realized it or not, was steadily earning it.

The door closed behind him with barely a sound, but the air in the room felt altered in his wake—heavier somehow, like his presence still lingered, watching, assessing.

Sakura stood there for a moment longer, willing her shoulders to relax. She exhaled slowly through her nose.

Tobirama didn’t say much, rarely wasted words—but every time he spoke, it was with the weight of intent. And every time he looked at her, truly looked, it felt like being seen through, not just seen. Like he was measuring her—not out of doubt, but out of expectation.

It rattled her more than she liked to admit.

Sakura pressed a hand to her chest, just above the steady beat of her heart. Except it wasn’t all that steady. Not when he entered a room. Not when his gaze brushed over her like it could pull every thought from her head. Not when he stood so close, perfectly still, like a blade she couldn’t read.

She wasn’t afraid of him. That wasn’t it.

If anything, she admired him—his brutal efficiency, his brilliant mind, the way he shouldered the burden of a village without ever asking for praise. He didn’t lead with charm or warmth, but with absolute conviction. And she respected that. She understood it.

But there was also the way he’d reacted during their last mission—when she’d shielded Koharu, chakra sizzling as the blade caught her through the abdomen. The way he’d looked at her afterward—not with anger, not with reprimand, but something else entirely. Something quiet. Something bordering on… acknowledgement?

That moment had stayed with her more than it should have.

And now, every time she caught him watching her, she couldn’t help but wonder—what did he see?

Sakura dragged a hand down her face, trying to collect herself.

Focus, she told herself. She was a senior medic-nin, a former student of Tsunade, a kunoichi who had earned her place on and off the battlefield. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t flutter.

But the racing of her heart didn’t lie.

And she hated that he was the only one who made her feel this unsteady.

Curiosity curled at the edges of her thoughts, persistent and soft. What was it, exactly, she was feeling? She didn’t have the answer. Not yet.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was—Tobirama wasn’t unaware of it either.

The days crept by with a certain deliberate slowness.

Tobirama continued his quiet surveillance of the hospital, rarely interfering, never announcing himself unless necessary. He moved like a shadow through the corridors—silent, composed, a constant but unobtrusive presence. His attention was fixed primarily on Haruno Sakura and the systems she had built and maintained with near-obsessive precision.

It didn’t take long to recognize the results of her leadership.

The hospital, once a place teetering on unorganized chaos, now ran with the seamless coordination of a finely tuned regimen. Charts were up to date. Supply inventories were no longer on the verge of running dry. The staff—chuunin, junior medics, even the civilian volunteers—moved more confidently, no longer glancing over their shoulders in dread or confusion.

The patients reflected that order too. They were admitted, assessed, treated, and discharged in efficient succession. No bottlenecks. No unnecessary delays. The turnaround was impressive.

And at the center of it all was her.

Sakura’s chakra control remained precise, her diagnostic jutsu sharp, her healing techniques refined from years of practice. A single touch of her hand, and ruptured tissue knit together. Internal bleeding stilled. Pain faded. She worked with the unwavering concentration of someone who knew exactly what was at stake.

But Tobirama had seen enough in his lifetime to know what to look for beneath the surface.

It was subtle at first—barely perceptible signs. A slight stiffness in her shoulders at the end of each shift. The way her smiles at colleagues faltered just a fraction too quickly. The circles begin to darken under her eyes, masked poorly with a touch of powder.

More than that, it was what she was doing when she wasn’t healing.

Between patients, she filed charts. Sorted prescriptions. Cross-referenced lab reports. She handled staffing schedules, recorded patient medical histories, even restocked supply cabinets herself—tasks that could easily be delegated, and yet she carried them all, without pause, without complaint.

It was now well past 9 p.m.

The clinic had quieted, save for the low hum of chakra monitors and the occasional distant shuffle of a night shift nurse. Most of the medical staff had already clocked out, their replacements settled in.

But Sakura was still there, hunched over her desk in the back office, sleeves of her white coat rolled to her elbows, a pen moving methodically across a thick stack of patient files. A single lamp lit her workspace, casting shadows across the creases in her brow. She hadn’t left that chair in over an hour.

Tobirama watched from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

She had arrived that morning just before six, when the sky was still a murky blue and the air sharp with dew.

Now, fourteen hours later, she was still working.

This is unsustainable, he thought, frowning slightly.

The others had relaxed. Trusted her enough to breathe easier. But she had simply taken on more.

No task was too small; no detail was beneath her notice.

Every wayward scroll, every misfiled report—she corrected it herself, without hesitation, without delegation.

It was, Tobirama noted, impressive in its way.

And foolish.

Was it pride? A need to prove herself? Or simply habit—born of too many years of shouldering burdens without complaint?

It didn’t matter.

Tobirama had seen what happened when responsibility was worn too long without reprieve. Even the strongest faltered. Even the most capable cracked.

He stepped into the room, quiet but deliberate, and spoke with his usual cool finality. “That’s enough for today.”

Sakura looked up immediately, eyes widened slightly at his voice. She bowed her head in professional greeting.

“Hokage-sama,” she said, voice crisp and steady.

Tobirama inclined his head slightly, his gaze coolly assessing.

“You are not utilizing your staff properly,” Tobirama said, his tone calm but firm. “Tasks such as these–” He gestured towards the paperwork. “–should be properly delegated to the other medics.”

Sakura blinked once, but otherwise didn’t react. Her fingers clenched tight unconsciously over her pen, her grip tight enough to whiten her knuckles.

“They’re still learning the new system, Hokage-sama,” she replied smoothly. “It’s faster if I handle it myself.”

Tobirama narrowed his eyes slightly.

“That may be true now,” he allowed, “but if you do not allow them to take on responsibility, they will not improve. Short-term efficiency does not outweigh long-term strength. Your staff must learn to stand on their own. Otherwise, you are building a system that will collapse without you.”

Sakura bowed her head again in acknowledgment, accepting the criticism without argument.

Professional. Respectful.

As expected of her. 

But Tobirama caught the faintest flicker of frustration in the tight line of her jaw, the way her breathing subtly deepened as she re-centered herself.

“Understood.” Sakura got up from her chair and bowed. “Thank you for your advice, Hokage-sama.”

Tobirama regarded Sakura in silence, his piercing gaze lingering on her for several long moments, as if measuring something unseen. The air between them seemed to still, heavy with unspoken questions. Then, without warning, he turned sharply on his heel, the sound of his sandals brushing against the floor the only indication of movement. 

“Follow me,” he said over his shoulder, his voice low and resolute.

Though he didn’t glance back, he could sense her hesitation—the ripple of uncertainty that briefly clung to her chakra like a shadow. Still, he didn’t need to look to know she would come. Something deep in his instincts told him she would follow, no matter how many questions she had.

Sakura trailed behind him, just a few paces back—not too close, not too far. Just enough to remain respectful of the space between them.

The streets of Konoha glowed under the warm spill of lantern light, lively despite the late hour. Stalls were still open, voices calling out their wares, the scent of grilled meat and sweet dango in the air. Civilians and shinobi alike turned to bow as they passed, each one dipping their head at the sight of Senju Tobirama, the Nidaime Hokage.

He acknowledged them with the slightest nod, never breaking stride.

Sakura kept her eyes on his back as they walked, her gaze drawn to the pristine white of his yukata, the bold black crest of the Senju clan stitched between his shoulder blades. It struck her—again—just how much weight he carried. Not only as the Hokage, but as the clan head. A pillar of the village.

How does he manage it all? she wondered, slowing her steps slightly as she watched the unwavering confidence in his gait. His presence demanded attention, but not loudly. It was his restraint, his control, that made people take notice.

Does he go home to anyone? she found herself thinking, brows furrowing slightly. A wife? Children?

She couldn’t remember reading anything about that in the historic records. No mention of a spouse, no known heirs. Not even idle gossip from the time he reigned. And now, seeing him in the present—stoic, exacting, composed—she couldn’t help but wonder if he had always been this solitary. If that solitude was chosen, or inherited along with the mantle of Hokage.

And, Kami help her, was he even single?

Wait… Why should I care about that?

Her face warmed slightly at the thought, and she immediately shoved it aside, shaking herself from the spiral.

Just as she did, Tobirama stopped.

Sakura, still half-lost in her wandering thoughts, nearly collided with his back. She caught herself just in time, blinking up at him with confusion—only to find herself staring at the familiar wooden structure of Ichiraku Ramen.

She blinked again. “Wait, what—?”

Before she could finish her question, Tobirama glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Come.”

Then, without further explanation, he turned and stepped up to the row of stools.

The shop was nearly empty, save for one sleepy genin slurping down his bowl at the far end. Behind the counter stood a man with ash-streaked hair tied into a short tail, wearing a broad grin that made Sakura double-take—he looked strikingly like Teuchi from her own time.

“Nidaime-sama!” the man boomed cheerfully. “Your usual?”

“Yes,” Tobirama replied simply, taking a seat with all the formality of a man settling in for a war council.

The ramen chef turned to her next, eyebrows raised in friendly inquiry. “And you, young lass?”

Sakura gave a quick smile. “Miso ramen, please. With chashu.”

She slid onto the stool beside Tobirama and glanced at him sideways. The question was already burning on her tongue.

“Why did you bring me here, Hokage-sama?”

Tobirama didn’t open his eyes. He’d rested his chin lightly on his clasped hands, elbows on the counter, a picture of effortless composure.

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he said, voice low and matter-of-fact. “If you expect to continue performing at your current standard, you need to refuel.”

Sakura opened her mouth, already prepared with a half-hearted deflection—but her stomach had other ideas. It growled loudly, traitorously, and she froze.

Pink bloomed across her cheeks as she ducked her head slightly. “…Right.”

From the corner of her eye, she sensed the faintest curve of amusement ghosting across Tobirama’s lips, though his posture didn’t change. Not exactly a smirk, but something close. He didn’t comment on it—didn’t need to.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the rhythmic bubbling of broth and the clatter of bowls filling the quiet. The shop’s lantern cast a gentle, golden light over the counter, making the late-night moment feel strangely peaceful.

Finally, Sakura broke the silence, turning slightly toward him.

“Do you come here often?”

“Once in a blue moon,” Tobirama said without looking at her. “Ramen is quick. It does the job.”

Sakura let out a small, surprised breath of laughter. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were the ramen type. I figured you’d have something far more refined at home. Clan cooks, imported ingredients, that sort of thing.”

Tobirama opened one eye, just a sliver. “Are you implying I have extravagant taste?” 

“No,” she said, smirking slightly. “Just… I don’t know. You seem like someone who’s used to structure. This place feels… casual.” She gestured with a wave of her hands. 

He made a quiet sound, somewhere between a grunt and a hum, and let his eye fall shut again.

“It is casual,” he said. “That’s why I like it.”

Sakura blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the simplicity of his answer. No lecture, no strategy behind it—just preference.

Maybe there's more to him than I thought.

She turned back to the counter, smile lingering faintly on her lips, as the aroma of ramen began to fill the air between them.

The gentle steam of boiling broth curled in the air between them, and for a moment, Sakura let herself enjoy the rare peace. It wasn’t often she found herself sitting beside the Nidaime Hokage in the quiet lull of Konoha’s nightlife, waiting for a steaming bowl of noodles.

She glanced sideways at him—still as stone, expression unreadable, gaze closed off beneath pale lashes—and decided to push her luck a little.

“So… aside from ramen, what do you usually like to eat?” she asked lightly, trying to sound casual.

Tobirama didn’t move at first. Then, without opening his eyes, he said simply, “Fresh fish.”

Sakura blinked. “By fresh do you mean ‘freshly caught with your hands’ fresh?”

An image flashed in her mind—Tobirama wading knee-deep into a river, sleeves rolled, eyes narrowed in focus, stoically lunging for a darting fish with bare hands. The visual was so absurdly specific it almost made her giggle.

She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the smile.

Tobirama’s answer came with deadpan seriousness. “That is why I mastered Water Release—to catch fish.”

Sakura faltered. “Wait—seriously?”

He turned his head toward her, cracked open his eyes, and said dryly, “No. I’m joking.”

Her mind flatlined.

Joking?

The Nidaime Hokage—Senju Tobirama—joked with me?

Her face went through several expressions before settling on pure disbelief. She stared at him, lips parted slightly, trying to reconcile the stern, immovable figure beside her with what had just happened.

“Didn’t know you had a sense of humor,” she muttered, dazed.

Tobirama’s mouth quirked just barely—gone in a blink.

“When I was young,” he said, tone shifting slightly, “we didn’t have the luxuries this village now offers. There were no markets, no ration bars. We hunted what we ate.”

Sakura straightened a bit in her seat, drawn in by the quiet weight of his words.

“My brother,” he continued, voice even, “was a gentle soul. He refused to harm animals, even for food. Said killing a boar or gutting a fish made his heart ache.”

Tobirama paused, a bitter smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Brief. Almost imperceptible. 

“He would have starved before raising a hand against a deer.”

Sakura caught the implication immediately.

“You did it for him,” she said quietly. There was no sympathy in her tone. Just understanding.

A soft breath escaped Tobirama’s nose, neither confirmation nor denial.

“I was the younger brother,” he said, “but it didn’t always feel that way.”

Before she could respond, the clatter of bowls interrupted the moment. Their ramen arrived, steaming and fragrant, and the chef set them down with a cheerful “Enjoy!”

Tobirama shifted forward slightly, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

“Eat,” he said simply.

Sakura nodded, picking up her chopsticks. “Itadakimasu,” she murmured. 

The first sip of broth was hot, savory, and surprisingly comforting. They ate in silence for a while, the rhythm of noodles and broth filling the quiet.

But Sakura’s thoughts began to drift again—back to the bitterness hidden in Tobirama’s voice. The weight behind his words. He spoke of the past as if it were still clinging to his shoulders, as if he’d never really stopped carrying it.

There was a burden in him—one she recognized.

He’s always been the one to look after others, she thought. Even now.

She lowered her gaze, her chopsticks slowing. Her eyes fell on the familiar pink-and-white naruto swirl floating gently in her bowl, and before she could stop herself, her thoughts shifted.

Naruto.

She can just imagine him sitting next to her as laughed too loudly, slurped his ramen with theatrical gusto, and ordered seconds before finishing his first bowl. She could almost hear him now, voice bright and earnest— “Sakura-chan, this is the best ramen in the whole world!”

But the memory didn't make her smile.

Instead, a dull ache settled behind her ribs.

He had given everything. Not just for Konoha, not just for peace—but for the people he loved. For her. For Sasuke. Sakura’s grip on her chopsticks tightened as guilt twisted through her.

Naruto had gone to the ends of the earth, suffered, bled, nearly died— just to fulfill a promise to her. A childish plea born from her desperation. “Bring him back to me,” she had said, unaware of what she was truly asking of him.

And he had done it. Time and time again.

All so she could chase a dream that never wanted her back.

Now, years later, the truth sat heavy in her chest.

Her and Sasuke were a lost cause.

They had even tried dating for a while after the war had ended—quietly, cautiously, as if testing the edges of something fragile. But it didn't last. The distance between them had been too vast, filled with ghosts and regrets neither of them could name, let alone heal.

All that effort—every mission, every sleepless night wondering where he was or if he would ever come back—felt like it had been for nothing. She had poured her heart into the idea of him, of who he could become, of the future they could have had. She had dreamed of standing beside him, of helping him rebuild his clan, of being part of his redemption.

But she understood now—dreams didn’t always survive contact with reality. And in chasing hers, in shutting out everything else, she had lost more than she ever meant to.

She had failed. Not just herself. But Naruto, too.

He had once loved her—perhaps even more fiercely than Sasuke ever could. She had seen it in his eyes during those reckless teenage years, in his stubborn optimism, in the way he never hesitated to fight for her even when she didn’t ask him to. And what had she done? Brushed it off. Dismissed him. Obsessed over a boy who never once looked at her the same way Naruto did. And instead selfishly burdened him with the responsibility to bring Sasuke back to her.

If only she could go back and tell her younger self to wake up. To see the difference between longing and love. To see Naruto for who he was and all he had done—not just for the village, but for her.

If only… she had opened her eyes and appreciated him more. 

Naruto had worn that look once. That quiet kind of exhaustion hidden behind a smile. The way he’d thrown himself into protecting others on his shoulders long before anyone ever asked him to. Always running ahead so no one else would have to hurt.

Tobirama was different. Sharper. Colder. His strength was a blade, not a beacon. But beneath the surface, she could see it—the same relentless drive, the same sense of duty etched into every movement.

And the same loneliness. 

It was the kind that came from always being the one others relied on. The kind that left no room to rest.

Her fingers curled tighter around her chopsticks.

She had watched Naruto carry the future—bright, burning with hope, never once looking back.

But Tobirama…

Tobirama carried the past like armor and chain. She saw hints of it—in the quiet tension behind his words, the way he spoke of his brother with reverence and restraint, as though even memory was something he had to protect. He had always been the one to hold things together. To clean up the messes no one else wanted to see. Not for glory. Not even for recognition.

Just because someone had to.

She didn’t know everything—not yet. But in that moment, she glimpsed the shape of a man who had never allowed himself to break, because too many others had depended on him not to.

And, to her surprise, it was that very same unyielding burden—the shared weight she saw in both Tobirama and Naruto—that made her heart ache in exactly the same way for them both.

Tobirama’s voice cut through it, dry and observant, interrupting her thoughts. “I have never seen someone look so miserable over a bowl of ramen.”

Sakura blinked, startled out of her thoughts. She glanced at him, sheepish. “Sorry… I was just thinking about someone.”

The silence that followed was brief, but weighted.

“Your lover?”

She nearly choked on her noodles in surprise. “No!” she coughed, cheeks warming again. “No, nothing like that. He’s—he’s just a friend. Married now. Has a son, actually.”

Tobirama raised a brow, but didn’t comment.

“I’m happy for him,” Sakura added softly. And she meant it.

Still, as the words left her mouth, her thoughts drifted—unbidden—to another face. One she rarely spoke of aloud but found herself thinking about now and then.

Dark eyes, unreadable. A voice like distant thunder. A promise half-formed, never fulfilled.

Sasuke.

She inhaled slowly.

If things had worked out with Sasuke… Would she be settled somewhere by now? Living the life she once dreamed of? Children with his eyes. His smile. A quiet home. A future.

Would she even be here, seated beside a man decades in the past, eating ramen on a quiet night like it meant something?

But things hadn’t worked out. Not the way she’d hoped. Love, no matter how fierce, hadn’t been enough to reach the parts of him that refused to be touched. In the end, they’d both walked different paths—his leading him further away, hers forcing her to move forward without looking back too often. But was that the right decision? Or should she have fought for them a lot harder?

She stared down at her half-finished bowl, unsure of the answer.

Tobirama’s voice pulled her back, this time softer than she expected. Still level, still composed—but touched with something… patient.

“You're thinking too loudly,” he said, voice low and even.

Sakura blinked, startled slightly, and turned to him with wide eyes.

“You wear it plainly on your face,” he added. “Whatever answer you seek, it clearly doesn't lie at the bottom of a ramen bowl.” He paused slightly before continuing. “It is not a weakness to wonder what might have been. But it is dangerous to stay in that place too long.”

Sakura’s eyes widened, caught off guard by the empathy in his words.

He didn’t try to comfort her with platitudes. He didn’t tell her everything would work out. He simply acknowledged the ache and cautioned her against drowning in it. Hell, he didn’t even know what was going on through her turbulent mind but yet, his words…

They didn’t try to fix her, didn’t reach for hollow reassurances. Instead, they met her in the quiet wreckage of her thoughts, steady and grounding, like a hand reaching out in the dark.

It was the most honest thing anyone had said to her in a long time.

She exhaled slowly and gave him a tired smile. “Thank you, Tobirama-sama.”

She couldn’t help but notice the brief flicker in his eyes—widening just for a heartbeat before settling back into their usual, unreadable calm. Tobirama inclined his head slightly, then returned to his ramen without another word.

And for the first time in years, Sakura felt like the knot in her chest had loosened—just a little.

The air was cool beneath the star-scattered sky, the streets of Konoha quieting as the hour grew late. What few lanterns still burned cast long shadows across the cobblestone paths. Tobirama walked with his hands at his sides, each step measured and unhurried.

Unlike in the beginning, she did not trail behind him.

Sakura walked by his side, a quiet presence beside him, and somehow, it felt… natural.

They spoke no words after leaving Ichiraku, but the silence between them was no longer heavy. It was companionable, reflective. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

Tobirama found his thoughts drifting back. When he had spoken about Hashirama, she had looked at him with something he hadn’t expected.

Not sympathy.

No, he had seen enough of that to know it when it was offered. Sympathy was hollow. It pitied. It looked down.

But from her, he had seen something else entirely—understanding. A quiet, unspoken recognition that came from lived experience. She didn’t flinch when he spoke of Hashirama. She hadn’t tried to comfort him or reach for empty words. She had simply listened.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had mentioned his brother out loud. Not even to Mito. The grief had calcified long ago, sealed beneath layers of duty and time. Speaking of Hashirama had always been difficult—unnecessary. Everyone already mourned him. Tobirama simply endured it.

And yet tonight, at a simple ramen shop, he had found the words.

Because of her.

But he couldn’t help but notice her expressions earlier—face bathed in the warm glow of the ramen stall, eyes distant, voice laced with the brittle edge of carefully concealed regret.

Not just tired or distracted—but hollowed out in a quiet, private way that reminded him too much of the mirror. The way she stared into her bowl as though the memories might drown her if she blinked. And something about that expression, about the way it tugged at the corners of her mouth and dimmed the light in her eyes, had made him ask.

“Your lover?”

The question had slipped out before he’d thought better of it—not because he needed the answer, but because… he was curious. Who could leave a mark like that on a woman like her?

A woman so undeniably strong, so capable, so self-contained—and yet, just for a moment, unravelled by a thought. Who had the power to reach into her and cause that kind of ache?

But then her answer came. And it wasn’t a lover but a married man . 

He stilled, hadn’t known what to say to that. So he did the only thing he could. He gave her the truth.

His truth.

A warning, perhaps. A gentle one. The kind few people ever heard from him.

“It is not a weakness to wonder what might have been. But it is dangerous to stay in that place too long.”

And when she looked at him—really looked—something changed in her expression. The edges of her sorrow didn’t disappear, but they softened. Her shoulders eased by degrees. Her walls didn’t fall, but they shifted. Bent, maybe.

And her eyes… they warmed.

Not with gratitude, not exactly. But with something rarer. Trust.

It caught him off guard—more than he’d ever admit aloud. He was used to being obeyed, respected, feared. He was not used to being looked at like that. As though he wasn’t just the Nidaime Hokage or the Head of the Senju Clan. As though he was something more human.

The sensation lingered, even now as they walked side by side through the cool night air. He kept his gaze ahead, his posture disciplined, his expression neutral.

But beneath all that...

He could still feel the way her eyes had rested on him.

His gaze flicked toward Sakura as they turned down a quieter road leading toward the residential district. She was still in her work uniform, her hair pulled back in a slightly messy tail, a thin line of exhaustion clinging to her shoulders. But she walked with her head high, her steps steady.

Then, Tobirama found himself quietly recalling her last words.

“Thank you, Tobirama-sama.”

Not Hokage-sama, as she had always addressed him. But his name.

It echoed in his mind now, softer than the title, more personal. He had grown used to being addressed with reverence—Hokage-sama, Nidaime-sama, Senju-sama, sensei… Even those closest to him kept their distance with titles. But hearing his name on her tongue had made something shift within him, subtle and deep.

He realized, then, that he quietly welcomed the sound of it.

They arrived at her home—the apartment situated conveniently close to the hospital. They stopped outside her door. The windows were dark, curtains drawn, the door flanked by well-tended potted herbs.

She stopped at the door and turned to him with a polite incline of her head.

“Thank you for walking me home,” she said quietly, then added, “And for the meal.”

He gave a faint grunt of acknowledgement. “It was not a burden.”

Sakura smiled. It was faint, tired, but sincere.

“You should rest,” Tobirama added. “Tomorrow will be another long day.”

And before she could reply, he vanished in a flash.

The silence of his manor enveloped him at once.

Tobirama appeared directly in his bedroom, where he’d long ago marked the floor with his Hiraishin formula—a habit of necessity more than comfort. The room was dimly lit, spartan, orderly. It held no warmth, only clean lines and quiet solitude.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, letting the quiet settle.

Then, slowly, his hands unclasped, and he began removing the white yukata he’d worn over his black undershirt, folding it with mechanical precision before changing into his dark sleeping robes.

But as he moved through the routine, his mind remained elsewhere.

Her voice.

Her words.

Her eyes.

The quiet resilience she carried. The way she absorbed sorrow, disappointment, guilt—how she shouldered burdens not unlike his own. He recognized the signs in her because he had lived them. It was what had drawn his attention from the beginning, but tonight… it had stirred something.

He thought again of Mito’s voice—gentle but unwavering.

“Don’t forget, you’re not alone in this, Tobirama. You have people who care about you.”

He hadn’t listened then. He hadn’t known how.

But now, the image of Sakura returned to him. Sitting in the soft glow of the ramen stall. Eyes far away but open. Not asking anything of him, yet still there.

Had he unconsciously chosen her?

As someone to confide in? To share what little he could?

Or worse—had he hoped she would understand the weight he had never dared speak of?

Tobirama exhaled sharply and shook his head once, cutting off the thought. It was foolish. Sentimental. Dangerous.

You’re tired, he told himself.

He extinguished the lamp beside his bed and lay down in the dark, the silence pressing around him once more.

But even as his eyes closed, his mind betrayed him—offering not memories of war or council chambers or distant strategy, but instead the quiet sound of her voice.

“Thank you, Tobirama-sama.”

And for the first time in a long while… he did not mind the echo.

Chapter Text

The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air—clean, sharp, unforgiving. The hospital thrummed with its usual rhythm. The shuffling of slippered feet, the muted calls of medics down whitewashed halls, the faint rustle of linens and faint chatter between staff and patient in distant rooms. It was the same as always. 

And yet… something felt off.

Sakura stood near the nurse’s station, flipping through the morning charts with practiced ease. She scanned vitals, scribbled a few notes, and mentally mapped out the priorities for the next hour. But her gaze kept drifting—toward the far wall where shadows used to fall differently. Where, up until yesterday, the faint glimmer of white robes and silver hair would occasionally break the monotony.

But today, Tobirama wasn’t there.

There was no silent figure watching from the periphery, no cool, analytical gaze tracking her movements. No quiet nods of subtle approval when her diagnostic jutsu hit precise marks, no curt yet insightful questions that forced her to reconsider her approach. In his place stood a single masked ANBU—faceless, motionless, and utterly disinterested. Just a shadow doing a job.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

Tobirama was never loud. He never interrupted or intruded. In fact, she wouldn’t even have noticed his presence half the time if she hadn’t been so acutely aware of it. But now that he wasn’t here, the absence pressed in more than she expected.

The female medics weren’t whispering behind their clipboards, stealing glances at the Hokage with flustered cheeks and hushed giggles. The patients—especially the older ones—weren’t sitting up straighter, pride glinting in their eyes as they bowed from their beds. The air felt… flat.

Without him, the hospital had returned to what it had always been—sterile and hollow. Just another building filled with pain and purpose.

But with him…

Even in his coldness, there had been a kind of gravity. His presence had made everything feel more real, more seen. And after last night—after ramen, after words shared beneath lantern light—Sakura now understood why.

Her mind wandered back to that moment. The scent of miso broth still clung faintly to her memory, the warmth of it lingering far longer than it should have. But it wasn’t the food she remembered—it was him.

The way he had spoken of Hashirama—quietly, carefully. Measured, yes, but tinged with something else. Not grief. That, he had long buried.

No… it had been closer to disappointment. A thread of resentment, tightly wound and never spoken aloud, but there all the same. She had seen the flicker in his eyes when he mentioned how his brother couldn’t bring himself to hunt. Heard the quiet bitterness when he said he’d done it for him.

It made her wonder.

What must it have been like, living in the shadow of a man like Hashirama? A man so revered, so beloved, so impossibly good that the entire world had seemed to mourn his loss. What did it feel like to be the brother left behind? The one who took on the burden, the war, the endless decisions, and wore them like armor?

She had always thought of Tobirama as a genius, a statesman, a master tactician. But last night, over steaming bowls of ramen, she had seen something else.

A younger brother who had learned how to lead not from inspiration, but from necessity.

And despite the miles of difference between them—decades of time and culture and bloodshed—she had seen a reflection of, not just Naruto, but also herself in him. That sense of inherited duty. Of being needed more than wanted.

Sakura exhaled, slow and quiet. The loneliness she thought she’d grown used to gnawed just a little deeper today.

“Sakura-san.”

She turned swiftly, pulled from her thoughts. A young medic, breathless and flushed, skidded to a halt in front of her.

“There’s a patient coming in from the western gate,” the medic said quickly. “Critical condition. Chest wound, possible punctured lung. They’re asking for you directly.”

Sakura’s spine straightened immediately, thoughts shuttering into focus.

“Prep the trauma room,” she said. “Have the surgical team scrub in. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

She handed off her chart, chakra already rising to her hands, steady and sure.

Tobirama might not be watching today, but she was still here. And there was work to be done.

The council chamber in the Senju compound was warm with sunlight and tension.

Tobirama sat near the head of the long room, arms folded within the sleeves of his formal robe, the black crest of the Senju clan stark against his back. Around him, the elders sat in a semicircle—weathered men and women with thinning hair and sharp eyes, their expressions respectful but expectant.

He had been sitting in this room for hours, listening to the same cyclical discussions he’d endured countless times as clan head—resource allocations, border disputes, political alliances. It was all predictable, all tedious. But now, the conversation was taking a turn for the worse. A turn he dreaded. A topic he loathed .

“You are nearing forty, My Lord,” began one of the elders, a stooped man with a voice like dry leaves. “The matter of heirs cannot be ignored much longer.”

Tobirama didn’t flinch, but his jaw tensed, just slightly.

“The clan needs continuity,” another added. “With Hashirama-sama gone, and his daughter…” She hesitated, clearly choosing her words with care. “With her having… forsaken certain responsibilities, the future of the Senju line rests with you.”

“You speak as though I am dying,” Tobirama said flatly.

Several elders flinched. A few opened their mouths in immediate protest.

“N-no, that’s not—”

“Forgive us, My Lord, that was not our intention—”

“We merely meant to stress the urgency—”

Tobirama raised a hand, and silence snapped back into the room like a drawn bowstring.

“I am aware of the clan’s condition,” he said, voice calm, clipped, and cutting. “Hashirama left behind only a daughter. That is not a weakness.”

“But she married a civilian, My Lord,” another elder interjected. “A man with no clan ties, no political value. His granddaughter’s blood is—”

“Enough.”

The words firm and the weight behind them cracked the room’s fragile composure.

Tobirama’s gaze swept the elders, crimson eyes sharp as forged steel.

“Hashirama gave Nobara his blessing to marry outside the clan, fully aware she had chosen a civilian out of genuine love. None of you objected then.” Tobirama’s gaze sharpened. “Tsunade is his granddaughter—Senju by blood, and that is not up for debate. I will not permit anyone to speak ill of my elder brother’s legacy or the blood he passed on.”

The room shifted uncomfortably. No one dared speak.

He let the silence stretch.

Then, colder still, he continued, “As for my marital status… You will not speak of it again.”

One brave soul tried to protest. “But—”

“You will not.”

Tobirama’s voice dropped a register, and he let his chakra flare. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. 

The elders stilled, a flicker of fear flashing in their eyes, as if suddenly reminded of exactly who they were addressing.

When he spoke next, it was the Hokage speaking—not the clan head, not the brother left behind.

“I am not simply the leader of this clan. I am the Hokage of this village. Every day I remain alive is a balance between protection and sacrifice. And should I take a wife—should I bear children—all I will have done is place targets on their backs.”

He leaned forward, slowly, gaze slicing through the chamber.

“You speak of heirs. Of legacy. But the future is not safeguarded by bloodlines alone. It is safeguarded by strength. By unity. By choosing not to make pawns out of those we claim to protect.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

And Tobirama—disciplined, composed, calculating—allowed a breath of quiet to settle.

He did not want a family only to offer them as leverage on a political chessboard. He had seen what such attachments cost. What it had cost Hashirama.

He would not repeat those mistakes.

“Now,” he said at last, “if that is all…”

The elders gave a collection of reluctant nods and respectful murmurs. Tobirama rose and turned, his robe whispering across the wooden floor as he strode from the chamber.

And though he did not show it, the taste of the conversation lingered bitterly on his tongue.

The sky had slipped into twilight, hues of lavender and bruised indigo streaking across the horizon like watercolors left in the rain. The streets of Konoha had quieted with the falling sun—only a handful of shinobi moved with purpose along the stone paths, shadows lengthening under the dim glow of paper lanterns strung between buildings.

Sakura stepped out of the hospital’s main entrance with a slow breath, tugging off her gloves, and shivered slightly from the cold breeze. Her hands ached from chakra strain, her temples throbbed with a lingering headache, and a thin sheen of fatigue clung to her skin. She pressed a palm to the small of her back, arching slightly with a sigh.

The building behind her loomed like a pale monolith, its pristine windows reflecting the dull light. Sterile and cold. The same as it had always been.

Except, it hadn't felt that way yesterday.

Today had been quieter. Too quiet. No silver-haired Hokage moving like a watchful shadow through the corridors. No flustered junior medics straightening their posture as he passed, no sudden spike in productivity among the nurses. No patients whispering in awe— “Is that really him?” —with eyes full of reverence.

The air inside had felt… still. Lifeless. As if someone had taken a sharp scalpel and sliced the energy out of the building.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d started looking forward to his presence until it was gone.

Why did his absence feel louder than his presence ever did?

Sakura turned onto a narrow residential street, winding her way home. The lanterns here flickered more softly, the cobblestones worn with age. Her footsteps echoed in the quiet, the only sound save for the distant chirping of crickets.

And then—she felt it.

A subtle shift in the air. A faint hum of chakra. Intentional, but not hostile.

Her eyes flicked up.

Tobirama stood at the far end of the lane, half-shrouded in shadow where two buildings met. His arms were at his sides, not crossed as usual, and his gaze—piercing—was already on her. Not in surprise. He had seen her first.

He stepped forward, emerging into the lantern light. The faintest twitch in his jaw betrayed tension, but his face was otherwise unreadable.

Sakura slowed, heart ticking faster than she cared to admit.

“Back from whatever mysterious Hokage business kept you away all day?” she asked lightly, trying for levity.

Tobirama inclined his head slightly. “Clan meeting.”

Something in the way he said it—terse, clipped—set off quiet alarms in her mind.

Her eyes narrowed as she came to a stop in front of him. Now that he was closer, she could see it—the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides before he controlled the motion. His expression was carefully blank, but tension bled through the cracks in his composure.

He looked like someone who had been cornered all day and was only just now coming up for air.

“You look…” she hesitated, choosing her words, “frustrated.”

Tobirama’s gaze flicked toward her—sharp, appraising—but he didn’t immediately respond. The silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring.

Then, at last, he exhaled quietly. Not a sigh, not quite, but something close.

“Elders,” he said simply.

That one word carried enough weight to flatten a mountain.

Sakura folded her arms, tilting her head. “Let me guess. Lectures about politics, strategy, and funds?”

His jaw flexed again. “And lineage.”

Ah. There it is.

Her gaze softened, but she kept her tone careful. “You mean marriage. Heirs.”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t change—but something in his shoulders shifted, as if the air had become heavier again. He nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“They speak as if I was already dying,” he said flatly, voice low and taut. “As if the survival of the Senju rests solely on my capacity to reproduce.”

There was a bitter undertone in his words—not quite anger, but something colder. Resentment. Exhaustion. Perhaps even grief.

Sakura swallowed. “I’m sorry. That’s… a lot.”

For a man who had given his life to protect this village, who had sacrificed peace of mind for structure, efficiency, and order—it must have been galling. To be reduced to a bloodline. A vessel for legacy.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to them,” she said after a pause. “Not about that.”

Crimson eyes met hers then—direct, searching. The wind stirred between them, carrying the faint scent of river water and camellia leaves.

“No,” he agreed softly. “But they will never stop asking.”

Sakura gave a quiet, humorless smile. “That’s what people do when they don’t understand the weight someone else is carrying.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, the lantern light gilding the edges of their profiles, casting long shadows behind them.

She noticed then how tired he looked—not in body, but in the set of his mouth. The furrow between his brows. The stillness of a man who had grown too accustomed to shouldering burdens alone.

And suddenly, her mind returned to the night before. The way his voice had softened when he spoke of Hashirama. The flicker of bitter nostalgia when he recalled his brother’s kindness. The disappointment, maybe, of being left to hold it all together.

He’s been carrying it for so long. Alone. And he thinks that’s all he deserves.

She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words stuck in her throat.

Tobirama, perhaps sensing it, stepped back slightly. A return to formality.

“I will leave you to your evening,” he said, nodding his head slightly.

But then, just as he was turning to go—

“Tobirama-sama.”

He stopped. The sound of his name hung softly in the air between them.

He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze over his shoulder.

She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t need to.

Just seeing him, recognizing him as something more than a title or a duty or a ghost of legacy—that was enough.

His expression shifted, imperceptibly. Something in his posture eased. And for the briefest moment, his eyes warmed—not with emotion, but with something steadier.

Acknowledgment.

Then, with a flicker of chakra and a whisper of wind, he was gone.

Sakura stood alone on the street, the quiet settling around her once more—but it didn’t feel cold.

Not anymore.

The fading light of the day bled across the rooftops in bruised gold and blue. Long shadows stretched along the cobblestone streets as the village wound itself down—merchants folding stalls, children being called inside, shinobi returning from patrols with blades dulled and cloaks dusted from the field.

Tobirama moved through it all like a current beneath the surface—deliberate, steady, unseen when he chose to be. His steps were quiet, but his mind… his mind was not.

The conversation echoed louder than it should have.

Of all the things she could’ve said, he hadn’t expected her to cut straight to what he was feeling. Not in those words. Not with that voice—level, unafraid, quiet with understanding. She hadn’t looked at him like a subordinate. Or a person trying to curry favor. She’d looked at him like a person. And in doing so, reminded him of a truth he worked daily to silence

He was still one.

Even now, hours later, the echo of that brief moment held its place within him like a chakra seal stamped into stone. Something had shifted —small, imperceptible to the outside world. But he felt it. As sharply as a blade between the ribs.

Sakura.

What did he really know of her?

Her records were incomplete. Unremarkable lineage, yet skill that exceeded most in her field. She worked with unrelenting precision. Carried herself like someone who had seen more than her age should allow. She made no effort to rise above her station, nor did she shrink from speaking plainly when warranted. Tobirama had noted her behavior with clinical interest when she’d first joined the hospital ranks under his observation.

But now…?

She was unraveling things he had long buried beneath years of war, duty, and the slow erosion of self.

He hadn't meant to say what he did.

“They speak as if I was already dying.”

The words had come out too easily. Too true.

Clan meetings always drained him—but today had been worse than usual. The elders had worn their masks of civility with their veiled criticisms and subtle barbs. And still, he had tolerated them. Up until they dared to belittle Nobara’s status and Tsunade’s right to inheritance. His brother’s daughter and granddaughter—his only living tie to the man he had both revered and resented.

They had spoken of Hashirama’s daughter as if she was a disgrace and Tsunade’s blood as if it were diluted.

And worse—they had spoken of him, as though he was a relic. A placeholder for the next generation.

He should not have been surprised.

The Senju clan was dying.

No—they were afraid of it dying.

And their solution was so predictable, so infuriatingly narrow—Marry. Breed. Repopulate.

As if a name could sustain a legacy without substance.

As if he would bring a child into this world—his child—just to bear a surname on their back while every enemy of Konoha marked them for death.

He had walked out of that meeting with ice in his veins into the streets of the village lost in his thoughts filled with frustration.

And then he saw her.

Sakura, in the middle of the road, haloed by sunlight, her eyes sharp but soft. The sound of her voice had stopped the spinning in his head before he even registered what she’d said.

“You look…frustrated.”

She hadn’t meant it as a complaint. Or an accusation.

She’d said it with concern.

That alone had caught him off guard. And what followed…?

She had spoken to him as if she understood.

As if she had seen this before. Lived it. The pressure of duty eating into the bones. The loneliness of being needed but not known. The suffocation of expectation pressing down on the chest, quiet and constant.

How?

He thought again of the ramen shop. Of her voice in the dark. The sadness behind her eyes when she’d spoken of someone she had once cared for. Of the soft bitterness in her smile when she’d thanked him for his advice.

He knew that kind of grief. The kind that didn’t scream or shatter. The kind that just settled in quietly and stayed. Forever.

She carried it well. Too well.

And now, she was beginning to see through his armor.

That… unsettled him.

He reached the outer gardens of the Senju compound, where dusk had fully settled, the path stones dappled in moonlight. Crickets sang low from the hedges. Somewhere beyond the compound wall, he heard the soft whoosh of a sentry changing posts. He paused by the koi pond—a silent place of memory and meditation—watching the dark water ripple faintly beneath the wind.

Hashirama would have liked her, he thought, almost without meaning to.

He stared into the water, his reflection distorted by the breeze, ghost-like in the wavering surface.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to them… not about that.”

Her words echoed louder than they should have. He clenched his jaw and turned away from the water.

This path was dangerous. He could already feel how close it ran to places he had long sealed off within himself.

He recognized the sensation—an ache not born from anger or grief, but from something quieter. 

Vulnerability. 

The kind he hadn’t let himself feel since his mother’s death. Since the moment he learned that feeling deeply meant being left exposed to loss.

He had built walls around it. Buried it under duty, discipline, cold precision.

And yet—speaking to her had pulled it from the depths. Not all at once. Not enough to overwhelm him. But enough to remember what it felt like to feel. It was a danger he thought he’d trained out of himself. But still… he did not regret stopping to speak with her.

And he would not forget the look in her eyes when he did.

Chapter Text

The clink of teacups and the quiet hum of early-morning patrons filled the air as Sakura sat with Hiruzen and Kagami at a small table by the window of a quaint tea house. The three of them had just returned from a string of missions, and though their bodies were tired, their spirits were high, buoyed by the rare peace of an unhurried morning.

Sakura had recently been granted permission to take on more missions, provided she was accompanied by a member of Tobirama’s team. Solo assignments were still off the table as she was technically still under probation. However, she didn’t mind the restriction as much as she once might have. 

She was grateful, not because she was certain Tobirama trusted her, but because he’d allowed it at all. Whatever his reasons, whether duty or calculation, he hadn’t objected to her taking on more missions. That alone felt like a quiet victory. A small step forward.

And perhaps most surprising of all, she found herself genuinely enjoying the company of her new teammates. Hiruzen’s easy laughter and Kagami’s dry wit were quickly becoming familiar comforts, and the camaraderie they offered helped ease the ache of all she’d left behind. Sitting there with them, sipping tea in the warm glow of morning light, Sakura realized that—for now, at least—she didn’t feel quite so out of place.

“I still can’t believe how quickly you stabilized that jounin back in the ravine,” Kagami said, shaking his head with a smile. “If it were just the two of us, we might’ve lost him before backup even arrived.”

Hiruzen nodded in agreement, lifting his cup. “You’ve become indispensable, Sakura-san. Having you with us is more than just an advantage. It’s a relief.”

Kagami chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Especially for Hiruzen. I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve had to patch him up.”

Hiruzen arched a brow. “Says the man who sprained his ankle on a tree root last week.”

Kagami gave a mock scoff. “That root came out of nowhere.”

Sakura laughed, shaking her head as she cradled her cup. “It really does make a difference, doesn’t it?” she said, more to herself than to them. “Having a medic-nin as part of the squad, I mean…” She stared into her cup, her tone shifting to something quieter, more thoughtful, “It changes everything.”

The idea had been quietly circling in the back of her mind for weeks now, ever since she began working in the hospital and saw, again and again, the devastating effects of poor field care. It had always bothered her how little medical ninjutsu was integrated into shinobi training. Back in her own time, she remembered it only truly became a priority after Tsunade took over as Hokage. But why had it taken that long? Why wasn’t it considered essential from the start?

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup. She thought of all the fresh-faced genin sent out on missions with barely any knowledge of how to treat wounds or stop bleeding—of how many might have died simply because no one on their team knew what to do.

The hesitation rose again, familiar and uneasy. Speaking out might change more than just policy—it could alter the very fabric of the future she came from. A reality she knew, for better or worse. And yet… hadn’t she already done that?

She was in the hospital nearly every day now, healing people she had no memory of in her own time, saving lives that perhaps weren’t supposed to be saved. She’d already changed the future. Every patient she pulled back from the brink, every mission she joined where someone lived who might’ve otherwise died. Those changes ripple outward, unseen but undeniable.

She had integrated herself so deeply into the village's structure, into its heartbeat, that there was no going back to being a silent observer. And maybe, just maybe, changing this one thing, getting medics trained earlier, properly, could prevent even more deaths.

So why not say it out loud now? Why not start asking the right questions?

“You know… something has always bothered me,” she began, looking up at the two shinobi before her. “When I started my medical training, I kept wondering why we don’t teach this kind of thing earlier. Not just advanced techniques, but the basics, like how to clean a wound, stop bleeding, and fix a broken bone.”

“I don’t think I recall seeing that in the academy curriculum,” Kagami admitted. “They do have a single first aid session though, but all I can remember were the academy kids using their bandages to tie up water balloons.”

“Exactly,” Sakura muttered. “Most kids probably forget everything they learned by the time they become genin or are not interested. And that’s when they’re suddenly sent out on missions where one wrong move could get someone killed.”

She leaned forward, voice steady now. “What if medical training was part of the standard curriculum? Mandatory classes, regular practice, real understanding… not just something we skim over once and forget.”

Hiruzen tilted his head. “It’s a good idea, in theory. But in all honesty no one really treated medics as essential. They were more like… last resorts. Dragged along, if you were lucky.”

“Yeah,” Kagami added, “and if they couldn’t fight, they were seen as a burden. Slowed the team down.”

Sakura frowned, her jaw tightening. “They wouldn’t be a burden if they were trained properly. A combat medic can fight and heal. The whole point is to keep your team alive, without needing a babysitter,” she couldn’t help herself growl out. 

There was a pause. Hiruzen leaned back slightly, tapping the table with one finger.

“You should bring it up with sensei then.”

Sakura blinked. “With Tobirama-sama?”

She caught the subtle raise of Kagami’s eyebrow at her choice of address—Tobirama-sama, not Hokage-sama as she had used before. She pointedly ignored it.

Hiruzen nodded with a grin. “He built the current shinobi structure from the ground up. If there’s anyone who could change the academy system, it’s him. And he values logic over tradition. If you give him a strong enough argument, he will listen.” 

Sakura fell into silence, thinking it over. She glanced down at her empty cup, fingers tightening around the porcelain.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Maybe I will then.”

The sterile scent of antiseptic greeted Sakura as she pushed open the sliding door to the hospital's main ward. She paused, surprised to see a familiar figure deep in discussion with one of the senior medics, his presence commanding despite the early hour.

“Tobirama-sama?” she blinked, approaching.

Tobirama stood tall in a fitted black turtleneck, the sleeves pushed up just past his forearms. He wore simple black trousers to match and the standard shinobi sandals, the kind of outfit that looked deceptively casual—understated, but undeniably flattering on him. 

His voice was low and clipped, but not unkind—precise, like the man himself. The senior medic beside him nodded intently, hanging on his words. Around them, a few younger medics looked less composed; one clutched a clipboard a bit too tightly, and another had a faint blush creeping up her cheeks, eyes wide as if they couldn’t quite believe who was standing in front of them.

Sakura’s gaze dipped, involuntarily drawn to those forearms—corded muscle shifting with quiet strength, the veins faint beneath pale skin. His fingers moved with precise control as he handed off a clipboard to one of the medics, the simple motion inexplicably captivating. She swallowed, jaw tightening. 

Since when were forearms distracting?

She blinked hard, snapping her attention back up just in time to find his crimson eyes on her now, unreadable but clearly aware.

“You’re here early,” she said with a smile as she stepped closer, willing her voice to stay steady as she tried to slow the quickened pace of her heart.

Tobirama’s voice was as smooth as silk. "One of my ANBU operatives returned with a seal embedded in his neck. I came to examine it.”

Sakura’s brow furrowed. “What kind of seal?”

“A failed explosive tag,” Tobirama replied. “I recognized its structure. A prototype design from the skirmishes near the northern border—likely left behind and repurposed by scavengers. I neutralized it before it could detonate.”

Sakura let out a quiet breath of relief. “I’m glad. Fuuinjutsu is something I’ve always struggled with,” she admitted sheepishly. 

That’s why I’m here, stuck in this time… she thought ruefully.

Tobirama gave her a brief nod of acknowledgement. "It’s a field few master. You’re doing well if you can manipulate even the foundations."

There was a beat of silence before Sakura spoke again, her mind flickering back to her earlier conversation with Hiruzen and Kagami.

“Tobirama-sama,” she began, her voice more formal, respectful, “There’s actually something I’ve been thinking about for a while now.”

He raised an eyebrow in silent permission.

“It’s about the academy curriculum,” Sakura continued. “Specifically, how little medical training students receive.”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t shift, but he was clearly listening.

“I was wondering… why medical ninjutsu training is not implemented?” she asked. “Even just basic medical training can help save lives.”

“A compelling argument,” Tobirama said, folding his arms across his chest.

Sakura’s eyes, entirely against her will, flicked to his forearms again—muscle shifting beneath pale skin. It was only a second, but she felt the heat rise to her cheeks before snapping her focus back to his words.

“But if it’s such an obvious solution,” he continued, “why has no one raised it until now?”

Sakura shrugged. “Maybe because medics are still seen as a liability. Think they slow the team down, or that they’re too fragile for the front lines.” Bitterness edged her voice—subtle, but unmistakable.

Tobirama’s eyes sharpened. “And you disagree,” he said—not a question, but a statement of fact.

“Completely,” Sakura replied without hesitation. “Combat medics aren’t a liability if they’re trained properly. If anything, they’re what keeps the rest of the team alive. We’re the difference between a mission failure and teammates making it home.”

Tobirama gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Incorporating medical training would be difficult. The academy is already pressed to cover foundational combat techniques and chakra theory. Adding another specialization risks diluting the core curriculum.”

Sakura shook her head. “Not unless it’s structured carefully. Medical ninjutsu isn’t for everyone—and it shouldn’t be. The training has to be reserved for students who show real chakra control and mental discipline.”

His gaze narrowed slightly. “And how would you determine who qualifies?”

Without hesitation, Sakura raised both hands. A soft, soothing green chakra began to flow over her palms, gradually enveloping her entire hands in a gentle, luminous glow. The light was steady, calm, and precise.

“This,” she said, holding her hands out toward him, “is called Shousen Jutsu. It’s a fundamental medical ninjutsu medics use to heal wounds and accelerate recovery. The chakra needs to be perfectly controlled and evenly distributed to work effectively. It takes more than talent or desire—you need exact control, focus, and patience.”

She let the glow slowly fade, watching his reaction. Then, with a small, knowing smirk, she added, “Though I’d bet someone like you could easily master it in a week.”

Tobirama’s expression didn’t change, but she caught the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. And more importantly, interest.

“My chakra control is optimized for offensive precision and large-scale application,” he said, voice even. “Not the kind of precision your techniques require.”

Sakura blinked, mildly surprised—not just at how seriously he was considering it, but also at his statement. From what she’d read in the history books, his control ranked in the ninetieth percentile—exceptional, especially for someone of his era. In her mind, medical ninjutsu would be a piece of cake for him.

“If anyone embodied that kind of control,” Tobirama continued, “it was my elder brother. He could heal himself mid-combat without weaving a single seal.”

There was a pause, a subtle shadow passing across Tobirama’s face.

“But even he,” he said, voice quieter, “never managed to extend that ability to healing others.”

Sakura heard the shift in his tone—a trace of bitterness, or perhaps regret, layered beneath the comparison. She softened her voice.

“Well… if you’re interested,” she said carefully, “I could teach you. Medical ninjutsu, I mean. If you want to understand it more deeply.” She paused, then added, “Especially if you’re open to the idea of adding it to the curriculum someday.”

Tobirama regarded her for a long moment before raising an eyebrow. “You’re offering to teach me,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

“I am,” she said, unwavering. “It’d give you insight into how the system can be changed… and besides, I think you’d surprise yourself.”

Another long pause, then finally, a small nod. “Very well. I’ll make time.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Sakura’s lips—more satisfaction than amusement. “Great! But fair warning… I don’t go easy on my students.” She couldn’t help but wink.

“I would expect nothing less,” Tobirama said dryly. 

Sakura’s smile widened, just a little. “I’ll prepare a lesson plan then.”

Tobirama gave a short nod, and with that, they moved deeper into the ward—two very different shinobi now connected by the quiet beginnings of a shared purpose.

The sun filtered through the canopy of trees overhead, dappling the river in fractured gold as it moved gently downstream. Tobirama stood on the bank with arms crossed, his ever-present armor leaving him an imposing contrast to the peaceful scenery. It was his midday break, and he had fully expected to use the time for refining a new chakra suppression seal—until Sakura had summoned him with vague instructions to meet her at the river.

Now he stood there, eyeing the wooden bucket she had brought along, still unsure of the purpose of this rendezvous.

“We’re going to catch fish,” Sakura announced, unbuckling and dropping her boots with a thud beside a wooden bucket.

Tobirama raised a single eyebrow. “For lunch?” he remarked flatly. 

Sakura laughed, already making her way over to the river. “Partly. But mostly? It’s to teach you the foundations of medical ninjutsu.”

He blinked once. Fish. For healing practice. He wasn’t sure if this was unorthodox or idiotic—but he followed her movements silently as she stepped into the shallow river.

The water lapped against her calves as she moved into the current with sure footing, crouching low. Her fingers hovered over the water with deliberate control, chakra thrumming gently at her fingertips. And then, in a swift, clean movement, she snatched a fish from the river.

Impressive precision.

She continued the process, movements fluid and economical. He noted her focus, her restraint—the way she moved to avoid disturbing the other fish. Tactical thinking applied to an absurd task.

She bent low again, reaching for another one, and this time his eyes flicked—just briefly—downward. The fitted dress she wore had hitched up slightly as she bent forward, revealing the smooth curve of her backside, shielded by her tight black shorts. His jaw clenched, gaze snapping back toward the river surface. 

It was an unnecessary and involuntary distraction. 

He said nothing.

By the time the bucket was full, she emerged from the river grinning. Her bare feet padded across the grass as she dried her hands on her dress and crouched beside a smooth stone. She pulled a kunai from her pouch, grabbed a fish from the bucket, and with unsettling ease slit it just below the gill—not deeply, but enough to kill.

Tobirama narrowed his eyes. “That seems counterproductive.”

“Just wait,” she said, laying the limp fish on a scroll covered in a ring of small black seals.

He recognized the form—basic containment design—but the symbols were unusual. Modified, perhaps improvised. When she looked up at him expectantly with a smile, he stared down at the fish, then back at her.

“You want me to bring it back to life?”

Sakura nodded. “Yes but it’s not so much about resurrection. It’s about repairing the damage and reviving the cells before necrosis sets in. Think of it like stabilizing a critical patient in the field. This seal is just a guide. It helps align your chakra correctly for medical purposes.”

Tobirama crouched beside the scroll, inspecting the markings. “These characters… they’re unfamiliar.”

Before he could respond, Sakura reached out and placed her hand gently over the fish, her hands beginning to glow with a soft, vibrant green light—the unmistakable hue of her healing chakra. She closed her eyes briefly, centering herself, then allowed the chakra to flow through the seals in a smooth, controlled current.

Slowly the wound stitched itself together and life returned to the fish’s eyes. They brightened and shimmered with renewed clarity. The fish twitched, then gave a sudden, desperate flop, its body flickering with the signs of vitality.

“See? It’s about feeling the flow, not forcing it.”

Sakura released the revived fish back into the river with a careful splash. Then she reached in and pulled out a fresh one from the bucket, holding it steady as she swiftly ended its life with a clean stroke of her kunai. Gently, she placed the lifeless fish on the seal. She smiled at him. “Now, it’s your turn.”

Tobirama narrowed his eyes slightly. The principal seemed simple enough. With measured concentration, he placed two fingers over the fish and focused his chakra into a steady stream—fine, precise.

Nothing happened.

His brow twitched.

She crouched beside him, chin in hand, watching with amusement as he tried again. And again. The fish remained dead.

An hour passed. Then another.

The sun climbed higher. Tobirama’s patience wore thinner.

Still, the damn fish remained very much deceased.

Beside him, he could hear Sakura humming softly as she built a fire pit and skewered some of the other fish with practiced ease. The scent of roasting fish wafted through the trees. Her quiet laughter drifted toward him.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said dryly without looking back.

“I mean,” she called over, “you are one of the greatest shinobi of this era… but here you are, being bested by a trout.”

Tobirama exhaled through his nose. He refused to dignify her jab with a response. Instead, he shifted his chakra again, recalibrating the flow, reanalyzing the seal.

“Don’t force too much chakra into it,” she said casually, tossing a pinch of seasoning over the fire. “It’s not about power. Think of chakra as a thread. You don’t hammer thread into fabric—you stitch it.”

He hated how useful that metaphor was.

Tobirama glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

The sunlight softened the curve of her cheek, casting a gentle warmth over her skin. A few loose strands of hair had slipped free from behind her ear and framed her face, softening the sharp angles of her expression. She’d tucked one absently behind her ear, a small, unthinking gesture—but his eyes lingered.

With practiced ease, she reached toward the fire, turning the fish gently on the spit. Her movements were calm and deliberate, as natural as breathing—careful not to let the delicate flesh catch too long on one side. Even in such a simple task, there was a quiet grace to her.

There was something oddly compelling about her—not in an obvious way, but in the confidence she carried. Something lived-in. Her posture was relaxed yet alert, every movement measured. And beneath the irreverent teasing, he saw the sharp, deliberate intelligence burning behind her eyes.

He blinked, realizing his gaze had lingered too long.

A distraction. Certainly a distraction. Nothing more.

He looked away, jaw tightening in reflex, then snapped his attention back to the fish with a scowl.

Senju Tobirama, Master of Water Release, was not one to be bested—not by fleeting thoughts.

And certainly not by a fish.

Tobirama was still hunched over the fish like it had personally offended him.

Sakura couldn’t help the quiet smile tugging at her lips as she leaned back on her hands, arms locked behind her against the ground, watching him. His brows were drawn in that familiar furrow, mouth a thin line, chakra visibly rippling in his hands in controlled pulses. Every few minutes, he'd adjust the angle of his fingers, or recalibrate the flow, dissecting the process like a puzzle he refused to let beat him.

She didn’t interrupt him at first—partly because watching the great Senju Tobirama be bested by a fish was strangely satisfying, but mostly because he was trying. Not dismissing her technique, not brushing it off with a scoff like she half-expected. He was really trying.

And that meant more to her than she could admit.

The scent of grilled fish filled the air, and the fire crackled softly beside her. She flipped the last skewer from the edge of the pit and leaned back, wiping her hands on her thighs before stretching her arms above her head. 

“Alright, Tobirama-sama,” she called, her voice light with playful respect. “Time for a break.”

He didn’t respond right away. His chakra flared one last time and the fish twitched slightly.

She noticed. He did too.

Progress.

Then the fish stilled once more, refusing to respond to his chakra. 

He sighed, letting the energy fade as he stood and crossed the clearing to join her. She handed him a skewered fish, golden and crackling at the edges.

“It’s your favorite,” she said casually.

Tobirama paused. His silver brows lifted slightly in surprise. “You remembered.”

Sakura shrugged, trying to mask her nerves with nonchalance. 

He took it with a nod, settling down beside her. They ate in silence for a moment, save for the sounds of the forest around them—the distant chirp of birds, the steady trickle of the river.

Eventually, Sakura broke the quiet.

“You’re really trying with the technique,” she said, glancing at him sideways. “That means a lot.”

“I’m not used to failing at something this many times in a row though,” Tobirama muttered, chewing thoughtfully.

“That just means it’s worth mastering,” she replied, smiling.

He grunted in acknowledgment. “I was always more suited to structural ninjutsu. Reinforcement, sensory, tactical support. Hashirama was the one with an affinity for... softness.”

Her smile faded slightly. “He would’ve made a good medic?”

Tobirama nodded. “He had the chakra control, certainly. He could heal himself instinctively—regenerate in battle without weaving a single seal. It was remarkable. But no amount of ability could make up for the fact that he was an idiot.”

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. “An idiot?”

“An idealist,” Tobirama corrected, though his tone didn’t shift much. “He saw the good in everything. Spouted dreams of peace like it was inevitable. Trusted people he shouldn’t have. Believed everyone could be redeemed.”

There was no venom in his voice. Just a tired memory.

Sakura stared into the fire and her face softened. “I knew someone like that too.”

Tobirama glanced at her.

She smiled faintly. “He used to drive me insane. So loud. So reckless. Always talking about protecting people, bringing everyone together, making people understand each other. He never gave up. Not once.”

Tobirama didn’t speak, but she felt his gaze linger.

“I didn’t get it at first,” she continued. “But somewhere along the way, I think I started believing in his dream too. Because he believed in everyone. Even me.”

There was a stretch of silence between them, filled only by the rustle of wind through the trees.

Tobirama finally spoke, his tone thoughtful but dry. “And now you’re trying to teach that dream with fish.”

She laughed, genuinely and warmly. “You’re the one who spent hours trying to resuscitate trout.”

He smirked. Just slightly. But it was real.

They fell into an easy silence again, both of them watching the embers of the fire crackle softly.

“You know,” Sakura said, poking at a twig, “for all their power and speeches and big hearts... Those two really are the same in one way.”

Tobirama raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“They're both absolute idiots,” she said with a grin.

Tobirama smirked. “Agreed. Stubborn, reckless, naïve—”

“—hopeless dreamers who think love can solve centuries of bloodshed,” Sakura added, grinning wider now.

“Utter fools.”

There was a beat of silence, then they both let out soft laughs—hers open and bright, his a light chuckle but unmistakably genuine.

Sakura leaned back on her hands, gazing up at the sky above them. “Still,” she murmured, “I’m kind of glad they existed.”

She didn’t expect a reply right away—and none came.

But when she glanced over, she caught the subtle shift in Tobirama’s features. The usual edge in his eyes had softened, the tension in his jaw eased. He was staring into the trees, but not with his usual calculating focus.

That silence told her more than words ever could.

A small smile curled at the corner of her lips.

He didn’t need to say it.

He agreed.

It started subtly.

Tobirama's presence at the hospital had once carried the weight of silent judgment and strategic evaluation—another item on a long list of things to monitor during Sakura’s probation. But now, his visits came with no official reason. The quiet tension that once trailed behind him had faded, replaced with something... quieter. More deliberate.

He would arrive with scrolls, sometimes medical tomes, sometimes chakra models he’d diagrammed himself. Occasionally, an entire fish for him to practice on. And Sakura, between patients, paperwork, and emergency calls, somehow always made time for him.

They’d occupied her office, poring over medical principles and techniques. Tobirama never came just to observe. He asked questions—sharp ones. He corrected his own misconceptions aloud. Once he set his mind to something, he wouldn’t let it go until he could understand it entirely. It was an intensity Sakura had quickly come to admire.

The hospital staff noticed.

At first, it was a few raised brows and curious glances.

But then it became clear that this was routine—no longer business, no longer official. Just him. Showing up. Seeking her. And naturally, the gossip spread like wildfire.

“Hokage-sama is here again?”

“That’s three times this week!”

“Is he… learning how to heal? Or how to flirt?”

“Hokage-sama smiled the other day. Smiled. I thought I was hallucinating!”

By the end of the week, the whispers reached outside the hospital, where the true instigators awaited.

Sakura barely stepped out of the hospital, ready for her lunch break, before a cup of tea was shoved under her nose by a grinning Inori.

“Afternoon, rising star,” Inori sang, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or should I say… Hokage-sama’s favorite medic-nin?”

Sakura blinked. “I’m not—”

“Didn’t stop him from coming in before lunch. Scroll in one hand, smirk in the other.”

Koharu sat nearby on a bench, one leg crossed over the other, a rice cracker held neatly between her fingers. “He brought his own fish this time,” she remarked dryly. “You have to admit, that kind of foresight is very…him.”

Sakura groaned, sitting down next to her with her tea and rolled her eyes. “He’s just interested in medical ninjutsu.”

“Mmhmm,” Inori said with a pointed look. “And I’m studying the chakra-altering effects of flustered blushes.”

“I’m not flustered!”

“You’re obvious,” Koharu remarked dryly, though there was a faint curve to her lips. “Anyone with eyes can tell something has shifted.”

Sakura covered her face with one hand. “No. Nothing has changed. You guys are just imagining things!”

Inori nudged her elbow. “Don’t worry, we wouldn’t dare ruin the romance between the ever-serious commander and his overachieving healer.”

Sakura mumbled into her hands, “There’s no romance.”

“Maybe not,” Koharu said, sipping her tea with practiced nonchalance. “But the potential is there. That’s all we’re saying.”

Sakura peeked up from her hand, giving them both an exasperated glare. “You two are the worst.”

“And you’re smitten, as much as you try to deny it,” Inori replied, raising her cup in a toast. “Cheers to our girl for charming the Nidaime Hokage through fish surgery and sheer will.”

They clinked cups, although Sakura did it half-heartedly.

Sakura sighed, half-laughing, half-mortified—but somewhere deep down, she knew they weren’t exactly wrong.

After the laughter had died down and Inori and Koharu waved their goodbyes, Sakura remained seated, her tea now lukewarm between her palms. The world moved gently around her—breezes stirring the trees, the distant chatter of villagers, the soft clang of metal from a nearby blacksmith—but inside her mind, it was unusually quiet. Still.

It had been just over a week since she dragged Tobirama down to the river, grinning like a lunatic and declaring that they were going to “catch fish.” He had looked at her like she’d lost her mind—and in a way, maybe she had. But she remembered that day so clearly. The sunlight filtering through the trees, the shimmer of water lapping at her ankles, and the way his crimson gaze had tracked her movements—calculating, observant, present .

She hadn’t expected him to take her seriously.

He really is something else...

Tobirama, the famed Nidaime Hokage, had every reason to scoff at her. But instead, he had leaned in. Engaged. Asked questions. Listened. He’d spent hours trying to heal that damn fish, his brows furrowed in frustration while she grilled the others over a fire. She’d teased him—she couldn’t help it—but even then, he hadn’t walked away.

And since then… he kept coming back.

Not with orders. Not to inspect her work. Just—quietly, almost methodically—making time for her. For this . His curiosity burned at a steady, relentless pace, and Sakura had come to recognize the way his mind worked. It was never idle, always two steps ahead, always chasing the “why” of something.

He could’ve just read a scroll. But he wants to understand it firsthand. Through me.

Sakura bit her bottom lip, a strange flutter working its way up her chest.

It was just medical ninjutsu.

Except… it wasn’t just that anymore.

In his own reserved, meticulous way, Tobirama had begun carving out space in her life. His visits weren’t just about chakra control or cellular regeneration anymore. He asked about her methods, her theories. He asked about her. And every time she explained something, he listened like what she said actually mattered.

She tilted her head back, exhaling a slow breath.

He’s impossible. Brilliant. Intense. And, Kami… kind of amazing.

Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she immediately took a sip of tea to distract herself. Focus, Sakura. She had known from the beginning that getting attached in this time period was dangerous and complicated. But Tobirama wasn’t someone you simply worked alongside and then forgot. He wasn’t forgettable.

And after everything… maybe she didn’t want to forget.

Her mind drifted back to the moment under the trees, the two of them sitting by the riverbank, the smell of grilled fish between them. She remembered the way he’d looked at her after she mentioned Naruto—the subtle softening around his eyes, the faint twitch of his mouth when she called both her blond teammate and his brother an idiot.

He hadn’t said anything when she said she was glad people like that existed.

But he hadn’t needed to.

She’d seen it in his face—that flicker of agreement, of buried fondness he hadn’t dared name aloud. In that silence, something between them had shifted.

Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She glanced down at her tea again, swirling the last few drops at the bottom. A week ago, he was a distant figure—cold, calculated, unreachable. But now… now he was someone she looked forward to seeing. Someone who stayed, who listened, who tried .

And maybe—just maybe—someone she was beginning to trust.

Maybe even more than that.

Sakura sat outside the hospital courtyard, half-finished tea cradled in her hands, her gaze distant and unfocused. She barely noticed the soft breeze rustling through the trees or the shifting clouds above.

Unbeknownst to her, Tobirama stood just around the corner, having caught the tail end of her conversation with Inori and Koharu. He had no intention to eavesdrop, but the unmistakable sound of Sakura’s embarrassed laughter had made him pause. He wasn’t used to hearing her laugh like that—unguarded and warm. And he certainly hadn’t expected the faint flush creeping up her cheeks.

He observed her now, sitting quietly, completely absorbed in her thoughts. His mind, ever methodical, flicked through the moments he had spent with her over the past week. What had begun as a curious study of medical ninjutsu had evolved into something far more engaging. He found himself seeking her out, not for duty or observation, but because he genuinely enjoyed her company. Even in silence, she filled the space around her with something... magnetic.

Her insights were sharp, her teaching style patient but firm. And she challenged him. Tobirama had always respected intelligence, and Sakura had it in spades. Her presence had become a strange comfort. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he’d started looking forward to her quick wit, the way her eyes lit up when she explained something, or the small frown she wore when deep in thought.

And then there was his damn fish.

He carried the bucket toward her, the water sloshing quietly as the single fish inside darted in smooth, frantic circles. Healed and resurrected.

"Sakura," he called.

She looked up, startled for only a second before her eyes dropped to the bucket. When she saw the fish, her entire face lit up.

"You did it!" she gasped, rising to her feet in excitement.

"Finally," Tobirama said dryly, though a small flicker of satisfaction tugged at the edge of his mouth. Her pride in him felt oddly... pleasing.

"It took me two weeks to get my fish to live," she said with a laugh, eyes twinkling. "You did it in a little over one. That's seriously impressive. As expected of you, Tobirama-sama."

He gave her a measured look, the praise curling somewhere in his chest. "I'm ready for the next step."

She nodded. "You are. Let’s go to my office."

They entered the hospital side by side. Tobirama was fully aware of the glances they drew from passing staff—curious stares, low whispers—but he paid them no mind. Gossip was an inevitable byproduct of village life. Let them talk. He had work to do.

Inside Sakura’s office, she draped her white cloak over the back of her chair and turned to him with a mischievous smile. "Hand it over."

He did, only to watch her swiftly slice the fish's neck again.

"You killed it again," he said flatly.

She giggled, placing the fish steady on a metal tray. "Well, I needed something for you to revive. No seal this time. Show me."

Tobirama exhaled through his nose and hunched over the tray, placing his hands over the fish. It took a few moments longer without the guiding seals, but his control was precise. A minute later, the fish gave a weak flop.

"Amazing," Sakura breathed out, eyes bright.

Tobirama stood and crossed his arms, smirking in quiet pride. "It was more difficult without the seal, but manageable."

She smiled, but then, she reached for a kunai. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye—a swift flash of silver. His senses screamed before logic caught up.

"What are you—"

The blade sliced across her forearm, a thin line of crimson welling up in its wake.

“Sakura!” he barked, his voice firm but edged with unmistakable concern. He moved quickly, muscles coiled and alert, his heart beating faster despite the calm he fought to maintain.

The cut wasn’t deep, but the sight of her blood sent a sharp jolt through him. A flicker of unease tightened in his chest—anger mixed with discomfort, tempered by the steady control of a shinobi.

His hands clamped gently but firmly around her wrist, grounding himself in the feel of her skin, her warmth. His gaze locked on the injury, jaw tight.

What was she thinking? That her pain was inconsequential? That her blood was an acceptable sacrifice for his learning?

She winced but grinned up at him. "Next step, right? Heal me."

He scowled, the expression dark. Her casualness grated on him, stirred something protective that he couldn’t rationalize away.

"You're reckless," he muttered, though his chakra was already flowing.

His hand hovered above the wound, glowing faintly with green energy. Her skin was soft and warm beneath his touch. Her pulse beat steadily against his fingers.

"You needed a living subject," she said softly, her gaze meeting his.

He focused on the wound, but the sight of her blood lingered in his thoughts. It bothered him more than it should have. She shouldn’t be doing this—for anyone, least of all for him.

He didn’t want her bleeding to prove a point. He didn’t want her hurt. Not now. Not ever.

“I understand now,” he said after a pause. “Not just the technique but the necessity.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “A shinobi’s strength isn’t measured solely by their offensive power. The ability to preserve life… to protect one’s comrades through healing—that is a skill too often overlooked.” 

He met her eyes, and beneath his usual reserve, a steady, unspoken respect lingered. Sakura watched him carefully.

He finished healing the shallow cut along her arm, the faint green glow of chakra dissipating. His hand slowly uncurled from around her wrist, but lingered, just a second longer than necessary. His touch was warm and deliberate. 

"At the next council meeting," Tobirama continued, "I will propose that medical ninjutsu training become part of the academy curriculum. I want you there to speak on its importance."

Sakura blinked in surprise, but then nodded, serious and proud. "Of course, Tobirama-sama."

He gave her one last look—something quieter, more personal—an unspoken understanding that passed between them in the silence. Then he turned away. 

Her proud smile hovered in his memory like a fading echo, yet it was the vivid crimson line on her skin that burned most fiercely in his mind.

Chapter Text

The steam rose in gentle plumes around the edges of the onsen, curling into the crisp November air like whispered secrets. Though Konoha rarely saw snow back in her time, winter had crept in regardless—bringing with it biting winds, frosted windows, and the kind of chill that lingered in the bones.

Sakura sank deeper into the mineral-rich water with a soft sigh, feeling her muscles loosen in the comforting heat. Across from her, Koharu leaned back with her arms draped lazily along the stone edge, while Inori toyed with the tips of her soaked hair, her cheeks flushed from the warmth. Biwako was already half-asleep, her head resting back against a folded towel.

“I could live here,” Inori murmured, letting her toes skim the surface. “Forget missions, forget patrols… This is the life.”

“Mm,” Koharu hummed. “Shame it takes frostbite to get us here.”

Sakura chuckled quietly, closing her eyes. “Honestly? This might be the best part of winter.”

“Oh?” Inori’s voice rose with playful suspicion. “Not the best part of the season ?”

Sakura cracked one eye open warily. “What are you implying?”

Inori only smiled innocently. “Nothing. Just wondering if your favorite thing might have... silver hair and a tendency to scowl.”

Biwako giggled. Koharu coughed pointedly into her fist.

“Huh?!” Sakura flushed.

“I mean,” Inori continued with exaggerated innocence, “you’ve been in a remarkably good mood lately.”

“And drifting off into your own little world an awful lot,” Biwako added, eyes closed but lips twitching with amusement.

Sakura sighed, placing a hand on her face exasperatedly. She already knew where this was going. “Please don’t start.”

Koharu leaned in, water rippling around her shoulders. “Come on, Sakura. You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with sensei lately. Long conversations. Discreet visits. Quiet walks from the office. Surely something is going on between you two.”

Sakura scoffed lightly, trying to play it off. “It’s nothing like that.”

Inori grinned. “Then what is it like?”

Sakura hesitated just a fraction too long.

“We’re just… around each other sometimes,” she finally said, vague and noncommittal. “He’s busy. I’m busy. But sometimes we cross paths.”

Koharu arched a brow. “You two ‘coincidentally’ run into each other so often, I’m starting to think it’s scheduled,” she said flatly.

Biwako just nodded in agreement.

Sakura sank a little deeper into the water, cheeks flushed from more than just the heat. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Inori said with a smirk, “but we’re not wrong.”

Their laughter drifted into the cold air, mingling with the rising steam. And though Sakura rolled her eyes and shook her head, she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips—because as much as she hated to admit it, a part of her didn’t want them to be wrong either.

Lately, she’d begun to notice a shift—subtle, but impossible to ignore—in the way things stood between her and Tobirama. What had started as mutual caution and sharp-edged suspicion on his part had gradually softened into something else. She didn’t know exactly when it began. Was it during their mission together? That quiet moment at the ramen stall? Or maybe when she guided his hands through healing techniques, her chakra overlapping with his in a rare moment of shared purpose? Somewhere along the way, the space between them had changed. Not dramatically, not in any way she could name aloud, but undeniably. There was something building. A quiet understanding. A sense of... something she wouldn’t dare define—not yet. 

But it felt a lot like trust.

Sakura shook her head, snapping out of her thoughts. “You three are worse than a trio of old hens,” she remarked dryly, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Oh, come on.” Inori splashed a little water in Sakura’s direction. “He’s handsome, powerful, and completely emotionally unavailable. That’s the classic forbidden romance setup.”

Biwako added softly, “I just think it’s kind of impressive… He’s so serious all the time.” She gave a small, sheepish smile. “That sort of intensity… It's memorable. I don’t blame you for being interested in him.”

Sakura gave an exasperated sigh, face pink from both heat and embarrassment. “For the last time, I’m not interested in Tobirama-sama!”

“Sure,” Inori said, smiling knowingly. “And I’m not interested in that new jounin with the nice bu—”

“Don’t—” Koharu interjected, “—finish that sentence.” 

They all burst into laughter, the steam and teasing warming them more than the bath itself. The conversation drifted after that—touching on the latest village gossip, an embarrassing mission mishap Biwako had endured, and Inori’s accidental duel with a particularly vicious boar near the training grounds.

As Sakura sat among them, laughter echoing softly around the onsen, she felt something shift. It was subtle—but there. A kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the bath. She was still cautious, still hiding truths they could never suspect… but for the first time since arriving, no longer felt like an outsider.

Just another girl, sharing secrets and teasing smiles in the heart of winter.

And when they teased her about Tobirama—as they always did, with those sly glances and maddeningly knowing smiles—something inside her faltered.

It wasn’t the teasing itself. She was used to that by now. Biwako’s knowing smile, Koharu’s deadpan one-liners, Inori’s loud declarations that made even the birds in the trees startle. They’d been circling this topic over a week now—ever since Tobirama had started appearing just a little too often wherever Sakura happened to be. Ever since his name had started slipping into conversations that had nothing to do with politics or duty.

Because in that moment, something changed. Not on the surface. No, it shifted inside her. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly.

A flutter. A breath caught just a second too long in her chest. Not irritation. Not embarrassment. Something gentler.

Something warmer.

Her heart gave a small, traitorous kick as her mind slipped back to the moment when she’d sliced her own forearm in front of him for him to heal. What she hadn’t expected was the sharp flicker of panic that crossed his face the instant he saw her blood—brief, raw, and utterly unguarded. It was gone in a heartbeat, shuttered behind his usual cool detachment, but Sakura had seen it. Just for a moment, something cracked through that carefully composed exterior—and it wasn’t indifference. His hand had closed around her wrist with startling force—driven by something raw, something protective.

The heat of his palm had bled through her skin, grounding and electric all at once. For a heartbeat, they’d just stood there—his grip tight, her breath held. And even though the wound had already begun to knit itself closed beneath his chakra, he didn’t let go. His eyes were locked on hers, wild and searching, as though he didn’t understand why she’d done it. As though he didn’t know how to look away.

Even now, sitting deep in hot spring water and surrounded by laughter, she could still feel the ghost of that contact. The weight of his hand. The way her pulse had fluttered in her throat—not from pain, but from something far more dangerous.

Something she didn’t have a name for yet.

Her cheeks warmed, and this time it wasn’t from the onsen.

It startled her—the way her body reacted before her thoughts could catch up. The way her pulse quickened not with dread, but with something dangerously close to anticipation. As if, just for a moment, she wanted the teasing of her friends to be true.

He wasn’t just a figure out of legend anymore. Not just the second name in a long list of Hokage. Somewhere along the way, he’d become real to her. Flawed and sharp and unexpectedly human. He was no longer a part of the past she was trying to keep at a distance.

He was part of now.

And that— that —was what made her breath catch. What made the corners of her mouth tug in, half hiding a smile she didn’t even know she had.

She ducked her chin under the guise of brushing a damp strand of hair from her face, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the shift in her expression.

But she saw the way Biwako’s eyes sparkled. The way Koharu raised her eyebrows. The way Inori nudged her under the water with her foot, grinning like a wolf.

They noticed.

And for once, Sakura didn’t entirely mind.

The council chamber was colder than usual when, one week later, Tobirama raised the topic he’d never imagined himself defending—the integration of medical ninjutsu into shinobi academy training. And yet, here he stood—because one kunoichi had changed his mind.

It wasn’t something he’d ever imagined doing—not even a month ago. For the majority of his lifetime, medical ninjutsu had seemed like a secondary skill, a tool best left to those who specialized in it. Useful, yes, but never urgent. Never strategic. It had taken one persistent woman to make him see otherwise. Through every demonstration, every late-night lesson, every precise chakra adjustment she guided him through, Sakura had made it impossible to ignore the truth—that this was more than healing. It was survival. And perhaps, it was evolution.

Tobirama sat at the head of the long table, arms crossed in front of his armored chest, his gaze scanning the chamber with quiet calculation.

The council hall was dimly lit, shafts of pale winter light slipping between the blinds and falling across a room full of furrowed brows and skeptical glances. It was the usual mix of clan heads, elders, and senior advisors—men and women he’d known for years. Men and women who rarely changed their minds without a great deal of pushing.

Sakura stood to his right, poised but clearly tense. She didn’t fidget, didn’t show uncertainty, but Tobirama had studied human behavior long enough to read the subtle clench in her jaw, the way she held her hands too precisely at her sides.

Still, she didn’t shrink under their stares. That mattered and was impressive in his eyes.

He opened the discussion with practiced brevity.

“You’ve all reviewed the proposal. The integration of medical ninjutsu into academy training is not just a reform. It is a strategic necessity. We cannot continue to treat combat medics as luxuries deployed after the damage is done. If we start training students in basic medical practices early, and ensure that each team sent out on missions to be accompanied by one medic-nin, the rate of mission casualties will drop.”

There was a pause as his words settled over the room. A few council members nodded. More looked unconvinced.

Tobirama glanced toward Sakura. “Sakura.”

She stepped forward, her voice clear and unwavering despite the weight of the room pressing in on her.

“I’ve served on battlefields,” Sakura began, her voice steady, carrying through the chamber, “where a shinobi’s survival depended not on how fast they could throw a kunai, but on whether their teammate knew how to stabilize a wound.”

Several councilmen shifted in their seats. She pressed forward, undeterred.

“I’ve seen teams come back whole because one trained medic was deployed with them from the start, not summoned after the damage was done. The presence of a medic-nin reduces fatality rates in squad operations by nearly 78 percent. In some high-risk missions, that number climbs closer to 90 percent.”

She let the silence stretch for a beat, eyes scanning the room. Tobirama watched her closely, noting the precise way she stood—shoulders square, expression composed, voice neither too hard nor too soft. Controlled. Tactical. Passionate. 

Almost as if she has done this before.  

He filed that thought away at the back of his mind. 

“We teach children how to kill,” Sakura continued, her voice now tinged with quiet intensity. “Drill them in chakra control, ninjutsu, taijutsu, strategy—everything they need to take a life. But what about how to preserve one? How to keep their teammates alive long enough to make it home?”

The murmurs began again. Someone scoffed lightly. Another councilman scribbled a note, unimpressed.

But Tobirama felt something stir in his chest—a tight pull of approval and something quieter beneath it. Pride. She wasn’t just making a case; she was challenging a legacy. And she was doing it with precision.

“I’m not asking you to make every student a medic-nin,” Sakura added, anticipating their pushback. “I’m asking for a foundation. Basic emergency treatment. Knowledge of trauma response. Chakra application for field injuries. You call it impractical, but it’s far more reckless to send out underprepared children than it is to teach them a skill that might save lives.” She paused before adding, “And if teachers are what we’re short on, I’d be more than happy to step into the role.”

A few of the elder members frowned, and Tobirama recognized the look—resistance. Ingrained tradition. He could practically hear them thinking: This isn’t how it’s done. This isn’t what we’ve always taught.

One elder leaned forward. “And how do we know these statistics are even accurate? There is no precedent for them. Not here.”

Tobirama felt his jaw tighten.

“Hn,” grunted an elder in agreement. “And we’re to trust your expertise, are we? A woman with no clan, no records, and no known village to her name?”

“She was accepted here under probation,” someone else added. “Shouldn’t we be addressing the question of her origins before trusting her to instruct academy students?”

Tobirama didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

Sakura’s expression didn’t shift, though Tobirama noted the smallest flicker in her eyes—hurt? No. Frustration. It was controlled but sharp.

Another elder, from a minor clan, leaned forward. “It’s not just a matter of skill. She might be competent—but why place such responsibility on someone with no known allegiance before this year?”

“She says her knowledge comes from the field, but where are the records? The references? She presents herself as a master, but to whom has she ever been accountable?” a woman questions critically.

“She has a silver tongue and speaks of progress, but even snakes can heal with the right poison.”

That was the last straw.

“Enough.” The entire room froze when Tobirama’s voice cut through like a blade. The word was calm, but cold. His gaze, when it lifted to meet theirs, was glacial.

“This is a strategy meeting,” he said evenly, “not a tribunal.”

The weight of his words sank into the room, silencing it completely.

“Haruno Sakura has served this village without error,” Tobirama continued. “She has risked her life in the field. She has healed our shinobi. And she has proven herself more capable than many you would defend without question.”

He turned slightly, nodding toward Sakura, who looked tense, but keeping his tone measured. “Her proposal is sound. Dismissing it based on origin alone is shortsighted and a disservice to the future of this village.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain.

Finally, one of the more pragmatic voices in the room—a Nara clan member—cleared his throat. “Even so, Hokage-sama, such a curriculum change is significant. There are concerns. Implementation. Resources. Time.”

Tobirama didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he regarded the council as a whole, reading them like battlefield terrain. Obstacles. Unpredictable weather. Some could be persuaded. Some could not. But he knew none of them would make a final decision today.

“We’ll reconvene on this,” he said at last. “You’ve heard the case. Consider it carefully.”

With that, the meeting was adjourned. Tobirama rose from his seat with practiced precision. Without a word, he began striding down the corridor, Sakura falling into step just behind him. The sharp murmur of the council’s voices trailed after them, fading only when the door closed with a definitive click behind them.

They walked in silence for a time.

Sakura’s steps were brisk, but Tobirama could feel the frustration radiating off her like heat. She was too proud to sulk. But not too proud to be disappointed.

“That could’ve gone better,” she said quietly with a sigh.

Tobirama glanced at her. “They’ll come around.”

“Will they?”

“Yes.” His voice was quiet. Firm. “Because I’ll make them.”

She looked up at him, eyes narrowing in reluctant surprise. A beat passed between them.

Sakura didn’t smile, but her expression shifted—something quiet and resolute in her eyes as she looked at him. Tobirama met her gaze, and in that unspoken moment, he understood. She trusted him. And for reasons he couldn’t yet name, he knew he wouldn’t allow himself to disappoint her.

He cleared his throat lightly, then spoke in a low voice, “I need to talk to you about something. Come to my office.” His tone was characteristically composed, but beneath it was a note of finality—of significance. Without waiting for her reply, he turned and began down the corridor.

Tobirama continued down the corridor in silence, his stride brisk and purposeful, the soft echo of Sakura’s footsteps just behind him. The quiet stretched between them—not tense, but thoughtful, weighted with the remnants of the council meeting. The faint clatter of distant shinobi, the murmur of papers being turned in nearby rooms, the occasional creak of wood underfoot—it all passed unnoticed as Tobirama’s thoughts remained fixed.

He stopped outside his office door and held it open for her, stepping in after she entered. The door clicked shut behind them.

The room was as orderly as always—scrolls stacked neatly across the desk. Tobirama moved behind it, opening a drawer with practiced ease.

“I have something for you,” he said, his tone even but quieter than usual.

Sakura blinked in surprise as he reached into the drawer and drew out a neatly folded hitai-ate. Unlike her worn red one, this was the standard Konoha forehead protector—dark cloth, polished metal, the village emblem gleaming in the light.

He stepped out from behind the desk and held it out to her.

“Your probation period is over,” he said. “As of today, you are officially a shinobi of Konoha. Given the skills you’ve demonstrated during your time here, you will be ranked as a jounin.”

Sakura stared at the hitai-ate for a moment, then took it gently from his hands. Her fingers curled around the cloth, reverent. She looked up at him, eyes wide with something unspoken—pride, maybe, or gratitude. Maybe something else entirely.

Tobirama’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was a subtle lightness in his eyes. A rare softness.

“You’ve earned this,” he said simply. 

The words hung in the air between them.

“Thank you,” she said finally, voice low but thick with emotion.

Tobirama nodded once. His expression remained stern, unreadable. But then—just before he turned away—his mouth tilted in the barest suggestion of a smile. Small. Honest. Real.

Winter deepened, and the village settled into a quiet rhythm. Sakura resumed her life—hospital, field healing, low-risk assignments—but Tobirama became scarce. With the Chuunin Exams approaching, he had little time to spare.

Their quiet, natural meetings faded. She saw him only at a distance now, when passing medical reports to his ANBU or when she glimpsed him speaking with clan heads.

The emptiness surprised her more than it should have.

In Tobirama’s absence, Sakura returned to her quiet, consuming pursuit: space-time research. It had been her original purpose—her tether to reason when everything else felt uncertain. Now that the watchful eyes of his ANBU were no longer present around her, she can continue with her research. 

The Konoha library, though broader and better stocked than the modest archives in Shukuba Town, still offered little in the way of true answers. She sifted through scrolls and aged tomes, some half-crumbling at the edges, their ink faded and theories speculative. And yet, none of them even brushed close to what she needed.

Not a single word about time displacement. No hint, not even a whisper, that Hiraishin—his Hiraishin—could rip someone from their own era and hurl them into another.

Days of research had passed, and still she was hunched over her notes by the lamp in her room, the shadows flickering against her half-filled parchment. Her handwriting was steady and neat despite the storm in her head—tight lines of conjecture, runes and sequences she had redrawn again and again. But they always ended in question marks. Always ended in silence.

Her gaze dropped to one of the diagrams she had recreated from memory. The modified Hiraishin seal she had first studied to enhance medical emergency response. That had been the initial goal. That had been her mistake.

Somewhere in its design, she had made an error. Or perhaps not an error—a rupture. A breach she couldn’t trace. Whatever it was, it had dragged her backward through time. And no matter how many times she retraced the pathways, she couldn’t find the precise point of failure. Her understanding wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

If she truly wanted to advance—if she truly wanted to return—she had to start at the origin.

Senju Tobirama.

Only he understood the jutsu from its very roots. Only he could see the structure as it had been conceived, not how it had evolved. If anyone could help her find the fracture in her timeline, it was him.

And yet.

She didn’t move. Her brush hovered over the parchment, then tapped it once. Twice. A beat that echoed her hesitation.

She couldn’t bring herself to ask him.

Because things had changed between them. Slowly, subtly—but unmistakably. The initial frost between them had thawed into something… steady. It wasn’t quite warmth, but something close—an ease that felt quietly familiar, like the faint echo of a long-forgotten song stirring just beneath the surface. 

Understanding. Maybe even respect. 

They moved in sync now, without needing words. And somewhere along the way, that cautious distance had begun to feel less like a necessity and more like a choice she didn’t want to make anymore.

But this—this question—this truth—it would pull all of that into question again.

She knew how Tobirama’s mind worked. One mention of space-time deviation, and his suspicions would flare back to life. Everything they’d built would be held up to scrutiny again. She’d see it in his eyes—sharp, cold calculation, the ever-turning mind of a man who trusted few and forgave even fewer.

Maybe she could lie.

Say it was part of her medical studies—that she wanted to explore ways to apply Hiraishin to emergency transport or medical stasis. It wouldn’t be untrue. But it wouldn’t be the whole truth either.

Even the thought of that—of bending the truth again—left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had lied enough. Every word she spoke in this time carried some level of deception. But with him, it felt different. He had given her his trust, reluctantly perhaps, but ultimately sincerely. The idea of betraying that—even for her own survival—gnawed at her.

She pressed her palm to the desk, fingers curling around the edge of the scroll as the light flickered low beside her. Her heart thudded quietly in her chest.

Ask him, she thought again.

But she didn’t. 

Not tonight.

Because the real truth was something she could never say aloud. Not to him.

That she was from the future. That the jutsu he pioneered had torn through space and time and dragged her decades back, into a world that wasn’t hers.

She couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Because even she still struggled to believe it herself.

And Tobirama—logical, methodical, rooted in cause and consequence—would never accept it. Not without proof. Not without a theory to explain what shouldn’t be possible. He would dissect her every word, dismantle her story piece by piece until only suspicion remained. The careful truce they’d forged would dissolve in an instant.

Worse still, what if he did believe her?

He would see her as a threat to the natural order—an anomaly with no place in this time. Tobirama didn’t tolerate unpredictability; he didn’t leave dangerous variables unresolved. If she told him everything, she wouldn’t just lose his trust—she might lose the fragile life she’d managed to build here.

So she told herself she’d have to find another way. A better reason. One he could accept.

But even that felt like manipulation.

To ask for his help under the guise of advancing her medical ninjutsu—to claim she needed to understand the fundamentals of Hiraishin for chakra-stabilized emergency transport techniques—was no lie. Yet it twisted something sharp in her chest. Tobirama was not a man to be manipulated. He would see through it. Maybe not at first—but eventually. He always did.

And what then?

Would he be disappointed? Would that fleeting warmth vanish from his expression, replaced by the cool detachment that had once defined him—before something unspoken between them had begun to shift?

She didn’t know and it was too risky to find out.

She didn’t want to face whatever his reaction might be.

So instead, she kept researching. Fingers stained with ink, eyes burning from dimmed light, her mind circling the same unsolved equation like a bird trapped in flight. Waiting. Wondering.

Trying—and failing— not to imagine his face when the day finally came, and she said the one thing he wasn’t ready to hear.

The one thing that might break everything.

Chapter Text

Days bled into weeks.

The cold deepened, and Sakura’s world narrowed to ink and silence, broken only by the soft whisper of snow beginning to fall over Konoha—a rarity in her time, when winters rarely wore white.

The hospital was quieter now, the worst of winter illnesses either passed or predictably managed. But Tobirama remained a ghost—present only in fleeting traces, like the smell of cold wind left in the halls after a meeting, or the dry, clipped tones in reports she frequently skimmed.

The winter sun was already dipping low, casting soft gold across the wet rooftops, when Sakura passed the administrative wing on her way to the hospital archives. She meant to drop off a few scrolls and return to her research—but paused when she heard a familiar voice around the corner.

“—if I ever have to grade another genin performance again, it’ll be too soon.” The voice was muffled but unmistakable.

Sakura peeked around the corner and found both Kagami and Hiruzen slumped in a pair of mismatched chairs, a shared bag of roasted chestnuts between them. Hiruzen looked like he was melting into the backrest, while Kagami, ever the composed one, still had ink on his fingers and a weary but satisfied look on his face.

“You two look like you’ve fought a war,” Sakura said, announcing her presence with a grin.

“We did,” Hiruzen replied solemnly. “It was called the Chuunin Exams.”

Sakura stepped closer, eyeing them with amusement. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be passed out somewhere in the mission office?”

“Paperwork delivery,” Kagami muttered, holding up a sealed scroll with disdain. “We had to drop off the final injury reports. Somehow, this was faster than waiting for a runner.”

“Also,” Hiruzen added with a wry grin, “the hospital has heating. And chairs.”

Sakura laughed. “So you’re hiding.”

“Strategic withdrawal,” Kagami corrected, holding the bag of chestnuts out to her for her to take one. “Big difference.”

“You two are ridiculous,” she said fondly.

Hiruzen let out a long, dramatic groan and let his head thunk against the wall. “We’ve been buried in mission logs and injury reports all week. Clan reps won’t stop arguing, and don’t even get me started on the genin… why do they have so much energy?”

“You’re the one without energy,” Sakura pointed out, amused.

Hiruzen pointed at her with a chestnut. “Because they stole it from me. I’m convinced.”

Sakura laughed. “Well, you survived. That’s what matters.”

“Barely,” he muttered, though the sparkle in his eyes said he was only half-serious.

“We’ll get a brief respite now,” Kagami added, brushing a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “At least until preparations for the New Year’s Festival kick into full swing.”

“Oh, right,” Sakura said, blinking. “That’s coming up already?”

Kagami arched a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re skipping it. The whole village goes out for it.”

Sakura hesitated. “No, I’m not skipping. I just haven’t really… seen one before.” 

At least not in this timeline…

Hiruzen tilted his head. “Not even as a child?”

Sakura offered a small, noncommittal smile. “Not exactly. Things were… different where I grew up.”

“Well,” Hiruzen said, tossing another chestnut in his mouth, “this year’s supposed to be a good one. There’ll be food stalls, dancing, music, all of it. Might even see sensei in a yukata if we’re lucky.”

Sakura bit back a smile. “That would be something.”

“Tell me about it,” Hiruzen said. “I’ve been trying to get him to come out for years .”

“He usually avoids it,” Kagami added. “Says it’s for the villagers, not him.”

“Well, maybe this year he’ll change his mind,” Sakura murmured.

Hiruzen stretched with a groan and thumped the back of his head against the wall again. “I’ll believe it when I see it. But if he does show up, I’m making him try the dango stand.”

“Be sure to write a report on that,” Sakura said jokingly, already turning to go, her mind drifting to possibilities she hadn’t considered until now.

The Hokage’s office was dim, lit only by the late amber hues of a winter sunset slanting through the windows. The desk was a fortress of paperwork—scrolls stacked with ruthless precision, ink bottles arranged in cold order. And behind it sat Tobirama, sharp crimson lines on his cheeks and silver hair etched in gold by the dying light. He looked like something sculpted from discipline itself—broad-shouldered, still as stone, his crimson eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the report in his hands. Even at rest, there was a coiled intensity to him, like a blade sheathed but never out of reach.

Sakura lingered at the threshold longer than she meant to, one hand on the frame, her gaze tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the way his brows knit in focus. He didn’t look up, but she felt the weight of his presence all the same—steady, unrelenting, and somehow... grounding.

He didn’t look up. “You’re hovering.”

Busted.  

She stepped in sheepishly. “Sorry. You looked… busy.”

“I am,” he said, but there was no bite to it.

She ventured closer, glancing at the stiff line of his shoulders, the faint press of his fingers just above his brow. He wasn’t scowling, exactly, but the strain in his jaw gave him away.

“You have a headache,” she observed quietly.

“It’s manageable.”

“That’s not a ‘no,’” she replied, folding her arms. She hesitated. “I can help. If you’ll let me.”

At that, Tobirama did glance up. His crimson eyes flicked to hers—calculating, uncertain. “You want to heal it?”

Sakura swallowed, then shook her head. “Not exactly. I was thinking more… physical relief. With a bit of chakra enhancement.”

His brows rose, just slightly.

She pressed on, voice soft. “Just your head and shoulders. I do this for my friends sometimes. It’s not… weird.”

He was still watching her, inscrutable. Sakura felt heat climb to her ears.

“I mean, I can go if—”

“Alright,” he said at last, putting down the report in his hand.

She blinked, momentarily stunned by how quickly her offer had been accepted—until she caught the wary tension still holding in his shoulders. He was far from relaxed. Just curious enough to permit her presence.

Sakura stepped behind him, her hands hovering awkwardly. “Tell me if it’s too much.” Her voice was soft. 

And then she touched him.

The reaction was immediate. Tobirama stiffened beneath her hands—shoulders drawn taut like wire, spine straightening unconsciously. For a second, she worried he’d stand up and end the moment right there.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he went still. Watchful. Tense—but not pulling away.

Sakura’s chakra flowed carefully through her fingertips, soothing and slow. She focused on the base of his neck, easing into tight muscle with practiced pressure. The knots were deep, forged from long days, longer nights, and a lifetime of shouldering too much responsibility. She kept her touch professional, but attentive—reading his body’s cues with the precision of a medic.

Tobirama said nothing, but his breathing shifted—shallower, quieter. As if he didn’t want to admit the relief.

“You really don’t take breaks, do you?” she said softly.

“They’re inefficient.”

Sakura let out a quiet huff, gently working her thumbs around his shoulder blades. “You know, you once gave me a whole lecture about this. Something about how a medic who burns out is useless to their patients.”

“I was referring to you.”

“Well,” she murmured, pressing into a knot at his shoulder, “now I’m referring to you. You’ve been carrying the entire Chuunin Exam process on your shoulders.”

“They needed to be evaluated thoroughly,” he said. “I won’t promote unprepared shinobi.”

“I know. But it’s over now. You can breathe, you know.”

A beat passed.

“I’ll consider it,” he said, and she smiled to herself.

She moved to his temples next, brushing her fingertips lightly across his skin as she let the chakra flow in small, careful pulses. His jaw slackened ever so slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for her to notice—and enough to know that, for once, he wasn’t bracing himself against her.

After a moment, he spoke again. “Has the hospital workload eased at all?”

“A little,” she said. “Now that the exams are over, there are fewer injuries trickling in. Most of my patients are recovering well.”

He gave a thoughtful nod. “You’ve handled the overflow efficiently.”

She smiled faintly. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

“It is,” he said, simply.

Sakura blinked, caught off guard by the directness in his tone. Then, gently, she stepped back, letting her hands fall to her sides. “There. That should help a bit.”

Tobirama rolled his shoulders slightly, testing the release of tension with a quiet breath. “Hm. That was… effective.”

Sakura arched a brow, half-amused. “That’s your version of a thank you?”

He glanced at her sidelong. “You’re perceptive. No need for me to repeat myself.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “I’ll take it.”

A comfortable quiet settled between them for a few seconds before Sakura stepped toward the front of his desk. “You know… now that the exams are over, everyone’s looking forward to the New Year’s Eve festival next week.”

He looked up, faintly skeptical. “A civilian celebration.”

Sakura scowled. “You say that like it’s beneath you.”

“It isn’t,” he said simply. “But it’s not necessary for me to attend.”

Sakura gave him a dry look. “That’s exactly why you should go. Hokage or not, you’re still part of the village. You deserve to celebrate with them.”

“I prefer to observe from a distance.”

“You always observe from a distance from what I hear,” she retorted. “Just once, I’d like to see you enjoy something for yourself.”

Tobirama didn’t answer.

“There’ll be food stalls, games, lanterns,” she continued, coaxing. “And music. Everyone’s been working so hard. You included.”

Still silence. But not dismissal.

“And maybe we can even watch the fireworks together,” she added with a hint of shyness.

That made him pause.

“…Fireworks?”

She froze. 

Oh. 

And that’s when it hit her— of course he didn’t know. Fireworks must’ve been invented after his time. The realization sent a quiet jolt through her. Shit.

Tobirama tilted his head slightly. “What are they?”

Sakura scrambled for an answer, cursing herself inwardly. Too soon. But the question hung between them, and she had to answer.

“They’re… explosions of color in the sky,” she said carefully. “A controlled burst of sound and light, usually launched in sequence. They’re used during festivals to mark celebrations.”

He blinked, intrigued. “Explosions?”

“Safe ones,” she added quickly. “They’re created using sealed combustion and certain minerals for color. It’s… hard to describe unless you’ve seen it. But they’re beautiful.”

Tobirama was quiet for a beat, gaze slipping toward the window as if imagining it. “What sort of minerals?”

“Uh… barium for green, strontium for red, copper for blue… I think magnesium for white,” she said, caught off guard by his focus. “It’s more chemistry than ninjutsu.”

“And the seal structure? To ignite in a timed pattern?”

She groaned, half-laughing. “I knew this would happen.” Hand placed on her forehead in exasperation.

“I’m asking for clarification,” he said, entirely serious.

“You’re turning festival fireworks into a research opportunity.”

“It’s an unfamiliar concept. Of course I’m going to analyze it.”

She gave him a mock glare and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You don’t have to dissect everything.” 

“I don’t dissect,” Tobirama said coolly. “I understand.”

Sakura exhaled through a laugh, shaking her head. “Fine. I’ll draw you a diagram later.”

He inclined his head slightly in approval, but then narrowed his eyes. “Where did you learn about this? You speak as though it’s common knowledge.”

Sakura’s smile faltered for half a second. Then she tilted her head with a thoughtful hum. “I picked it up while traveling with my shishou. A few of the border towns in the Land of Tea, close to the Land of Fire, were experimenting with festival light shows. They don’t have chakra-trained craftsmen, so they use chemical means to entertain crowds.” She shrugged lightly. “It stuck with me.”

Tobirama studied her closely, his gaze sharp as always, but not suspicious. Just curious. “Interesting. I’ll need you to write down everything you remember.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What, so you can beat the Land of Tea in festival displays?”

“If they’re using sealed combustion in civilian settings, it warrants further investigation.”

She smirked. “You mean it sounds fun and you’re pretending it’s for national security.”

“I would never misuse my office for entertainment,” Tobirama said with deadpan precision.

Sakura snorted. “Of course not.” She turned to leave but paused at the door. “You’ll think about it, right? The festival?”

He looked at her, gaze steady.

“It would be nice to see you there,” she said, softer this time.

Tobirama didn’t nod, didn’t smile—but something in his expression shifted, just enough.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

And for now, that was enough.

The door clicked shut behind her, soft as a sigh.

Tobirama remained still for a moment, eyes fixed on the empty space where Sakura had stood. The quiet returned to the office in her absence, but something about it felt different now—less like solitude, more like something missing.

His shoulders still tingled faintly with residual warmth, the echo of her chakra weaving through his muscles like the tail end of a current. Precise. Measured. Gentle. She had been careful, deliberate in her touch—yet there had been nothing clinical about it. It hadn’t been a jutsu, not really. Not a technique for healing or discipline. Just… kindness.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, then lifted one hand to press his fingers briefly to the spot at the back of his neck where her thumbs had eased. The tension had gone. His headache had disappeared too. She was good at what she did—of that, there had never been any doubt.

Still, he wasn’t used to being on the receiving end.

Tobirama dropped his hand, leaning forward slightly over his desk, fingers drumming a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the wood.

Then there was the matter of her request. Or rather, her suggestion.

“And maybe we can even watch the fireworks together,” she had said.

Fireworks.

He rolled the word over in his mind again, as foreign as it was fascinating. Explosions of color in the sky. A timed series of light and sound. It was an elegant use of sealed combustion—if her explanation was accurate—and the mineral applications she’d listed had sounded precise, practiced. Not memorized. Lived.

But that was what puzzled him. The Land of Tea? Border experimentation? Civilian use?

Possible. But rare. And nowhere in the countless intelligence reports he read weekly had there been any mention of widespread chemical displays used in such a manner. Especially not in smaller towns without access to trained artisans.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. Sakura wasn’t careless with her words. She spoke as someone who had seen fireworks many times, not someone who had merely heard of them.

Still, she hadn’t lied. Not outright. And he had pushed. If her answer had been rehearsed, it was subtle—so subtle that it almost escaped his notice. But he noticed everything.

He leaned back again, arms folding.

It would be easy to fall into that line of thinking again—scrutinizing her actions, her phrasing, the timing of her arrival in the village. His instincts still whispered that there were threads he hadn’t fully unraveled. That Haruno Sakura came wrapped in more mystery than she let on.

But for now, he set that thought aside.

He had chosen to trust her. Not blindly, but willingly. Because she had done the same.

Besides… he was curious.

Not just about the combustion sequence or the minerals or the seal theory.

About her.

The way she had spoken of celebration like it was something worth protecting. The way her eyes lit up—not with calculation, but with genuine anticipation—when she described the lights in the sky. It wasn’t a strategic suggestion. It was a hope. An invitation.

His gaze slid to the window, where the snow had begun to fall again in faint, drifting flakes. The rooftops were already dusted white.

New Year’s Eve.

He’d never cared for festivals. Noise, clutter, frivolity. They disrupted the order of things.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

But perhaps this year, he could make an exception.

New Year’s Eve arrived sooner than expected. The halls of the hospital were quieter than usual, the urgent rhythm of the day slowly tapering into evening calm. Outside, the air buzzed faintly with distant laughter, the muffled sound of crowds beginning to gather for the festival. Lanterns had already been hung along the village streets, their warm glow spilling golden light into the snowy dusk.

Sakura glanced at the clock.

6:50 p.m.

She let out a soft breath, stretched back on her chair and rubbed her eyes. Her shift was technically over twenty minutes ago, but she was still finishing some paperwork at the medics’ station. One of the genin who’d collapsed from chakra exhaustion during the exams was being held for observation, and she didn’t want to leave until she’d done handover with the night shift medic.

A part of her still clung to the thought that she might make it in time for the later part of the festival. She hadn’t exactly made plans to go—but she’d wanted to. She’d wanted to see the lanterns, feel the cold air on her skin while eating sweet dango, maybe wander past the food stalls and—

“Sakura.”

She startled slightly at the sound of her name, turning toward the entrance.

And stopped breathing.

Tobirama stood in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the corridor lights. He wasn’t in his usual armor or formal robes. Instead, he wore a blue yukata—simple, elegant, and flawlessly fitted to his tall frame. The color deepened the sharp angles of his features and drew attention to the pale line of his throat, partially visible at the collar. His silver hair, normally swept back with precision, was loose tonight—still neat, but relaxed in a way she wasn’t used to seeing.

Her brain short-circuited.

“You’re…” She blinked. “You’re here.”

Wow, Sakura. You’re so lame, Sakura thought, mentally face-palming herself. 

He quirked a brow, clearly amused. “You said you wanted to go to the festival.”

“I—yes—but I didn’t think…” She motioned helplessly to her scrubs and the files in her hand. “I’m still working.”

“You’re finished now.” Not a question. A quiet command.

His voice was low but sure, and it sent a strange flutter through her chest. Not from authority—though he wore it like second skin—but from something else. Something she didn’t want to name just yet.

She blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by how calm and resolute he looked standing there in a blue yukata, silver hair catching the warm lamplight of the hospital corridor. The sight of him outside his usual clothing had already disarmed her. Now, with those words—simple, deliberate—he left her breathless.

She huffed a quiet laugh, nerves buzzing. “Okay. Give me ten minutes. My apartment’s not far. I’ll change and meet you out front?”

There was a pause, the faintest flicker of consideration in his expression. Then Tobirama inclined his head once in a small but definite nod. “I’ll wait.”

Just those two words—solid and immovable, like stone carved into promise. He didn’t look away, didn’t fidget, didn’t shift his stance. He simply stood there, as if his word was as certain as the ground beneath their feet.

Sakura’s heart skipped in her chest. Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her coat, grounding herself before she shot him a final, grateful smile and spun on her heel. Her footsteps were light and quick as she headed toward the exit, the buzz of anticipation humming beneath her skin.

But even as she moved, she could feel him behind her. Tobirama’s steady presence never faltered, his pace matching hers exactly. She could feel his gaze on her, quiet and unyielding—steady in a way that grounded her.

Sakura changed quickly, hands trembling slightly as she pulled the yukata from her closet. She’d bought it weeks ago—midwinter plum silk with a subtle cherry blossom motif. She hadn’t known why she’d been drawn to it at the time.

Now she did.

Her hair was swept up and pinned loosely, soft face-framing strands falling around her cheeks. A touch of blush. A light gloss. She paused in the mirror, unsure for half a second if she looked like herself—or someone else entirely.

When she stepped outside, the air was crisp and laced with the faint scent of pine. But she barely noticed—it all faded into the background the moment she saw him waiting for her.

Tobirama’s gaze remained fixed on the bare plum tree, giving her a quiet moment to take in his full appearance unnoticed.

He stood cloaked in a blue yukata lined with subtle silver thread work—simple, but elegant. The fabric shifted cleanly over the broad lines of his shoulders, cinched at his waist with a navy sash. Over it his yukata, he wore a thick deep navy cloak, its shoulders trimmed with white fur that marked both rank and refinement. His silver hair was swept by the wind, catching stray flakes of snow in its strands. He looked both out of place and perfectly at ease, the contrast sharpening everything about him.

For a moment, Sakura forgot how to breathe.

She had always known he was striking—sharp-featured and formidable, with that ever-present edge of command. But there was something different tonight. Maybe it was the softening of the absence of his usual armor. Or the rare stillness in his stance. Or the fact that, for once, there was no mission, no scrutiny, no medical ninjutsu study—only this.

Only them.

He looks…

Her thoughts tripped over themselves. Beautiful didn’t feel like the right word. Handsome didn’t even come close. There was something arresting about him—like seeing a glacier under moonlight or the first frost painting a battlefield in silence.

Tobirama shifted his gaze towards her. He offered her the smallest of nods—polite, composed. Something warm unfurled in her chest and she found herself smiling at him. 

His gaze didn’t immediately shift. His eyes lingered. Longer than necessary. He took her in with quiet stillness, eyes sweeping from her hair to her yukata to the barely contained breath in her chest.

Suddenly, Sakura felt self-conscious. She faltered at the intensity of gaze. “What? Is it too much?”

Silence stretched between them. 

“No,” he said, after a beat with a small shake of his head. “It suits you.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

It was the closest thing to a compliment he’d ever said aloud—and it warmed her more than the layers of silk on her skin.

The festival was louder than he expected.

Tobirama stood just outside Sakura’s apartment complex, arms tucked within the sleeves of his yukata, gaze scanning the village beyond. From his vantage point, he could see lanterns bobbing on strings overhead, their warm, golden light spilling across snow-dusted streets. The air smelled thickly of grilled food and sweet confections, and the sound—laughter, chatter, the shrill delight of children—was constant and chaotic.

He had never attended one of these in full. Festivals, to him, were logistical concerns—street patrols, vendor permissions, risk evaluations. He had approved this celebration because it was tradition—expected of a leader. But standing among it now, with his yukata clinging a little too stiffly to his frame and snow melting into his sandals, he felt... out of place.

Until she returned.

She hadn’t taken more than ten minutes. He had timed it. And yet somehow, that short span had changed everything.

Sakura approached with flushed cheeks, her yukata a mid-winter plum trimmed with pale pink cherry blossoms. Her hair was pinned up with careful precision, a few loose strands curling around her face and neck in a way that seemed effortlessly intentional. She moved quickly, but not carelessly—still catching her breath as she reached him. When she spotted him waiting underneath the plum blossom tree, she smiled—wide, warm, unguarded.

It struck him like a clean kunai blow.

She looked… refined. Composed. There was an understated grace in her movements, in the way the fading light caught the curve of her cheek or the softness of her expression. Nothing overly elaborate—just well-chosen details that suited her. Beautiful, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on before.

He told himself to look away.

But he didn’t.

Her presence shifted the cold around them, softened the edge of the snow and lantern glow. It was distracting, unexpected and dangerous.

She faltered under his gaze, the smile fading just slightly as she tugged self-consciously at the edge of her sleeve.

“What?” she asked, uncertain. “Is it too much?”

Tobirama blinked, then shook his head once. “No.” His voice was quiet but steady. “It suits you.”

The words felt strangely intimate in the space between them, unadorned but sincere. She lit up again, visibly relieved, and that smile—that smile—landed harder than any jutsu he’d ever faced.

“Shall we?” she said almost shyly, regaining her breath. 

He offered her a nod, then turned to walk beside her. But the echo of her expression, the soft press of her presence just within reach, lingered far longer than he expected.

The streets glowed. Color spilled from every corner—paper fans, game stalls, the gleam of lacquered masks. Snow crunched beneath their feet, but the villagers were undeterred, moving in small herds, laughing over warm drinks and armfuls of prizes.

Children darted around their legs. One nearly ran into him, looked up, and froze at the sight of the Nidaime Hokage before bolting back to their mother. He watched them go without expression.

“They’re not used to seeing you here,” Sakura said softly, glancing at him sidelong.

“They should get used to it then,” he replied, though he wasn’t sure he meant it.

She giggled and tugged him gently toward a stall. “Come on. Goldfish scoop. I bet I’ll win.”

He resisted for exactly three seconds.

The game was simple: a paper scooper, a tank of flitting fish, and the fragile tension of balance and speed. Sakura crouched with practiced ease, her yukata pooling around her knees. Tobirama watched in silence, arms crossed, as she dipped the tool into the water with quick, confident movements. She caught one.

Then another.

Her third attempt failed, and she cursed under her breath. Tobirama stepped forward.

“You’re trying too quickly,” he said, kneeling beside her.

“Oh? Are you an expert now?”

“No,” he replied simply, taking one of the spare scoopers. “But I understand fluid dynamics.”

She snorted. “Of course you do.”

He dipped the paper into the water. The fish darted away. He adjusted his angle, predicted its movement—and caught one cleanly.

Sakura’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “You practiced beforehand!”

“I did not,” came his flat response. 

“You absolutely did.”

“Did not.”

The conversation might have continued, but a muffled snort nearby drew Tobirama’s attention. His gaze flicked to the side, sharpening instinctively.

Just past the edge of the crowd, half-hidden behind a swaying paper lantern stand, stood two unmistakable silhouettes.

Hiruzen and Kagami.

Hiruzen’s eyes were wide, his jaw slack with open astonishment, like he’d stumbled upon a sacred secret. He hovered at the edge of the stand, clearly fighting the urge to step forward—posture tilted in anticipation, hand twitching like he might wave. Or blurt something idiotic.

Beside him, Kagami simply raised an eyebrow and looked amused. He elbowed Hiruzen and whispered something to him. Whatever he was mouthing, Tobirama didn’t need to decipher it to know it was nonsense.

Tobirama scowled and narrowed his eyes at them in silent warning.

Hiruzen began to shift forward—too bold by half—but Kagami, ever the more observant of the two when it suited him, sighed and grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him back. They vanished a second later, Kagami’s barely stifled laughter and Hiruzen’s protests trailing faintly behind them.

Tobirama exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

Beside him, Sakura blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Were they... spying on us?” she asked, turning to glance where the boys had been. Her tone was more amused than offended, and the upward tilt of her lips said she already knew the answer.

Tobirama didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes sparkled with restrained laughter, and for a brief moment, he found himself watching her more than the now-empty spot across the street.

“Unsuccessfully,” he said dryly, turning back to the goldfish. He caught another.

They tried a few more stalls—ring toss, archery, the fortune slips. Sakura was quick with a bow, nearly winning herself a prize until the last shot went wide. Tobirama’s technique, naturally, was perfect, but his disinterest in the competitive aspect made it less entertaining—at least in Sakura’s opinion.

She laughed often, sometimes at him (especially when he failed to grasp the point of the ring toss and launched the ring with unnecessary precision), and sometimes just out of sheer, unfiltered joy. That sound—light and real—warmed the air more than any of the festival lanterns.

When she handed him a skewer of dango, her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“They’re sweet,” she warned, lips twitching.

He took a bite without hesitation—always one to assess firsthand. His expression barely changed, save for the faintest tightening around his mouth, but Sakura caught it.

“Too sweet?” she teased, raising a brow.

He looked at the skewer, then at her. “Excessively.” And finished the rest with a hint of reluctance.

“You didn’t have to finish it.”

“I started it.” His voice was as dry as winter air. “I don’t waste food.”

Sakura laughed. “I have bragging rights now.”

Tobirama raised his eyebrows at this. “How so?”

She shifted her weight onto one leg and crossed her arms smugly. “Hiruzen-san has been wanting to get you to try this stand for years, from what I heard.”

His lips twitched slightly from amusement but said nothing. 

He handed her a yakitori skewer—savory, lightly charred, and still steaming. She accepted it with a pleased hum.

They walked slowly between the stalls, the snow now falling in soft, intermittent flurries, catching in Sakura’s hair. She tilted her head back to admire the lanterns strung overhead, their warm light glowing against the soft indigo sky. A few snowflakes landed on her lashes and tangled in the pink strands of her pinned-up hair.

Before he could stop himself, Tobirama reached out without a word.

His fingers moved with quiet precision as he brushed the snow from the crown of her head, his touch light but deliberate. He saw it then—the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her breath caught just briefly. She blinked, surprised, her emerald eyes flickering up to meet his with a question she didn’t voice.

He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

Then, calmly, he withdrew his hand, letting it fall back to his side as if nothing unusual had happened. But inwardly, he noted her reaction. Not just the surprise—but the way she didn’t pull away.

The way her smile, when it returned, was softer. Lingering.

And the fact that he had wanted to do it at all.

That stayed with him.

A familiar voice caught both their attention.

“There you are.”

They turned just in time to see Mito approaching, wrapped in a warm, sky-blue-colored yukata lined with soft fur, her posture as composed and elegant as ever. At her side waddled a tiny, determined figure—Tsunade, cheeks round and pink from the cold, golden pigtails bouncing as she trotted forward.

“Sakura-nee!” Tsunade chirped, launching herself with surprising speed toward Sakura’s legs.

Sakura let out a soft laugh and bent down, happily scooping the child up into her arms. “Tsunade! Look at you. Have you been eating all the festival dango?”

Tsunade puffed out her cheeks proudly and nodded. “I had three!” She held up three tiny fingers close to Sakura’s face.

“That explains the energy,” Mito said with a fond sigh, coming to a stop beside Tobirama. Her sharp eyes flicked between him and Sakura, a knowing smile touching her lips.

Tobirama gave her a curt nod. “Mito.”

“Tobirama.” Mito inclined her head in a graceful bow, the faintest sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you out enjoying the festival,” she said, her tone light, almost offhand—but not without meaning.

Tobirama made a noncommittal sound. “Observing village morale.”

Sakura shot him a sidelong glance, arching a slender brow.

“I see,” Mito said with a hint of amusement in her tone. “Well, it’s good running into you two. Tsunade insisted on coming—though I suspect she’s only here for the sweets.”

“I like the lights,” Tsunade announced from Sakura’s arms. “And Sakura-nee’s pretty dress.”

Sakura flushed slightly, touched. “Thank you, Tsunade.”

Tobirama glanced at the child, then at Sakura—her cheeks pink from the cold and the compliment, her arms full of his warm, wriggly grandniece. Something unfamiliar twisted low in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to call it.

For half a breath, unbidden, his mind conjured another image. Sakura holding a child with silver hair and her eyes.

He exhaled once, slow and steady, pushing the thought aside.

But he didn’t look away.

“Well,” Mito said, interrupting his thoughts. Her voice was calm but edged with something knowing. “I hadn’t realized the two of you would be here tonight. Together.”

Tobirama didn’t flinch. “It was planned.”

“Was it now?” Mito tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting. “How… festive of you.”

His jaw tensed. “You’re implying something.”

“Am I?” Mito’s tone remained smooth, entirely innocent. “It’s just rare to see you in such… agreeable company. Especially on a night like this.”

Tobirama’s gaze sharpened. “You’re projecting.”

Sakura’s brow faintly furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing at all,” Mito replied quickly, her voice light as she reached for the child in Sakura’s arms. “Come along now, little one. Let’s not keep them from their evening.”

“Aww…” Tsunade whined, clearly unhappy to be parted from Sakura, but she allowed herself to be scooped up by her grandmother without much fuss.

Mito only smiled, the sort of smile that said far more than her words ever would.

“Thank you for keeping her company,” she said, nodding first to Sakura, then to Tobirama. “It’s good for her to see familiar faces.”

“We’ll see you again soon,” Sakura said warmly, brushing a bit of dango powder from Tsunade’s cheek.

Mito turned to go, but paused, casting one last glance over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked—pointedly, but without comment—between the two of them.

“Tobirama,” she said, “enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He inclined his head with practiced calm. “Good night, Mito. Tsunade.”

As they walked away, Sakura and Tobirama fell into step once more. He was aware of the stares—villagers noting him, whispering behind their hands. Under any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

But tonight, for reasons he didn’t care to examine too closely, he noticed.

And strangely, it didn’t bother him.

Later, when the crowd began to thin and the food stalls started closing, Sakura stretched beside him, her arms reaching toward the sky.

“This has been…” she paused, searching for the right word. “Fun.” She smiled at him and her voice grew soft. “I’m glad you came.”

Tobirama looked at her.

Something about the lantern light softened her features. The cold had turned her cheeks pink, and her breath curled visibly in the night air. Her gaze was open, content.

“Come with me,” he said before thinking too hard about it.

She blinked. “Where?”

He didn’t answer—just turned, trusting she’d follow.

She did.

And as they walked in silence towards their next destination, he found his thoughts curiously tangled.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy tonight. He hadn’t expected to feel… not quite ease, but something close. The warmth of her laughter, the quiet companionship, the touch of her hand as it brushed his when she passed him the dango—it lingered in his mind like the afterimage of light.

And still, through it all, he felt the growing presence of something he didn’t quite have a name for.

He just knew he didn’t want it to end.

The climb to the overlook above the village was quiet.

Their footsteps crunched over the snow-packed trail, muffled beneath the hush of night. The cliff rose around them in solemn stone, crowned with only two colossal faces—Hashirama’s and his own—etched into the rock. The air was cold, tinged with pine and smoke, but Sakura made no complaint. She walked beside him in silence, matching his pace with an easy familiarity.

Tobirama said nothing. He didn’t need to. The silence stretched comfortably now between them—not awkward, not demanding, but shared.

When they reached the summit, the village sprawled below them like a dream painted in light and shadow. Lanterns floated through the streets like fireflies, their warm glow glimmering in soft golds and oranges. The rooftops shimmered beneath a dusting of snow, and the laughter, music, and rhythmic beat of distant drums drifted faintly up through the cold night air. Somewhere below, a vendor’s voice rang out, playful and persistent, calling his final sale before the night drew to a close.

Sakura stepped forward to the edge of the overlook, her arms folding loosely over her chest. Her breath misted in the cold, and she let out a slow exhale—as though finally letting herself breathe after days, maybe weeks, of carrying too much.

Tobirama lingered a step behind, his hands at his side, gaze tracking the subtle movement of her hair as the wind caught the loose strands at her temples. There was something about her stillness that held his attention. Sakura was always in motion—her mind, her hands, her chakra, always moving, always mending, always striving. But here, now, she stood quietly. Soft. Unhurried. And beautiful in a way that felt completely unguarded.

She said at last, voice hushed, barely louder than the wind, “This is the best view.”

He nodded, his voice just as low. “It helps one think.”

She turned her head slightly, casting him a glance over her shoulder. “Is that why you brought me here? So I’d finally stop talking and start thinking?” she teased lightly.

He arched an eyebrow, but there was no edge to his response. “No. If I wanted silence, I would have come alone.”

She laughed, the sound quiet but full of warmth. “Was that… your way of saying you enjoyed my company, Tobirama-sama?”

“Don’t push it,” came his dry response. 

Sakura giggled and looked back out at the village, the humor fading into something gentler. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “A few weeks ago, I never would’ve imagined being here with you. I didn’t really know you, after all.”

A pause stretched between them. Tobirama watched her carefully, the wind tugging at the edges of her yukata, her silhouette outlined by the glow of Konoha’s lanterns far below.

“Do you regret that change?” he asked, voice even though his gaze didn’t leave her.

She considered the question, then shook her head slowly. “No. Not regret. Just… surprised, maybe. Like something I didn’t expect found its way in.”

He was silent for a beat. “Unexpected does not always mean unwelcomed.”

Sakura turned slightly, her gaze meeting his—surprised by what he’d said.

“You’re right. It doesn’t,” she murmured, as if realizing it herself in that moment.

There was a quiet sincerity in her voice that settled deep in his chest.

He stepped forward then to stand beside her, closing the distance between them just enough for her shoulder to brush against his sleeve. She glanced up at him, but said nothing. Neither of them did.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full.

And then, right on cue—high above the village—a firework soared into the sky and burst.

Sakura flinched, startled by the sudden flash, but Tobirama saw her expression shift instantly to awe as silvery light rained down in shimmering trails.

Another followed. Then another—red, blue, gold—each bloom blooming larger, brighter, louder.

Her eyes widened with each new explosion, her breath catching in delight. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The wonder on her face said everything. The light played against her cheeks and eyes, illuminating her with every pulse of color.

Tobirama found himself watching her more than the sky.

She turned slightly, just enough to glance at him—and in that moment, something passed between them.

Understanding.

Realization.

He saw it flicker in her expression. Her lips parted.

“You did this,” she breathed, barely audible over the pop of another burst. “Didn’t you?”

Tobirama didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Of course he had. After she’d told him about fireworks—described them in halting detail—he had gone to work. Researched combustion, minerals, sealed propulsion. Worked through prototypes in silence. And now, beneath the veil of the festival, he'd given the quiet signal to his ANBU to unveil the surprise.

A gift.

Not for the village.

For her.

Sakura gasped quietly.

The next followed—a twin explosion of red and green that unfurled like a fan of maple leaves. Then a spiral of violet. Then gold.

He looked back at her.

Her face was alight with wonder. The reflection of the fireworks danced in her eyes, and for a moment, she was completely unguarded and radiant. She didn’t speak, didn’t even move—just stood there, transfixed, bathed in light.

Tobirama felt something shift inside his chest.

Not pain.

Not tension.

Just… warmth.

A quiet, steady thing.

He turned his gaze back to the sky, if only to give himself a moment to recover. The fireworks grew bolder now, exploding in rhythmic cadence—bigger, brighter, until the sky pulsed with color.

From below, he could hear the villagers’ muffled gasps of excitement as the brilliant display lit up the night sky.

“It’s beautiful,” Sakura murmured, voice almost lost to the wind.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Then she reached for him, fingers brushing his.

He stilled—briefly, instinctively. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand shifted just enough to meet hers halfway. Her fingers curled around his with slow confidence. They stood like that, side by side, hands joined as the fireworks bloomed above them in brilliant, cascading light.

She watched the fireworks with a quiet serenity, her gaze fixed towards the sky where bursts of color bloomed and faded in slow succession. The light played across her face—soft golds, fleeting reds, the occasional shimmer of silver. Her lips were slightly parted in awe, but it was the faint blush coloring her cheeks that held his attention.

Not from the cold. But from the boldness of her hand still resting in his.

Tobirama wasn’t sure what surprised him more—that she had reached for him, or that he hadn’t let go.

And though he couldn’t say it aloud—wouldn’t even know how—Tobirama found himself grateful.

For her presence.

For her strange knowledge and stranger words.

For her willingness to bring him into moments like this.

Another round of fireworks arced high into the sky—a golden chrysanthemum, wider than the rest. It burst in radiant silence, casting the village below in fleeting starlight.

Sakura’s fingers tightened gently around his.

And Tobirama, for once, did not think of duty, or strategy, or tomorrow’s work.

He only thought of now.

Of her.

And the unexpected peace that came with it.

The light from the fireworks danced across her face—warm golds and soft silvers playing over her features. Her eyes, bright with wonder, reflected the sky as though she carried the stars in them.

At that moment Tobirama realised how beautiful Sakura was. Not in the distant, abstract way he’d once dismissed such things, but in a way that tugged at something quiet and buried within him. Graceful. Strong. Alive.

Then she turned.

Her eyes met his—uncertain, searching—and in the hush between one explosion of color and the next, the world seemed to hold its breath. Time slowed to a single heartbeat. Her fingers tightened around his, and then, on her tippy-toes, she leaned in, eyes closed, slowly, deliberately, until the space between them vanished.

Her lips met his with a softness that startled him—no flourish, no hesitation, only intent. A quiet certainty.

For a heartbeat, Tobirama froze. Not from resistance, but from the sheer, unexpected tenderness of it. The press of her mouth against his was warm despite the winter air, and the world around them—fireworks, snow, distant music—faded into nothing.

This wasn’t a battlefield. This wasn’t duty.

This was her. 

Choosing him.

And he didn’t move to stop her. He couldn’t. Because in that breathless moment, something in him—something long-silent and guarded—leaned back.

Into her.

Into the possibility.

She pulled away just slightly, her breath mingling with his in the cold, but Tobirama didn’t look away. His hand tightened around hers subconsciously, grounding himself in the reality of her presence.

Sakura looked up at him, her emerald eyes flickering with uncertainty. She shyly tried to avert her gaze, but her eyes kept straying back to his face, drawn by something she couldn’t quite name. A soft flush bloomed across her cheeks as she waited, silent and tentative, hoping, yet unsure of what he might say or do. 

For a man who had prepared all his life for war, it was a strange thing to realize. Whatever this was between them—quiet, unexpected—it was worth holding on to.

So, this time, without any hesitation, Tobirama reached up and gently cupped Sakura’s cheek, his fingers warm and steady against her skin. The soft curve of her face felt grounding—real—in a way that quieted every doubt.

He held her gaze for a breath, his thumb brushing lightly along her jaw as if memorizing the moment. Then, with deliberate certainty, he closed the distance between them.

When their lips met, it wasn’t tentative or searching, but sure and purposeful, leaving no room for uncertainty.

Because this time, he wasn’t no longer a man caught off guard, but one who had made a choice.

Chapter Text

The cold crept in gently around the edges of the engawa, the wooden veranda dusted faintly with snow. Tobirama sat with his back straight and his hands resting on his knees, watching the koi swim slowly beneath the thin veil of ice crusting the edges of the pond. Their bright scales cut ribbons of color beneath the glassy surface, undisturbed by the chill that settled over the Senju compound.

He liked the quiet here—the stillness of winter, the subtle hush of snow-muffled sound. But today, silence only left more room for thought.

Sakura.

Her name surfaced unbidden, the memory of her soft laughter threading through his mind like a warm current. She had surprised him—again and again. Not just with her keen intelligence or her sharp tongue, but with the quiet ease with which she’d slipped into the locked corners of his life. She didn’t demand space. She simply made room for herself—without effort, without force.

It has been two weeks since the festival. And now, she was everywhere.

In the scent of tea lingering in his office. In the warmth of her fingers brushing his during shared meals. In the fleeting, stolen moments—her gaze catching his across a room, the quiet dinners out, the soft kisses hidden behind closed doors that lingered longer than they should have.

He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen.

Tobirama’s jaw tightened. He was not someone who indulged in sentiment. Emotional ties could be dangerous—exploited, turned against you. He knew this. Had lived it. And yet, even knowing that, he found himself drawn to her. Seeking her out, again and again. Not out of necessity. Not out of obligation. But because being near her made something in him ease. Settle.

He couldn’t deny that her presence made him... happy.

He never intended to let anyone in—and now, without even trying, she was already there.

The floor creaked lightly behind him but he didn’t turn. He already sensed her presence long before he heard her footsteps. 

“You don’t often come here,” he said, voice low but even. “The main house doesn’t suit your tastes anymore?”

Mito stepped fully into view, the hem of her white yukata brushing softly over the engawa. A thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair was swept back in its usual graceful style.

“I prefer the quiet up the hill,” she said. “And Tsunade sleeps better in the colder air.”

She paused, then added with a small but sad smile, “Besides… the main compound hasn’t quite felt the same since Hashirama left.”

Tobirama said nothing to that. He didn’t have to. The silence stretched comfortably between them.

She eased herself down beside him, her presence as composed as ever.

“But,” she added lightly, “I heard whispers. About you. About a certain medic-nin. And I thought perhaps I should check on my brother-in-law before the rumors start painting him in scandalous colors.”

Tobirama’s lips thinned, but he didn’t reply.

“I’m not here to pry,” Mito said, voice softer now. “Just… to say I noticed something shifted. On New Year’s Eve, when I saw you with her. You looked… different.”

He remained silent. Still.

“Not uncomfortable. Not tense. Just… at peace,” Mito said. “I’ve never seen you like that before, Tobirama.”

He inhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “I’m not sure what you think you saw.”

Mito gave a quiet hum. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to tease.” Her voice softened. “I’m glad, you know. That you’re letting someone in.”

Tobirama glanced at her, his crimson eyes narrowing just slightly, as if weighing whether to deflect or remain silent.

She met his gaze calmly, not flinching. “It’s not a weakness, Tobirama. I know you were taught to believe that… It’s how we all survived. But connection isn't always a liability.”

The words settled between them, gentle but firm.

“Hashirama would have been happy for you,” she added, quieter now. “I am, too.”

Those words sank deep. He turned back to the koi pond, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The snow continued to fall quietly.

And Tobirama found himself wondering, not for the first time, what his brother would say if he saw the man he was now. Not the soldier. Not the strategist. But the man who had finally allowed someone into his heart. 

The office was quiet, the gentle ticking of the wall clock the only sound breaking the monotonous silence. Outside, Konoha’s night lay hushed under a silvery moon, the streets blanketed in soft snow. Inside, however, Sakura sat hunched over a half-finished report, chin resting on her palm, eyes only half-focused on the words before her.

Her thoughts drifted back to two weeks ago on New Year’s Eve.

The memory was still warm—Tobirama’s hand wrapped around hers, the brilliant shimmer of fireworks lighting his silver hair like frost touched by fire, and the way he had kissed her. Not tentative. Certain. Certain enough to leave her breathless. That night had marked a turning point—subtle, but undeniable.

In the days that followed, it had become increasingly obvious, not just to her but also to others.

Inori had teased her mercilessly. Biwako had giggled and Koharu, ever the blunt one, had flatly asked if Tobirama had “finally pulled his head out of his own rules.”

Sakura had deflected with flushed cheeks and vague shrugs. But the truth was impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the attention that flustered her—it was the man himself.

Tobirama no longer sought her out with excuses. He came by often now—sometimes with medical reports that he wanted clarification on, sometimes with questions about chakra pathways or poison resistance, sometimes to take her out for dinner. But more often than not, he came with no pretense at all. Just a quiet presence at her door and a moment of stillness shared between them.

Tobirama was sharp edges and quiet depth. Stern, brilliant, uncompromising. But when he looked at her with those intense crimson eyes—eyes that saw far more than he ever said—it made her feel... noticed, seen and wanted.

She had kissed him first. And maybe it had taken her until now to understand why. It wasn’t just the way he had looked beneath those fireworks or the quiet intimacy of his hand in hers. It was because, somewhere along the way, he had become more than just a name in the pages of history. He had shown her all the sharp and hidden edges of who he truly was—brilliant, brusque, deliberate. A man who learned what fireworks were just days before, then recreated them perfectly just to make her smile. A man who listened, who challenged her, who looked at her not with pity for her strange presence in his world, but with a deep and steady understanding. He saw her. And that night, she had wanted him to know she saw him too.

Her pen slipped as she lost herself in the thought of him.  Tall and composed, voice like steel tempered in water, fingers surprisingly gentle whilst intertwined with hers that night on the mountaintop.

She sighed, a small smile pulling at her lips as she leaned back in her chair. She couldn’t deny that all these little moments of theirs made her feel extremely happy and wanted. 

The knock was so soft, she almost missed it.

Then the door creaked open, and there he was.

Framed by the bright hallway light, Tobirama stepped inside without a word. The door clicked shut behind him.

“It’s late,” he said calmly, stepping closer. “You’re still working.”

Sakura straightened slightly, trying to suppress the immediate rush of heat in her chest. “Only just finishing up. You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”

“I did.” His voice left no room for misinterpretation.

She looked up at him fully now. Snow clung faintly to the fur on his coat. The sight of him standing in her office—quietly intense, eyes fixed solely on her—made her pulse jump.

“You’ve been seeking me out more often lately,” she said, trying for lightness, though her tone came out softer than intended. 

He tilted his head slightly, lips barely twitching at the corners. “Should I not?”

“No,” she murmured. “You should.”

The silence that followed was thick with something unnamed. He moved around the desk with measured steps, coming to stand beside her. Crimson eyes narrowed slightly at her. 

“You’re not sleeping enough,” he said, voice low. “You’re overworking yourself.”

She raised a brow. “Is that a medical assessment?”

He leaned downwards towards her, bracing one hand on the desk. “It’s a personal one.”

Sakura’s breath caught. The air between them felt thinner now, warmer despite the winter chill that clung to his clothing.

“You came here to lecture me?” she whispered.

He held her gaze for a long moment. “No,” he said evenly, leaning closer. “I came because I didn’t want to wait any longer.”

The kiss came before she could reply.

It wasn’t hesitant—it was firm and certain, the same way he was. His mouth met hers with purpose, the kind of kiss that spoke of built-up restraint finally given release. One hand slid behind her neck, fingers threading into her hair as he tilted her head to deepen the contact. The other found her waist, lifting her from her chair, guiding her gently but insistently until the back of her thighs were pressed against the edge of the desk.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t resist.

In one fluid motion, he leaned in, lowering her until she lay flat against the cool surface. Papers scattered, forgotten, as his body followed hers down—his weight balanced, his presence overwhelming in the best possible way. His hand braced near her head, his knee between hers, anchoring them both in the charged stillness between each kiss.

Tobirama kissed her deeper now, no longer hiding the hunger behind his usual reserve. His tongue slipped past her lips, coaxing a soft gasp from Sakura as the intensity of the kiss stole her breath. Her hands fisted the front of his robes, fingertips bunching the fabric as heat unfurled in her chest and spilled through her limbs.

When he pulled back slightly, his breath was warm against her lips. His hand cradled the base of her skull, thumb brushing lightly along her hairline.

“If you don’t stop working,” Tobirama said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll have no choice but to drag you home and tie you to your bed.”

Sakura’s eyes widened. A faint blush bloomed across her cheeks at the implication of his words, but he only smirked faintly.

“I mean that,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. His fingers traced the curve of her jaw. “For you to get some rest, of course.”

Her breath hitched with laughter, her cheeks still warm. “Oh. Of course.”

She recovered quickly, though, tilting her head with a shy smile. “You’re awfully confident for someone who used to avoid conversation entirely.”

Tobirama’s brow arched. “You haven’t exactly made that easy.”

That earned him a quiet laugh from her. Before she could come back with another teasing remark, he leaned in again, slow and deliberate, brushing his lips over hers. Once. Twice. The third time, he kissed her deeper—unhurried, but certain.

Sakura’s hands curled into the front of his robes, wanting to pull him closer, but he broke the kiss before it could carry them too far. He let his forehead rest against hers, his thumb gently stroking behind her ear.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture,” he murmured. “But I also didn’t come to waste time.”

She blinked up at him, breath still catching. “Then why did you come?”

His answer was quiet. Honest.

“You’ve become… necessary.”

The words settled between them like a secret. Heavy, and real.

Sakura didn’t speak right away. Her eyes searched his face—his solemn expression, the faint tension at the corners of his mouth, as if part of him still regretted saying it aloud.

But she didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

She only reached up, brushing her fingers gently through the strands of silver hair at his temple, and whispered, “You’re not the only one.”

They didn’t linger long after that.

Sakura locked up her office, Tobirama waiting beside her with the same calm, unhurried patience. Her hand brushed his again as they stepped into the quiet corridor, and this time, he didn’t pull away. Instead he wove his fingers through hers.

Outside, the village was hushed under a soft layer of snow. Lanterns still flickered above shuttered stalls, casting pools of amber light across the frost-dusted street. As they walked side by side two medics passed by them, arriving for a late shift. One of them slowed mid-step, eyes wide as she took in the unmistakable presence of the Nidaime Hokage casually walking beside the pink-haired medic. The medic gasped softly, elbowing her companion with poorly concealed awe.

Tobirama noticed. Of course he did.

But he didn’t react. He didn’t let go of Sakura’s hand either.

Sakura’s lips twitched, amused despite herself. “You’re going to start rumors.”

“Let them,” Tobirama replied evenly. “They’ll talk regardless.”

They walked in companionable silence, the streets of Konoha quiet at this hour, snow crunching softly beneath their steps. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze, casting golden halos on the ground as they passed.

After a few turns, Sakura frowned slightly. “Wait… this isn’t the direction of my apartment.”

Tobirama didn’t slow. “We’re not going to your apartment.”

Sakura blinked. “Then where—?”

“You’ll see,” was all he said.

Curiosity bloomed, but she followed without protest. It wasn’t long before the familiar paths of the village gave way to broader stone roads lined with tall cedar trees and gates carved with the Senju clan crest. She slowed as they reached the entrance of the main Senju compound.

It was breathtaking.

A sprawling estate of interconnected wooden buildings, its outer walls were framed by slatted paper windows softly glowing from within. Curved rooftops bore fresh snow, and ornamental lanterns hung from the eaves, swaying gently in the wind. An arched bridge led across a pond where koi swam lazily beneath a thin layer of ice. She could see small shrines tucked between manicured trees and low stone walls, and the scent of cedar and old paper clung to the air.

Traditional. Immaculate. Timeless.

“This is your home?” she murmured, voice hushed in reverence.

Tobirama merely nodded and led her through a quiet side entrance. His movements were confident, unhurried—clearly used to the stillness that came with this place. He guided her past tatami-matted halls and old scrolls hung in alcoves, until they reached the central dining quarters.

Sakura stopped in her tracks.

The table was already set. A low spread adorned with ceramic bowls and serving platters sat perfectly arranged. Steam rose from a pot of miso soup, and the scent of freshly grilled fish and simmered broth made her mouth water.

“I heard cooks in these clan estates were good,” she said lightly, gaze drifting over the feast. “But this… they really know how to put on a show.”

Tobirama, now in the process of removing his cloak, cast her a look of faint amusement. “There were no cooks involved.”

Sakura turned to him, blinking before realisation hit her. “Wait… you made all this?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I cook. Occasionally.”

Her eyes widened as she looked back at the table with fresh awe. “This isn’t ‘occasional cooking.’ This is a banquet!” she exclaimed.

There was steamed sea bream laid out with pickled plum and shiso leaves, miso soup with slivers of green onion and silken tofu, a wooden tray of fresh sashimi—tuna, yellowtail, sweet shrimp, each slice arranged like flower petals. King crab legs were artfully steamed and cracked open, served with citrus ponzu. A small earthen pot of seasoned rice sat at one end, along with a bowl of sesame spinach, grilled fish and gently charred eggplant in miso glaze.

“Come,” Tobirama said, already settling at his end of the table with the ease of someone accustomed to silence and ritual. “Eat while it’s hot.”

She joined him slowly, still slightly stunned. The first sip of miso warmed her from the inside out. The sashimi was cool and sweet. Everything was balanced—nothing over-seasoned, nothing wasted. Each dish spoke of precision, care, and attention.

As they ate, Sakura found herself quietly marveling.

He was the Nidaime Hokage, a genius with chakra and jutsu. A master tactician. A feared shinobi.

But here, now, he was also the man who’d cooked for her. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

She looked at him across the low table—silver hair catching the lantern light, eyes sharp and unreadable, chopsticks moving with quiet efficiency—and her chest tightened unexpectedly.

A man of logic, yet capable of surprising tenderness. Distant by nature, yet fiercely attentive when it came to her. Brutal on the battlefield, yet so precise in the way he handled even the smallest things—his words, his inventions, his touches. He was rigid in his ideals, but with her, he had bent.

Tobirama was full of contradictions. And somehow, every one of them drew her in deeper.

The engawa was cool beneath him—wood smooth and worn from decades of quiet footsteps and war-hardened soles. The snow had stopped earlier, leaving the courtyard still and glimmering in moonlight. The koi pond shimmered softly, disturbed only by the occasional ripple as one fish breached the surface, then sank back into the mirrored water.

Tobirama sat beside her, his cloak draped over both their shoulders like a shared secret. The faint scent of pine lingered on the night breeze, mingling with the subtle scent of her skin—he didn’t know when he’d started noticing things like that.

Sakura clutched the cloak close to her body, her face upturned to the stars. Her cheeks still held a faint flush from the warmth of the meal and the sake he had poured for her, though she was mindful to sip it slowly. 

Tobirama glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then returned his gaze to the pond.

“I’ve realized,” he said quietly, eyes fixed ahead, “for someone I spend so much time with… there’s a great deal I still don’t know about.”

Sakura turned to him, a little surprised by the gentle introspection behind the words. “Is that your way of asking?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

His gaze flicked to hers briefly, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “It’s an observation. But I wouldn’t object if you decided to correct it.”

A breeze stirred her hair, and she tucked a strand behind her ear. “My home,” she started carefully, “was peaceful for a time, but it didn’t start that way. I had to grow up quickly. War, loss, duty… I know those things. Not in the same way you do, but close enough.”

Tobirama didn’t speak. He simply watched her and listened.

“There were people who believed in me,” she said after a moment, her gaze drifting toward the starry sky. “A boy with more heart than sense, who never stopped chasing dreams, no matter how impossible they seemed. A prodigy who walked a darker path than most, but who, in the end, tried to find his way back. A man who taught me what it meant to endure loss with a smile, and how to find purpose in pain. And a woman who showed me what true strength looked like… who made me want to be more than what I was.”

Tobirama didn’t interrupt. He watched her quietly, the tension in his posture softened by the understanding in his gaze.

“They were my foundation,” Sakura murmured. “And part of why I fight the way I do now. I owe them more than I can ever repay.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her expression. “You honor them by being who you are now.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, startled once again by the clarity of his words.

“Don’t diminish that,” he added.

Sakura swallowed hard, then smiled faintly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

After a long moment, she asked, “And what about you, Tobirama-sama? What was it like for you… growing up?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted over the quiet courtyard, where snow still clung to the garden stones like untouched memories.

“It was… not easy,” he said finally. “Duty came before anything else. Before rest. Even before grief.”

Her brows drew together, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I was born into war. Raised beneath the weight of a name that meant something long before I understood it. Every day, I had to think ten steps ahead. One mistake could cost a life. Sometimes it did.”

He exhaled slowly. “Elder Brother was the heart of this clan. I was its edge. People remember him with affection. They remember me with caution.” He found himself clenching his fists on top of his knees at his own words. 

Sakura’s words came quietly. “And do you resent that?”

“Not anymore,” Tobirama murmured after a pause. “It kept us alive.”

Sakura studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. She didn’t push, didn’t press him to say more. But he found himself continuing anyway—quietly, thoughtfully.

“We didn’t have the luxury of rest,” Tobirama said, his voice steady but low. “Every lesson came at a cost. Every mistake, a death. My brothers and I… we didn’t have childhoods. We had expectations from the pressures of war.”

He glanced toward the dark garden beyond the engawa. For a long moment, he was silent, as though weighing something too heavy for words.

“Kawarama was the first,” he continued quietly. “Too young. Too eager. He never stood a chance. Then Itama…” His jaw tightened. “Elder Brother tried to stay strong, but when they died it broke something in him. In both of us.”

His eyes, usually so sharp, dulled as he looked into the distance.

“That’s what war was for us. Not glory. Not honor. Just… loss. Again and again. No time to grieve. No space to breathe. Only the next fight. The next body. We learned early that peace was a fragile illusion. Children like us weren’t given choices… only weapons and orders to kill.”

The moonlight touched his features, casting silver shadows across an expression carved from quiet grief. He exhaled softly. 

“Elder Brother continued to dream of peace, despite all this, despite all the loss. I admired him for it, even when I thought he was a fool. But someone had to make the hard choices. Someone had to keep the dream alive when idealism wasn’t enough. That role always fell to me. Be the strategist. The enforcer. Protect the clan. Build the village. No matter the cost.”

He paused, the silence stretching just long enough to make Sakura wonder if he would continue.

“Duty was easier,” he said at last, quieter now. “There were rules. Structure. It didn’t allow for attachments, because they were distractions. Weaknesses. Risks. I accepted that. I lived by it.” Crimson eyes locked onto hers, and something in his expression softened. “Until you.”

Sakura’s breath caught.

“You unsettled things I thought were long buried,” he admitted quietly. “And yet… I don’t regret it.”

She was quiet for a beat, eyes searching his. Then she offered, gently, “Thank you for sharing that.” Her gaze didn’t leave his but he noticed her voice softened further, steady and sincere. “It must’ve been hard… carrying all of that on your own for so long.”

Her words weren’t prying. Just an acknowledgment—simple and honest. And yet they struck something deep.

For a moment, Tobirama blinked, caught off guard—not by the words themselves, but by how gently they were spoken. How easily she saw through the silence he had worn like armor. He wasn’t used to being understood.

Something in his chest shifted, almost imperceptibly.

Then her hand rested on top of his thigh, fingers warm and sure through the fabric, and without thinking, he let his arm wrap around her waist. His fingers curled lightly at her hip, not to possess or restrain—but to feel, to reassure himself that this moment was real.

They sat like that in silence, but it wasn’t the cold, guarded kind he was used to. It wasn’t the silence of command tents or unspoken grief. It was… calm and open. The kind that didn’t need filling.

He’d spoken more about his past tonight than he had intended to. And oddly, it didn’t leave him feeling exposed or weak. Instead, it felt like pressure finally bleeding from a wound he hadn’t realized was still hurting.

The memories had always been there—Kawarama’s broken body, Itama’s blood against the stone, the way Hashirama’s smile never quite reached his eyes after that. Tobirama had carried those ghosts like armor, believing that burying them made him strong.

But tonight, with Sakura sitting beside him, listening without judgment, his pain hadn’t bounced back as an echo. It had been heard. 

He turned to her, and found her already watching him—quiet, patient. She didn’t press, didn’t pry. She was simply present.

Tobirama leaned in. His forehead touched hers, and he closed his eyes, breathing in her presence. The air was cool, but where she touched him, he felt warm. Steady.

Then she tilted her chin up, just slightly. An invitation.

He accepted it.

The kiss was slow and deliberate. He let himself feel her—the shape of her lips, the gentle pressure of her hand on his thigh, the softness that made him ache in ways he didn’t have words for. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone.

It wasn’t desire that drove him. It was the ache of connection. The quiet, terrifying relief of being seen and understood.

When they finally pulled apart, he stayed close, his forehead still resting against hers. One hand slid behind her neck, not to control—but to anchor. To remind himself that he was still here, that she was still here and that baring his past hadn’t made her leave.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

For once, he wasn’t calculating his next step. Wasn’t bracing for loss. He was just breathing and being in the presence of someone who saw him for who he was. 

In that silence, he felt something perilously close to peace. And for once, Tobirama didn’t turn away from it. 

He welcomed it.

Chapter Text

Days had flown past in the blink of an eye.

Between long hours at the hospital, Sakura had found herself venturing to the Senju compound more and more. It had become her second constant—quiet, grounded, removed from the strain of duty. A place where she could simply be. She knew the rhythm of its walkways now, the sound of wind through the corridors, the warmth of sunlight pooling along the engawa in the afternoons. It was familiar and soothing. Almost like home.

It was her day off today, and Tobirama had also been free for the morning and noon—an increasingly rare overlap in their schedules. They’d shared a simple lunch beneath the shade of the engawa, the late winter breeze stirring the paper screens and carrying faint traces of grilled fish and miso.

Then a messenger hawk arrived. Summons from the Hokage Tower.

Tobirama hadn’t shown frustration—he never did—but she felt it in the subtle tightening of his jaw, the brief stillness when he read the scroll. Duty pulled him away as always. Before leaving, his hand brushed hers, steady and warm with a quiet promise.

“I’ll find you after,” he said, already turning.

As Tobirama walked away, Sakura watched the sharp lines of his form fade into the corridor, and the weight settled in her chest again—that sharp, sobering awareness.

He wasn’t just a man.

He was the Nidaime Hokage. A figure carved into history, remembered for his brilliance, for his unwavering resolve. For the sacrifices he made again and again without complaint. Someone who would give everything—his time, his body, his life—if it meant protecting those under his care.

And she knew that. She had known that long before she ever truly knew him.

But it was different now. More personal. More painful.

Because he had let her in.

He’d spoken of his past—not in detail, not with bitterness—but with a quiet kind of weight that clung to every word. Of his brothers, of childhood cut short, of expectations sharpened into weapons. Kawarama and Itama—names that didn’t even appear in the history books. Lost too young, too soon. The world had forgotten them, but Tobirama hadn’t. She could hear it in the way he said their names, felt it in the muted grief that settled over him as he spoke.

And Hashirama too—not just the Shodaime Hokage, but his elder brother. A dreamer. A fool in Tobirama’s eyes, maybe. But a beloved one. She saw the way Tobirama carried that dream now, even when it hurt, even when it cost him pieces of himself.

And he had shared all that with her.

That trust… it moved her more than she knew how to say. He didn’t talk about his past easily. He didn’t talk easily, period. But he had let her see him—not the legend, not the title, but the man beneath it all. The one still mourning, still shouldering the weight of ghosts.

And yet… she hadn’t done the same.

Her hand curled around her cup, now lukewarm, the steam long faded. Guilt stirred in her chest, quiet and gnawing.

Because her truth was still locked behind her teeth. Unspoken. Untouched.

How was she supposed to say it? How could she begin to explain that she didn’t belong here. That she came from a future that hadn’t yet been written, that every step she took beside him was one more strand twisted into a timeline she was never meant to touch?

Would he believe her?

Would he still look at her the same way?

The questions spiraled, as they always did—tight and suffocating, curling around her ribcage like iron bands. She’d told herself she was waiting for the right time. That the words would come when they needed to.

But as time kept passing by, the words still refused to leave her.

Now the light had shifted. The meal was cleared away. And the silence he’d left behind wasn’t gentle anymore. It was heavier and lonelier.

Sakura sat with her tea, cooling in her hands, the restlessness blooming in her chest again. She had come to know the Senju compound like the back of her hand, but in moments like these, she remembered that it was never hers to begin with.

And that the man who had made her feel welcome here… still didn’t know who she really was.

The thought lingered, heavy and unresolved, when the soft rustle of fabric and footsteps on wooden floors drew her from it.

Sakura looked up just as Mito appeared, her presence as composed and graceful as ever. They’d exchanged polite greetings before, enough to nod in passing or share a few words in the halls of the Senju compound. However, today Mito settled quietly next to her on the engawa, her presence calm and unassuming, as if she belonged.

“Good afternoon, Sakura,” Mito said, her voice gentle and steady. She placed her hands neatly on top of one another on her lap, eyes drifting toward the garden. “A peaceful day, isn’t it?”

“Mito-sama,” Sakura replied with a small nod. “It is.”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Mito said after a moment, though her tone suggested she already knew she wasn’t.

“Not at all,” Sakura answered with a polite smile. “I was… just waiting.”

Mito’s eyes flicked to her—not probing, but quietly aware. “For Tobirama?”

Sakura hesitated briefly before nodding. “He was called away.”

“Ah.” Mito’s gaze turned back to the garden. “That happens often.”

Sakura said nothing, her fingers tightening slightly around her cup. She wasn’t sure what to say or if she should say anything at all.

Mito spoke again, her voice steady, eyes still on the garden. “He’s not an easy man to reach. Even those who have known him long find him distant.”

Sakura glanced toward her, brow furrowing slightly.

“He’s sharp and direct. Being alone… it’s always been simpler for him than letting others in.” A brief pause, quiet but certain. “The fact that he allows you near him…” Mito looked at her then, just for a moment. “That means more than words could ever explain.”

A hush fell between them. Mito was watching her, not with judgment, but with gentle understanding.

A breeze stirred, ruffling the ends of Sakura’s hair.

Mito’s gaze moved, lingering now on the bare branches of the lone sakura tree beyond the engawa, its limbs stark against the pale winter sky. “That tree looks lonelier in winter, doesn’t it,” she murmured. “Yet even without its blossoms, there’s a strength in it. Quiet, but certain.”

Sakura followed her gaze. The twisted trunk, the spindly branches—fragile, yes, but rooted deep in the earth. 

A faint, wistful smile touched Mito’s lips. “Hashirama loved that tree,” she said softly, as if speaking to a memory. “He said it reminded him that even in the harshest seasons, life still waits beneath the surface. That endurance, quiet and unseen, holds everything together. Just like a true shinobi.”

Sakura felt the weight behind Mito’s words—the quiet strength of someone who had stood through storms herself. She lowered her gaze to her hands, the warmth of her cup fully fading beneath her touch.

“The world changes,” Mito continued softly. “People come and go. But the roots remain. Deeper than we often realize.”

Sakura swallowed, the ache in her chest tightening. “I wish I could be like that tree,” she admitted in a whisper. “Rooted… and steady.”

Mito turned to glance at her, her expression gentle and reserved. “Strength isn’t always loud or visible,” she said softly. “Sometimes it’s in the quiet waiting, like enduring the winter until spring arrives.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken understanding.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” Mito said softly, her gaze calm but steady, “but you seem to carry more beneath the surface. Most kunoichi do, of course… but with you, it feels… different.”

The words struck something raw. Sakura stilled, caught off guard. Her breath caught in her throat as if Mito had reached in and plucked a thread tangled deep in her chest.

Different. Kami, if only Mito knew how different.

Sakura turned her face away, lips pressed tight. She couldn’t speak. Not without unraveling. Not without the truth clawing its way to the surface. That she wasn’t supposed to be here, that every breath she took in this time was borrowed, that she was living a lie with every warm look she shared with Tobirama. The weight of it settled like iron in her stomach.

Did Mito know? Could she tell?

There were moments, like this one, when Sakura wondered if the older woman could somehow see through her. As if Mito’s presence alone carried a quiet insight, able to sense the restless flickers of doubt that darted through Sakura’s mind like fish beneath ice. Her anxiety, her guilt. The quiet war she fought between staying and going. Between what was right and what she wanted.

“You don’t have to speak,” Mito said gently, almost as if she had read her mind. Her voice was soft enough to blur the sharp edges of Sakura’s fear. “But I’ve learned silence, left too long, becomes a cage.”

Sakura’s throat tightened. She knew that cage well. She’d built it herself—brick by brick, out of secrets, hesitation, and the desperate hope that maybe… maybe if she just waited, things would resolve on their own.

But they never did.

And as Mito’s words echoed in her ears, Sakura found herself wondering how much longer she could keep this part of herself locked away, especially now that Tobirama had reached past her walls and touched something real. Something she didn’t know how to protect without breaking everything else.

Sakura’s grip tightened around the cup.

She wanted to speak. She wanted to confide everything—the time she came from, the impossible truth she bore alone. But how could she risk it? Not here. Not yet.

Mito’s voice came, gentle without demand or expectation. “I see a part of myself in you. When I first came here… surrounded by people I didn’t know, searching for where I belonged.”

Sakura met her eyes briefly in surprise. “And did you find it?”

“Eventually,” Mito said with a small, distant smile. “When I learned to trust those worth trusting. When I stopped fighting what I felt inside.”

Sakura turned her gaze away again, her throat tight. A quiet flutter stirred beneath her ribs—nervous, aching, unsteady.

Mito said nothing more. She didn’t press, didn’t pry. Only offered the kind of silence that invited reflection instead of fear.

When she finally rose and walked away, the quiet returned—thick and heavy in the still air. Sakura sat at the engawa long after the tea had cooled, the pale sun climbing behind the trees, its light catching on the edge of her cup.

She wasn’t sure why Mito’s words had settled under her skin the way they did. They’d barely spoken before today, and yet…

“Silence, when left unchecked, can become a cage.”

She’d built her life here around silence—layered it like armor, sealed with smiles, half-truths, and clinical precision. No one questioned the foreign kunoichi who kept to herself and worked too hard. Not even Tobirama… not anymore at least.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when his sharp gaze had followed her like a blade unsheathed—calculating and skeptical. He’d questioned her assignments, her movements, even the way she held her chakra in check. But suspicion had given way to something else. Slowly, steadily, she’d watched his eyes soften.

Now, when he looked at her, it wasn’t with doubt. It was with something steadier—something she couldn’t name without feeling the weight of it catch in her chest.

Something quiet. Constant.

Something more like trust—earned, deliberate, and unshakable. And beneath that, something deeper still. Something dangerous in its tenderness, in the way it asked nothing of her and yet somehow offered everything.

Her thoughts slipped back to that night beneath the fireworks. The hush between bursts of color. The hush between them. The moment his hand had found her cheek, grounding and sure, and the press of his mouth against hers—measured, fierce, like he’d chosen her with intention.

Unexpected. Unspoken. But never uncertain.

That memory still lived against her skin like warmth from a fire long since burned out—except it hadn’t. Not really. It had only settled deeper, quiet and enduring, like the way he looked at her now.

He no longer questioned her.

But that didn’t mean she’d stopped keeping secrets.

And she was terrified.

Not of him. He was the one constant that made her feel safe in this world—sharper than steel but unexpectedly steady beneath it all. He listened. He saw her, in ways she hadn’t expected anyone here to see.

But if she told him—really told him—how she’d ended up here… That she’d been studying the Hiraishin—his jutsu—that somewhere, in the middle of an equation she thought she understood, something had slipped. One miscalculation, one volatile surge, and then she was here. In a world decades behind her own, surrounded by legends who weren’t supposed to know her name…

What would he even think?

That she’d come here on purpose? That she was a spy, or worse, reckless beyond reason, tampering with his space-time ninjutsu she had no right to touch?

Would he look at her the way he once did—sharp and distant, like every glance was a silent interrogation?

Or would he believe her… and still look at her differently?

That possibility scared her most of all.

Because this—whatever this was between them—felt too rare, too real. And it had taken root in her before she even realised it.

Sakura pressed a hand to her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. The ache there was familiar now—a steady, quiet thrum beneath her skin. Like the hum of a thread pulled too tight.

She didn’t want to lose it.

She knew that she was being selfish but for the first time in so long, she felt something close to being steady. Not perfectly balanced but she wasn’t drowning anymore.

With Sasuke, she had drowned. 

There had been love, yes. But it came laced with fear and silence and the constant ache of not being enough. Always reaching. Always falling short.

But Tobirama…

Tobirama saw her. He didn’t coddle or placate. He challenged her, yes—but never dismissed her. He met her strength with his own, not to overshadow it, but to recognize it. To honor it.

And in the quiet spaces they shared—side by side, words exchanged only when needed—she had come to realize it wasn’t longing or hunger that pulled her toward him. It was something steadier. Something that made her feel like, for once, she didn’t have to run.

It was peace.

And she was terrified of losing it.

But there were others she had lost, too—whether permanently, or just for now, she couldn’t say.

Naruto. Kakashi. Tsunade. Ino. Her mother and father…

Had time moved on without her? Had she vanished without a trace?

Did Naruto think she’d run away?

Did Kakashi blame himself for being the last one to have seen her?

Did Tsunade unleash her fury in quiet, focused bursts, grief masked by destruction, because it was easier than mourning Sakura out loud?

Did Ino miss her and the moments that they bickered?

Did her mother still set a place for her at the table? 

Did her father still crack lame jokes, even with her absence?

The not-knowing clawed at her. It was its own kind of grief—slow, gnawing and impossible to bury.

But what could she do with it now?

There was no bridge between this time and the one she’d left behind. Only the Hiraishin and the near-finished theory she guarded like a secret, pieced together in quiet hours, driven by the hope of finding her way back.

But there was no safe return. No certain outcome.

All she had right now was this—a fragile, growing thing she had begun to build here. Something real. Something she wasn’t ready to lose.

Mito had looked at her like she understood. Not everything, but enough. Enough to see the way secrets nested beneath her skin. It should have been a comfort. But all it did was twist the knife in her gut. 

Because the secret wasn’t just about her being stuck in the past—it was tangled up in everything she had now. In every glance Tobirama gave her. Every breath they shared in silence. And telling him might preserve the truth. But it might also shatter everything they hadn’t dared to name yet.

She wanted to tell him. Kami, she wanted to.

But the fear clung to her ribs like a curse.

Not yet, she told herself.

Not now.

But deep down, she knew. This silence would come due.

And she didn’t know what would be left standing when it did.

The cold air bit gently at Tobirama’s cheeks as he stepped onto the familiar path leading back to the Senju compound. The late afternoon sky was a muted gray, the pale light slipping through the clouds like spilled ink and snow fell gracefully from the heavens. His meeting with the council had run longer than expected—long debates over fund allocations, arguments that felt endless and often futile. Yet, the weight of duty pressed on him, as always.

As he neared the engawa, Tobirama’s eyes caught a lone figure seated quietly near the edge. 

Sakura. 

She was still at the same place before he left her. Her posture still, her gaze fixed on the bare branches of the solitary sakura tree standing sentinel against the winter sky. The tree’s limbs stretched out like fragile fingers, stark and skeletal, yet holding fast to the earth.

He paused, watching her for a moment. There was something in the stillness of her that spoke louder than words—a soft ache beneath the calm.

“Sakura,” he called as he approached, his footsteps muffled by the wooden planks beneath him.

She turned slowly, eyes meeting his and gave him a smile. “Tobirama,” she said softly. “How was the meeting?”

He settled beside her on the engawa, the quiet between them as natural as the breeze that stirred the paper screens. “Taxing,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “The arguments over the village’s resources never seem to end.”

She nodded, but her eyes drifted back to the tree. “I can imagine,” she murmured.

He found himself relaxing beside her but as his gaze softened on her, Tobirama couldn’t help but notice the small things—how her fingers twitched slightly when she thought he wasn’t looking, the tightness around her eyes that didn’t quite reach their usual calm, the faint crease between her brows like a whispered worry she tried to hide. Her lips pressed together just a fraction too firmly, betraying a tension beneath her measured breath.

He studied her face carefully—the way her gaze kept flickering back to the bare sakura tree, distant and unfocused, as if she was somewhere else entirely. There was a restlessness there, a subtle unease he couldn’t name. Yet when he searched her eyes, looking for the truth beneath her practiced composure, he found only fleeting shadows, like smoke slipping through his fingers.

“Is something troubling you?” he asked after a pause, his voice low and careful.

Sakura’s eyes met his briefly, sharp and clear, but then she blinked and looked away. “No,” she said quickly, almost too quickly. Then, softer, “Nothing on my mind.”

Tobirama’s brow furrowed slightly. He wanted to press further, to unravel the threads of whatever she was holding back but he knew her well enough to sense that patience, not pressure, was what she needed now.

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against hers. The touch was tentative but grounding—a silent reassurance.

They sat side by side in silence, the winter air cool but not harsh. Tobirama’s gaze followed hers and rested on the bare sakura tree, its skeletal branches sharp against the pale sky. The tree’s endurance mirrored a quiet resilience he both admired and envied—steady, yet burdened beneath its own weight.

He broke the silence. “What thoughts cross your mind when you look at that tree?”

“It’s… strong,” she said after a pause. “Like it’s been through everything and still stands. Mito-sama told me once that it endures quietly. Like shinobi do.”

Tobirama nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving the gnarled trunk. “That tree was planted by my elder brother.”

Sakura turned toward him, her expression guarded but sincere. “Mito-sama said Hashirama-sama believed it would stand, no matter what came.”

At the mention of his brother, something unreadable flickered in Tobirama’s eyes—not surprise, but memory. Familiar and heavy. Hashirama’s hope had always burned bright, almost blinding. And Tobirama knew better than anyone the weight that hope left behind.

“He had that same belief,” Tobirama said quietly. “That endurance and hope could weather anything. It was something he clung to—so fiercely, it became a kind of truth for him.”

His gaze drifted to Sakura. She hadn’t moved, but the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes. Her fingers curled slightly, then loosened again—an unconscious tic, like she was holding something back.

He considered pressing. But didn’t.

After a pause, her voice came, low and thoughtful. “Maybe he needed to believe that. Maybe it was the only way he knew how to keep moving forward.” She hesitated, then added more gently, “But even a truth like that… it still leaves weight behind.”

The words settled between them—not heavy, but grounding.

Tobirama exhaled slowly. “It’s been a long time since I last spoke to him,” he said, almost to himself.

Sakura’s gaze softened, a flicker of tenderness showing in her expression. “He was a great man, from what I’ve heard.”

Tobirama let out sardonic breath. “He was an idealistic. Stubborn, even when the world proved him wrong. But people followed him—not because he was always right, but because he believed so completely in what he said.” His eyes shifted to the twisted trunk of the sakura tree, its bare limbs stark against the grey sky. “But he didn’t carry burdens. Not the way people think. He believed so strongly in the village, in peace, in unity—that he never stopped to see the cracks forming beneath it all. I carried what he couldn’t afford to see.”

Sakura was quiet for a moment, the wind rustling through the pines above them. “That kind of faith,” she said softly, “can cast long shadows. Shadows that don’t always fade, no matter how far you walk.”

He glanced at her, something sharp and unreadable flickering behind his eyes. But her gaze wasn’t judging. If anything, it held the same weight his did—quiet, tired, worn.

“You carry it still,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Tobirama didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things unsaid. Her posture had shifted—shoulders tight, jaw clenched just slightly, fingers now curled in her lap.

He noticed.

She looked away for a moment, voice softer now, almost hesitant. “We all have burdens, don’t we? Some heavier than others. But sometimes, holding them in silence only makes the weight harder to bear.”

Her eyes met his again, steady despite the flicker of vulnerability beneath. “Maybe… if you spoke to Hashirama-sama again, you wouldn’t have to carry it all yourself.”

There was something layered beneath her words—an unspoken plea, not just for him, but for herself. Almost as if she was reminding herself of something too.

Tobirama studied her for a moment longer—the faint lines of strain around her eyes, the flicker of thoughts she seemed to push away. He recognized it because he knew it intimately.

His voice was low when he spoke. “And you? What burdens do you carry?”

Sakura’s breath caught for a moment; she hesitated, then gave a faint, controlled smile. “Nothing worth troubling you with. Merely thoughts.”

Something in her voice—too even, too practiced—told him she was holding something back. He didn’t press further but the quiet deflection didn’t go unnoticed.

Without a word, he let his hand settle over hers. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just a quiet presence—measured and grounding. A silent offering, not a request.

“If you should ever decide to speak of it,” he said quietly, “I will listen.”

She returned his grasp with a slight squeeze, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

As the cold wind stirred the screens behind them, Tobirama felt the fragile strength of the bare sakura tree reflected in this shared silence—a quiet promise that burdens might be borne together, even in unspoken trust.

Another week slipped away, and the village lay blanketed beneath a thickening layer of snow, softening every edge and muffling the world in quiet white.

He hadn’t come here since the funeral. Not once. Duty had kept him away—or so he told himself. There had always been a reason—the village needed him, there was too much to do, the world was still too unstable to indulge in sentiment. But the truth was simpler. Tobirama hadn’t known what to say. Not then. Not in all the years that followed. 

Until now.

The Senju burial grounds were quiet, tucked deep into the forest, where the air was always still and cool. Light filtered through the canopy in broken shafts, casting dappled shadows over the polished stone etched with his brother’s name. Time had softened the edges of the path that led here, but Tobirama had never needed a trail. His feet knew the way.

He stood in silence for a long while, arms at his sides, posture straight—like the man who had once walked a step behind his brother who was too busy dreaming of peace to notice the weight others carried to make it possible.

The breeze stirred, rustling through the trees like a whisper, bringing up a flurry of snow in its wake. The hem of his cloak stirred gently in the breeze, catching and fluttering like a banner in the air.

“I should have come sooner,” he said, voice low but even. “But I didn’t know what to say.”

A crow cried in the distance. The forest didn’t answer.

Tobirama glanced down at the grave. “You always said peace was worth any cost. That we had to build a world where children could grow up without dying for their clan. You believed in that, even when no one else did.” His jaw flexed, voice tightening at the edges. “I followed you. I always followed you.”

He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “But you left me to clean up the pieces. To carry the weight of it all once you were gone. The village. The clan. Your dream.” His fingers curled into his palms. “And I did. I held it together, kept everything from falling apart. Kept people alive. Because that’s what I was good for, wasn’t it? Duty.” The bitterness in his tone slipped out, unguarded—spoken into the silence as if it had been waiting for release.

He raised his gaze again to the stone. “But I told myself that was enough.”

For a long time, he said nothing. The silence settled around him, and he let it. It was easier, most days, to drown in obligation than to sit with what was missing.

But not today.

“There’s someone,” he said at last.

The words sat strangely in his mouth—like they belonged to another man. He cleared his throat, almost awkwardly. 

“She challenges me. Steadies me,” he muttered, almost amused. “She has no idea what she has done.”

He looked up toward the sky, beyond the trees. “She’s brilliant. Brave. More than I ever expected to find in this life. And yet, she’s still here.”

He paused, eyes returning to the frozen moss from the edge of the stone as if the act could make up for all the years he hadn’t spoken aloud like this.

“I tried to keep my distance at first. Thought it was the sensible thing to do. She’s... unpredictable, an unknown kunoichi, a variable. Impossible to categorize. But she’s also steady in ways that matter. Fierce when she fights, relentless when she heals. She challenges me—looks me in the eye like I’m not just the Nidaime Hokage or your shadow, but a man worth seeing.”

He let out a slow breath.

“I never thought I’d have something like this. Not with the life we’ve lived. Not with everything I’ve done. And yet... she stays.”

He looked up at the engraved name, the silence between them thick with memory.

His voice dropped to a murmur. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t think I could feel this way. Not again. Not after all the wars. Not after you. After everything. But she makes it… hard to keep the walls up. Even when I try.”

His crimson eyes lowered once more to the grave, expression unreadable but his eyes softened ever so slightly. 

“I think you would have loved her, Anija.”

The breeze stirred again, gentler this time.

Tobirama stood a moment longer before stepping back. He didn’t bow. Didn’t linger.

He turned and walked back through the trees, the sound of his sandals crunched against the snow.

But the weight in his chest had shifted—lighter now, less like a burden and more like something he had chosen to carry.

Sakura sat cross-legged on her chair, scrolls and notes spread around her like the petals of an unfolding flower. The table lamp cast a soft golden glow over her work, its light blending with the last embers of dusk that lingered at the edges of her quiet home. Her fingers smudged with ink, she studied the same array of formulas she’d been poring over for weeks—the complex interplay of chakra threads, temporal pressure points, and the spatial-temporal signature embedded in Tobirama’s original Hiraishin formula.

She was close.

Too close.

Her latest recalibration had revealed a pattern—a fluctuation in the chakra stabilization anchor that, when paired with a spatial disruption seal and an unstable energy source, might’ve torn open a rift in time rather than just space. It had always been theoretical. Hypothetical. But now? Now she understood. The feedback loop she had dismissed as irrelevant was likely what had triggered the temporal distortion.

That was the error. That was what sent her here.

Backward.

To him.

And if she corrected it—if she restructured the array, compensated for the miscalculation, and activated the seal for departure—she could go back.

Home.

But as she stared at the almost finished equation, her hand hovered above the scroll and refused to move.

Because… what was home now?

Her thoughts spiraled. Naruto’s grin. Sasuke’s brooding silence. Kakashi’s exasperated patience. Ino’s unwavering friendship. Tsunade’s faith. Her parent’s love. All of them had shaped her. Loved her. Her life had been with them.

But now there was Tobirama. His dry wit, his quiet strength, his hands steady on hers, his voice grounding her through the chaos of this new world. He had no longer pried her on her past, expected no answers—but given her space to be exactly who she was and chose to trust her for who she is.

Her heart clenched. She wasn’t sure when the scales had tipped. When the ache to return had dulled into something soft and hesitant. Somewhere between his rare, fleeting smiles and the quiet weight of his hand resting against hers, something had shifted. Between late-night walks through snow-dusted streets, his voice murmuring low things only for her, and the times he sat beside her in silence, content just to exist in the same space—somehow, impossibly, he had become home.

Tobirama, with his sharp mind and sharper tongue. Tobirama, who had let her in, not easily, not all at once, but fully. The way he watched her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, the way his expression softened ever so slightly when she laughed. The way he listened. The way he shared his past with her…

Her fingers lingered over the edge of the scroll where her latest equations lay open. The formulation was dangerous. Intricate. She was close, but even the thought of success now made her feel as though she were standing at the edge of a cliff. If she finished this… if it worked… she would leave this world. 

She would reunite with her friends and family. 

She would leave him.

Her pulse thrummed in her ears. The room around her felt still, too still, as if it too were holding its breath. A bead of sweat trailed down the back of her neck, despite the cold.

She closed her eyes. Inhaled. The air tasted faintly of ink and old paper, and her lungs felt too small for the weight pressing in behind her ribs.

Then, moving slowly, as if stalling for time she wasn’t sure she had, she began to gather her work. She aligned the scrolls, stacked the parchment in perfect order—hands steady in motion but cold at the fingertips. Each movement felt mechanical, distant from the storm building behind her eyes.

The bundle sat there when she was done, bound neatly in twine and pushed to the far corner of her desk like a secret she couldn’t yet bear to destroy.

She sat back in her chair, unmoving.

For a long moment, she simply stared at it.

She should finish it. Or burn it. Or tell someone. Or run.

But instead, she just… sat.

Frozen at the edge of two futures, unable to choose.

Suddenly, a flicker of chakra brushed the edge of her senses. It was subtle, distinct but unmistakeable. 

She froze.

It was not just any chakra. It was his.

Even before her feet moved, her heart had already leapt.

She stepped out of her bedroom into the living space, the fire in the hearth crackling low. The silence of the room pressed in gently around her, wrapping her in anticipation. She crossed to the door, her fingers brushing the handle, and opened it.

Tobirama stood on the other side.

His silver hair was dusted with snow, dampened slightly by the chill, and the soft amber glow from the lantern at the entrance gilded the sharp angles of his face. His expression was unreadable but his presence filled the doorway in the way only he could. Solid, steady and silent.

Sakura’s breath caught in her throat. “Tobirama…?”

He didn’t speak right away. His gaze swept over her face, lingering on the softness around her eyes, the way a few strands of her hair had fallen across her face. Then, finally, his voice broke the silence, quiet and roughened by something unspoken.

“I went to see him today.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Who…?” Realisation shone on her face and her eyes softened. “Hashirama-sama?”

A small nod. 

She stepped aside wordlessly, and he entered. The door closed behind them with a soft click. The room seemed smaller with him in it, the way his chakra filled every corner. Not in a suffocating way—just... known. Familiar. Steady.

Sakura watched as he shrugged off his cloak, snowflakes melting into the dark fabric. “You’ve never went to see him before,” she said gently.

“No,” he admitted, his voice low. “Not once. Not until today.”

She waited.

He stood still, glancing toward the fire, as if gathering his words from its flickering light. “I kept putting it off. Said it was because of duty. Work. The village. But I think…” He exhaled, shoulders rising and falling. “I wasn’t ready. To admit to him what I carried after he died. Your words made me realise perhaps it was time for me to face him.”

Sakura’s eyes softened. She crossed the space slowly, stopping just in front of him.

Tobirama looked down at her, crimson eyes shadowed and open in ways she rarely saw. “He left me everything. The clan. The village. The weight of it. I resented him for that, for a long time. And I honored him anyway. Because that was what needed to be done.”

“You kept everything together,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“I did.” His jaw worked slightly. “But today, I told him everything… and also about you.” 

Her breath caught again, this time in a different way. “What did you say?”

“That you changed me,” he said simply. “That somehow, without even trying, you made space in a life I thought was already set in stone.”

Silence fell between them, but it was warm and full. 

“I’m glad you went,” Sakura said after a moment, her voice soft.

He looked at her again, and something in his expression shifted—like ice giving way to spring thaw. “I wasn’t sure what I’d find. But I kept thinking of you. And when I left his grave…” His voice dropped further, barely audible. “I knew I needed to see you.”

Sakura felt her heart clenched again, tender this time. “You’re here now,” she murmured.

His hand reached for her slowly, as if giving her the chance to move away. She didn’t. Instead, she stepped into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist. He held her tightly, his cheek brushing her temple.

Neither of them moved for a long time.

Finally, she leaned back just enough to meet his gaze. “Stay.”

He didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he kissed her—slowly, tenderly, like a man who had fought for too long and had finally let himself feel what it was to be home.

Tobirama’s lips moved over hers with deliberate slowness, as though he meant to memorize the shape of her mouth—not just the curve, but the warmth, the give, the quiet tremble she tried to hide. There was reverence in the way he kissed her, as if he feared she might vanish if he moved too fast.

Sakura melted into him, her hands sliding up the solid plane of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like she needed to anchor herself. The kiss deepened—soft at first, then increasingly urgent, driven by everything they hadn’t said, every glance that lingered too long, every moment of restraint that now came undone between their lips.

He guided her gently back toward the couch, his touch never rushed, his intent clear and quiet. When the backs of her knees met the edge, she sank down without hesitation, drawing him with her. Tobirama followed, one hand cradling her face with a tenderness that made her ache, the other braced firm and steady against the cushion beside her head, caging her in with the surety of his presence.

Her breath caught when he leaned in further, when his lips left hers only to find the delicate place just beneath her jaw—pressing there, lingering there. The heat of his mouth against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and the way he exhaled softly, almost reverently, made her feel worshiped. Known. Wanted in ways she had never dared to dream.

“Tobirama,” she breathed, threading her fingers into his hair.

He exhaled against her skin and murmured, “Tell me if you want me to stop.” 

“I don’t,” she whispered.

His hand slid down along her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss turned fevered—her fingers tugging at the front of his shirt, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips with maddening precision. When she let out a breathy moan, he swallowed the sound, low and greedy.

Sakura’s legs bracketed his hips as he leaned her deeper against the couch. His hand stroked along the curve of her thigh, deliberate but not rushed. Even in this growing heat, there was reverence in every movement, as though he wasn’t just touching her—but committing the moment to memory.

And then, without breaking their kiss, he gathered her into his arms.

Sakura gave a soft, surprised breath as her back left the couch. He lifted her with effortless strength, his hands secure at the backs of her thighs, her arms winding instinctively around his shoulders and thighs wrapped themselves tight around his waist. Their mouths never parted as he carried her through the short hallway to her room, moving with the same single-minded focus she’d seen him wield on the battlefield.

He nudged the door open with his foot and crossed the threshold.

The room was dim and warm, lit by the gentle orange glow of the lamp on her desk. He lowered her onto the bed as though she were something precious. But his eyes, sharp and crimson in the low light, burned with hunger.

She reached for him as he came down over her, their kisses turning fervent, edged with hunger and heat. Fingers tangled in hair, tugged at fabric, bared skin—each movement deliberate, urgent, but never careless. They undressed one another in pieces, not just stripping away cloth but years of restraint, of duty, of loneliness. His shirt slipped over his head and dropped soundlessly to the floor. Her dress followed, pooling at her waist before she tugged it off completely. Their last layers followed until they were both bare and vulnerable before one another. 

Each layer was peeled away like something sacred—every inch revealed, treated with reverence. He kissed her like a man who thought he might never get another chance to, and Sakura responded with equal devotion, arching into him, her breath warm and wanting against his jaw.

His hands were unrelenting in their care, his touch exploratory yet purposeful as he learned her through every caress. He traced the line of her ribs with his fingers, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. When his mouth found the hollow just above her heart, she shuddered beneath him, her back arching into the warmth of his body, craving more. He lingered there, pressing his lips to her skin as if committing the very beat of her heart to memory.

Tobirama’s body hovered over hers, muscles taut with restraint as his hand slid down her thigh, coaxing her legs apart. Sakura obeyed without hesitation, her breath hitching as the air grew heavier between them. Her skin was already flushed, her chest rising and falling in shallow waves as he settled between her legs, the heat of him thick and pulsing against her.

He didn’t enter her right away.

Instead, he rocked his hips forward, letting the length of his cock drag slowly through her folds. The friction—bare and hot—sent a jolt up her spine, and she gasped, hips jerking reflexively.

“Tobirama…” she breathed, her voice trembling around the edges.

He groaned softly at the sound of his name on her lips. His cock slid over her again, deliberately, coating himself in her arousal as he watched her face—watched the way her lips parted, the way her eyes fluttered, how she gasped every time the head of him brushed against her clit.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel against her ear. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

She whimpered, arching up into him, her hands skimming over his back, nails digging faint crescents into his skin. “Stop teasing,” she whispered. “I need you. Please.”

His hand cupped her cheek, thumb stroking just beneath her eye. He paused, forehead pressed to hers, crimson eyes dark with something raw.

“Are you sure?”

Sakura met his gaze without wavering. Her voice was breathless, but steady. “Yes. I’m yours.”

Something in him broke at that. She felt it—felt the way his restraint frayed at the edges as he shifted his hips, lining himself up. The blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and still, he hesitated just a moment longer—just long enough for her to wrap her arms around his neck and whisper, “Tobirama… please.”

He pushed in with a slow, steady thrust, inch by inch, until the stretch of him made her gasp, her back arching into his body. The fullness was overwhelming, almost too much, but she wanted more. She wanted all of him.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, the word ripped from him like a prayer. “You feel like heaven.”

Her legs curled around his hips, drawing him deeper. Her walls clenched around him, wet and tight, and the sound he made was guttural, desperate.

“Move,” Sakura begged, her breath hot against his jaw. “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Tobirama’s mouth found hers in a hungry kiss as he began to move, slow at first, deep and grinding, dragging every inch of him against her in a rhythm that made her cry out softly into his mouth. Her nails scraped down his back, her heels dug into his lower spine, urging him faster, harder.

Each thrust sent sparks blooming behind her eyes. His control frayed quickly, hips snapping against hers with a force that bordered on brutal but never lost the reverence in his touch, the way he kissed her between every breath.

Sakura’s world narrowed to the heat of his body and the sound of his breath, ragged and low in her ear. He moved with control honed by a lifetime of discipline, but the edges were fraying. She could feel it in the tremble of his arms, in the way his mouth opened against her collarbone but found no words. He was unraveling before her. 

And then—quietly, reverently—he spoke her name into the hollow of her throat. Just once. Like a vow, like a prayer.

“Sakura…”

Sakura shivered at this and her arms tightened around his back, pulling him closer.  

They moved together in perfect rhythm, a silent language spoken in the glide of skin against skin, in every breathless sigh and lingering touch. It was instinct and intention both, the space between them narrowing until nothing else existed but the heat of their bodies and the weight of what had been building for so long.

Sakura met him with equal need—open, responsive, her body rising to meet every thrust. Her fingers raked through his hair, down his back, anchoring him to her as he moved within her with aching precision. There was no rush, no frantic edge—only the tension of something profound unraveling between them, something fragile and sacred being built in its place.

He whispered her name again—barely audible, more breath than sound—and it sent a tremor through her, a sweet ache that bloomed low in her belly and spread like fire. Their foreheads touched, their noses brushed, lips parting but not speaking—there was no need. Every glance, every ragged exhale was its own confession.

He moved inside her with a rhythm that grew more desperate with every thrust—deep, slow strokes giving way to something harder, hungrier. His control was fraying, unraveling in the way his hands gripped her thighs, the way his breath stuttered against her neck. He picked up his pace and his thrusts became more relentless. 

Sakura clung to him, gasping with every drive of his hips, her nails scoring down the muscles of his back. Her body felt like it was unraveling beneath him—tension coiling tighter and tighter in her core with every stroke, every grind of his pelvis against hers.

“Tobi—” she gasped, breath hitching as he angled his hips just right and hit a spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. “There—ah—right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His pace continued, deliberate and unrelenting, chasing the way her body arched into him, how she clenched around him with growing desperation.

“Look at me,” he almost growled, voice low and ragged as he lifted his head, forehead pressing to hers. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

She tried—tried to hold his gaze, but the pleasure overwhelmed her. Her thighs were trembling, her breath came in broken moans, and every nerve in her body felt strung tight, vibrating.

“Fuck, Sakura—” he bit out, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple as he thrust into her harder, faster, his own release teetering on the edge. “You drive me insane.”

Her hand cupped the back of his neck, grounding herself as the tension in her belly snapped tighter. His hips stuttered once, and she felt him pulse inside her, but he held on, just barely, waiting for her.

The pressure built and built, every stroke sending her higher until her entire body was quaking beneath him, thighs clenched around his waist, her breath coming in shallow, desperate pants.

“Tobi—I—I’m—”

“That’s it,” he urged, one hand slipping between them to stroke her clit. “Come for me.”

When it hit, it wasn’t sharp or sudden—it surged through her like a tidal wave, slow and all-consuming. Her back arched off the bed as pleasure rolled through her in waves, her cry caught against his throat, where she clung to him like she might fall apart.

Tobirama groaned deeply as he finally let go, hips jerking into her as he followed her over the edge. He held her through every tremor, arms wrapped tight around her as if anchoring himself in her warmth.

Their bodies trembled together, breath mingling, skin slick with sweat. And even as the intensity faded, he didn’t let her go—his lips slowly found her shoulder, her cheek, her temple, whispering her name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

And then for the longest moment, they didn’t move. Just the echo of shared breath. Just the hush of two hearts finally finding rhythm in the same silence.

Sakura curled into his warmth, the steady rise and fall of Tobirama’s breath grounding her like the tide against a drifting shore. His arm wrapped securely around her waist, fingers splayed with quiet intent, not possessive—but present. Steady. Real.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and in the stillness that followed, something deep inside her began to settle—like dust after a long storm, like breath returning to lungs that hadn’t known they were holding.

She listened to the silence between heartbeats, to the faint hush of wind stirring the eaves outside, to the distant murmur of the village preparing for nightfall. This place. His presence. The shape of this life she’d stumbled into.

And slowly, the ache in her chest—the one that whispered of duty, of timelines, of the world she’d left behind—began to fade.

She could still feel it, that other path. The one paved with expectation and guilt and what-ifs. But it no longer pulled at her. Not like this.

This—he—was what she wanted. Not a fleeting comfort, not a distraction. A choice.

The realisation came not with fanfare, but with a quiet clarity—like water smoothing over stone.

She wasn’t going back.

Not because she couldn’t. But because she no longer wanted to.

Tobirama awoke just before dawn, as he always did. Old habits—ones born from war and command—died hard. But this morning, there was no call to rise, no duty pressing against his spine.

Only her.

Sakura slept beside him, tucked into the curve of his body, one arm draped over his chest. Her hair spilled across the pillow like silk, a few strands brushing his collarbone. Her face, usually so composed and deliberate, had gone soft in sleep—unguarded. Peaceful.

Unmoving, barely breathing, as though any sudden shift might disrupt the fragile stillness between them.

He had held countless responsibilities in his life. Carried burdens too heavy for most. But this—this quiet weight of her, trusting and warm in his arms—was different. He let his fingers ghost along her cheek, marveling at the smooth curve of it, the faint crease of her brow, the hint of a smile still curled at the corner of her mouth.

Tonirama’s eyes found themselves softening. 

What had he ever done to deserve this?

She stirred slightly under his touch, emerald eyes fluttering open. When she saw him watching, she smiled—sleepy and soft.

“How long have you been awake?” she whispered.

“Only a few minutes,” he replied. His voice was quiet, rough with sleep. “You talk in your sleep.”

Her brows lifted faintly in horror. “What did I say?”

He smirked. “Something about frogs seeking vengeance.”

She snorted and leaned in to kiss him, slow and tender. “You’re lying.”

He didn’t answer, just touched her jaw, brushing his thumb along her cheek again, his eyes soft in the early light.

“You’re dangerous when you’re like this,” she murmured, letting her forehead rest against his. “Warm. Gentle. Almost charming.”

“Almost?” he echoed dryly, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He leaned in this time, no hesitation, no games—just fire. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deep, consuming, and hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long.

His hand fisted in her hair, tugging her head back gently just enough to take her mouth more fully, and she gasped, lips parting for him. Their bodies pressed together, skin to skin, the heat between them dizzying.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, feeling every line of him against her. His tongue swept against hers—slow, then demanding—drawing a soft, helpless sound from her throat.

He kissed her like he needed to breathe her in. Like stopping wasn’t an option. His mouth left hers only to trail down her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse before soothing the mark with his tongue.

She trembled when his hands slid down her sides, firm and roaming, then curled around her hips, holding her steady as he kissed her again—rougher now, deeper. Their mouths moved in sync, messy and breathless, her lips tingling, her chest rising and falling in time with his.

He groaned low when she shifted against him, and his hand gripped her tighter, grounding her even as everything between them spiraled.

The kiss didn’t slow—it smoldered. Heated. A blur of mouths and skin and gasps, until they finally broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, their lips still brushing with every shuddered exhale.

Sakura breath hitched, her pulse fluttering. “If we keep going, I won’t make it out of this bed,” she whispered.

“Then don’t,” he murmured, his voice low, eyes half-lidded with want.

She smiled—genuine, a little flushed—and pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Tempting. But I really need to shower.” She pushed up on one elbow, the sheets slipping down her shoulder. “I’ll be quick.”

He nodded, letting her go reluctantly, his hand dragging slowly across her skin before falling to his side. His gaze followed her as she grabbed her robe and moved toward the bathroom—unhurried and bare. The light catching on the smooth lines of her back, the gentle sway of her hips.

She didn’t look back, and she didn’t need to. He watched her all the same, eyes tracing the curve of her spine, the curve of her butt and thighs. Tobirama found himself appreciating the sight. 

He hadn’t meant to stay. He certainly hadn’t planned to sleep with her. But the moment had unraveled between them with such quiet inevitability, he hadn’t questioned it. Not when she looked at him like that. Not when she touched him with such unguarded tenderness.

It had been years—if ever—since he’d let himself be that close to someone. Vulnerable, exposed, trusted. And somehow, with her, it hadn’t felt like weakness. It had felt… right.

He didn’t regret it. Not a single moment of it.

The door whispered shut behind her, and still he stared after her, something tight and unfamiliar blooming in his chest. He was drawn to her. Had been for a long time. But last night had only confirmed what he’d already begun to accept—whatever this was between them, it mattered.

Tobirama sat up, bare feet touching the floor and he inspected his surroundings quietly with his eyes. The room was modest but lived-in. Books lined the shelf above her desk. Her white hospital coat slung lazily over the chair at her desk. The faint scent of ink and camellia clung to the air.

The first light of dawn had already begun to filter through the sheer curtain, casting a golden wash across the room. It draped over the furniture, softened the edges of the space, and touched his skin like a whisper.

He rose to dress, tugging his shirt over his shoulders and slipped his pants on with practiced efficiency. As he moved to straighten the space, his eyes drifted toward her desk. Scrolls and papers carefully stacked and bound in a neat pile near the edge.

He paused.

It wasn’t nosiness that drew him.

It was instinct.

Every shinobi knew how to read the signs of concealment. These documents weren’t just tidied—they were intentionally placed, organized and secured like a field report meant to be reviewed later.

And the chakra signature that clung to the paper—it was hers, of course. But layered beneath it, woven like threads in a seal, was something that felt oddly familiar. 

Brows furrowed, Tobirama stepped closer.

The feeling wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t neutral either. It tugged at a memory he couldn’t place—something nostalgic, sealed, and powerful.

Tobirama reached for the top scroll, fingers steady. He hesitated for half a beat—not out of doubt, but out of respect. Then he unrolled it in one smooth motion.

What he saw sent a cold spike through his chest.

Formulas. Calculations. Dense theoretical matrices interwoven with sealwork and temporal equations. But at the heart of it—etched in careful ink—was the unmistakable structure of his Hiraishin formulation.

His technique.

Modified.

Expanded.

Temporal.

His eyes scanned line after line, mind racing faster than ink could ever hope to contain.

Sealwork. Space-time distortions. Layered temporal anchors. And at the center—so familiar it struck him like a blade. Not in its raw, weaponized form, but rebuilt. Transformed. Reengineered. Refined with knowledge that no one should have.

It wasn’t just a theoretical experiment. It was a roadmap. A blueprint for time displacement.

The air in the room seemed to constrict around him. Chakra curled along his spine, taut and buzzing. His grip on the parchment tightened until the paper crinkled audibly under his fingers.

This… this wasn’t something one stumbled across.

This wasn’t a passing curiosity or speculative work.

This was intimate, dangerous knowledge. And it was his—his work, his legacy—twisted and stretched into something else entirely.

Tobirama’s breath grew shallow. His thoughts sharpened, cutting.

How long had she been working on this?

How did she even know about this?

And more importantly— why hadn’t she told him?

Every shared moment flashed back in fragments. Her hesitation. Her vagueness about her past. The way she never quite answered when he asked about where she came from. Her intellect. Her intuition. Her ability to keep pace with him so quickly, even rival his theories in ways no one else had.

The warmth they’d shared, the closeness.

Was it real?

Or was it a mask?

A strategic alignment?

Had she gotten close to him… deliberately?

His hand dropped slightly, scroll still unrolled, the symbols blurring for a beat as he tried to ground himself.

What the hell is she planning?

The thought struck like ice.

His stomach twisted—not with fear, but with something colder. 

Betrayal. 

Not the kind that screamed, but the kind that settled deep into the bone. Heavy. Quiet.

Behind him from down the hallway the bathroom door opened with a soft creak.

He didn’t turn immediately.

Couldn’t.

Her chakra brushed across the room like a familiar whisper—but it no longer soothed.

When she crossed the threshold into the bedroom, dressed in a robe, she was smiling. “Tobirama, it’s your turn,” she called as she padded toward her room. “But you might want to turn up the hot—”

He turned slowly.

The blood drained from her face.

Her chakra flared with reflexive panic.

Tobirama’s eyes met hers—cold crimson, unreadable, piercing.

His voice was calm. Controlled.

Deadly quiet.

“What is this?”

Chapter Text

The warmth of the shower trickled over her shoulders like a balm, easing the lingering ache in her muscles. Sakura braced one hand against the tiled wall and let the water run down her back, closing her eyes as memory washed over her more vividly than the water ever could.

Last night had been more than just sex. It had been something she couldn’t name without trembling. Tobirama’s hands hadn’t just touched her; they had seen her. His lips had spoken things his mouth never said aloud. She had known the want of another body before—but this… this was the first time she had felt truly wanted. Cherished.

She had given her heart to another boy once, long ago, but it had never felt like this. That love had been bruised and tangled in hope. This was steady. Strong. And terrifying in its clarity.

She turned off the water, toweling herself off, and wrapped her robe around her. Her face was still flushed from warmth and emotion as she stepped into the bedroom— 

“Tobirama, it’s your turn. But you might want to turn up the hot…” 

—and immediately froze.

Tobirama stood by her desk.

And in his hands he held a scroll—the one detailing the formulation she had reverse-engineered from his Hiraishin. His expression was unreadable at first glance.

But then he turned to her.

His expression was like ice—shut, unreadable, except for the thin line of tension running through his jaw and the way his fingers curled tighter around the paper. Cold anger radiated from him in steady, suffocating waves.

“What is this?” he asked, voice low. Measured. Dangerous.

Sakura’s heart dropped.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her throat felt too tight to speak. “Tobi—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“It’s research. I—I can explain—”

But he didn’t let her.

“Explain what?” he said, voice like a blade drawn in a quiet room. “That you’ve been working on this behind my back? That you’ve taken my jutsu—my work—and twisted it into whatever this is?”

The papers in his hand rustled violently as he shook them, his other hand clenched at his side. The chill in his chakra was palpable, like a sudden drop in air pressure before a storm.

“This isn’t theoretical dabbling, Sakura,” he went on, each word tighter than the last. “These formulas… these calculations… they’re methodical. Layered. You weren’t just studying the Hiraishin.” His eyes locked onto hers, hard and disbelieving. “You were rebuilding it. Repurposing it for something else.”

She stepped forward, barefoot, still damp from the shower, her robe wrapped hastily around her. Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to break free.

“Please,” she said, voice cracking. “It’s not what you think.”

Tobirama laughed—just once. A hollow, humorless sound that landed like a slap.

“Really?” he said, his voice low and sharp, cold in a way she had never heard before. “Then by all means tell me what I’m meant to think of this, Sakura. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve spent Kami knows how long mining through the core of one of my most dangerous work in secret after—” He broke off, shaking his head, the hurt creeping into his expression despite himself. “After everything.”

“I—” Her throat tightened. “I was going to tell you. I just—”

“When?” he interrupted coldly. “When, Sakura? After you were done?”

“No! That’s not—”

“No? Then what is it?” His words were measured, but they struck like thrown blades, each syllable honed to precision. “You didn’t think to talk to me? Or were you afraid I’d recognize my own work the moment I saw it?”

“I was going to—”

He exhaled sharply, the sound sharp-edged and disbelieving, as if the very breath hurt to let go.

“You were going to what?” he said, quieter now—calm, but in the way a storm is quiet just before it breaks. “Tell me once you’d finished building whatever this is? Once you were ready to use it?”

“N-No! That’s not it. I–”

“And how do you even know about this?” he asked, voice low and taut with disbelief. “This formula—this array—was never published. Never shared. It's private information. So tell me, Sakura—” his voice dipped lower, more dangerous “—how the hell do you know something that not even my own clansmen are permitted to see?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

His eyes, usually so cold and calculating, were burning now—not with heat, but with controlled fury. The scroll in his hand crumpled slightly under the pressure of his grip before he flung it back across the room. It landed on her desk with a loud slap of paper against wood.

Sakura flinched. The silence between them was deafening.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” she said finally, her voice barely holding. “I started the research before… before us. Before I understood what you’d come to mean to me. And once things changed between us, it didn’t feel the same anymore. You became important—more important than any of it, so I—” she found herself almost choking on her words.

He stared at her, unmoving. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark and unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to something cold and low, but beneath it was the unmistakable edge of hurt.

“Don’t pretend this was ever about us, Sakura. You made it about you the moment you chose to keep it hidden.”

His words hit her like kunai, sharp and unrelenting.

“Tobirama, that’s not true! I—”

He cut her off again, his voice rising just enough to make her flinch. “You say all the right things. Smile the right way. Pretend to open up. But all this time, I can’t believe you were hiding this. From me.”

His disbelief stung more than any accusation. She could hear it fraying his voice at the edges, beneath the tightly held control.

Her own voice shook. “It wasn’t meant to hurt you—”

“But you did,” he growled, and this time it wasn’t cold. It was raw. Unsteady. He was losing the anger and what took its place was worse.

Sakura reached for him on instinct, desperate to close the widening distance, but he recoiled as if her touch might burn him entirely. His shoulders were rigid, crimson eyes cold, but his expression cracked just enough for her to see the truth.

His next words came quieter, but they landed like a stone dropped into still water—rippling, sinking deep. 

“I trusted you.” 

For a moment, something fractured beneath the steel of his voice. Not rage. Not coldness. Something far more dangerous.

It was the quiet devastation of a man who had let his guard down—for her, only her—who had given more than he ever intended to, only to find himself standing on shifting ground. The man who had spent his life protecting secrets, shielding vulnerabilities behind precision and control, now holding the proof that someone he let in—someone he let close—had kept her own secrets all along.

The silence between them was deafening.

Then, without another word, he made his way past her.

“Tobirama, please—” she tried again, stepping forward, but he was already walking away. Toward the door. Away from her.

And when the door shut behind him, it sounded like the end of something vital.

Her knees buckled, and she dropped where she stood. The cool air hit her damp skin, but she barely felt it. Her chest seized.

One breath. Then another—sharp, shallow, frantic.

No, this can’t be happening.

She couldn’t get air in. Couldn’t get air out. Her lungs refused to obey, locking up under the crushing weight that had taken residence in her ribs. Her fingers curled into the floorboards, nails scraping against wood as if anchoring herself could keep her from unraveling.

Tears blurred her vision, hot and unrelenting, but she didn’t sob. She couldn’t. Her throat had closed up, a lump swelling tight and hard, choking every sound.

The world narrowed. Her heart raced, slamming against her ribs like it wanted to escape her chest. Her skin prickled, flushed and freezing all at once. Distantly, she was aware of her arms wrapped tight around herself, her nails biting into her own skin. She rocked forward, then back, small, desperate movements. Like a child. Like someone trying not to disappear.

Her thoughts spiraled.

He’s gone.

I ruined it.

I should’ve told him sooner.

Why didn’t I just tell him?

Why did I let him go?

How do I fix this?

A broken gasp tore from her throat. Then another. Her vision spotted at the edges. Her body was trembling uncontrollably now, shudders wracking her limbs from the inside out.

Sakura was strong. She had survived war, loss, blood and death. But this, this helpless, breathless ache clawing at her chest, was worse than any injury.

It was the weight of losing his trust. Losing him.

Her knees hit the floor with a dull thud. She didn’t even feel the pain. Her hands were shaking too violently to support her. She squeezed her eyes shut, knuckles white as they dug into the floorboards, her forehead pressing down until the world narrowed to darkness and pressure.

Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned everything else out. A high, static ringing filled her ears. Her throat was tight, too tight, and no amount of breathing—fast or slow—seemed to help. A choked sound tore out of her again, and this time it was closer to a sob.

Still, the panic didn’t fade.

Not even when the tears finally came.

The snow had thickened by the time he returned to the Senju compound.

Tobirama stormed through the gates like a winter gale, silver hair whipped by the wind, his cloak flaring sharply behind him. The servants, used to his usual precision and quiet reserve, scattered in his path, eyes widened at the sheer violence simmering beneath his restrained stride. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at them. Only walked with purpose, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his eyes like frost and steel.

When he reached his room, he yanked the shoji door open with a snap of wood and slammed it shut behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. The silence after was absolute, suffocating—until his fist slammed into the thick wood just beside the door to the engawa.

It cracked.

But it didn’t help.

The fury had cooled into something worse. A hollow ache beneath his ribs, sharp and unrelenting. It churned inside him, not as fire, but as ice.

She was researching my jutsu. 

All this time, she was hiding this from me.

Not with malice—but with silence. With omission. With a softness that masked intent.

His breath shuddered through clenched teeth. He stared at the blood-stained fractured wood beneath his fist, willing it to give him clarity. But all it offered was splinters and silence.

And then—her smile came unbidden. That quiet curve of lips when she sat beside him on the engawa. The warm graze of her fingers against his sleeve. The way she tilted her head when he spoke of the past—of blood, of war, of Hashirama— as if each word mattered.

Had it all meant nothing?

His chest tightened, breath catching as another memory surged—unwelcome and too raw.

Last night. The soft hush of her voice in the dark. The way she had looked at him with something that felt like reverence. Trust. He had laid himself bare in her presence, allowed himself to believe, even if just for a few hours, that he could want something for himself. That he could have her .

He felt sick to his stomach now.

The weight of her skin against his, the breathless sounds she made, quiet and raw, like she was unraveling just for him—it all twisted in his gut like a cruel joke. Had she been thinking about her secret the entire time? About what she hadn’t told him?

He knew what he’d seen. Notes derived from his Hiraishin formula. Diagrams, calculations, sealing patterns—but altered. Refined. And threaded through it all, the unmistakable signs of temporal shift theory.

Time displacement.

But why?

What was she trying to reach? Or escape?

Had she already made her decision, while he was still reaching for her?

I was a fool, he thought bitterly.

The intimacy that had once felt so profound now felt tainted. Like he had opened a door that should have stayed locked and she had stepped through it with a secret clutched tightly to her chest.

He clenched his fists, knuckles gone white.

I let her in.

And now, all he could do was wonder how far she had planned to go before disappearing without ever giving him the truth.

He had never let anyone that close. Not since his brother. Not since the war. And she had looked at him like he wasn’t broken, like there was more to him than duty and scars. Like she saw him.

And yet, she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth.

A low breath escaped him. It felt too thin for his lungs, like the very air had betrayed him too.

What had she been planning with his work? Why keep it hidden?

Was I just a means to an end?

The thought lodged itself deep—cold, cruel, and impossible to dislodge. He had offered her the parts of himself no one else had ever seen. And in return, she’d hidden this. And her eyes, always so full of something unspoken when they looked at him. That… tenderness.

Was it all a lie?

Was she pretending that whole time?

He had let her in.

He had let her in!

He’d shared things with her he hadn’t spoken aloud in years. Maybe ever. His past. His grief. His regret. He’d trusted her. Trusted her. And she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth.

About the formula. About her research. About why she was so desperate to understand his space-time ninjutsu. About why she even had access to his jutsu in the first place.

Why?

What was she planning?

What was she trying to leave behind?

Tobirama turned away from the cracked wood, pacing the floor like a caged animal, mind racing. The symbols in her notes weren’t abstract. They were refined. Intentional. Focused around displacement, not just travel. Not for offense. Not for replication.

She wasn’t trying to improve the technique—she was trying to use it. For something big.

His blood ran cold.

Was she sent here?

That was the first thought. A spy. Someone trained to gain his trust and extract the knowledge Konoha guarded most jealously. But no—that didn’t match. Her chakra was too strange. Her medicine too advanced. Her grief too real.

Then… was she trying to return to someone?

Someone from another place? Or another time? Had he been nothing but a stop on the road back to whoever she’d left behind?

His throat tightened.

Is that why she looked so sad when she thought I couldn’t see it? Why she never really spoke of her past?

Or worse… was she trying to undo something? 

A tragedy? A mistake? Something so unbearable that the only answer was rewriting time itself?

His stomach twisted at the thought.

Did she not trust him with the truth? Did she think he would stop her?

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling despite himself.

Why didn’t you just tell me, Sakura?

He could’ve helped her. He would have helped her. If only she had asked. If only she had believed in him the way he had begun—foolishly, completely—to believe in her.

A soft knock came at the outer shoji.

He didn’t respond. 

It opened anyway.

“Tobirama,” came Mito’s voice, quiet and edged with worry.

He didn’t turn to her. “The servants sent you,” he muttered, voice hollow.

“They were worried.” Her steps were careful. “They said you came back like a storm. And I can see they weren’t wrong.”

She stepped further inside, then stopped short at the sight of the cracked wood and the wild anger still clinging to him like frost.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

He turned then. Slowly. His eyes gleamed, not with tears—but with something darker.

“This,” he said, voice low and controlled, “is what happens when you open your heart to someone.”

Mito flinched, only just. “Tobirama…”

“I trusted her, Mito,” he said, cutting her off—his tone low, deliberate. “Do you understand what that means?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I let her in further than I’ve allowed anyone in years. I showed her parts of myself I don’t make visible… not to anyone.”

He paused, breath tight. “And all this time, she was studying the Hiraishin. Using my research. Expanding on it without telling me. ”

His hand curled into a fist at his side.

“She had every opportunity to tell me the truth,” he said tightly. “And she didn’t. Not even when I gave her the chance.” He paused, jaw working. “I allowed myself to trust her. Let her in. And now I have to question everything she has said… everything she has done.”

Mito’s gaze softened with a quiet ache. “You don’t truly believe she was deceiving you.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed, sharp with conflict. “I don’t know what to believe. But I won’t ignore what’s right in front of me.”

Silence fell.

Mito stepped forward, slowly, until she stood near him. She didn’t touch him—she knew better—but her voice was calm, warm with something he couldn’t bring himself to accept just yet.

“You’re hurt. You have every right to be. But Tobirama…” She tilted her head, searching his face. “You need to let her explain. Whatever her reasons… whatever truth she’s holding… don’t you think she deserves the chance to speak for herself?”

He turned his face away, jaw rigid. “I’ve heard enough of her words.”

“She cares for you with her heart, Tobirama,” Mito said quietly. “Even if she may have faltered in her truth. You know that. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

His breath hitched.

Mito stepped back toward the door.

“You can shut everyone out again. Return to your cold walls. But don’t make a decision until you’ve heard her side. That’s all I ask.”

And with that, she left him standing alone—surrounded by the ghost of Sakura’s laughter, the memory of her warmth, and the echo of a choice he hadn’t yet made.

The room felt cavernous now, hollow in a way that had nothing to do with its size. The cracked wood remained splintered, a silent reminder of the moment he lost control. Of how deeply this had cut him.

He had lived most of his life in solitude. By choice. By necessity. But now, it felt different. It felt lonely.

The scent of her still lingered in his memory—camellia and clean parchment—and it sickened him that even now, even after everything, part of him longed for her. Part of him still wanted to believe there was a reason. A truth that would make sense of this breach between them.

But the silence pressed in.

And in it, he could feel the echo of her laugh, distant and warm, now turned cruel by absence. He could still feel her fingers brushing his arm, her body curled against his beneath the thin covers of her bed, the fragile hope he had dared to let in when she touched him like he was more than a weapon.

Now that hope lay shattered. Like glass underfoot.

He had trusted her.

He had even, at one point, begun to imagine a future with her.

And now—

Now he stood alone in the dark, empty-handed, his heart thudding quietly against a hollow chest, as if unsure whether it should keep beating for someone who was, all this time, just full of her own secrets.

Sakura sat on the floor of her room, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The sharp edge of panic had dulled, leaving behind the cold ache of regret.

I should’ve told him sooner.

The thought pulsed like a drumbeat in her head, over and over again. She had had so many chances—quiet moments when his guard had been down, when his eyes had softened, when he had looked at her like she mattered . But she hadn’t told him.

Because she’d been afraid.

Afraid that if he knew the truth—about her research, about why she had studied his notes, about why she understood space-time theory at all—he would see her as nothing more than a liar. A woman using him to get back to another life. To another time .

And that had been true, once.

She had come to Konoha desperate for answers. For a way home. But then… then she met him . Got to know him. Fell in love with him.

And recently made the decision to stay for him.

Because somewhere between the meetings, the nights on the engawa, the quiet, deep conversations, the laughter and stolen touches, Senju Tobirama had become everything.

If only I could’ve told him that.

But she hadn’t. And the look he had given her—cold, distant, like she had carved something out of him with her silence—it stopped her dead in her tracks. She had never seen such betrayal on his face. Never heard his voice break like that.

"I trusted you."

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would block out the sound. It didn’t.

Her heart clenched painfully, chest tight from the weight of what she had done. The guilt. The grief. All of it coiled in her ribs like barbed wire.

He deserves better than this.

Better than the lies. Better than the silence.

And dammit, she wasn’t going to let him walk out of her life like this—not without explaining herself. Not without trying.

She stood abruptly, wiping the tear tracks from her face. Her fingers trembled as she dressed quickly, brushing her hair and slipping on her sandals. She didn’t even glance in the mirror.

She knew her eyes were red. Puffy. Her face blotchy and pale.

Let them stare.

Let the villagers whisper.

None of it mattered.

All that mattered was him.

The Hokage Tower loomed ahead, a monolith of cold stone and sharp edges slicing into the pale blush of morning. Sakura climbed the steps with measured steps, her boots barely making a sound against the polished stone. Inside, the halls stretched before her in unforgiving symmetry—silent, watchful, and cold.

She moved like a ghost through them.

The few shinobi she passed kept their distance, but their glances clung to her like mist—furtive, unsure, and laced with quiet speculation. Whispers followed in her wake, half-formed murmurs that stung more for being left unsaid. She ignored them all. She hadn’t come for them.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Every step forward was a battle against the doubt twisting in her gut. She wasn’t here to make excuses. Not anymore.

She paused outside the Hokage’s office door and inhaled sharply. Once. Twice. Then she exhaled, steadying her shoulders, her spine, her resolve. She owed him this. A real explanation. A real apology. Not silence. Not evasion. He deserved more than the way she’d left things.

She shoved the door open—

And stopped cold.

The office was empty.

Papers sat stacked in perfect order on the desk. The air smelled faintly of ink and parchment. But the chair was pushed in, and the space behind it was still.

No Tobirama.

Her heart sank, sudden and sickening. The weight of everything she’d come to say pressed against her chest with nowhere to go.

She stood there in the doorway, the silence loud around her, swallowing her whole.

A voice broke through her daze. “Sakura-san?”

She turned slowly.

Kagami stood a few paces away, brow furrowed. “Are you looking for sensei?”

Her lips trembled. She tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat.

“Sakura-san…?” he stepped closer, now visibly concerned. “What happened—?”

She broke.

The tears came hard and fast, blistering behind her eyes before she could even breathe. Her knees buckled beneath the weight of everything—guilt, fear, the jagged edges of his voice still ringing in her ears—and she collapsed to the floor.

Her hands flew to her face, trying to hold it all in, but the sobs tore out anyway—raw, ragged, and uncontrollable.

“I didn’t mean to—” she choked, but the words dissolved into another helpless sob. She couldn’t form the right explanation, couldn’t reach through the wall that had slammed down between them.

Everything she’d tried to protect—him, her future, this fragile thing they’d built—was unraveling at once, slipping through her fingers like sand. And all she could do was weep into her palms, shattered.

Kagami froze for a second, stunned. Then, awkwardly, he bent down beside her and placed a hand on her back. “Hey… hey, it’s alright…”

Footsteps sounded from the corridor. “Kagami, what’s—”

Hiruzen stopped at the sight. His eyes widened slightly as he looked between them. Kagami glanced up at him and gave a small shake of his head, signaling he had no idea what was going on.

They waited, silent, as Sakura’s sobs gradually began to slow. Her shoulders still trembled, breath catching every few seconds in hiccupped gasps, but the worst of the storm had passed. The raw, wrenching sound of grief gave way to a hollow quiet.

Kagami glanced at Hiruzen, who gave a subtle nod. He leaned in, voice gentle. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you inside.”

Sakura didn’t speak—only let them help her up. Her legs wobbled beneath her as Kagami and Hiruzen steadied her by the elbows.

The moment they stepped inside, the silence swallowed them whole.

The office was tidy, immaculate as always, yet it felt stripped of warmth in his absence. The chair behind the desk sat empty, still and untouched, as if Tobirama had vanished into smoke. Scrolls were stacked in careful piles on the desk. A faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—clean, cold, and sharp. It was unmistakably his.

Sakura’s gaze swept the room, lingering on the wall scrolls, the half-burned candle by the window, the inkstone where she had once leaned over his shoulder. Everything in here was him— except the warmth. Except Tobirama.

It felt too big now. Too quiet. Like a shrine to a man she could no longer reach.

Her knees buckled again, and she sank into one of the chairs, curling her fingers tightly in her lap to keep them from shaking.

Kagami closed the door gently behind them, the soft click of the latch sounding louder than it should’ve. Hiruzen walked a few paces closer, his expression pensive but kind.

No one spoke for a moment.

Even the silence felt fragile.

Then, Hiruzen broke it gently. “Sakura-san… what happened?”

Her voice was low, raw. “I messed up. Badly. And now I don’t know if I can fix it. He hates me now.”

Kagami blinked. “You mean sensei? What are you talking about? He doesn’t… he wouldn’t hate you.”

Hiruzen nodded. “You should’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s not exactly subtle, even if he thinks he is.”

“You don’t get it,” Sakura said sharply, then paused, swallowing hard. Her voice dropped, quieter. “I broke his trust. I kept something from him… something important. And now…” She exhaled shakily. “He looked at me like he didn’t know who I was. Like I wasn’t someone he could believe in anymore.”

They both quieted at that, the weight of her words sinking in.

Kagami spoke softly. “Whatever it is you’re going through… you need to try. You need to explain yourself to him. Sensei… he’s many things, but he’s not cruel nor is he heartless. He listens. Even when he doesn’t want to.”

Sakura shook her head, tears in her eyes again. “What if it’s too late?” she whispered.

“It’s not,” Hiruzen said gently. “If he’s not here then he’s probably at the Senju compound.”

Kagami offered a small, steady smile. “Come on. We’ll help you find him.”

Sakura swallowed hard, wiping her cheeks. “Okay.”

Together, the three of them stepped out into the morning light—headed toward the Senju compound, and the man who held the pieces of her heart.

The walk to the Senju compound was a blur.

Sakura barely registered the chatter of the village or the sun filtering through the clouds above. Her feet carried her forward, but her thoughts remained behind—with Tobirama, with the look on his face, with the words she should have said. Kagami and Hiruzen flanked her like quiet sentinels, neither speaking much, just letting her breathe and exist as she was—heartbroken and terrified.

When they reached the compound’s outer gate, the silence grew heavier.

Sakura hesitated as they crossed through, the familiar stone path winding through the serene grounds. She had walked this way so many times before—strolling with Tobirama in the quiet of evening—but now it felt foreign. Tainted. Like she no longer belonged.

They were halfway up the main path when a figure emerged from one of the side walkways, her yukata fluttering in the breeze.

Mito.

She stopped at the sight of them, her gaze falling first on Hiruzen, then Kagami—and finally, on Sakura.

Her expression changed instantly.

The moment their eyes met, Sakura felt her throat close.

Mito’s face softened, a quiet concern blooming across her delicate features. Her brows drew together just slightly, and then she stepped forward without hesitation.

“Oh, Sakura…”

The gentleness in her voice nearly broke her all over again.

Sakura’s lips trembled. “Mito-sama, I need to see him. Please.”

Mito didn’t ask for details—not yet. She simply reached out, cupping Sakura’s cheek with one warm, graceful hand. Her thumb brushed lightly across the edge of a tear track Sakura hadn’t realized was still there.

“I don’t know exactly what happened,” Mito said softly, “but I can see that you’re hurting. And I know he is too.”

Sakura’s shoulders shook. “He looked at me like he didn’t know me. Like I was just… just another person who used him.” Her voice came out almost in a broken whisper.

“Oh, Sakura,” Mito whispered, drawing her into a light embrace. “Tobirama has spent most of his life expecting betrayal. But with you… he let himself hope. That kind of hurt runs deep but so does the feeling that caused it.”

Sakura clutched the fabric of Mito’s sleeve and looked down. “What if I’ve already ruined everything?”

Mito gently pulled back, her gaze steady. “Then you speak the truth. You let him hear your heart. If there’s even a sliver of the man I know still standing behind those walls he has built, he’ll listen.”

Behind her, Kagami and Hiruzen exchanged a quiet glance but said nothing.

Sakura nodded shakily. “Where is he?”

Mito glanced toward the inner gardens. “The engawa. That’s where he goes when he’s trying to remember how not to fall apart.”

Sakura’s breath hitched.

Mito squeezed her hand gently. “Go to him, Sakura. If anyone can reach him now it’s you.”

She gave her hand one last squeeze before stepping aside, letting her go. Sakura stood still for a moment, her heart hammering against her ribs as if trying to break free.

“I’ll wait here with Hiruzen,” Kagami said gently behind her. “You take your time.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Hiruzen added, voice calm but sure. “Just call if you need us.”

Sakura gave them a faint nod before turning toward the hallway that led deeper into the Senju compound. Her steps were slow, deliberate—each one weighed down with regret, with fear. The soles of her boots made almost no sound against the polished wooden floors, yet each step echoed loudly in her chest.

The hallway had never felt this cold before.

She remembered walking here with Tobirama once, his hand brushing hers as he led her to a quiet room to show her an old scroll containing some funny poetry he thought she might enjoy. They had spoken in hushed tones, laughed even, surrounded by the low golden light of dusk filtering through the paper screens.

But now…

The air was still and sterile, as though it held its breath against her presence. Shadows clung to the corners of the walls. The warmth that had once come from shared glances and stolen moments was gone—sucked out like the last flicker of a dying flame.

Her fingers trembled as she reached the end of the corridor.

She paused.

Then, slowly, she slid the shoji door open with a soft, wooden click.

There he was.

Tobirama stood at the engawa, back turned to her, facing the quiet koi pond below. The glassy surface reflected the gray sky overhead, rippling softly with every gentle flick of the fish beneath.

His shoulders were stiff, unmoving.

One of his hands clutched the opposite wrist—his right, she realized, was wrapped tightly in fresh white bandages. The faintest speck of red showed where the wound had soaked through. He hadn’t bothered to heal it, even though he was more than capable of doing so. Or maybe… he didn’t care to.

She took a tentative step forward.

“Tobirama…” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned.

And Sakura’s breath hitched.

His eyes met hers—icy, unreadable, wounded. They were clouded with something heavy, like smoke clinging to shattered glass. Pain lived there. Deep, tightly bound pain, cloaked beneath layers of cold control.

But it was the guardedness that cut her most. This was not the man who had held her last night. Not the one who had kissed her like she was something precious. 

This was the man Tobirama had learned to become after a lifetime of disappointment.

The silence between them stretched, thin and unbearable. But Sakura held her ground. She had to.

Sakura swallowed hard. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as she took another slow step forward.

“Tobirama,” she said again, voice shaking, “please… let me explain.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

His expression remained unreadable—carved from stone.

Sakura’s throat tightened. But she pushed through the panic, the ache behind her eyes.

“I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning,” she whispered. “About the research. About the formula. About me .”

His gaze sharpened at that—almost imperceptibly. But she saw it.

Sakura inhaled shakily, grounding herself before the words could flee. “I’m not from this timeline,” she said softly. “I’m from decades into the future.”

The silence thickened, oppressive and heavy.

Tobirama didn’t speak—but something in his eyes changed. Just slightly. The barest flicker of shock. Not widened or wild—but a subtle tightening, a narrowing of focus, like a shinobi recalibrating the battlefield in an instant.

She continued before she lost the nerve. “I didn’t end up here on purpose. It was a mistake—a seal gone wrong. I landed in the past, confused, desperate, and I thought… I thought coming here… I would be able to find a way back.”

His jaw clenched. He still didn’t look away.

“At first, that was all it was. Get back to my time. To my team. But then—” Her breath hitched. “Then I got to know you. And everything changed.”

Sakura stepped closer. The winter light painted shadows beneath her eyes, and she no longer tried to hide the tears. “You let me in. You saw me for who I am. And I saw you —all your sharpness and silence, your loyalty, your kindness. You made me want to stay.”

Tobirama’s fingers tensed visibly against the bandages at his wrist, but he remained silent. Watching. Listening.

“I kept working on the formula whilst not knowing how to tell you the truth,” she admitted. “I was terrified that if I told you who I really was, you’d think that none of this… that what we had between us was real. That I only cared about going back. But it’s not like that.”

Her voice broke, trembling through the chill air. “I chose to stay. I chose you . And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. So sorry I made you feel like I was someone you couldn’t trust.”

Still, he said nothing.

But the way his gaze rested on her—deep, steady, unreadable—was enough to make her knees threaten to buckle. Still, Sakura stood her ground.

“I love you,” she said softly, steadily, searching his eyes for any sign of understanding. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me. Not yet. Maybe not at all. But you deserve the truth. All of it.” She took a shaky breath, the weight of her confession heavy in the air between them. “I was afraid. Afraid that if I told you… if I revealed everything about the research, about why I was doing it… it would change how you saw me. I didn’t want to lose what we have. The tenderness between us. The trust… I thought if you knew, you might start to doubt me, or see me as someone I’m not.”

Her fingers clenched at her sides, voice trembling but steadying with each word.

“I considered burning it all—destroying the research—just to keep that from happening. To keep us safe from the cracks I thought my secrets would cause.”

She looked down for a moment, then met his gaze again.

Her eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall. The room felt unbearably cold, and in that silence, she felt utterly exposed—like she’d given away the last piece of herself, only to be left empty and alone.

She swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll go,” she said, trembling. “If that’s what you want… I have nothing left to say… but at least now you know.”

Still, Tobirama did not respond.

She lingered for one breath longer, standing still in the quiet ache between them. Then, with a trembling exhale, she turned.

Her footsteps echoed faintly against the wooden floor, soft but hollow—like distant drums in an empty battlefield. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though her heart was being dragged behind her, raw and leaden in her chest.

But she could still feel his gaze.

Crimson eyes burning into her back—not harsh, not unforgiving, but unreadable. Watching. Weighing.

She didn’t dare look over her shoulder.

Because if she did, she wasn’t sure if she’d stop—or fall apart all over again.

So she kept walking.

One step. Then another.

And the silence followed her out of the room like a shadow.

He didn’t need to turn to know it was her.

The moment her footsteps reached the edge of the room—quiet, uncertain, but unmistakably hers—he felt it. Like the shift in air pressure before a storm. The disruption of stillness that had taken him hours to rebuild.

“Tobirama…”

Her voice was soft. Too soft. And threaded with something that scraped against his already frayed nerves.

He turned.

And when his eyes met hers, he saw it—the devastation in her gaze.

Red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears, her eyes trembled just as much as her breath. Her whole posture, once so composed, so confidently rooted in the world, looked like it was barely holding itself upright. As if she had crawled through a battlefield of her own making, bloodied by choices and silence, and emerged only to find that the thing she fought for was already slipping away.

And he—he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Because the weight of seeing her like this twisted something deep and old in his chest, something scarred and tender and carefully buried beneath years of control.

His throat felt tight. His lungs refused to fill properly.

He clenched his bandaged hand tighter, feeling the sting of raw knuckles beneath the cloth.

Because part of him—damn him—wanted to reach for her. To close the space, to shelter her from the storm had left her so undone.

But the other part—the part still bleeding from the blow of betrayal—remained rooted in place, stiff with restraint. That part screamed at him to remember. That she had lied. That she had kept something from him so deeply fundamental, so entwined with the very bond they had formed, that he didn’t even know what was real anymore.

He had bared himself to her. Let her see the shadows of his childhood, his grief, his pain. Things he had never spoken aloud to another soul.

And in return, she had stood at the door of his heart… while holding a secret behind hers.

The conflict twisted like a vice inside him. Fury and heartbreak warring in his chest, snapping at the edges of restraint. His fingers twitched. His jaw locked.

Still, he said nothing.

Because he couldn’t bear to trust his voice—and find it laced with something he might not be able to take back.

So he stared.

And let the silence say everything his heart could not.

“I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning,” she whispered. “About the research. About the formula. About me .”

His jaw tightened. Just slightly. His eyes narrowed, tracking every syllable.

“I’m not from this timeline,” she said, and the words struck like a kunai thrown straight at the heart. “I’m from decades into the future.”

Tobirama didn’t flinch.

But it felt like the air had been knocked clean from his lungs.

The words echoed—too vast, too impossible—and yet, coming from her lips, they rang with a terrible clarity that rooted themselves in the hollow of his chest. His mind, sharp and trained, immediately began to parse the implications. Time displacement. Advanced space-time theory. Theoretical constructs he'd only begun to sketch out in his mind.

But none of that mattered in that moment.

Because the weight of her words crushed through logic, through reason, through every carefully constructed barrier in his mind. It didn’t feel like a scientific revelation—it felt like betrayal with new teeth.

She was from the future.

Not a traveler, not a foreign kunoichi from another land.

A ghost of years yet to come.

And she had never told him. Not once. Not when they had sat side by side in the hush of the engawa. Not when she had touched him like he meant something. Not even when he had offered her the most vulnerable pieces of himself—his scars, his doubts, his heart.

His heart clenched, breath shallow. He could feel his pulse in his throat, too loud, too fast.

And yet, he remained still.

Silent.

Because if he opened his mouth, he didn’t trust what might escape.

It was too much.

Too much.

And all he could do was look at her—this woman from a time that had not yet come—and feel the ground shift under his feet.

She kept speaking, voice faltering in places, cracking in others. She told him everything. How she’d landed here by mistake. How at first, she only wanted to get back. How everything changed when she met him.

He watched her, silent and still.

But inside, his thoughts churned.

Time displacement... future…

It all made sense now. The unusual chakra signature. The gaps in her knowledge and the places where she was too advanced. Her interest and perhaps how she had access to his Hiraishin. Why she always looked at him like she was afraid of something more than what was in front of her.

And yet, it felt like his blood had gone cold again.

She had walked through years where his name was only history—if it was remembered at all. A lifetime without him, shaped by battles he would never fight, losses he would never see, and a world he would never touch.

And despite everything—despite the closeness they had built, the days and nights spent side by side on the engawa, the warmth of her hand curled in his, the quiet solace of her breath against his chest—she had carried that truth like a hidden blade. That future. That past. That lie.

He thought he had known her.

Trusted in the silences they shared, in the soft way her eyes lingered on him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He thought what they had built—slow, careful, wordless at times—was something real.

But now, the intimacy they had shared—the look in her eyes as she pulled him close, the whispered exchange of his name against her lips—felt like porcelain with a fracture running through the center. Beautiful, but compromised. Fragile.

And suddenly, he didn’t know if what he had held in his arms yesterday night had been love—or just the ache of someone trying to hold onto something she could never keep.

But as she kept talking, as her voice thickened with grief and regret, something in him hesitated.

She wasn’t calculating. She wasn’t cold. Her pain was real, her remorse sincere.

“I love you,” she said, and it landed with a strange, aching weight in his chest.

The words caught him off guard—not because he hadn’t hoped for them, but because now they felt like they came too late.

Part of him wanted to believe her. Wanted to reach for that truth, to let it settle into the cracks she'd left behind.

But another part recoiled. How could love live in the same breath as secrets?

He said nothing. He couldn’t. The ache in his chest was too deep, and the silence between them felt safer than breaking all over again.

She finished her confession. Told him he didn’t have to forgive her. Said she’d leave, if that’s what he wanted.

He still couldn’t speak. Not because he had nothing to say. But because the words wouldn’t come. His mind was too full—of questions, of grief, of the dawning knowledge that the woman he’d let into the deepest recesses of his soul wasn’t who he thought she was… and yet, somehow, still was.

He didn’t stop her as she turned.

Didn’t move as she walked away.

But his eyes never left her.

And in the silence that remained, he stood among the splinters of his trust—uncertain whether he wanted to rebuild… or let it all collapse around him.

The heavy doors of the Senju compound slid shut behind her with a quiet finality. Sakura stood there for a breath, the chill of the air biting through her sleeves. Just beyond the gates, Mito, Kagami, and Hiruzen stood waiting—hopeful, anxious expressions rising the moment they saw her.

“Sakura,” Mito said gently, stepping forward. “Is everything… alright?”

Sakura forced a smile. It felt brittle on her lips. “Yeah,” she replied, voice soft but strained. “I’m sorry for worrying you all.”

The three exchanged uncertain glances, but none pressed further.

“I didn’t mean to keep you,” she said, bowing low. “Please, go on with your day. I just… I need some time to think.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Her steps were slow as she turned and began walking away, the weight of their eyes lingering on her back. None of them called out to stop her. They didn’t need to. The truth was written in the slump of her shoulders and the ghost of that shattered smile.

By the time she reached her apartment, the sun was well above the horizon, casting sharp light across the buildings and illuminating every crack in the pavement. The streets had begun to stir—shopkeepers opening shutters, voices drifting through open windows—but it all felt distant, muffled, like she was watching the world from behind glass.

She slipped inside and closed the door behind her with a dull click. The sudden quiet pressed in, heavy and absolute.

She stood there, motionless, the warmth of the sun still clinging faintly to her skin.

Then her legs gave out.

She collapsed against the doorframe, her back sliding down the wood until she sat on the floor, arms locked tightly around her knees.

It was so quiet.

Sakura stared at the empty room around her, and it felt like a shell of the life she had tried to build. Her chest ached, but there were no more tears. She had shed them all.

Five months. Five months in the past. Five months of pretending, surviving, adjusting—hoping.

She had grown to love Konoha in this time.

Not just the village—the red-roofed buildings nestled between the forests, the way the wind whispered through the trees, the scent of smoke and earth in the morning—but the people. The lives she’d touched and those who had touched hers in return.

She thought of Hiruzen’s easy smile and the way he never failed to crack a joke at the worst possible moment just to make her laugh. 

Of Kagami’s thoughtful eyes, already too wise for someone so young, and how he sometimes asked questions that made her pause and think.

She thought of Saya and Yanagi—her students—who looked up to her, leaned on her. They had given her a sense of purpose. A reason to teach.

She thought of Inori’s constant chatter, of Biwako’s kind encouragement, and of Koharu—blunt, bold, always speaking her mind. She pretended not to care, but Sakura had long since learned to read between the lines. Koharu did care. 

Sakura hadn’t just found friends here. She had found a family.

And then there was him.

Tobirama.

She had loved before, but never like this. Never someone who challenged her, who saw through her walls, who stood so tall in the storm of the world and yet found room to hold her with such quiet tenderness.

And she had broken that.

Sakura’s arms curled tighter around her knees, her nails biting into her arms. She could still see his eyes—crimson, unreadable—fixed on her with such silence that it had felt louder than any shout. He hadn’t even yelled. That somehow made it worse. She would have taken his anger. She would have welcomed the fire, the fury, if only it meant he still cared.

But the look he gave her was hollow. Detached. As though the very last thread between them had finally frayed apart.

And it was her fault.

Something inside her recoiled at the memory, curling inward like a wound too deep to name. She had never felt so small. So foolish. So unwanted.

Tobirama’s face rose in her mind, sharp and vivid. The way his expression shifted when discovered the evidence of her research. He hadn’t looked angry. He had looked betrayed. As if something precious had been taken from him without warning.

He had trusted her. Let her in despite every instinct that told him not to. And when she told him she had chosen to stay because of him, she meant it with every fiber of her being.

But maybe, to him, the truth about how she came here had turned everything into a lie. Maybe the accident, the unanswered questions, the impossibility of it all… made her choice look like something less.

It wasn’t. He wasn’t.

But maybe that didn’t matter anymore.

Maybe it was time to stop clinging to something that had already shattered.

Maybe she had no more place here.

Maybe… it was time to go home.

She inhaled sharply and forced herself to stand. Every step toward her bedroom felt heavier than the last, her limbs dulled with exhaustion.

Her gaze landed on the corner of the desk, where a set of neatly arranged scrolls and inked formulations awaited. They hadn’t moved since she last touched them, except the one Tobirama discovered that laid open across the desk. Silent. Unassuming. Mocking.

Sakura sat heavily at the desk, the silence of her apartment pressing in around her like a second skin. Her fingers hovered above the scroll for a moment, trembling slightly, before her fingers traced around the brittle edge. The paper’s texture was rough beneath her fingers, edges slightly crumpled from Tobirama’s clenched fists. Her own ink smudges blurred over the meticulously copied script—each line echoing Tobirama’s precise original.

The final version of the Hiraishin reversal sequence stared back at her—an intricate array of seals and formulas that had taken months and months to develop. The theory was simple in principle, impossible in execution. And yet she had done it. Piece by piece, line by line, she had merged her future knowledge with Tobirama’s genius. His framework, her insight. Together, they had built something extraordinary.

Together. 

Yet, not together.

Her hand faltered.

His face kept flashing behind her eyes. She remembered how he used to look at her, just before a kiss, when his guard would slip and something softer bloomed in his expression. She remembered the warmth of his fingers brushing against hers. The quiet hum of his voice when he said her name like it meant something.

Then the way he looked at her last—cold, unreadable, but undeniably betrayed.

Her chest squeezed. But she pressed on.

Dipping her brush in ink, she corrected a single glyph—one she’d been avoiding, subconsciously, until now. 

The seal for departure.

She set the brush down, hands shaking slightly, and placed both palms over the scroll. The chakra array began to stir, responding to her touch like a sleeping dragon roused.

Focus, Sakura. 

She drew her energy inward, aligning her chakra threads with the carefully carved pathways in the seal. It wasn’t just about power—it was about precision. The anchor had to be perfect. She visualized the moment she had left her own time—the instant everything changed, the tug in her stomach, the warping of space around her.

But as she channeled chakra into the scroll, her concentration splintered.

Tobirama’s face surged forward in her mind—unbidden, unrelenting. The way he looked, standing on the engawa, the snow falling quietly around him. The way he held her that night—his voice low, reverent. The way he whispered her name when he thought she wasn’t listening.

Her breath hitched, eyes burning.

I’m sorry.

She could barely think through the whirlwind in her chest.

I loved you. I still do.

The scroll flared.

Symbols glowed with an otherworldly light, flickering and pulsing like a heartbeat. Her chakra tangled with the array, synchronizing, twisting, anchoring. The hum in the air grew louder—soundless yet deafening.

His smile. His scowl. His hands on her skin. The way he pulled her closer in the dark.

She gritted her teeth.

This is for the best. 

And then—

A soundless snap cracked through her.

The light erupted from the scroll, blinding and hot like a sun exploding in her chest. She tried to scream, but her voice vanished. Her body twisted unnaturally—pulled, stretched, unraveled like thread yanked from the fabric of the world.

Tobirama’s face was the last thing she saw—etched in her mind, his eyes filled with that haunted, unreadable silence—as the light consumed her.

And then she was gone.

It hit him all at once.

Not sound, not light—but a shift. Subtle, almost imperceptible, like the air itself caught its breath. A tremor in the chakra field rippled across his senses, warping the world for the briefest instant. Most wouldn’t have noticed it—would’ve mistaken it for nothing at all.

But Tobirama felt it like a blade sliding along the edge of his spine.

His body locked in place. A breath caught sharp in his throat.

The chakra had twisted—compressed and released in a pattern so precise, so familiar, it was as if the air itself spoke in his dialect. A perfect displacement. The unmistakable resonance of the Hiraishin.

But it wasn’t him.

His mind sharpened like a drawn kunai. He reached out instinctively with his senses, tracing the residual signature.

And then—he recognized it. Not just the jutsu. The chakra that had summoned it.

Hers.

The realization punched through him, swift and cold.

There was no hesitation. No pause for doubt. In a breath, he vanished—teleporting after her, into the heart of what should’ve been impossible.

The seal at the inside of her apartment door was still intact—a faint Hiraishin mark he had etched weeks ago under the wooden beam when checking on her after a long shift. She hadn’t noticed. Or maybe she had, and never said a word.

The world snapped around him and he reappeared inside her apartment, the scent of her skin and herbs still lingering faintly in the air.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Tobirama stood still for a moment, senses flaring, eyes sharp. The air felt… hollow . Like something had been peeled away. The weight of a presence he’d grown used to—hers—was gone. Not fading, not asleep. Gone.

He moved forward slowly, each step soft but precise. The apartment looked the same—blankets folded over the couch, an open book left spine-up on the table. Nothing out of place, but wrong all the same.

He reached the bedroom door.

It was cracked open. Inside, the faint smell of ink and scorched chakra hung in the air.

And then he saw it.

The scroll.

Lying open on the desk. The seals hand-painted with meticulous care, her handwriting curling around the intricate symbols of his own original formulation. The Hiraishin reversal matrix. Chakra residue still pulsed faintly from the paper—hers—shimmering with a residual glow that was already beginning to fade.

He felt his blood chill.

The scroll was still warm.

But she was not there.

He took one step into the room, then another, eyes locked on the scroll. His hand hovered above it but didn’t touch. He didn’t need to.

She had used it.

She was gone.

A sick, hollow feeling twisted in his gut—something between dread and disbelief. He didn’t need anyone to explain it to him. He had theorized a reversal process like this once, in the earliest stages of his Hiraishin work. That space-time ninjutsu could possibly open the door to time travel. He had dismissed this potential as too dangerous, too unstable and ultimately too many consequences involved. So he never bothered to delve deeper. But Sakura… she had finished it.

And then she’d used it to leave.

His jaw clenched, breath slow and sharp through his nose. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Why hadn’t he stopped her?

Why hadn’t he asked her to stay?

He stared at the scroll for a long time, the last shimmer of her chakra flickering like an echo. Then nothing.

Just silence.

And the ache of absence settled deep into his bones as he closed his eyes, not from weariness, but from the quiet pull of regret.

For a long moment, he remained still, letting the silence press in around him like snowfall. Then, with a breath that barely stirred the air, Tobirama opened his eyes once more.

His gaze dropped to the scroll.

The seal was still warm. The chakra lingering too long. Her chakra, faint but present—like smoke after fire. It should’ve been gone by now. If she had returned to her original time, every trace of her energy would have been severed from this plane.

But it wasn’t.

It was still here.

Still tethered.

His eyes narrowed.

Something was wrong.

He crouched beside the desk and ran his fingertips over the edge of the sealing array. The glyphs were exact—perfect, even. Too perfect. Her modifications were precise, layered with an understanding of both his theory and something more advanced. She had built on his work, reverse-engineered it with a kind of quiet brilliance that would’ve made him proud under different circumstances.

But now all he felt was dread.

Because the formulation didn’t end.

There, just at the outer rim of the array, something pulsed—barely. A residual spiral in the anchor glyph. It was faint… and unstable. As if the chakra thread had snagged mid-transport. As if something had gone wrong mid-displacement.

The sensation in his chest deepened into something cold.

“She didn’t make it back,” he murmured, breath tight.

The words tasted like ash.

If the technique had functioned properly—if it had taken her to her original timeline—then her chakra signature would have vanished entirely. A clean severance. But this…

This was like a ghost of a signal. A frayed thread still dangling in the space between.

His stomach twisted.

Had she miscalculated?

No… she wouldn’t.

But even the smallest variable in a space-time jump could have catastrophic consequences. If her chakra had destabilized during the final phase of transport… If the anchor had failed mid-split…

She could be lost.

Not just across space. Not even just across time.

But somewhere in between.

Tobirama’s eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind crimson irises. His fingers gripped the edge of the scroll until the paper crinkled beneath his touch.

Damn it, Sakura…

A knot formed in his throat—rage, fear, regret. It didn’t matter what had passed between them. Not now. Not when she might be adrift in a tear between dimensions, alone.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

If there was even the faintest chance of tracing her chakra signature through the dimensional rift… if he could recalibrate her seal and reconstruct the transport formula… he could find her.

He would find her.

Because despite the ache she had left behind, despite the betrayal, the silence, and the fractured truths, Tobirama could no longer imagine a world without her in it.

Chapter Text

The world was dark.

Not the soft dark of sleep, nor the suffocating haze of unconsciousness—this was something deeper. A vast, terrible emptiness that stretched in every direction, endless and absolute. It was the absence of everything… light, sound, time. And yet, the silence pulsed in her ears like a scream trapped beneath her skin, aching to be released.

Sakura drifted, suspended in the void like a forgotten thought. The air—if it was even air—was thick with stillness, pressing in on her from all sides. It wasn’t wet, yet it carried the weight of deep water. It wasn’t cold, but a chill settled into her bones like frost without temperature.

Her limbs floated uselessly, unanchored. She could feel her body, but only distantly—like it belonged to someone else, as if her nerve endings had been muffled under layers of cotton. Her mouth moved when she tried to speak, but no sound followed. Not even a breath.

She tried to swim upward, to move in any direction, but the void resisted her like a slow and thick syrup. Each effort was swallowed before it could begin, as if she were caught in a dream where motion was a memory and gravity no longer obeyed the rules.

It was terrifying, not because of what was there, but because of what wasn’t. No walls. No floor. No sky. Just Sakura, alone with herself, adrift in nothing.

And then she saw it.

Far below her—or was it above?—a flicker of light pierced the darkness. A vision bloomed out of the void like fire through mist, sharp and blinding.

It was her.

Kneeling in a wasteland twisted beyond recognition—ash falling like snow, the sky a dome of cracked obsidian. The ground beneath her was scorched and slick with blood, fractured like glass underfoot. Shadows moved where nothing should, long and reaching, cast by no sun.

Tobirama lay still beneath her hands.

Sakura’s heart stuttered, a spike of dread sharp enough to tear her in two. She tried to move, tried to scream, but the void around her stole her breath, pressing in like deep water. Her limbs were weightless, useless. Her chakra sparked and fizzled like a dying wire.

Her other self trembled, eyes wide and wild, lips mouthing something she couldn’t hear. Green chakra flared from her palms—too bright, too violent. It surged across Tobirama’s chest, painting grotesque patterns over the ruin of him. His skin was pale, his hair matted with blood, eyes dull and barely open, his lips parted in stillness that no sleep could explain.

The world around them pulsed like a wound. Wind screamed through hollow space.

Sakura watched in helpless horror as her hands moved—pressing harder, shaking more violently, desperate for a response that never came. Her own voice echoed in her mind. He can’t die. Not him. Not now. Please—

She saw herself break, her face crumpling, her scream torn from her throat in soundless agony. The battlefield bled into darkness again, the vision twisting like torn cloth, and still she floated—adrift, untouched, watching herself fail.

Watching him fade.

“No,” she mouthed silently, her fists clenched, tears burning in her eyes. “No, please no—”

But the vision played on. Her other self sobbed and cursed, forcing everything she had into him, even as her own body broke under the strain. Blood dripped from her fingers. Her chakra sputtered like a dying flame. Tobirama’s hand twitched once—and then fell still again.

She was screaming now—Sakura was screaming, even if no sound came out. Her entire being buckled under the helplessness. She didn’t know this moment. Not exactly. And yet it carved itself into her with cruel, impossible clarity.

It was like a nightmare stitched from her deepest fears. It felt real—too real. Every heartbeat, every scream, every drop of blood was sharp and vivid, as though it had already happened. No… As though it would happen.

Please, she thought desperately. Please don’t let it end this way.

But the world was already shifting again. The ground in the vision cracked. Time itself splintered like glass beneath his body. Chakra surged, blinding and searing. The fabric of everything twisted.

And as the vision shattered into a thousand fragments, Sakura reached for him—one more time, one last time—

—but her hands passed through nothing.

Only darkness answered. And the void swallowed her again. Her scream fractured the space around her. Water roared through her like a wave. Her heart clenched so tightly it felt like it might tear in half.

She sank—deeper into that cold, suffocating void.

And then, another image.

Fireworks.

Exploding across the night sky. Gold, red, silver.

Tobirama beside her, eyes lit faintly with the reflection of light, face soft in a way she had never seen on anyone else. That moment—the warmth of his hand brushing hers, the subtle smile, the silence they shared. It was so perfect that it hurt.

Another image.

The engawa. Snow on the pond. His voice low as he asked her about her life, his fingers lacing loosely with hers.

Then—

Their bodies twined in tangled sheets. His touch, reverent. His breath against her ear. The way he had said her name.

Then—

The cold line of his shoulders. That distance in his eyes. The hurt on his face.

And finally—

“I trusted you.”

The words rang in the dark like a bell tolling.

The water rippled. Cracked like glass beneath pressure it could no longer bear. Then it shook—a low, bone-deep vibration that echoed through the vast emptiness like the rumble of a coming storm.

Sakura curled inward, as if she could protect herself from the collapse. Her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, her fingers digging into her skin. She shivered uncontrollably, as though the cold had soaked into her bones and hollowed her out from the inside. Her lungs burned with every phantom breath, her pulse fluttering like the wings of a dying bird.

Memories surged—blistering flashes of faces and voices and moments now lost. Tobirama’s hand in hers. The warmth of firelight on her skin. The ache of guilt. The weight of everything she hadn’t said.

One by one, they flared behind her eyes like dying stars—seared into existence and then snuffed out in an instant.

And then—

Nothing.

No sound. No movement. Just silence so dense it pressed against her eardrums, swallowing even the beat of her own heart.

Only cold remained—merciless and absolute. It clung to her skin like a shroud, crept into the spaces between her ribs, iced through the raw ache in her chest.

And darkness.

Not the kind that came with night, but something deeper. Ancient. Smothering. A black so complete it felt alive, watching her. Waiting.

She floated in it—small, broken, and utterly alone.

The scroll still pulsed faintly in Tobirama’s hand, its surface warm with residual chakra. Fine tendrils of energy curled from the sealwork like smoke, delicate and restless, dancing against the still air. The ink was dry but the edges of the parchment curled in irregular waves, scorched faintly at the corners. The space around it hummed, charged with the raw echo of a jutsu forcibly torn apart mid-weave. It was the kind of disruption that left splinters in the fabric of reality—shallow but jarring, like a blade dragged against bone.

And beneath it all, he could still feel her.

Not clearly. Not directly.

But there, elusive and flickering like a candle struggling in the wind, was the signature of Sakura’s chakra.

His breath stilled. His hand clenched tighter around the scroll, jaw tense.

This wasn’t right.

If she had succeeded—if she had truly returned to her time—there would be nothing left of her here. No echo, no residue. Her chakra would have been completely severed from this plane, erased like a footprint in sand beneath a crashing wave.

But this—this was no clean departure.

What he felt was a snag—a pull against the natural flow of spacetime, like a loose thread caught on the teeth of a jagged edge.

A wrongness. It was subtle, but undeniable.

Crimson eyes narrowed at the scroll, fingertips brushing the sealing formula with practiced care. His eyes swept over the glyphs. The sequence was meticulous, layered—impressive in a way only Sakura could have pulled off. Her theory had been sound. Brilliant, even. A reversal of his Hiraishin method, turning space into anchor and time into motion.

And yet…

His gut twisted.

Something had disrupted the release. Interrupted the path mid-fold. He could see it in the subtle warping of the ink lines, in the imperfect chakra residue that hummed low and uneasy beneath his skin.

She had tried to go home… but had gone somewhere else instead.

A rift, maybe. A tear in the fold of the temporal corridor. A liminal void.

A place between.

His jaw clenched. Damn it.

She was trapped and she was alone.

Tobirama straightened up, scroll still in hand, and began to pace the length of her room. His movements were measured—on the surface. But beneath the controlled rhythm of his steps, a storm churned in his chest. Sharp and cold and full of fury.

Not at her but at himself.

He had let her leave. Let her walk away after she told him the truth, her voice shaking, her eyes full of everything she didn’t say. He had stood there, silent. Guarded. Cowardly.

And now she was gone.

His mind raced, sharp as ever, calculating steps, layering plans.

She had used his formula—his sealwork, his chakra theory, his signature techniques—twisted and reworked into something new. But that gave him a tether. A thread to follow. However faint, however frayed, it was still his jutsu at its core, and that meant he could reverse-engineer it. Retrace the current. Follow the fading echo of her imprint through the veins of space and time—if he could stabilize what was left of the distortion.

Tobirama laid the scroll back down on her desk, eyes scanning the erratic scarring across the desk where her jutsu had discharged. His fingers hovered just above it, feeling the lingering reverberations in the air. The disruption hadn’t collapsed cleanly. It pulsed at irregular intervals, like a wound that hadn’t finished bleeding.

With a sharp breath, Tobirama reached for the untouched scrolls on her desk—her notes, her theories. He unrolled them one by one with increasing urgency, searching for any trace of the alterations she’d made to the Hiraishin. Somewhere in the ink-stained parchment, there had to be a clue. A method. A path. Something—anything—that he could use to bring her back.

His gaze narrowed as he skimmed through the dense lines of her calligraphy—precise, meticulous, and maddeningly complex. Most of it built off his original Hiraishin framework, but her annotations branched into uncharted territory: time displacement, chakra resonance, dimensional layering. She had dared to weave temporal theory into a technique rooted in space.

One margin note stopped him.

“Temporal jump requires more than spatial marking—anchor must be tied to personal chakra imprint to ensure target’s return to origin point. Without anchor, drift becomes exponential. Return becomes improbable.”

Of course. That was the entire principle of the Hiraishin. Without a designated mark—without a fixed point imbued with his chakra—he couldn’t travel from one location to another. The markings were more than just a destination; they were anchors in space, resonant frequencies he could lock onto and re-materialize through. Without them, the technique failed. You could not arrive at nowhere. You needed a destination. 

Time, it seemed, demanded the same law. If she hadn’t secured an anchor on this side—hadn’t left behind a fixed temporal point connected to her chakra—then there was nothing to pull her back to. She was adrift. Unmoored.

Tobirama’s blood ran cold.

The pieces began to align in his mind, too fast and too sharp. If she hadn’t marked her return point… if she’d launched forward into time without a chakra imprint waiting for her there… the seal would have nothing to grasp. No direction. No pull. The jutsu wouldn't fail entirely—but it would drift, casting her forward like a kunai thrown into fog, no mark, no mark—no way home.

His breath caught as another detail from her notes surfaced. 

“Strong visualization required for forward displacement.”  

But how could anyone truly visualize a future that hadn’t happened yet? Even with her brilliance, even with all her calculations, the future was fluid, unstable and untethered.

Which meant… She could still be somewhere. Caught in the space between time, held in the momentum of the technique with nothing to anchor her chakra back to the present or the future.

Unless…

His pulse hammered.

Unless he anchored her. 

He could build it. Construct the tether she had never managed to leave behind. Bind her chakra imprint to this moment—this very room, with his chakra—a lifeline strong enough for the jutsu to grasp and pull her back from the endless drift.

His mind spun through the principles, but beneath the calculation a storm raged. Time, like space, was a current, but uneven, unpredictable. It demanded something more—stabilization, a fixed point. Something recent, steeped in her chakra, could also serve as a resonant anchor. Especially if her imprint still lingered, fragile but present.

The world around him seemed impossibly silent. Yet he could almost hear it—the faint echo of her presence in the worn wood of the desk, in the scattered scrolls, the faint scent of her lingering sweat and focus. The air itself seemed to hold onto her, like ink soaked deep into parchment.

He remembered her confession—the weight in her eyes, the trembling truth she laid bare. How he had turned away, his heart clenched tight with anger and betrayal, and let her walk away into the cold silence between them. That moment haunted him. The regret was a bitter ache gnawing at his chest.

Tobirama straightened, his eyes igniting with fierce determination, the fire of remorse fueling his resolve. His heartbeat thundered in his ears—loud and relentless. He could no longer afford to wait. Not when there was still a chance. Not when she might still be out there, lost but alive. No room for hesitation. No shelter for doubt.

But as he stood alone in her apartment, the silence pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. It was a silence heavy with absence—her absence. She was gone, but the residue of her remained—in the faint scent that lingered like a ghost, in the stillness of the air, in the soft shadows cast by the dying light.

Beneath the cold veneer of control, something deep inside him snapped into place—grief, guilt, and an unyielding will fused into a single purpose.

His hand curled slowly into a fist.

He would be the anchor. Rebuild the tether. Reverse the current.

Whatever it took—he would bring her back.

And this time, he would never let her go.

There was no time here. No beginning. No end. 

Only the quiet.

A heavy, suffocating quiet that pressed in from every direction—dense as deep water, but without the wet. It swallowed thought and breath and memory alike, a silence so complete it rang in her ears like a held scream.

And in that silence, Sakura floated.

Her body hung weightless in the void, limbs drifting as though she were caught beneath the surface of an unseen ocean. She could no longer tell if she was breathing. Could no longer tell if she needed to. The sensation of drowning had passed, leaving only the ghost of it behind—like a dream slipping through her fingers on waking.

But the ache remained. Not in her lungs. Not in her limbs. Deeper. Older. Rooted in the space behind her ribs.

It pulsed softly—slow, steady, painful. As though her heart were still beating just to remind her what she’d lost.

Was it still beating?

She couldn’t be sure.

Everything here was suspended. Even grief had dulled at the edges, worn thin by the vast, echoing nothing that stretched in every direction. But that ache in her chest—that quiet, hollow throb—refused to fade.

It was the only thing she had left.

Her mind wandered without permission, pulling threads of memory like loose silk unraveling from a worn kimono.

A child’s laughter—Tsunade’s. Bright, shrill and full of mischief.

Mito’s steady gaze, warm and knowing, as she reminded Sakura that strength meant knowing when to hold on and when to let go.

Yanagi and Saya’s quiet concentration as they tried to master the chakra scalpel technique, brows furrowed.

Inori’s arm in hers as she dragged Sakura happily to the onsen.

Biwako’s gentle voice warning her not to overwork herself.

Koharu, blunt and dry, berating her for her recklessness but her eyes undeniably kind.

Hiruzen and Kagami laughing as they bickered over whose shuriken jutsu was more impressive.

Family.

She hadn’t meant for it to become that. Hadn’t planned it. But it had.

And then… Tobirama.

His image rose unbidden from the dark—sharp and vivid, like a blade catching the light. The way he’d once looked at her, not just with warmth, but something deeper. A recognition. As though seeing her had quieted some long-buried unrest in him—something old and tired and aching that had, for a time, found peace in her presence.

He had been all edges—precision and control, cool logic and sharper instincts. A man carved from discipline. Feared by many, respected by more.

But with her… he had been different. Gentler, if not always in word, then in touch. In the silences he filled with presence instead of distance. In the way his gaze lingered longer than it should have. In the rare, precious moments when his walls lowered, and she saw the man beneath the legend.

Until the end.

That final moment slammed through her like a wave. His eyes—once open to her, now shuttered. Empty. A void she couldn’t breach. His silence had been louder than a thousand accusations. It had cut like a blade, clean and deep, dividing what they were from what they could never be again.

“I’m not from this timeline,” she had whispered, her voice shaking, her heart already breaking.

And he had only stared.

As if the woman he’d held, kissed, trusted—was suddenly a stranger.

She had loved him. Still did. Fiercely. Quietly. Irrevocably. Even now, lost in this endless dark, her heart beat his name like a prayer no god would answer.

The thought of never seeing him again wrapped itself around her lungs. Not sharp like a knife, but deep like a bruise—buried and aching. It flared with every imagined breath, a silent grief beneath the surface.

She curled tighter into the dark, arms around herself, and for a long time, there was only that ache.

Had she made a mistake?

Was this her punishment for trying to fix what was never meant to be touched?

The void pulsed again.

Not with sound. Not with light. But with something deeper. A ripple in the silence like breath against the back of her neck. A thread of awareness tugged at her from far away, faint as a whisper caught in wind.

It was chakra.

Not just any chakra— his.

Her body remained suspended and still, but deep inside, something stirred. Her eyelids fluttered without opening. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly. Fingers twitched at her side like an echo of a movement she couldn’t complete.

It was there.

Him.

His chakra signature—clean, precise, and unmistakable.

It was faint… but real.

A warmth bloomed inside her chest, fragile as breath on glass. “Tobirama…” The name slipped past her lips in a broken exhale, unconscious and aching.

Her heart stuttered. Beat once with hope. Then again—harder.

The warmth called to her like a beacon, a flare in a storm. And her mind—what remained of it—reached for him with everything it had left. Scrabbling across the vast emptiness like hands scraping at stone. Desperate. Determined.

But then—

The warmth wavered. Flickered. And blinked out. Darkness surged in to replace it. It felt thicker and heavier than before. The air around her shifted, pressing in close like a second skin. The void didn’t ripple this time—it congealed. Slow and dense. 

The water returned, not in chaos, but stillness. It was smothering. It wasn’t liquid. It wasn’t air. It was weight—dense and suffocating, like the stillness at the bottom of an endless ocean or the heavy silence inside a sealed tomb. Cold and absolute, pressing in from all sides, unyielding and utterly wrong.

Sakura’s unconscious mind screamed, recoiling as instinct screamed a warning that every cell obeyed. A primal fear crawled across her skin, coiling in her spine like ice water. Her chakra sparked involuntarily, a shivering pulse of green that fizzled and vanished.

Tobirama’s warmth was gone.

And what replaced it was cold—vast and endless, stretching in every direction. Not the kind that made her shiver, but the kind that seeped inward, creeping past skin and sinew, threading through her bones like frostbite.

A chill that silenced even memory.

The warmth had vanished. And with it, hope.

She felt herself sinking again—slow and weightless—deeper into the stillness. The ache in her chest dulled into hollowness. Her heartbeat slowed. There was no pain anymore, only absence. A quiet unmaking.

Her limbs drifted without direction. Her thoughts scattered like dust. She didn’t know which way was up or down. Didn’t know how long she’d been here.

The dark wrapped around her like a second skin, soft and suffocating.

No voices. No light. No time.

Only the endless fall.

And Sakura let herself go.

Tobirama’s hand hovered over the final array—fingers steady, above the inked seal work still pulsing with residual chakra. The air was taut with pressure, the room silent save for the low crackle of the barrier stabilizing the scroll in midair.

Then—

A shift.

It was subtle, but unmistakable. Like the breath before a storm.

Tobirama’s spine straightened. Every hair along his arms lifted.

There!  

In the delicate web of chakra he’d threaded through the space-time matrix something stirred. Faint. Distant. But present.

He shut his eyes, reaching not with sight, but with sense.

At first, it was only static—distorted remnants drifting through an unstable current. Then, a fluctuation. A ripple in the distortion. And beneath it—like a single note barely audible in a windstorm—her chakra. It was weak and flickering. As though submerged in something dense and crushing.

His breath caught. And then he moved.

His fingers blurred over the array, altering seal work with instinctive precision and with every stroke of ink from his brush. He twisted the formula, fine-tuning it for resonance. Then he poured his chakra into the grid—anchoring it, reinforcing it, threading himself into the pattern like a lifeline cast into a storm.

Sweat beaded at his brow. This wasn’t what the jutsu had been built for—not a retrieval, not across a fracture this unstable. But none of that mattered now.

She was still out there, alive and fading.

But undeniably there.

The seal flared beneath his palm. And for a heartbeat—just one—he felt her again. A thread of warmth, fragile as breath, slipping through his grasp like water. But he held fast. Stabilized the anchor. Refused to let go.

“Sakura,” he breathed.

She was swallowed by darkness but he refused to let it end like this.

Jaw set, Tobirama continued to rebuild the array, stroke by stroke. But this time, he didn’t just recreate it—he fortified it. Fused his own chakra into every seal, every edge, every breath of space between lines. It became not just a structure, but a bridge. 

If she’d collapsed the stream of time inward—launched herself blindly into a slipstream—he would forge the opposite path. He would dig into that rift and pull her back.

This wasn’t a summoning. Not a Hiraishin jump. Not even a reverse summoning seal.

No—this was like catching a kunai mid-flight, hurtling through dimensions. Blind. Weighted with momentum and consequence.

And if he missed—

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t. 

He drew a new seal in the center of the array—a modified version of the Kuchiyose: Edo Tensei anchor glyph, cross-blended with Hiraishin’s lock sigil. Not to summon the dead. But to summon the lost.

With a quick series of hand signs, he then placed his hands in the center of the array.

His chakra poured outward, threading into each glyph like veins into a living system.

And he felt her. Buried and distant. But not gone.

His crimson eyes flashed with raw focus. The threads of his jutsu twisted outward, catching faint fragments of her chakra—the emotional residue of pain, fear, love—woven deep into the sealwork she had left behind.

She had wanted to go home. But something had pulled her off course.

Tobirama’s hand trembled slightly under the strain—not from weakness, but from fury held too long beneath the surface. The kind of fury born not from rage, but from regret. From the memory of her voice whispering "I love you"  when he had given her nothing in return.

He reinforced the chakra output, feeding more into the array until the ink shimmered with raw potential. The signal steadied—still fragile, but no longer slipping through his fingers.

He could feel the faint threads of her chakra beginning to connect with his—delicate, tenuous—but still too weak. Not enough to pull her back.

He needed a second anchor, Tobirama thought grimly. Something more than theory. More than chakra.

Something personal. A tangible fragment, alive with her chakra, something to bridge the fractured threads between her and this time. Her notes, the scrolls she’d poured over for hours, the very clothes she wore while weaving the formula—cloth was porous, a vessel that remembered. Chakra clung to them like perfume.

If he could gather enough of these fragments—if he could touch her essence again—maybe, just maybe, he could rebuild the unstable flux. Strengthen the connection between his chakra and hers before it dissolved completely. Before she was swallowed forever by the void.

He moved quickly, methodically. Gathered her notes. Her scrolls. Her weapons. Each item held a charge, a resonance—residual chakra clinging to the fibers of parchment, to ink still faintly warm. Her scent even lingered on the clothing tossed across the back of her desk chair—camellia and old paper, chakra and steel.

Still… it wasn’t enough. 

Tobirama hesitated before sliding his hand inside the folds of his yukata, fingers closing around the small object he’d kept there for weeks—silent, unspoken, but never forgotten.

A hairpin.

Simple. Unadorned. The metal had dulled slightly with time, worn smooth at the edges. The curve of it was still shaped to her—something delicate, practical, hers. He remembered the way she used it, quick and absent-minded, to pin her hair back during long hours in the hospital. It wasn’t decorative. Just familiar and intimate in its everyday use.

She’d dropped it at the Senju compound.

That night they had sat together on the engawa in quiet companionship, side by side beneath the stars. She had leaned into him, lulled to sleep by the stillness and the cold and his presence. Her head had rested briefly on his shoulder. And when she finally left, she hadn’t realized it was gone.

But he had.

He’d found it resting on the wooden slats beside him, barely catching the moonlight. He should have returned it. But he hadn’t.

He’d kept it.

Not because he needed it. But because it meant something. Because some quiet part of him couldn’t let it go. It had stayed with him all this time, tucked close—his fingers brushing it in quiet moments, when memory became too loud. And now, the chakra woven into the pin—soft, familiar, unmistakably hers—hummed faintly against his palm.

His fist clenched gently around the object and he closed his eyes. It would be enough.

He gathered her scattered belongings—the scrolls, her clothes and finally, her hairpin—into a careful pile. The weight of everything pressed together felt like the last traces of her heartbeat.

Tobirama placed one hand gently on top of the pile, grounding himself through the tangible pieces of her. With his other hand, he reached toward the intricate sealwork spread across the floor. Closing his eyes, he wove his chakra into the array, threading it through the seals like a solemn vow.

He was going to bring her back.

His fingers curled subconsciously around the hairpin firmly against the edge of the summoning circle, a flare of energy pulsed through the room—sharp and alive.

Tobirama’s chakra surged—not to teleport, not to leap through space—but to pierce the rift.

To find her and to pull her back.

A whisper escaped his lips, barely audible, not angry, not blaming—just raw and fragile.

“...Sakura.”

As if saying her name was the only thing keeping her from vanishing completely.

Then, with steady breath, he released the jutsu.

She was adrift.

Not floating—drifting. Unmoored. Dissolving into the void like ink in deep water.

Her body, if it still existed at all, was caught in a current without direction. Weightless, soundless and unfeeling. She couldn’t tell if she was dreaming, dying, or already gone—scattered like ash on the wind. There was no ground to anchor her, no sky to look toward. Only the sense of endless depth pressing in from all sides.

Water and memory. Cold and silence.

She had stopped fighting.

At first, she’d struggled—reached, clawed, screamed with chakra and will—but the void had swallowed every effort. Now her limbs hung limp, her chakra dimmed to an ember barely flickering in the black. Her heart no longer raced. It had grown quiet. Detached. Weary beyond grief.

Time didn’t pass here.

Seconds didn’t tick. Hours didn’t crawl. There was only this—this stillness so absolute it felt like suffocation, like being cradled in the palms of something ancient and indifferent.

And in that stillness, pain had softened into something worse. 

Acceptance.

She wasn’t sure when it happened—when the fear dulled, when her mind stopped screaming, when her hope shriveled at the edges and turned to ash. She only knew she didn’t want to reach anymore. Didn’t want to remember.

But the memories came anyway.

Drifting like ghosts through the cold. The scent of ink on parchment, the scrape of her handwriting in the quiet. The warmth of a shared gaze. The feel of his presence beside her—solid, grounding, steady.

Tobirama.

The name barely sparked against the dark, barely stirred anything in her. But it was there. Like everything else. Hovering just out of reach.

And still, the void held her.

Tight.

Endless.

And she let it.

But then—

A flicker. A shimmer in the darkness, faint as moonlight on still water.

Images bloomed in the black, slow and soundless, like memories drifting to the surface.

Tobirama, standing at her side beneath the snow-laced eaves of the Senju compound, a rare softness tugging at the corner of his mouth as he handed her a cup of tea.

Tobirama, his fingers brushing hers as they exchanged scrolls in the hospital archives—brief, electric contact that left her breathless.

Tobirama, beside her in the hospital, quietly organizing her notes without being asked.

Tobirama, his lips twitched faintly into a smile as she wove her fingers through his during their walks around the Senju compound.

Tobirama, watching her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, with something reverent in his eyes.

Each memory rose from the dark like a firefly, casting golden light across her chest, warming her for just a heartbeat.

And then it changed.

The battlefield surged up again like a wave, violent and merciless. The scent of blood. The scream of chakra tearing through the air. She saw his body again—torn, bloodied, broken.

He was dying. She was screaming.

Her hands were soaked in red. Her chakra was failing. His pulse slipped beneath her fingers. The green light flared—then guttered out. His hand twitched. Then stilled.

“No—” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat, but the images came faster now, snapping like lightning. “No, no, no, no…”

His smile.

His death.

His voice.

Her scream.

His warmth.

The cold.

Gone.

She curled in on herself, weightless in the dark, and the images circled like vultures—grief and memory, love and horror, locked in an endless loop.

And still she could do nothing.

Only drift. Only watch. Only ache.

MAKE IT STOP! 

But then—

A spark.

So faint at first she thought it was another memory. Another cruel echo meant to torment her. But it was warm. Different. Real. It brushed against her like a whisper against her skin.

She gasped—though no breath came—and the numbness began to crack.

That chakra. His chakra.

Her eyes fluttered open, or maybe they didn't—but somehow, she saw it.

A thread of pale blue light unspooled before her, slicing through the darkness like a line drawn in a dream. It pulsed once. Calling to her. Reaching through the noise and dissonance and grief.

Tobirama.

She could feel him—not the cold mask, not the distant eyes—but him. The quiet steadiness. The storm under the surface. The man who had let her into his silence and carved out a space there for her.

The thread quivered as if fading.

No!

She forced her hand to twitch. It was like trying to move underwater with iron weights chained to her wrists. Her fingers were slow, clumsy. But she pushed through it. Her entire body screamed in protest, like her soul had forgotten how to move.

But she remembered him.

His voice murmuring her name in the dark.

The warmth of his hand at the small of her back.

The look in his eyes when she kissed him the first time.

The pain in them when he discovered the truth.

The regret that never left hers.

I’m not done yet, Sakura thought desperately. Not with him. Not like this.

Her hand inched forward.

The thread pulsed again—brighter this time, stronger, like it had sensed her will to live.

She reached harder, pain blooming in her chest as if her lungs had torn open—but she didn’t care. Her fingers stretched toward the light, straining, trembling—

Touch it.

Reach him!

And just as her fingertips brushed that warmth, something snapped.

The space around her shuddered violently. Water screamed in her ears—then silence. And everything collapsed inward, pulling her toward that thread of chakra like a lifeline.

Sakura didn’t scream nor let go this time.

She held on.

The moment the jutsu detonated in the room, the world ruptured.

A soundless scream tore through space—not heard, but felt, like a vibration in the bones of the world. The array flared with blinding light, seals unraveling and reforming in real time as chakra surged in volatile waves. The floor shuddered beneath Tobirama’s feet, and the air turned sharp with static, charged enough to raise the hair on his arms.

Space folded like paper. Time twisted, groaned, and snapped. Reality convulsed around him, bending under the strain of what should never have been forced. The pull came then—violent and absolute. Like the whole of existence was trying to recoil from what he’d done.

Tobirama gritted his teeth but he held on.

His chakra locked around the flickering thread of hers, and he refused to let go. It burned through him, tore at his senses, threatened to shear the connection in a thousand places—but still, he held. Jaw clenched. Hands braced against the array. Eyes narrowed to slits against the blistering brilliance of collapsing light.

She was there. Just beyond the veil. Just beneath the surface of that storm.

And then—

With a sound like a heartbeat slamming shut, the light collapsed inward. The world contracted in a blinding instant.

And Sakura fell into him. Not gently. Not gracefully. She crashed through the fold, as though spat out from a storm-tossed sea, her body limp, chakra nearly extinguished. The moment their bodies collided, Tobirama staggered backward from the force of it, arms instinctively catching her. Her weight was real—solid—but terrifyingly light, like something barely tethered to life.

Her skin was ice cold. Her breath shallow. But she was there.

Alive.

He dropped to his knees, cradling her against his chest as the jutsu’s light died around them. All that remained was the quiet hum of chakra fading from the seals on the floor.

And the sound of her breath—shallow, faint, but real—against his throat.

“Sakura,” he breathed, voice barely audible.

No response.

He pulled back, hands trembling as he brushed aside strands of hair that clung to her face. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing shallow—too shallow. Her chakra was still there, faint, flickering like a dying flame.

His gut twisted. The relief of having her back cracked beneath the terror that he might have been too late.

“Wake up,” he said, low and firm. He pressed his hand against her cheek, anchoring himself in the contact, grounding the panic clawing its way up his throat.

Her eyelids didn’t move.

He laid her flat on the floor and placed both hands over her heart. Carefully, precisely, he infused her with his chakra—trying not to overwhelm hers, just enough to guide her back.

The silence stretched, oppressive and absolute.

Tobirama's hands remained steady against her chest, his chakra controlled and precise—just as expected from someone of his discipline. But his heart was anything but steady, pounding wildly in his ribcage with anxiety he couldn’t will away. 

She wasn’t moving. Her breath was shallow—so faint it could be missed if he wasn’t listening for it with everything he had. Her skin was cold, her chakra nearly extinguished, flickering at the edge of perception like the last ember of a dying flame.

The room was still, but his world was not.

For the first time in years—decades—Tobirama felt helpless.

He had crossed the laws of time and space. Had threaded chakra through the fractures of the universe and dragged her from the abyss by force of will alone. He had bent the rules of the world and she was here , in his arms, but too still and silent.

His jaw locked. His throat ached. Something raw and burning clawed at his chest.

I brought you back.

The thought repeated, sharp and brutal in his mind.

You’re here.

His fingers dug into the fabric of her shirt as if he could anchor her to this reality with touch alone.

Don’t leave me now. Not now. Not after everything.

Not after the nights on the engawa. Not after her laughter in his ears, her presence beside him like a balm he hadn’t known he needed. Not after her eyes had looked into his and seen him—not the Hokage, not the shadow of Hashirama, not the Senju—but the man.

Not after I—

His breath hitched, the words unspoken but heavy in the silence.

His head bowed, eyes closed. Her scent—faint, familiar—was still there, buried beneath smoke and chakra residue.

And in that silence, he waited. Fighting against the weight in his chest, refusing to believe the worst. Because if she didn’t wake up…

He didn’t know what was left of him.

The world narrowed to the sound of her breathing, to the fragile pulse of chakra under his palms. He kept whispering her name, again and again, willing her to return.

But still, her eyes did not open.

Sakura’s face was pale—too pale. The usual warmth in her skin had faded beneath the strange chill of her near-death. Her lashes, damp and clumped, fluttered only slightly as if caught in some distant storm he couldn’t reach.

Tobirama exhaled shakily and stared down at her, heart pounding in a rhythm that no longer felt his own.

He had thought he’d lost her. No, not just thought— believed it, with every bitter, helpless second that had passed between her vanishing and his arrival. That empty apartment… the faint chakra lingering like smoke after a fire… the silence where her voice should have been.

He hadn't even allowed himself to hope.

And yet despite his successful efforts in bringing her back… here she was but frighteningly still.

His jaw clenched.

He should have seen this coming. He should have known that she would attempt the jutsu. He should have realized the instability in her formulation. Should have stopped her, protected her from herself. All his intellect, all his theories, all his logic… it hadn't mattered in the end. She had nearly been lost to the void.

And for what?

Because he’d turned away? Because she’d believed she had no place here anymore?

His hands curled into fists, nails digging deep into his palms.

He had pushed her away.

Her words came back to him now—echoes of a moment that had slipped between them.

“I love you.”

He had said nothing. Not because he didn’t feel it. But because fear was a strangling thing. Because the depth of what he felt for her— still feels for her—terrified him in a way that no battlefield ever had.

Tobirama’s eyes roamed her face, taking in the vulnerability in her features… the echo of pain she hadn’t even been awake to hide.

“I chose to stay. I chose you.”

The words echoed—not like sound, but like a ghost of breath against his skin. They reverberated in the hollow spaces of his mind, sinking beneath thought, beneath reason, down into something deeper.

He could still hear her voice—soft, certain, cracking at the edges with fear and love. It wasn’t just a memory. It lingered.

As if the words themselves had embedded into the marrow of him, refusing to fade. As if she’d said them not just for him to hear—but for him to carry.

Forever.

She had left everything behind for him. And now she might not wake.

“Don’t do this,” he murmured, voice low and rough-edged.

It wasn’t a plea. Not quite. But it cracked at the edges all the same.

“You damn fool of a woman,” he whispered, barely above a breath. “After everything… don’t you dare make this the end.”

He knew she might not hear him. That his words could vanish into the void between them like smoke. But he said them anyway. Because he had to.

With a shaky exhale, Tobirama let his chakra fizzle away, the last threads of energy flickering out into the scorched air. He traced the line of her face, the gentle slope of her jaw, his fingers moving slowly, reverently. Then he leaned down, bracing one hand beside her head as the other cradled her cheek, and pressed his forehead to hers.

His fingers moved again—carefully, deliberately—weaving through the strands of her hair. Her skin was warmer now. A shift. A beginning. But too faint to offer certainty. Not enough. Not yet.

He exhaled again, slower this time, and let his forehead remain there, resting with quiet precision. A gesture full of things he hadn’t said—things he might never say.

“You weren’t supposed to disappear from my life.” His voice was quiet but thick with emotion. “You were supposed to stay.”

The silence didn’t answer. Neither did she.

So he remained there—still, unflinching, but burning with a hope so fierce it ached. Waiting.

And willing, if it came to it, to burn through the void itself to bring her soul back.

It was happening again.

She was six. Small and stiff in her too-new academy clothes that her mother bought, the classroom buzzing with shrill laughter and the sharp scrape of chairs. Her back pressed flat against the cold plaster wall, fingers curled tight in her sleeves. Her breath caught as the whispers started—soft at first, but cruel in their precision.

“Big forehead.”

“She thinks she’s so smart.”

Tiny daggers, wrapped in singsong voices. The words had bounced off her before, meaningless and vague. But now—now they landed. Sank in. Made her chest feel tight and her throat hot.

The girls huddled in corners, glancing sideways with smug little smiles. Their eyes never met hers directly. Just flicked up—always to her forehead—then away again, like they were embarrassed for her.

She lowered her head.

The light from the window fell just right, catching the glint of her hair. She tugged her bangs forward instinctively, trying to hide. Trying to shrink. To disappear.

And for the first time, the words didn’t just sting. They settled deep within her.

A blink. The world shifted.

The chill of the academy walls vanished, replaced by golden warmth. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, its rays flickering across a patch of soft grass where she sat cross-legged beside Ino. The air was thick with the scent of summer—crushed clover, sun-warmed earth, and the faint sweetness of blooming wildflowers.

Their fingers worked in rhythm, weaving stems into fragile crowns, green and white and pale pink. Petals clung to their skirts, and somewhere nearby, cicadas hummed in lazy chorus.

Ino reached over, brushing a lock of Sakura’s hair behind her ear with featherlight fingers. Her smile was confident, kind.

“I’ve told you before, Sakura. You don’t have to hide behind your bangs,” she said simply, as if it were obvious. “You’re pretty, you know.”

Sakura had frozen for a heartbeat, the words catching her off guard. No mockery. No edge.

Just honesty.

And kindness.

She remembered that moment—how the warmth had spread through her chest like sunlight. How, for the first time, she’d believed it might be true.

She smiled, even now, deep in the memory.

But then—Ino was gone. The warmth with her.

Ino’s voice echoed, sharper this time.

“I can’t believe you threw our friendship away.”

The scene fractured.

Team Seven stood in the clearing.

The old training field stretched around them—sun-dappled grass torn in places from years of sparring, the tall trees casting long shadows over the worn earth. A breeze rustled the leaves, carrying with it the scent of dust, sweat, and summer.

Kakashi leaned against a tree, half-hidden behind his book, one eye crinkled in that lazy, unreadable way. Naruto bounced on his heels, all sunshine and bluster, his grin wide enough to split his face. Sasuke stood apart, arms crossed, eyes shadowed and stormy—his silence louder than any shout.

And behind them, just a step too far back, stood Sakura.

Watching.

Wanting.

Trying to be part of it. Trying to matter.

She clenched her fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. Her heart thudded loud in her ears. But all she could see were her own hands—trembling.

Not from fear. Not exactly.

From that gnawing, aching desperation.

To be strong enough. To be useful enough. To be something.

But in that moment, she wasn’t.

Not yet.

And the shame of it burned.

Then Sasuke. Turning his back. Walking away.

“You’re annoying,” he said coldly. Then the flicker of movement—his hand, and then darkness. He knocked her out like it was nothing. Just another obstacle. Something disposable.

Tears blurred the world, hot and helpless. She was clutching her own arms to stop herself from shaking, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

“I tried,” she sobbed. “I tried to stop him. I did everything I could.”

Naruto didn’t answer. Not right away. He looked at her—really looked—pain clear in his eyes, old and raw. But he smiled, soft and broken, like his own suffering didn’t matter next to hers.

And then she was on the battlefield.

Naruto was screaming, the Kyuubi’s chakra shredding the air around him, violent and blistering. His body cracked under the strain, skin fracturing like porcelain, eyes burning.

She couldn’t move fast enough. Couldn’t speak fast enough. Couldn’t heal fast enough. She was there—but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

But she ran anyway, legs burning, lungs tearing as she pushed herself forward. She ran like the world would end if she didn’t. But the distance stretched. It always stretched. She could never quite reach him.

Then—

Another memory slammed into her.

Still Naruto—but not screaming this time. Quieter. It was snowing. Cold air bit at her skin. They stood inches apart beneath a leaden sky. His hands were firm on her shoulders, his grip steady and grounding.

He looked at her like he saw through her—through every carefully constructed word, every lie she’d told herself just to keep moving.

“I hate people who lie to themselves,” he said.

Sakura felt her heart drop. His words were not cruel. Just honest, quiet and devastating.

Another lurch. The aftermath of the war.

Sasuke’s eyes—cold, unreadable. All the heat from her body drained as she faced him with tears streaming down her face. Kakashi’s sympathetic presence next to her did nothing to quiet the storm in her heart.

“You’re really annoying.” Sasuke smirked cruelly.

“Sasuke-kun—”

Then a flicker of chakra. Genjutsu. Then darkness.

Time spun forward.

After the war. Ceremonies. Flowers. Laughing guests. Smiles worn like masks. Rings on fingers. Ino and Tenten laughing, radiant in silk. Naruto grinning beside Hinata, his blushing bride.

And Sakura—off to the side. Clapping. Smiling. Watching. Forgotten. Left behind.

Then the long nights.

Her lab. Too bright, too quiet. Ink-stained fingers trembling over scrolls. Sleepless eyes scanning page after page of chakra theory, time-space models, complex formulae written and rewritten.

Trying to fill the void with brilliance. With usefulness. With something.

And then—

A rupture. Light like a blade. And she was falling.

The past.

Tobirama.

Not the myth. Not the title. Just him.

Sharp-tongued. Brilliant. Intolerably proud. And slowly—impossibly—hers.

She saw him clearly. The quiet patience when he listened. The rare, dry humor he offered only when he thought she needed it. The unshakable steadiness beneath the storm.

He let her in. Let her see him. And she fell. Harder than she ever had before.

But now—

The scroll. Ink. Her handwriting. In his hands.

That silence. That look in his eyes. Not furious. Just… finished.

“I trusted you,” he had said.

She tried to reach him in the dream. Tried to move, to speak, to explain.

But he only turned, the edges of his form already unraveling, vanishing into the haze like a ghost.

And then everything broke.

The memories fractured again—splintering like glass under pressure too deep, too old.

Faces. Voices. Moments. A carousel of failures spinning faster and faster. Too-late. Too-weak.

Her hands slick with blood she couldn’t stop. Her chakra drained just shy of saving someone. Her words falling flat when they should have mattered most.

She was always reaching—

Reaching for Sasuke as he turned away. 

Reaching for Naruto as he gave her hope. 

Reaching for Kakashi, reaching for Tsunade, reaching for Tobirama —

But she never quite touched what she needed. Always almost. But never enough.

The darkness around her pressed in, thick and suffocating. Not cruel, not kind—just indifferent. A void that swallowed even the sound of her breath.

And in that silence, she whispered—

"I'm sorry."

Her voice barely stirred the air.

There was no reply. No echo. No forgiveness. Just the void, unyielding.

And the shame, cold and clinging, curling deeper into her bones.

Chapter Text

The village moved with the same predictable rhythm it always had. Mission scrolls were processed in the Hokage Tower with bureaucratic efficiency. Children laughed as they raced along the rooftops, chasing shadows. The clang of sparring genin rang across training grounds, and the scent of grilling yakitori floated through the streets on the warming breath of spring.

To them, nothing had changed.

But to Tobirama, everything had.

Three weeks have passed since he brought Sakura back and she hadn’t stirred since. Here, in this quiet hospital room, she lay cocooned in layers of white linens, her face unnaturally peaceful, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady intervals that should have been reassuring. But to Tobirama, they weren’t. They were mechanical. Too smooth. Too quiet.

He sat beside her now, as he had for the last twenty-two days. Not that he has been counting.

A small notebook lay open in his lap, its pages crowded with jumbled ink—half-formed theories, recalculations, sketches of altered seals. The markings were sharp, efficient, but restless. As though his hand had moved only to keep from doing nothing. He hadn’t looked at them in hours.

His gaze always returned to her.

Sakura lay motionless, her breathing even, her face glowed from where morning light spilled in from the window. The warmth of it stretched across her cheeks, her lips, the delicate arch of her brow. It painted her in soft gold and pink like some quiet, untouchable thing.

Her hair was longer now and fanned across the pillow in gentle, pale rose waves. The ends curled faintly where they rested against her collarbone, catching the light with a subtle shimmer. It framed her face with an unintentional grace, like a painting unfinished but already beautiful.

She would have blushed, probably, if she’d caught him staring like this. Turned her head away with that little smile she wore when she didn’t want him to see how pleased she was. Maybe tucked her hair behind her ear with a motion too practiced to be anything but intentional.

She never craved attention, but when it came from him Tobirama knew she never minded it.

“It suits you,” he murmured absently, voice lowered in the stillness. 

The silence answered him, oppressive and absolute. And it struck him, without warning, how much he missed the sound of her voice. There was no blush. No half-hid smile. No spark of amusement lighting up her eyes. Just the steady rhythm of her breath and the cold, sterile air between them.

He shifted his gaze toward the window. Just beyond the glass, past the hospital courtyard wall, the bare-limbed sakura tree had begun to bloom. Pale pink petals dotted the branches—sparse, early, but unmistakably there.

Tobirama exhaled slowly through his nose.

“…The sakura tree has started to bloom,” he said, more to fill the space than expecting any answer. “Thought it’d take longer this year. We had a late frost.”

Another glance at her. Still nothing.

Then, quietly he added, “I hope you’ll be awake by the time it’s in full bloom.”

His eyes drifted back to the window, where pale pink petals clung stubbornly to the branches, fragile against the chill that still lingered in the air. The courtyard was quiet, save for the soft rustle of wind stirring the blossoms, a faint reminder that life, somehow, continued beyond these walls.

He shifted slightly in the chair, the worn notebook resting on his lap, fingers brushing the edge of the pages without turning them. Though he adjusted his position, he remained rooted in place, unwilling to leave her side.

He stayed.

Because he always did.

Because watching her breathe was the only proof he had that he hadn’t lost her completely.

There had been visitors. 

Kagami had come first—silent as a shadow, shoulders tense with the discomfort of seeing the Hokage so still beside a hospital bed. He’d brought flowers, a modest bundle of daffodils crammed awkwardly into a small vase.

He’d placed them on the windowsill without a word, his hands lingering for a moment too long on the glass before stepping back.

“We’re all hoping she wakes up soon, sensei,” he had said quietly, almost apologetically. As if the hope itself were a fragile thing.

Tobirama hadn’t answered.

Because he couldn’t promise anything. Not recovery. Not time. Not even that Sakura was still within reach.

So he said nothing.

And Kagami didn’t press him. He bowed once, then left—his footsteps soft, the door closing with a click that echoed far too loud in the stillness.

The soft shuffle of footsteps a few days later in the hall signaled the next set of visitors. There was a soft, respectful knock before the door opened with a quiet rasp. 

“Sensei,” Hiruzen greeted as he stepped inside, followed closely by Koharu and Biwako, their expressions somber and movements subdued.

Tobirama gave a brief nod in acknowledgment but didn’t speak.

Koharu and Biwako moved closer to Sakura’s side, their gazes flicking over her with quiet worry. Hiruzen remained where he was, standing a respectful distance away, his hands hung loosely at his side. 

“Still no change?” Hiruzen asked quietly.

The silence that followed stretched thick between them, heavy with the kind of concern that had no clear place to go.

Tobirama did not answer.

The air inside the room was dim and hushed, the only sound was the soft whistle of wind through the small gap in the window. Tobirama’s gaze remained fixed on the woman lying motionless beneath carefully arranged blankets, her face pale against the pillow, her breathing steady.

Biwako inched closer to the bed, her expression gentle as always. She reached down and smoothed the blanket with practiced hands.

“Sakura-san,” she said softly, eyes lingering on the faint flutter of Sakura’s lashes. “I hope you will wake up soon. Everyone is waiting for you.”

Koharu stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed and her mouth set in a line. Her eyes however, were trained on Tobirama. Never one to pad her words in softness, she eyed him with faint irritation edged in concern.

“You need proper rest, sensei,” she said bluntly. “You’re not helping anyone like this.”

Tobirama still didn’t answer. His face betrayed nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.

Rest. The word echoed, meaningless. He’d slept of course, but only just enough to keep going. A few hours each night on a futon at the compound, never deep enough to dream. He let his clones handle village business, signed reports with barely a glance, delegated missions through secondhand messengers.

Every morning, before the sun had fully risen, he was back here. At her side.

Waiting.

“I’m fine,” he said at last, his voice flat. Not defensive—just tired. Because he was tired. Down to the bone. But he wasn’t leaving. Not while she was still like this.

Not while there was still a chance that she could open her eyes.

Inori had visited too. She entered quietly, the scent of fresh blooms drifting in with her. In her arms was a small arrangement—delicate irises, sprigs of white lilac, and a single stem of soft pink peony. She bowed a greeting towards Tobirama and moved without speaking, removing the wilted jar Kagami had left on the sill and replacing it with a simple ceramic vase.

“I’ve always liked irises,” Inori murmured, adjusting a stem. “They mean hope, you know. And the peony…” Her voice softened. “Compassion, even when it’s hard.”

She stood there for a moment longer, gazing down at Sakura’s still form.

Tobirama didn’t speak. But after she left, he crossed the room, reached out, and gently turned the vase so the irises faced Sakura directly, his touch barely brushing the petals.

Tobirama exhaled—slow, steady. A shinobi’s breath. The kind meant to still the mind before a mission. But it didn’t work. Not here. Not now.

His gaze remained fixed on Sakura’s face—unmoving, serene, infuriatingly peaceful. He had studied it a hundred times. A thousand. Every line was memorized from the curve of her cheek, to the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, to the purple rhombus on her forehead. The soft lashes casting faint shadows on her skin and her hair that brushed past her shoulders like a veil.

She was still here. He could feel it. Her chakra was steady. A whisper in the void.

And yet… it felt like she was already gone.

Tobirama’s jaw tightened. He had meant to say more to her. So many things. Not in some foolish outpouring of sentiment—but real things. Necessary things. But when she had looked at him, guilt clouding her expression, and whispered “I love you,” all he had done was stare.

And then… he let her walk away.

He hadn’t stopped her. Hadn’t asked her to stay. Not even when everything inside him had screamed to do so.

And now… this.

Her lying still and silent. Her body was fighting a battle somewhere far beyond his reach.

He couldn’t take it back—the silence he had given her when words were needed most. But he could be here now.

He hadn’t left her side since pulling her back from the void. Everything else—meetings, patrols, council disputes—was handled by his Kage Bunshin. The constant chakra drain had been difficult at first; he’d never maintained clones for more than five consecutive hours a day, let alone twelve. And never for three weeks straight. But the discomfort had since dulled into something else—something quiet and insistent. Not pain. Not fatigue. Just…numbness.

The real him was always here. In this room. Watching, waiting and hoping. His hand drifted closer to hers on the bed. It hovered, not quite touching. Just a breath away.

He remembered the sharpness in her voice when she was angry. The softness when she teased. The quiet awe when she described some new discovery, like the world was made of secrets she couldn’t wait to share. She had burned so brightly.

And now…

Now she was quiet. Dimmed.

“I should have stopped you,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. “But I let you walk away.”

His hand settled over hers, not tightly, but with intent. The contact was minimal and measured but it shook slightly.

A pause stretched. His eyes closed, jaw clenched.

“I was angry. I—” His breath caught. He forced it steady. “But you deserved better than silence.”

The flickering light above played against the planes of his face, shadowing the exhaustion, the regret.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Sakura,” he said at last, softer now. “But if you can… please come back.”

Mito had come a day later and stayed longer than anyone else.

Tobirama hadn’t expected her—of all people—to come. And yet there she was, calm and composed, as if she’d belonged in that space all along. He didn’t show his surprise, but it sat with him nonetheless.

She moved without haste, her presence a quiet balm in the sterile hush of the hospital room. Tsunade had followed close behind. The young girl clutched her grandmother’s hand tightly, her usual fire subdued into an uneasy stillness. Mito didn’t speak at first—only settled gracefully beside the bed, her robes rustling softly as she took Sakura’s hand between both of hers. Her thumb stroked the back of it in slow, steady circles, as if coaxing warmth into unmoving skin.

When she spoke, her voice was soft and steady, like the kind used to calm children or ease someone through a long night.

“I knew from the moment I met you that you’ve always kept your pain tucked neatly behind your eyes,” Mito said softly, more to the stillness than to the girl before her. “I never quite knew how to reach past it.”

She brushed a loose strand of hair from Sakura’s brow, tucking it behind her ear with a care that felt almost ceremonial.

“We weren’t close, you and I. Not really. But I saw you. I always did.” Her thumb moved in slow, soothing circles over Sakura’s knuckles. “And I saw the kind of strength you have… that isolates more than it protects.”

A silence stretched between them. It was thick, but not uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to come back for the village,” Mito murmured at last. “Not even for him. Just come back for yourself.” 

Her parting glance wasn’t heavy with expectation. Only quiet hope. “Wherever you are, Sakura… don’t stay there too long. You’re missed.”

When she rose, she didn’t speak to Tobirama, who remained unmoving in the chair. Crimson gaze locked closely on Sakura's face. His face was unreadable. Mito just looked at him with eyes that had seen too much loss and understood silence all too well. There was no accusation in her expression. Only quiet sorrow.

Tsunade watched Sakura’s still form hesitantly. She was too young to understand the depth of what was happening, but she understood enough to know something was wrong.

She stood on tiptoe beside the bed, one tiny hand reached out and touched the edge of Sakura’s blanket.

“Sakura-nee looks like she’s sleeping,” Tsunade said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Will she wake up?”

“She’s trying to find her way back,” Mito replied, her voice hushed and steady.

Tsunade’s lower lip trembled. “When will she come back?”

For a moment, Mito didn’t answer but her face softened. Then she knelt beside her granddaughter and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “She’s strong. Like you. And those who fight will eventually find their way home.”

Tsunade nodded solemnly and leaned forward, pressing a small, clumsy kiss to the back of Sakura’s hand. Her eyes lingered on the unmoving woman just a moment longer before she turned to follow Mito out the room.

And then it was quiet again.

Tobirama sat there in the stillness, gaze fixed on her pale, unmoving face. Mito’s words echoed in his brain. She had been trying to go home—truly, desperately. To the future she had come from.

He understood what home meant to her.

It was not this era. Not this war-torn world still clawing its way toward true peace. But the future… where her friends and family waited. Where time had shaped her, where she belonged.

And if she woke… what then?

Would she still want to go back?

Would she leave… this time for good?

He couldn’t fault her if she did. It would be the only rational choice. The only kind a shinobi like him could respect. But the thought carved something sharp into his chest all the same. If she opened her eyes and reached for that future again…

Would he let her go?

Could he?

Tobirama didn’t have an answer. Only the silence and unbearable stillness of her body in place of one. 

The kettle whistled harshly as it finished boiling. Steam curled upward, vanishing into the wooden beams overhead. The room was warm and earthy with the scent of tea, polished wood, and faint traces of smoke from the brazier. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.

Kagami moved with quiet efficiency, sleeves pushed back as he poured hot water into five waiting cups. The others sat around the low table with him—Hiruzen beside Biwako, and Koharu and Inori across from them. Shoulders brushed occasionally, but none of them seemed to mind. It was a shared kind of silence, the kind that settled only between comrades and friends long used to each other's presence.

Kagami set the kettle down with a soft clink, passing out the cups with ease.

“Is it just me,” he said mildly, breaking the quiet, “or is it colder than it should be for this time of year?”

Inori let out a quiet snort. “You say that every spring,” she said, propping her chin in her palm with a lazy tilt of her head. Her blue eyes drifted towards the window. “Still… it really does feel like time slips by faster every year, doesn’t it?”

“That would explain why my joints have been complaining lately,” Hiruzen muttered, rubbing at one shoulder. “Though maybe that’s just age catching up to me.”

“Really now, Hiruzen?” Koharu said with a pointed look. “I didn’t realize turning nineteen made you ancient.”

Hiruzen gave a lopsided smile. “It does when your teammates keep aging you with their sass.”

Koharu glared and Biwako giggled behind the rim of her cup, trying, unsuccessfully, to hide it. “Don’t rise to his bait, Koharu-san,” she said, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her amusement. Koharu just rolled her eyes.

They chuckled softly. It was the kind of brief reprieve they had learned to steal when and where they could. But even in the laughter, something heavier lingered beneath the surface. The kind of weight that silence couldn’t hide forever.

Kagami leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “I’m worried about sensei,” he brought up with a tinge of hesitance. 

That earned no immediate response. Only silence—and the way every expression at the table turned solemn.

“He doesn’t even step foot in his office nowadays,” Kagami murmured. “It’s a Kage Bunshin we’ve been dealing with. The real one hasn’t left the hospital in weeks.”

No one needed to ask why.

Hiruzen added after a moment of silence. “He’s been… curt. More than usual. Cold, too. This past month, it’s like there’s no space left between his words… just orders and dismissal.”

Inori frowned. “Hokage-sama has always been blunt though...”

“Sure,” Kagami agreed. “But this feels different. He’s not just blunt. He has been more snappy lately too.” He hesitated, then added dryly, “He scared a chuunin clean out of his office last week. Just with his tone. And that wasn’t even the real him… it was the clone.”

That pulled a few faint reactions—tight smiles, exchanged looks—but no one laughed.

The truth hung heavy between them.

“She’s still not waking up, that’s why,” Koharu said quietly, eyes on her cup but not really seeing it.

It had been nearly a month since the incident, though no one in the room could quite agree on what the ‘incident’ truly was. Only that something had happened. And that since that day, everything had changed.

Especially for Tobirama.

“Hokage-sama hasn’t left her side,” Biwako said quietly, folding her hands. 

“I can’t believe he’s using Kage Bunshin to do everything,” Kagami added, shaking his head. “Council meetings, mission reviews, patrol briefings. Even if he’s the Hokage, this is a constant drain on his chakra.”

The statement lingered, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Koharu said, tone sharp with discomfort. “What the hell even happened to her?”

Inori shook her head slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. “We don’t know.”

Kagami and Hiruzen exchanged a glance and it didn’t go undetected. Three sets of eyes—three women—shifted toward the male occupants of the room. Kagami ran a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable and Hiruzen looked away. 

“You do know something though, right?” Koharu asked with narrowed eyes.

Hiruzen sighed. “Not everything. Only what we saw. And even that…” He trailed off, searching for the right words.

Kagami shifted, eyes distant. “I saw her at the Hokage tower that day. The office was empty… Sensei wasn’t there and she was already frantic when I spotted her. I called out, and she just… fell apart. Collapsed right there in the corridor outside his door.”

“Inconsolable,” Hiruzen added. “Sobbing, shaking… she couldn’t even form a full sentence at first. We thought she’d been attacked.”

“But once she could speak,” Kagami said, voice low, “she told us that she’d messed up. That he was angry at her. She looked like she’d lost everything.”

“We offered to take her to the Senju compound,” Hiruzen said, glancing at the others. “To find him.”

“And when she came back?” Biwako asked, eyes wide.

“Shell of herself,” Kagami answered. “Eyes hollow. Shoulders shaking. She looked like someone who’d been gutted.”

No one spoke for a while after that.

The kettle had cooled. So had the tea.

Inori shifted in her seat, brows furrowed. Her fingers traced the edge of her cup absently. “She’s not just unconscious,” she said after a long silence. “It’s deeper than that. It’s like… like her mind is trapped somewhere.”

Kagami looked at her, alert. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen people in coma before. This is different. Chakra threads are there… but tangled. When I went to see her in the hospital that day I could tell that her vitals were stable, but…” She paused. “…there’s something underneath all of it. It’s almost as if her mind is trying to protect her from some sort of trauma…” Inori glanced at Kagami, then Hiruzen, then the rest. “I’ve been thinking… maybe I could try something,” she added with slight hesitancy.

Koharu raised a brow. “Like what?”

Inori hesitated, then spoke slowly. “A mental dive.”

The room stilled.

“You’re suggesting you enter her mind?” Hiruzen asked carefully. “To bring her back? How would that even work?”

“I wouldn’t go deep, not at first,” Inori replied, her voice steady. “It would take careful preparation. Another mind entering one so fractured could make things worse if we’re not cautious. But if I stay near the surface, I can follow the pathways of her chakra—trace the impressions left behind by her thoughts and emotions. Think of it like navigating a maze. I’d have to find where her consciousness is hiding and guide her back, gently. Remind her of who she is, what’s real. Bring her home.” She paused before adding, “But…”

“But what?” Kagami pressed, brow furrowing.

Inori exhaled slowly, her fingers curling slightly against her thigh. “There’s still no guarantee it’ll work,” she admitted. “The mind isn’t a straight path… it’s layered and complicated. When there’s trauma involved… it protects itself. Walls go up. Sometimes dozens of them. I could spend hours navigating through memories and never get close to where she really is.”

She hesitated, gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again. “And the truth is… I wish I’d gotten to know her better. Really know her… If I understood more about who she is, what matters to her, maybe I’d have a better chance of finding the right thread to follow.” Her voice softened. “I can lead her back… but only if she’s ready to face what’s waiting for her. And right now… I have no idea what that is.”

A beat of silence.

Koharu looked solemn. “I think we should discuss this with sensei.”

A pause. 

“I’ll go,” Hiruzen said eventually, rising from his seat.

Inori looked down into her tea, the steam long since gone. Her voice came soft, but steady. “She’s still fighting. I can feel it. I think… I think she just needs help finding the way out.”

The others said nothing but hope, fragile and fierce, had already begun to bloom in the room.

The hospital room was quiet—so quiet, it made even the creak of his chair sound like thunder. Tobirama sat in the corner, as he had every day for the past four weeks, arms folded across his chest, posture rigid despite the weariness that dragged at his bones.

Sakura lay still beneath the covers, her breathing shallow but steady, her pink hair now long enough to brush the pillow and curl well past her shoulders. He noticed it again today—how it softened her features, how it suited her. A foolish thought, given her state, but still it lingered.

And she remained unmoving.

He still refused to leave her side. His Kage Bunshin fulfilled his duties as Hokage. The real him never strayed far. He ate here. Slept nearby. Waited.

Watched.

Thought.

His gaze drifted to the stack of papers on the bedside table—Sakura’s research, annotated with her neat handwriting, diagrams, chakra calculations, and a painstaking reverse-engineering of his Hiraishin formula. He had gone over every line. Every margin note. Every theoretical step. It was, in every sense, flawless.

So why hadn’t it worked?

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together beneath his chin as his mind turned the question over for the hundredth time. In theory, her formula should have stabilized and sent her home. Her chakra manipulation was unparalleled—precise to the last decimal, more controlled than his own. There should not have been any volatility. And yet, she had been cast into the void between space and time.

He clenched his jaw, frustration mounting. It made no sense. The calculations were exact. The sequences, stable. Even the risks had been accounted for. Unless...

His eyes narrowed.

Unless it had nothing to do with the formula at all.

He reached for the topmost page again, scanning her notations—pausing at a small passage scrawled neatly in the margins, almost an afterthought.

“Strong visualisation is crucial. Destination must be anchored through memory, emotion, and clarity—place, time, sensation. It must feel like home.”

Tobirama sat back slightly, tension knotting between his brows.

At first, he’d dismissed the idea. Visualising a future —something not yet lived—seemed illogical, impossible even. How could anyone create a fixed point in a time that hadn’t happened? But Sakura hadn’t dismissed it. Her notes detailed how it might be possible. If chakra control was exceptional, unwavering, and the user could conjure not just coordinates, but the feeling of the place they were returning to. The sound. The smell. The warmth. A memory strong enough to convince time itself.

And Sakura had all of that. She had the skill. The vision. The discipline.

So why hadn’t it worked?

His gaze darkened. A sliver of doubt crept in.

Unless… her chakra had fluctuated. For a jutsu that delicate, even the smallest shift in control could unravel everything. But Sakura didn’t make those kinds of mistakes. Her chakra control was immaculate. Unless…

His stomach twisted.

…she hesitated.

His gaze lifted to her still face, and something sharp and cold twisted deep in his chest.

Why? Why would she hesitate if her mind was set on leaving? She said she would go. She said it was the right thing to do. Had she lied to him? Or to herself?

Or had something in her changed, just before she activated it?

Tobirama’s hands curled into fists on his knees. He didn’t know what answer he wanted more. That she had tried to go and failed… or that she had chosen not to.

Either way, the result was the same. She was here. And she wasn’t.

Two firm knocks interrupted his thoughts. He straightened just as the door opened.

“Sensei. It’s me.”

Hiruzen stepped in, his eyes tired but steady. Beside him was Yamanaka Inori, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves, clearly nervous.

Tobirama stood, his posture imposing without trying. “Saru. What is it?”

Hiruzen glanced to Sakura, then back to him. “Inori-san has a proposal. A possible method to bring her back.”

Inori bowed deeply. “Hokage-sama. I’ve… I’ve been studying her chakra signature. There’s activity… but it’s fragmented, like she’s trapped in a continuous subconscious state. I believe she’s still fighting to return. So…” she hesitated.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. “You wish to perform a mental dive,” he deduced.

He had listened in silence as Inori explained her plan, her words measured, careful—layered minds, trauma-induced barriers, a consciousness buried too deep to reach without deliberate navigation. It was a sound strategy, one that aligned with what he knew of Yamanaka techniques. And he trusted Inori—she was a loyal Konoha kunoichi, precise in her work and dedicated to the village.

But this wasn’t just anyone’s mind.

It was Sakura’s.

And Sakura was from the future.

Beneath the surface of her thoughts would lie memories—moments, names, events not yet written in their time. A single misstep, a flicker of recognition in the wrong mind, could unravel the fragile threads of their reality. Wars that hadn’t happened yet. People not yet born or long dead. Technologies, techniques, alliances. Secrets. The kind that could reshape the political structure of the world if exposed.

He clenched his jaw. Inori didn’t know. She couldn’t. Not yet. But if she went deep enough, if she saw too much…

It would mean seeing Sakura fully—truthfully—for who she was. For everything she had been through, and everything she had come from.

Tobirama’s gaze sharpened, voice low. “Do you understand the weight of what you're asking?”

Inori held his gaze, her shoulders squaring even as she spoke with quiet caution.

“I do,” she said. “At least… I understand enough to know it’s risky.” She paused, chewing slightly on the inside of her cheek before continuing. “I know Sakura’s not just a normal kunoichi. Not just some talented medic who showed up out of nowhere. She’s… different. Smarter than she lets on. Like she’s lived through things the rest of us haven’t even imagined. I’m not blind.”

Her fingers tapped absently against her leg as she took a breath. “But I’m not doing this to go digging into her secrets. I don’t want to pry. I just want to help her. She’s my friend.”

Her voice lowered, more steady now. “I’m not pretending it’ll be easy. Or that there’s no chance I’ll see things I wasn’t meant to. But if it comes down to that… if seeing who she really is is the only way to reach her… I’ll deal with it. I won’t betray her. I just… I can’t sit back and do nothing while she’s stuck in there, not when I might be able to bring her back.”

Tobirama regarded her silently, the weight of her words settling over him like falling ash.

She wasn’t wrong.

He could see the hesitation in her posture, but it was balanced by resolve that was earnest and unshaken. Inori wasn’t naïve. She understood the risks, even if not the full scope of what Sakura’s mind might contain. Yet still, she was willing to step into it. Not out of curiosity. Not for glory. But because she cared.

It struck something in him, that unwavering loyalty. That quiet courage.

She was right, too—Sakura wasn’t normal. Her memories held more than any person in this time should know. The war she came from, the knowledge she carried… any glimpse of it could destabilize everything. And yet, Tobirama couldn’t deny the truth behind Inori’s words. Sakura was alone in a way none of them could truly understand. And if Inori had even a slim chance of finding her, of reaching her in that darkness… then perhaps it was worth the risk.

Still… if Inori saw too much, if she unearthed even a fraction of what Sakura had hidden away…

It could change everything.

He crossed his arms across his chest, expression unreadable, though the weight of his thoughts pressed heavy behind his eyes.

“She has been like this for four weeks, sensei,” Hiruzen said softly. “We have to give it a try.”

The silence that followed was long, but not uncertain.

Tobirama looked to Sakura again. Watched her chest rise and fall. Something tight in his jaw eased, just slightly.

“Fine,” he said at last.

Inori and Hiruzen both exhaled in quiet relief.

But Tobirama’s voice came again, cold and firm. “On the condition that you bring me with you.”

Inori blinked. “Hokage-sama, with all due respect, a mental link isn’t—”

“I will be her anchor,” he said, not unkindly, but with the iron certainty of someone who wouldn’t be denied. “You said it yourself—her mind is fragmented. If she’s lost in herself, then I will be the one to pull her back.”

Inori hesitated, then slowly nodded.

“…It might work,” she admitted. “If you’re both linked in carefully, your presence could stabilize the environment. It may even give her a reason to return.”

Hiruzen looked at Inori, then nodded. “Let me know what you need, Inori-san.” His gaze shifted towards Tobirama and gave him a small smile. “We’ll bring her back, sensei.”

Tobirama didn’t answer. He only turned back to Sakura, his fingertips barely brushing hers atop the blanket, in a silent promise that he will bring her back.

The air in the room hummed with quiet energy. Scrawled carefully across the wooden floor were intricate formulae—Inori’s own meticulous handiwork—etched in and sealed with faint traces of chakra. Sakura lay motionless in the center of the array, her breathing steady but shallow. 

Tobirama sat cross-legged on one side of her, fingers lightly brushing the back of her hand. On the other side, Inori knelt with focused stillness, eyes closed, palms pressed together in a slow, practiced seal. They were currently in Sakura’s apartment, a place that Tobirama felt was more comfortable than the white-walled hospital room to carry out such a delicate procedure. He had Kagami and Hiruzen stand guard outside her apartment as a precaution.

A subtle shift stirred beneath Tobirama’s skin—a cool, precise hum as Inori’s chakra began to weave itself into his own. It rippled outward, delicate and controlled, reaching toward the edge of consciousness.

“Link complete,” Inori murmured, her voice distant already. “Hokage-sama… please allow yourself to follow my chakra. Let it guide you to her mindscape.”

Without hesitation, he obeyed.

The world tilted sharply, as if the ground beneath him had given way. Colors drained swiftly from the edges of his vision, sounds muffling into distant echoes. His body seemed to dissolve—not sinking, but drifting, weightless, through layers of shifting light and shadow, like moving through water thick with mist.

Thoughts blurred, tangled, then slowed until they quieted altogether. Time lost meaning. There was only a sensation of falling, falling endlessly.

Then, abruptly, his feet touched something solid.

Tobirama opened his eyes.

They stood in a corridor—endless, stretching far beyond sight in all directions. The air was cool and still, carrying the sharp scent of damp stone mingled with a faint metallic tang, like old blood or rusted steel. A dim, steady light pooled from nowhere in particular, casting long, twisting shadows that crawled along the walls and floor.

Around them, countless doors lined the corridor—hundreds, maybe thousands—each one sealed tight, silent sentinels guarding the secrets hidden behind them.

Tobirama’s gaze sharpened. This wasn’t a hallway—it was a labyrinth. But not one made of stone or walls. It was built from memories.

Endless doors lined the space in both directions, each one a fragment of Sakura’s mind. Pieces of who she was… or who she had hidden from the world—and perhaps even from herself.

Some doors were simple, unadorned wood. Others were intricate, carved with swirling symbols or painted in soft, fading colors. A few bore deep scratches, burn marks blackening their edges. Some stood ajar, welcoming. Others were tightly shut, bound with visible locks or pulsing chakra seals that thrummed faintly in the still air.

Tobirama stepped forward and rested his fingers lightly on one of them. The surface was warm beneath his touch—a living memory, sealed but still stirring beneath the surface.

Inori said softly beside him, “These doors connect to her memories. It’s a good sign we can still access them. It means her consciousness is still intact.”

Tobirama turned to her. “And she’s behind one of them?”

Inori nodded. “Most likely. The problem now is finding the right door… the one leading to where her current self is trapped.”

Tobirama’s gaze swept the hallway again. “There are thousands,” he stated.

“Yes,” Inori said gently. “But time moves differently in a dive. We can search as long as necessary.”

Tobirama turned back to the nearest door. It was pale pink. A small, childish carving of a flower was etched into the center. He felt something stir in his chest, unbidden.

“We start here,” he said.

Inori nodded once, drawing her hands into another seal. “I’ll follow your lead, Hokage-sama.”

He pushed the door open.

The light swallowed them whole.

The door creaked open into sunlight and a field.

Tobirama stepped through first, with Inori a half step behind. Grass whispered underfoot. The sky above them was bright and clear, but what unfolded before them felt anything but light.

A little girl—no more than seven or eight—huddled on the ground near a group of children. She was hunched over, small fists gripped on the side of her face as if trying to shrink in on herself. Her pale pink hair hung in curtains to either side of her face, hiding the bright red flush of shame on her cheeks. The children snickered and pointed.

“Big forehead!”

“Like a billboard!”

“She could bounce a kunai off that thing!”

The little girl flinched with every word, her bottom lip trembling. Her eyes, large and tearful, scanned the crowd desperately—searching for an escape, for anyone to step in.

Tobirama’s jaw clenched.

Inori’s breath hitched softly beside him, hands pressed to her mouth. “Kami… she was just a child,” she breathed out in disbelief.

Before he could reply, another girl entered the memory. Short blonde hair, blue pupiless eyes blazing with indignation. She marched forward and planted herself between the bullies and the pink-haired girl.

Inori stiffened beside him. “She looks like me,” she whispered, stunned. Tobirama ignored this pointedly.

They listened.

“Stop picking on her,” the girl snapped at the others. “Leave her alone.”

The bullies scoffed before turning to leave.

Then, softer, the girl turned to Sakura and crouched in front of her. “What’s your name?”

Sakura sniffled. “Sakura…”

The girl tilted her head with a small smile. “Well, hello Sakura. My name is Ino. Nice to meet you.”

Inori watched the exchange with wide eyes and Tobirama in silence. They saw Sakura’s small shoulders begin to relax. A shy smile bloomed on her face like spring after frost.

Tobirama closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath. He knew what lay ahead. They were about to step deeper into Sakura’s mind, to witness more and more of her memories—some painful, some precious, all pieces of the woman they were trying to reach. It wasn’t just necessary; it was the only way.

“Let’s move on,” he said quietly, preparing himself to follow wherever the path would lead.

He turned to walk out of the room toward the next door and stepped through.

They landed in an open field this time.

Two girls—older now, twelve or so—stood with backs turned to one another. Sakura’s hands were clenched, her chin lifted stubbornly. Ino stood across from her, arms crossed and face unreadable.

“I guess this is it, huh?” Ino said tightly. “Over a boy.”

“You like him too,” Sakura said, voice brittle. “But I want to fight for something. For someone . So let’s stop pretending we’re friends.”

Tobirama felt Inori recoil beside him.

The scene faded as the door gently clicked shut behind them but not before Tobirama heard Sakura’s thoughts. 'I don’t want to be in your shadow anymore, Ino.’

A training field. Dust and sunlight, the air still with the hush of expectation.

Three genin stood before a silver-haired man whose single visible eye curved in a half-lazy, half-sharp expression behind a small orange book. He didn’t speak, merely observed.

Sakura hovered between her teammates. One, a blond-haired boy, was bouncing on his heels, loud and erratic, all sunshine and hunger for approval. The other stood still as stone, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath a curtain of black hair.

Sakura tilted her head ever so slightly toward the dark-haired boy. A smile tugged at her lips—soft, infatuated, unthinking.

‘Sasuke-kun is so cool…’ 

That look—so full of blind adoration, all wonder and no understanding—cut deeper than he liked. Not because it had anything to do with him. She had never looked at him like that.

She had come to know him in harsher light—when there was no pedestal, no illusion, only sharp edges and quiet moments. What had grown between them had been slow, hard-earned, and nothing like this girlish worship she gave the dark-haired boy.

Still… he couldn’t look away.

But beneath the admiration was something else—a quiet determination flickering in her eyes. She wasn’t just lost in admiration; she was pushing herself, trying to be better. Stronger. So that maybe, one day, this boy Sasuke would notice her.

Tobirama watched as the three genin began sparring against their sensei. Sakura moved with focus, her strikes deliberate albeit sloppy, but every now and then, his eyes caught her stealing quick glances toward Sasuke. They were searching, hoping for even the smallest flicker of acknowledgment. But Sasuke remained distant, absorbed in the fight, his expression unreadable as always. No sign that he had noticed her at all.

His mouth tightened.

She was trying so hard to belong. To be seen. To matter. But no one seemed to notice.

Still… it stirred something bitter in his chest to watch the memory play out. To see her as a girl trying to matter—fighting for attention, for validation—so unaware of how much more she was than what they ever saw.

The memory shifted again.

This time, it was a forest.

Sunlight pooled beneath the thick canopy, casting long, fractured shadows across the clearing. The air stank of blood, sweat, and something darker—killing intent. Tobirama recognized it instantly. It clung to the underbrush, thick and suffocating, the way it always did before a slaughter.

Sakura knelt at the heart of it.

The blond and the dark-haired boy— Sasuke, laid crumpled behind her in the hollow of a tree, unconscious and unmoving. Another boy—a strange one, with bowl-cut hair and a green jumpsuit—was sprawled face-down in the dirt nearby, breathing shallowly.

Three enemy shinobi surrounded her. Their movements were slow but predatory. Smirks played on their faces like children toying with a broken-winged bird. Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. Their headbands bore a foreign insignia he didn’t recognize but there was no mistaking their bloodlust.

Chuunin Exams, he surmised grimly. A trial, yes—but this was no simulation. This was a battlefield.

Sakura was trembling.

One of the enemy kunoichi had a cruel grip on her hair—fingers tangled in the long pink strands, yanking her forward. The girl sneered, her voice mocking. “Your hair’s shinier than mine. Must be nice, having time to worry about how you look instead of learning how to fight.”

Sakura’s knees had given out, dirt grinding into her skin as she collapsed. Her eyes were screwed shut, tears slipping from the corners—quiet, shameful. She was afraid. So afraid. And yet—

Tobirama heard it. Felt it.

‘I have to protect them!’

Not a plea. A conviction.

In a blur of motion, she reached into her pouch with a shaking hand, fingers closing over the hilt of a kunai. Tobirama saw the split-second moment of decision—sharp, clean, irreversible.

She raised it to her own head.

And sliced.

The sound was sickeningly soft. A faint whisper of steel through strands. Her long hair fell in uneven clumps, drifting to the bloodstained earth like pale-pink petals on the wind.

Like cherry blossoms torn from their branch.

Tobirama’s breath caught.

Inori, beside him, gasped aloud.

But Tobirama couldn’t look away.

The gesture wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was raw, desperate, and brutally courageous. The act of a girl who had nothing left but her will. Her hands were still shaking, but her eyes were open now—wide, defiant. Beneath all the fear, something steady had begun to burn.

Tobirama’s gaze dropped to the cut strands on the ground, and an unexpected ache opened in his chest. Not for the hair. Not for its beauty.

But for what it meant.

This girl—this stubborn, relentless girl—had drawn a line in the dirt with a kunai and dared the world to cross it. She would give anything to protect the people she loved. Even her fear. Even her pride.

Even herself.

Door after door.

The memories shifted once more—jarring, sudden.

Now they stood atop a broad rooftop under a gray, brooding sky. The wind cut sharply between the buildings, but neither of the two boys before them seemed to feel it. Tobirama’s eyes swept the scene automatically—trained out of habit. High vantage. Minimal cover. Open ground. No escape routes. It was a battlefield disguised as a rooftop.

Sasuke stood tense, shoulders squared, fury twisting his features into something brittle and sharp. Lightning crackled in his right hand, the chakra chirping at a frequency that made the hairs on his arms rise. His eyes shone with a familiar red— Sharingan , Tobirama identified at once with his eyes narrowing.

Opposite him, the blond boy radiated raw chakra—wild, unrefined, dangerous. A glowing sphere pulsed in his palm, dense and powerful. 

They were just children. Children holding weapons that could kill.

Sakura was there too, near the edge—her presence too still, too silent. Until she moved. She stepped forward and screamed.

“Naruto! Sasuke-kun! Please stop!” Her voice cracked with desperation, piercing through the rising roar of jutsu. “Don’t do this!”

Neither boy flinched.

They lunged.

A flash of movement—chakra surging, light blinding. Their attacks drawn, their paths aligned. 

Sakura moved.

Without hesitation—without armor, without jutsu—she threw herself into their path. Her arms outstretched. A wall made of nothing but will.

Tobirama’s chest tightened. Foolish. His legs twitched, phantom urges to intercept, to shield her, to save her—but his body refused, bound by the rules of this shared memory.

And then—

A blur of silver and gravity-defying hair.

The masked shinobi appeared between them, his hands snapping forward with perfect precision. One on each boy’s wrist. Momentum halted. Lightning sputtered. The sphere of chakra fizzled into smoke. He flung them both apart like unruly children, the violence of their chakra dying with the wind.

Silence settled like dust.

Tobirama let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It left him cold.

He looked at Sakura—at the horror in her face, the tears welling in her eyes, the trembling in her limbs. She hadn’t even realized yet how close she’d come to being destroyed between them. Or perhaps she had, and didn’t care. She had only wanted them to stop. To live.

Foolish girl, he thought. And yet…

His gaze lingered on her as she stood there, fragile and aching.

She was stronger than they realized.

The next door opened up to silence and shadow.

Now it was night time.

They stood on a quiet road, Tobirama recognised to be somewhere on the outskirts of the village. Trees lined the path, and the moon cast a pale glow across the worn stones. A bench sat to the side—ordinary, unassuming. The kind of place one might pass a hundred times without notice.

But Tobirama noticed everything.

Especially her.

Sakura stood alone beneath the moonlight, breath catching as a figure in dark clothing stepped toward her from the shadows. Sasuke.

The tension was immediate, coiled like a tripwire. Tobirama recognized it in the boy’s stance, the deliberate way he moved, like a predator already decided on its course.

And still, she looked at him with that same open longing. No defense. No doubt.

The words spilled from her like a dam breaking.

"I love you with all my heart!" Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with conviction, aching sincerity. “Please… take me with you. I’ll even help you with your revenge!"

Tobirama went still.

That word—revenge—curled like poison in the air. It carried weight. A history too deep to name. And still, she offered herself. Not out of ignorance, he realized, but out of desperate hope. She knew the path he was walking and still reached for it, if only to walk beside him.

Sasuke turned, slowly. There was a smirk on his face. A sliver of something cruel hiding behind indifferent eyes.

“You’re annoying.”

The words were a knife. Cold and dismissive.

Tobirama saw her flinch. Her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen with disbelief. Then, in a blur of movement, Sasuke was behind her. No hand seals. No warning. Just the quiet snap of chakra and fingers to the pressure point at her neck.

Sakura’s eyes widened. Her lips parted—but no sound came. Her body crumpled.

Tobirama’s hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His jaw locked. He had seen battlefield executions less callous than that gesture.

Sasuke carried her to a bench and stood over her for a moment, unreadable. Then he turned and vanished into the trees, swallowed by shadow.

Tobirama was left in the stillness.

“Sakura…” Inori murmured from beside him. Her voice was laced with pity.

His eyes drifted to her limp form—slumped like discarded cloth. Her hair spilled across her shoulder. One hand dangled off the side, fingers brushing the earth. The tears streaking her face glowed underneath the moon’s light.

She had offered her heart… yet the boy hadn’t even looked back.

Tobirama exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, but tight with restrained emotion. There was no honor in what that boy had done. No compassion. No understanding of the weight of her offering or the pain of casting it aside. To him, it was the worst kind of cruelty. The kind done in silence, without even acknowledgment.

His gaze lingered on her longer in this memory than he meant to.

This girl who had once smiled so easily... Who had begged for another’s life before her own. Who had thrown herself, again and again, into the path of someone else's pain, believing, somehow, that she could shoulder it for them. That she could save someone already drowning in darkness.

And what did she receive for it? Nothing. Not even a backward glance.

Tobirama’s chest tightened, not just with anger, but with something quieter and deeper. A grief for how much of herself she had given away to those who never knew how to hold it. And a quiet, simmering resolve not to let her break like that again. 

Not if he had anything to do with it.

The scene shifted again with a tug deep in Tobirama’s chest. Chakra-smeared memory dissolved and reformed. This time in daylight.

Konoha’s gates stood tall ahead, unmoved by grief or war or love. But the girl in the center of it all was trembling.

Sakura.

Her arms were wrapped around herself in a tight clutch, as though trying to physically hold the pieces of herself together. Her shoulders shook under the weight of emotion, and tears slipped down her cheeks unchecked. Her voice wavered—thin, cracked.

“Naruto…” she breathed, eyes locked onto the boy in front of her. “This is my once in a lifetime request… Please… bring Sasuke-kun back to me.”

There were others around them—young shinobi, too young for the pain already written on their faces. A Hyuuga boy standing tense and silent. A black-haired boy—possibly a Nara—watching with unreadable eyes. An Inuzuka clenching his jaw. An Akimichi. All of them had gathered here. All of them had heard.

But it was Naruto who stood at the center of it.

And Tobirama couldn’t look away from the boy’s face.

Naruto’s grin came slow and soft—so fragile it seemed it might shatter under the weight of everything it tried to hold back. Pain. Loyalty. Longing. And something deeper still—devotion.

“You got it, Sakura-chan,” the boy said, one hand curling into a fist at his side, the other lifted in a firm, unwavering thumbs-up. “This will be my lifetime promise.”

Tobirama felt it like a blow to the chest.

Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way the boy said them—like they were carved from the core of him, meant with a weight that defied time, fate, and inevitability. No hesitation. No doubt. Just pure, unflinching devotion.

He turned his gaze toward Naruto, studying him with the clarity of a man who had seen many shinobi lie, posture, deceive. But there was no artifice here. The boy’s face was open—pain written across it in sharp lines, but softened by acceptance. His brows were drawn tight with grief, but his eyes… his eyes held nothing but steadfast determination. And love.

That was what struck Tobirama most of all.

This boy—wild, clumsy, loud—loved her.

Fiercely. Selflessly.

He had just been asked to bring another man back to her, and still, he had promised. Not for glory. Not for himself. But because it was what she wanted.

Tobirama’s throat felt oddly tight.

This was the kind of love that didn’t demand anything in return. The kind that stood quietly behind her, even if she never turned around to see it. 

Sakura looked up at him then, tears still wet on her cheeks, mouth trembling. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

‘Naruto…’ The thought flickered in the memory-space, carried on unspoken chakra. It was raw. Honest. Filled with something Tobirama couldn’t quite name—but he recognized it. That terrible, beautiful ache of watching someone you care for step into danger… because you asked them to.

And because they never needed asking in the first place.

The silence that followed was thick.

Tobirama stood in that echoing stillness, watching them.

Sakura’s pain. Naruto’s vow. The others surrounding them—bearing witness to a moment that would shape them all in ways they couldn’t yet see.

He said nothing. But something in his chest twisted.

This wasn’t just the girl he had come to know. This was a battlefield… of emotion, of loyalty, of love, littered with the wreckage of youth and the weight of impossible promises.

And she—this trembling, tear-streaked girl—had stood at its center, heart exposed, carrying it all as if she were meant to. As if breaking was never an option.

Tobirama looked at her, eyes sharp and somber, and thought grimly. 

You never did choose the easy path, did you?

Another door. Another memory.

This one opened into a quiet hospital room, washed in late afternoon light. Naruto lay in bed, wrapped in bandages and bruises but his spirit was somehow untouched. Undimmed.

Tobirama stood in the corner, watching the scene unfold.

Sakura appeared by the doorway, one hand clenched tightly in front of her chest, the other trembling slightly at her side. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry now. 

“Naruto…”

Naruto looked up at her, startled. “I’m sorry, Sakura-chan,” he said finally, voice hoarse, but steady. “I couldn’t bring him back this time.”

There was guilt in his expression—raw and unhidden. His eyes flickered with shame, shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of that failure. But even through it, his determination remained—unshaken. He was already bracing himself for the next battle. The next chance.

“But I promise you,” he said, voice rising with conviction, “next time, I’ll bring Sasuke home!”

Sakura didn’t speak at first. She stood frozen in the doorway, her shoulders trembling under the weight of things unspoken. Then—

‘Naruto, it’s my fault… I’m sorry for being weak.’

The words never left her mouth, but Tobirama heard them—clear and raw, echoing through the memory like a ripple in still water. They came from deep within her, unguarded and vulnerable.

And then, aloud, she whispered, “Next time we’ll do it together. I won’t be a burden anymore.” Her voice shook at first, then steadied into steel. “I’ll get stronger. I promise.”

Tobirama’s gaze lingered on her, watching as she turned and stepped out of the room, spine straighter than before. He didn’t doubt her—not for a second.

Because even back then, broken and grieving and uncertain, she had still chosen resolve. Still chosen to move forward.

The door creaked open with the hush of memory, and the moment unfolded into one Tobirama hadn’t expected.

A sunlit office. Paperwork stacked in controlled chaos. The air carried the scent of ink, old wood, and camellia balm. And there—behind the Hokage’s desk—sat a woman with golden hair swept into twin tails, her arms resting casually on the table, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.

Tobirama’s breath caught in his throat.

Tsunade.

She looked like her grandmother and nothing like her at once—youthful, sharp-eyed, and battle-worn in a way only a healer could be. Power radiated off her like heat. Not raw like Hashirama’s had been, but refined, tempered, dangerous. And she was watching Sakura like a hawk.

Tobirama felt Inori shift beside him in the mindscape, her chakra flickering with quiet curiosity. She didn’t speak. Neither of them did.

Sakura stood in the center of the office, uncharacteristically formal. There was no hesitation in her spine now. No tears. Only resolve. Tobirama recognized that tension in her jaw, the subtle lift of her chin. She was bracing for rejection, prepared to plead—but determined not to beg.

“Please,” she said, stepping forward. “Make me your apprentice.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

Tsunade raised a single golden brow, and for a moment, silence stretched long between them. The woman studied her with open scrutiny, gaze trailing over the pink hair, the small frame, the delicate fingers curled at her side.

Tobirama stood still, his gaze fixed on Tsunade. He knew that look in her eyes—sharp, measuring, unyielding. She was weighing Sakura’s worth, not just as a shinobi, but as someone who dared to step into her legacy.

After a while, Tsunade leaned back slightly in her chair. Her mouth pursed into something dry, almost amused.

“Hmph,” she said at last. “Haruno Sakura. I’ve been told by Kakashi that you have a strong will.”

Sakura blinked.

Tsunade’s eyes softened by the smallest margin and her lips twitched upwards into a small smile. “Very well. I accept.”

There was no fanfare. No ceremony. But something shifted in the air around them. A line had been crossed. A seed planted.

Tobirama looked at Sakura again—at the quiet triumph in her face, the breath of relief she quickly suppressed.

You always chased strength, he thought. Even when no one else believed you could have it.

There was so much she hadn’t said.

But in that moment, she hadn’t needed to.

Scene after scene flickered past like torn pages in a chronicle written in sweat, blood, and relentless will.

This was no battlefield—but it might as well have been.

Tobirama stood at the edge of the memory, watching as Sakura’s form blurred through repetition and pain. The setting was always the same. A cleared field behind the hospital, sun-drenched and scorched from chakra impact. The air shimmered with heat and the faint metallic tang of blood. Tsunade towered before her—not by stature, but by presence. She was unrelenting. Demanding. Every order clipped. Every strike precise.

“Again,” she barked. “Put your weight in your legs. Focus your chakra!”

Sakura’s breath came in ragged gasps. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up from the ground. Her left wrist was bent at an unnatural angle—broken. Her lip split. Dirt and blood streaked across her face, her hair matted and tangled with sweat.

But she didn’t pause. She didn’t cry.

Her hands glowed faintly green as she began to set the bone herself, eyes narrowed in concentration, even through the tremor of pain. Tobirama could see the micro-adjustments in her chakra—delicate and meticulous. She had learned precision. Learned it with pain.

And once her wrist was mended enough, she leapt forward again. Fists clenched. Feet sure.

Tsunade didn’t hold back. Her fist struck like a hammer, and Sakura flew backward, skidding across the ground. Dust plumed around her body, but she did not stay down. She spat blood to the side. Her chest heaved.

Then, slowly—deliberately—she stood.

‘I have to be the one to protect them!’ her thoughts rang out. ‘I don’t want to be a burden anymore!’

Her chakra surged—bright and defiant. It wavered with inexperience, but the core of it burned steady.

“She’s amazing,” Inori murmured beside him, her voice soft with awe.

The words lingered in the air, but Tobirama barely registered them. Because he saw it too, felt it in his bones even. That raw, reckless drive. It was the same fire he’d once seen in Hashirama’s eyes—the need to become more than anyone ever expected, to carve out purpose with bloodied hands and sheer will alone.

He watched as Sakura stumbled, only to push forward again, fists trembling but still raised. Her eyes burned—not with fear, but with defiance. With storm-bright resolve.

This pain… is nothing, she had told herself.

The memory shifted with a jolt as they entered through the next door. Cold stone walls. A cavern deep underground, filled with the clatter of metal and the stench of poison.

Tobirama’s senses sharpened.

He knew immediately this was no ordinary enemy. The air was saturated with malice, and the chakra signature of their opponent—precise, controlled, inhuman.

Sakura stood at the center of it all, eyes narrowed, body coiled with tension. At her side was an elderly kunoichi—stooped but fierce—her chakra threads dancing like strands of glass through the air. A puppeteer. The name came to him a moment later. Chiyo.

Across from them stood a red-haired shinobi—young in appearance but wrong in every other sense. His eyes were devoid of life. A black cloak with red clouds draped over his frame like the shroud of a corpse. Sasori.

Tobirama’s gaze flicked to Sakura.

She moved with precision. Deliberate. Every breath, every shift in her stance calculated. Her chakra flared bright with each punch—raw power harnessed beneath control hard-won through brutal training. When her fist collided with the mass of iron sand hurtling toward her, the impact echoed like thunder. Chakra surged through her arm, focused and unrelenting, and the entire construct exploded under the force of her strike—twisting back on itself and crashing toward Sasori with devastating momentum.

The cavern walls shuddered, then cracked, great slabs of stone splintering and collapsing as the shockwave tore through the chamber. Dust and debris filled the air, but at the center of it all stood Sakura—fist still clenched, breath steady, eyes blazing.

Chunks of stone flew in all directions as the cavern groaned under the force of her strike. The iron sand had barely scattered before she was moving again—fluid, focused, unstoppable.

Red-cloaked puppets lunged toward her, dozens of them at once, each glinting with hidden blades and poison-tipped edges. But Sakura met them not with hesitation, but with elegance honed through grit. She twisted low beneath a sweeping arm, her heel pivoting with precision before she drove her fist into the puppet’s chest. Wood and metal crumpled like paper.

Another came from behind—silent, fast—but Sakura turned with the grace of a dancer, fist slamming upward in a precise arc. The puppet shattered mid-air, fragments raining down around her like falling ash.

Tobirama watched, eyes sharp and unmoving.

He had seen taijutsu before. Practiced. Perfected. Mastered by many. But what Sakura wielded was something else entirely. Her movements weren’t just powerful—they were intentional. Measured. Beautiful in their devastation. Each strike was rooted in a deep understanding of the body—of chakra control, of timing, of anatomical precision. She didn’t waste motion. She didn’t hesitate.

And still, through the storm of destruction, there was a clarity in her expression—a calm in her fury that only came from someone who knew exactly what she was fighting for.

Destruction made graceful.

Yet what struck him more than her strength was her clarity —her ability to read patterns in battle, to predict movements, to react without hesitation. She wasn’t just surviving. She was matching Sasori—blow for blow, trap for trap—with a puppet master whose hands never trembled and whose weapons were soaked in poison.

And when Chiyo faltered—when the threads tangled and Sasori slipped through, blade aimed straight for the old woman’s heart—Sakura moved without thought.

Tobirama’s breath caught.

Chiyo turned, just slightly, eyes wide and mouth parted in a silent gasp as Sakura threw herself in the puppet’s path.

The katana plunged through her side with a sickening crunch, the blade emerging from her abdomen, slick with blood. 

Tobirama’s eyes widened a fraction and Inori gasped from beside him.

Time froze around her. The blade still inside her. Her hands trembling.

In that instant, Tobirama’s mind flashed back sharply to another moment, seared into his memory. The time Sakura had taken a blade meant for Koharu. That same fierce, selfless courage burned in her eyes now—unyielding, relentless. Even in pain, she refused to break.

And then—she smiled.

“I’m okay,” she managed through gritted teeth, sweat dripping down her brow. “Are you alright, Chiyo-baasama?”

The cavern lit with the pale green of her chakra as she healed the wound while the katana was still stuck in her, even while blood spilled freely from her wound and mouth. Still standing. Still protecting.

Tobirama’s jaw clenched, his hands fisting at his sides.

There was no jutsu that could measure this. No seal that could quantify the strength it took to choose pain—again and again—for someone else’s sake.

She was a medic, yes. A warrior, clearly. But more than that, she was a shield. A blade drawn not for herself, but for everyone around her.

Tobirama looked at her, bleeding and steady and unbowed , and saw not recklessness. He saw conviction.

And for reasons he couldn’t name, it terrified him.

The memory shifted again. The flicker of torches against canvas. The subtle rustle of cloth in the wind.

A medical tent—sparse, dimly lit. The scent of salves and dried blood lingered faintly in the air. Outside, muffled footsteps and murmurs spoke of wariness. Inside, Sakura stood hunched forward, shoulders tight, hands gripping the hem of her skirt as if it might anchor her in place.

Opposite her stood a pale man with dark eyes, black hair cut bluntly around his face. The man spoke with the cool, clinical tone of someone trained to deliver truth with precision, not kindness.

“Even I can tell that Naruto is in love with you.”

The words dropped like stones into water—disrupting the silence, rippling out.

Sakura flinched. She didn’t speak. Her head dipped lower, chin trembling. Then she broke—tears spilling freely, shoulders hitching as sobs tore from her chest in raw, painful bursts.

Inori’s breath hitched quietly beside him. Her hand came up to press against her collarbone, fingers curled into a tight fist.

Tobirama couldn’t tear his gaze from Sakura.

The man’s voice, still measured, pressed forward. “It seems Naruto bears that cross of a promise to you… and plans to for the rest of his life. I don’t know what you said to Naruto, but it feels exactly like what I have.”

He stepped closer.

“Like a curse mark.”

Sakura’s sobs only deepened. Her entire body shook with it, like something inside had splintered. Her hands covered her face now, as if to hide from the weight of Sai’s words or from herself.

Tobirama’s jaw clenched.

The expression on her face… it wasn’t just sadness.

It was devastation.

Shame bled across her features—so naked and unguarded it made something cold coil in Tobirama’s chest. Her sobs had turned quiet now, but her body remained bowed, as if she couldn't lift her head beneath the weight of her own regret.

Tobirama had seen shinobi broken by war, by loss, by failure. But there was something different about this. More insidious. This wasn’t a battlefield wound—it was a quiet, self-inflicted grief.

And he hated it.

Hated the sight of her like this—small, haunted, lost. Hated that she had tried to carry a burden no one had asked her to bear. Hated how she hadn’t said a word in her own defense.

He wanted to reach into that moment. To say something. Anything. But the memory was already dissolving.

And still, that image lingered—the glimmer of tears on her cheeks, the slump of her shoulders, and the echo of the man’s words.

“Like a curse mark.”

Snow drifted softly across the open plain, blanketing the world in white silence. The sky was a cold, flat gray, mirroring the stillness of the figures gathered there.

Sakura stood across from Naruto, her breath fogging in the frozen air. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides underneath her cloak. Around them, several shinobi watched from a distance—tense, uncertain. Tobirama stood among them, but his gaze never left her.

There was something unnatural in the way she held herself—too straight, too composed, as if bracing for an impact.

“Naruto…” she began, her voice soft, trembling just enough for Tobirama to hear. “I want to free you from that burden of a promise.”

Naruto stared at her. The usual fire in his eyes had dimmed—no anger, just disbelief and quiet, bitter hurt. His fists clenched, arms trembling at his sides.

Tobirama watched his expression harden with each word Sakura forced herself to say.

Sakura reached out hesitantly, her hands trembling as they found Naruto’s arms. Before he could react, she pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I’ve stopped loving Sasuke-kun,” she went on, the words stiff on her tongue, like they didn’t belong to her. “I love you now, Naruto.”

A pause. Snowflakes caught in her lashes. She didn’t blink them away.

Tobirama studied her. He saw the way her fingers tightened, the slight tremor in her jaw.

It was a lie. A desperate, protective lie.

And Naruto knew it.

Before she could finish, Naruto stepped back slightly, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and pushed her back. His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking and intense.

“I hate people who lie to themselves,” Naruto said flatly, his voice low but cutting. The words hung in the cold air like a blade.

Sakura flinched, barely perceptibly. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened slightly—no answer came.

In that moment, Tobirama understood what she was trying to do. She wasn’t confessing out of love. She was trying to take Naruto’s pain, his impossible promise, and bear it herself. She had tried to sever him from his vow the only way she thought he would accept.

And still, it had failed.

This was not just guilt. It was atonement . She had made a choice—a desperate one—to stop Naruto from hurting himself in his pursuit of a boy who had long since walked away. But in trying to protect him, she had wounded him too. And herself.

The snow continued to fall. Sakura stood frozen in place, a fragile silhouette in the white field, her shoulders slowly curling inward.

She hadn’t moved.

She hadn’t defended herself.

She just stood there and took it.

Tobirama’s hands curled into fists. The quiet around them felt heavy—sharp-edged with things unsaid. Watching her then—her lie rejected, her effort misunderstood—he felt something gnaw deep in his chest.

How many times had she done this? Chosen the path of pain, of sacrifice, and carried it alone?

He couldn’t look away.

The air was thick with fog and dread. Broken concrete jutted from the collapsed bridge like shattered ribs, and the sky hung low with the weight of something inevitable. Sakura stood at the edge, a single figure in pink facing the abyss that had once been Uchiha Sasuke.

Tobirama and Inori stood in spectral stillness on the edge of the memory, silent observers, their presence unseen by those playing out the past.

Sasuke’s dark eyes were hollow with wrath, the Mangekyou burning crimson in the haze. Blood dripped down his eyes.

“I came to talk,” Sakura said, her voice trembling but resolute. “Let me come with you.”

Tobirama’s brows furrowed at that, his crimson eyes narrowing. Inori shifted uncomfortably, her arms drawn tight around herself.

“You want to come with me?” Sasuke echoed, almost scoffing. “To help me with my revenge?”

His words were laced with venom, and Sakura faltered for a moment. But she nodded. “If this is what you’ve chosen, then I’ll follow you. I want to understand.”

“I don’t need understanding,” he sneered. “I need vengeance. I’ll destroy Konoha.”

Those words struck Sakura like a blow. Her breath caught. 

Tobirama’s jaw clenched tightly as a cold, familiar dread settled over him. He had heard such promises before—words forged in pain and hatred, spoken by those consumed by their thirst for revenge. In that moment, Sasuke didn’t just remind him of a wayward youth; he seemed almost like Uchiha Madara reborn—unyielding, relentless, and willing to burn everything to ashes to make his point.

The weight of that realization pressed heavily on Tobirama’s shoulders. If Sasuke’s path remained unchecked, the village faced a threat not just of destruction, but of losing itself to the shadows of vengeance.

“And you’re fine with that,” Sasuke started, a cruel tilt to his head, “then prove it by killing her.”

He stepped aside, revealing a red-haired woman—injured, gasping, eyes wide with betrayal and fear.

Sakura froze. Her hand trembled as she drew a kunai. 

The memory thickened, the emotions so raw even Tobirama felt the sting of it. Inori's face crumpled as she murmured to herself, “No…”

But Sakura couldn’t do it. Even as she approached the red-haired woman on the ground, she hesitated.

And Sasuke saw it.

In a flash, Chidori sparked to life in his palm. The noise was deafening, the killing intent unmistakable. He lunged.

Tobirama took a reflexive step forward before remembering—this was the past. He could not stop it.

But Kakashi did.

He appeared in an instant, intercepting the blow, their chakra clashing violently. Sasuke snarled, Sharingan spinning, and launched into a furious battle with his former sensei.

Sakura stumbled back, eyes wide with horror.

'I have to end this myself,' she thought, and her voice echoed through the mindscape, 'I don't want Kakashi-sensei to carry this burden for me.'

She rushed to the woman, healing her despite the blood soaking her own hands. Then, quietly, she took the kunai again and crept behind Sasuke as he clashed with Kakashi.

She hesitated.

But he didn’t.

In a blur, he whirled and seized her by the throat.

Tobirama flinched.

Sasuke yanked her forward, her kunai now in his grip—and aimed it toward her neck. Time slowed. A burst of yellow tore through the mist.

Naruto.

He caught her just in time, eyes blazing with fury and heartbreak.

As Sakura collapsed into Naruto’s arms, gasping and dazed, Tobirama and Inori stood watching in silence.

Only Sakura’s thoughts remained, a whispering echo.

‘This is my burden. Mine to end. Not theirs...’

Tobirama’s expression darkened, his voice low. “That boy… was aiming to kill her.”

“She thought she could save him,” Inori whispered, voice cracking. “She always thought she could.”

The ground was a scorched wasteland. Smoke coiled into the skies like serpents, and chakra pulses rattled the very air. All around, explosions boomed like thunder. The remnants of great jutsu littered the terrain—craters, splintered stone.

Tobirama and Inori stood atop a broken cliff within Sakura’s mind, specters in a memory not their own.

And then Tobirama froze.

His eyes locked on a cluster of figures in the distance, standing atop a high ridge shrouded in flame-hued mist—four men, cloaked in strange garments with familiar blackened cracks running across their skin.

Edo Tensei.

And then, he saw himself.

His own face. His own armor. His own stance. Reanimated.

“...How?” he breathed, cold and disbelieving.

His voice was taut with revulsion and something deeper, buried. Horror. He barely heard Inori's startled gasp beside him.

Hashirama—his brother— stood next to the other him, smiling with maddening serenity. Beside them were two more strangers. An elderly man in armor, aged and weary and a blond male with a cloak marked by swirling red flames that read ‘Yondaime Hokage.’

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. Who used my technique? Who dared summon us?

The implications flooded him like ice water. Who turned it loose on the battlefield? Who distorted its purpose?

He forced himself to look away as the memory shifted again, drawing them toward the heart of it.

Below them, Sakura stood behind Naruto. Her palms glowed with green healing chakra, closing the last of his wounds with practiced precision. Not a scratch remained on him—he looked whole again, glowing faintly with residual chakra.

Naruto got up easily, no longer in pain.

“Sakura-chan,” he said, sincere and steady, “thank you for healing me. Now it’s your turn to rest.”

Before she could reply, turned away and launched upward toward the summit, where Sasuke waited with cool, distant eyes.

Sakura didn’t move. She simply watched them, lips pressed tight, heart pounding.

Tobirama could feel the emotion roll off her memory like heat from the ground.

And then her thoughts echoed through the space, sharp and solemn.

‘I will no longer be the one watching your backs.’

She stood. In a single motion, she launched upward, her chakra flaring beneath her sandals, and soared to land beside them.

Then—chaos.

The memory burst into motion. The battlefield roared with renewed intensity as monstrous creatures surged, charging across the broken plains. Shinobi clashed steel and chakra to claws.

This was war, Tobirama surmised grimly. 

And Sakura was in it.

She dashed into the fray. The earth cracked beneath her heels. Her strength carved a path through the enemy ranks.

She never hesitated. Never wavered.

Tobirama watched as the diamond on her forehead erupt for the first time and gleamed.

Her chakra expanded like a living tide, empowering, radiating destruction and rebirth in equal measure.

She charged once more, her movements effortless, terrifying in their grace. One punch and it sent the creature three times her size flying. She jumped and launched herself into the air and decimated the battlefield.

Tobirama couldn't look away.

The battlefield slowed again. The dust settled. And there she stood—unbent, unwavering—beside Naruto and Sasuke. Her gaze unflinching as she surveyed the field.

And in her heart, her voice spoke again. ‘Tsunade-sama… I’ve finally caught up to them.’

A wind stirred the battlefield, lifting ash and light into the sky. Tobirama stood in silence. His earlier skepticism was gone, stripped away by the sight before him.

And for the first time he could not hide the pride that flickered behind his eyes.

The memory shifted again.

Gone was the battlefield, the screams and smoke and broken ground. The air was still—thick with a different kind of tension.

Tobirama’s gaze followed as the memory settled.

And there—Sakura.

Older now. Hair longer. The weight of battle no longer on her shoulders, but in her eyes. She stood at the gates of the village, dusk painting the trees in muted amber. Her hands were clasped together in front of her—uncertain, almost shy. Kakashi stood not far behind, hands tucked into his pants, silent and watchful.

Sasuke faced away from them, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his cloak. His pack was slung over one shoulder. He was leaving.

Again.

Sakura took a step forward. Her voice was soft, tentative. “If I came with you…” she began, cheeks tinged with pink, “would that be okay?”

Tobirama, observing from the veil of her memory, sensed the hope in her—the quiet vulnerability threaded through her question.

Sasuke didn’t turn at first. His answer was quiet but firm. “My sins have nothing to do with you.”

The air seemed to deflate from her body. Her shoulders dipped ever so slightly, head hung and her smile faded, though she tried to hold it. The rejection wasn’t cruel but it cut all the same.

Then, he turned. He stepped close. And gently—almost awkwardly—he reached out and pressed two fingers to her forehead.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

Sakura’s eyes widened, breath catching in her throat. Her hands trembled at her sides. She watched him go, lips parted, unable to speak—but her heart was soaring.

Tobirama could feel it—her joy, bright and earnest, radiating through the memory.

He shifted slightly where he stood within her mindscape, frowning faintly. Not in disapproval, but with the quiet confusion of someone trying to understand a type of pain and hope he had never let himself feel.

A dimly lit room, shadows flickering against the walls as evening settled in. Sakura’s hand found Sasuke’s, fingers intertwining hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty. Quiet laughter filled the space between them—nervous, tentative, but genuine.

Their bodies moved slowly, exploring boundaries neither fully understood. Lips brushed against skin in gentle, searching touches, breaths mingling in the hush of the room. Fabrics loosened, fingers tangled not just with cloth but with the vulnerability they barely dared to show. Moments of uncertainty gave way to something raw and unguarded—a tentative dance toward connection.

Tobirama stood just beyond the edge of the memory, his presence unseen, a silent witness to this private world unfolding before him. His jaw tightened, throat constricting with an ache he struggled to name.

He had no words. No way to interrupt, no right to intrude. Only a visceral instinct—a desperate urge to look away, to shield himself from the delicate, painful truth of their closeness.

With a flick of thought, he turned away and walked out the door. The final image—a pale hand on bare shoulder—flickered out.

But the air remained heavy.

Behind that mental door, there were still whispers of movement. The rustle of cloth. Breath caught between mouths. Half-spoken names.

And Tobirama, though untouched, felt the heat of it linger on his skin.

He exhaled slowly.

Not from disgust, nor from anger. But something quieter. Harder to name.

It took him a moment to realize his hands were curled into fists.

A sun-drenched road stretched toward the gates of Konoha. The trees rustled in a summer wind. It should have been a peaceful scene.

But Sakura stood there, arms limp at her sides, facing Sasuke.

His cloak fluttered behind him. The shadow of his old crimes no longer weighed on him the way it once had—but it lingered, woven into his silence, into the distance in his gaze.

She was speaking. Quietly. Honestly.

“I could come with you,” she said, her voice even, her smile small and tired. “We’ve walked through worse.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Not cold. Not cruel. But with resolve.

“There’s something I still have to do,” he said. “Alone.”

He didn’t say more than that. And he didn’t touch her forehead this time. Only a small nod of farewell.

She gave one in return—barely a tilt of her chin—but her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her breath hitched once, but she didn’t let it show.

Not fully.

Tobirama watched the moment hold—and then fracture—as Sasuke turned and walked away into the trees, sunlight flickering between the leaves as he disappeared.

The memory dissolved into silence.

Music drifted through the air.

Laughter. Lanterns. Sakura wore a pale green dress, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears. She stood among villagers, clapping, smiling—graceful and composed.

Naruto and a Hyuuga woman stood at the center of it all, bathed in soft candlelight. Their hands were linked. Their eyes shone.

The crowd roared with joy, but Sakura’s applause was gentle. Polite. And her smile was a practiced thing—warm enough to pass, soft enough to hide behind.

Tobirama noticed the way she didn’t blink for too long. The way her gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the couple. Far, far away.

She didn’t cry. But she wasn’t there. Not really. Within her own memory, she stood like an island in the middle of the sea.

He understood it now.

This was not the heartbreak of rejection or longing. It was the quiet ache of watching someone else reach happiness while choosing to carry your sorrow alone.

A silence followed. Not the absence of sound—but the kind that filled the soul. Heavy. Unshakable.

And Tobirama, standing unseen in the mind of a woman who had once felt like a mystery to him, understood more than he wished he did.

She had loved deeply. Given quietly. And carried her pain with dignity.

She had been left behind.

And still—she had remained.

The world shifted again.

Gone were the wedding lanterns and laughter. In their place, a small, dimly lit room lined wall to wall with books and scrolls. Piles of parchment cluttered the desk, ink bottles nearly dry, and a low table lamp lit the space.

The air was still, like time itself had held its breath here.

Tobirama stepped into the space slowly, quietly, as if any noise might disturb the memory. His gaze swept over the scrolls first. Familiar markings. Meticulous notes. His own name—Senju Tobirama—inked neatly in half-filled journals. Diagrams of the Hiraishin technique were pinned to the walls, annotated in fine script. Beside them, complex theories layered with chakra flow equations, sealing matrices, displacement hypotheses.

It was all his work… or attempts to understand it.

But it wasn’t his room.

It was Sakura’s.

And there she was. Hunched over the desk, arms crossed beneath her head, a small ink smudge on her cheek. Her pink hair was tucked behind one ear, strands falling loose with the weight of exhaustion. A book lay open beside her, pages marked with fine corrections. Notes scrawled into the margins. Some of them questioning his work. Others trying to refine it.

She’d fallen asleep mid-study, her pen still in hand.

Tobirama approached her slowly, his eyes narrowing—not in irritation, but in thought. In silence.

The room was heavy with solitude. Not the kind chosen by hermits or researchers, but the kind that settled in over time like dust. As if the world outside had moved on without her, and in its absence, she'd filled every quiet hour with formulas and chakra theories.

There were no pictures. No letters. Just scrolls.

Then something caught his eye—a half-unrolled scroll pinned near the edge of the desk, separate from the rest. It wasn’t a simple copy of his Hiraishin equations.

No… this was new.

Carefully, Tobirama bent closer, reading the fine, flowing script.

“Field-to-hospital transport via sealed marker. Medical stasis activation during temporal suspension window to stabilize critical patients. Hiraishin application must prioritize chakra signature anchoring, not combat.”

Another line, jotted hastily in red ink.

“If I can hold them in place—just for a few seconds—long enough to treat catastrophic injuries mid-transport…”

And beneath it, in softer handwriting.

“What if this could save lives before they’re lost?”

Tobirama’s gaze lingered on the scroll.

It wasn’t about mastering the jutsu.

It was about healing.

All this time, her research into the Hiraishin hadn’t been for prestige. Or power. Or escape. It had been for others. To reforge one of the most sacred techniques in history into something that could save lives in an instant. To bring the battlefield to the hospital—and the dying into the hands of medics before death could reach them.

She wasn’t just trying to prove herself.

She was trying to make sure no one else was left behind.

The realization struck like a cold wind.

And then the rest of the room returned to him. The hollow quiet. The long hours. The flickering of the table lamp. The single figure hunched in the center of it all, carrying her resolve alone.

It struck him again—not as deduction, but as truth.

Sakura had grown up always wanting to be useful. She had built herself out of necessity. Out of silence. Out of fear. And she was deathly afraid of being left behind.

Tobirama drew a breath—but it caught halfway. He stared at her sleeping form, bathed in flickering light, and felt something shift beneath his sternum.

Not pity.

Recognition.

This kind of quiet suffering—the compulsion to justify one’s place in the world—was one he knew too well.

The memory began to fade around him as he walked out of the room. The walls dimmed. The light flickered.

But the image of her—the woman alone in a room filled with echoes and intention—remained etched in his mind. She had spent years building her worth in silence, striving to prove herself, her every effort unnoticed by those she cared for.

And yet, despite all she had done, she felt like no one had noticed.

Tobirama’s chest tightened. He knew now, without a doubt, that she had always felt left behind. Abandoned. There, in that quiet room, it was clear—she had poured everything into being useful, into being worthy of the very people who had never truly seen her.

The memory of her walking away, him not saying a word, played over in his mind. He had allowed it. He hadn’t even tried to stop her. He had let her walk away, without offering the comfort, the acknowledgment she had so desperately needed. 

And in that moment, Tobirama realised, he had abandoned her too.

They closed the door behind them in heavy silence. 

“I think we’re getting close,” Inori said softly, her voice barely a breath.

The air was thick with a strange tension as Tobirama and Inori approached the final door. It stood before them, cracked open just enough to hint at the unknown darkness beyond. The familiar pulse of Sakura’s mind, once vivid and chaotic, had now grown silent. There was an oppressive weight to it, a sense of something deep—something hidden—awaiting them.

Tobirama paused before the door, studying the crack. His expression was unreadable. He had become quiet, pensive. This final door was unlike the others they had encountered—this one felt different. Personal.

“I’ll go alone,” Tobirama finally said, his voice steady, though there was something quiet behind the words. “Stay here.”

Inori didn’t argue. She had come to understand his need for solitude, especially in moments like this. She simply nodded, stepping back to allow him space to move forward.

With a single step, Tobirama entered through the gap, pushing the door open. The door creaked closed behind him, and a deep chill settled in his bones. The floor beneath him seemed to give way to an expanse of water—dark and endless—rippling in slow waves that reflected no light. The surface was black, almost reflective, and the oppressive weight of the water stretched on into an abyss.

Tobirama’s feet made little sound as they met the water’s surface. The deeper he ventured, the more surreal the world around him felt. Time itself seemed to distort as the water rose higher around him, thick and heavy with silence. Each step took him further into the void.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew he had to keep going.

And then, in the murky distance, he saw her.

There, crouched in the water, was Sakura. Her legs were drawn to her chest, knees pulled up tightly, her arms wrapped around them in a defensive manner. Her head hung low, her pink hair darkened by the shadow of her posture. Her eyes—those bright, determined eyes—were now hollow, staring vacantly ahead. There was no light in them. No fire.

No life.

Tobirama felt a pang deep in his chest as he approached her, his footfalls soft against the water, every movement feeling like an intrusion.

“Sakura,” he called out, his voice steady, but heavy with the weight of the moment.

Her head lifted slowly, eyes empty. She stared at him, unblinking, with an expression so blank it cut through him like a blade. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even react.

Tobirama stopped just short of her, unsure for a brief moment how to approach this. She had been through so much, seen so much. He could feel the suffocating weight of everything she had endured, everything she had hidden away behind her work, behind her resolve. The enormity of it was choking.

“I understand now,” Tobirama said, his voice low—measured, but no longer distant. He dropped to one knee before her, the water lapping soundlessly around them. His gaze held hers, unwavering. “You were never just trying to prove your strength. You were just trying not to be forgotten.”

He drew a slow breath, and something flickered in his eyes—guilt, quiet and sharp.

“You’ve carried the weight alone for far too long. Always giving, always chasing the place where you wouldn’t be left behind.” A beat. “I saw it. All of it. And I was no different.”

The words came heavier then, edged with something raw. “When you walked away… I let you. I told myself it was your choice. But the truth is… I didn’t want to face what I was feeling.”

He looked down for the briefest moment, then back at her—steadier now. “I see you, Sakura. I should have seen you sooner. I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flickered. For just a moment, something like recognition sparked in them. Something fragile. Something human.

And then it broke.

Her face twisted in a silent cry, and the floodgates opened. Tears streamed down her face, but not a sound escaped her. It was as if her very soul had cracked, and all the pain, all the loneliness, all the fear she had bottled up over the years poured out in an anguished flood.

Tobirama’s heart ached at the sight. Without thinking, he reached out, drawing her into an embrace. Her body trembled in his arms, and he could feel the weight of her pain as she collapsed into him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. There were no words that could fix this. No words that could undo the years of suffering she had lived through.

He simply held her, his arms steady and strong, offering the only comfort he could in this fractured moment.

And slowly, as her body trembled in his embrace, she began to fade, disappearing into the darkness like smoke on the wind. Her figure dissolved, the light in her eyes dimming, until there was nothing left but the silence.

Tobirama sat back, his gaze lingering where she had been just a moment ago. His chest felt heavy, but the ache was different now, somehow more final. He stood, turning away from the empty space that had once held her.

He walked back to where he had entered, the water closing in around his feet, and finally reached the door.

Outside, Inori was waiting. She looked at him, her expression soft with the question she hadn't yet voiced, but Tobirama answered before she could ask.

“It’s over,” Tobirama said, his voice low, the usual sharpness replaced with a quiet exhaustion. He turned toward the door. “We’re done here.”

Inori hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly. She opened her mouth to speak, but something in his gaze silenced her.

“No questions,” Tobirama said, his gaze unwavering, his tone stern. “Keep all of this that you’ve seen to yourself. Not a word to anyone.”

Inori studied him for a long moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. She could see the weight of what had happened in his eyes, in the way his posture had shifted.

“I understand,” she said, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in her voice. She followed him as he stepped through the door, and it closed quietly behind them.

The room where they had stood in Sakura’s mind seemed to dissolve, the water fading into the distance like a forgotten dream. As the last remnants of the memories slipped away, Inori focused, her hands weaving subtle, unseen threads to guide them back. The oppressive weight of the water, the silence, the darkness—everything melted away, leaving only the faint hum of reality.

Tobirama felt the shift, the sharp pull back to the real world, the familiar warmth of the air, the quiet hum of the environment around them. The weight of Sakura’s mind lifted from his shoulders, though the ache remained.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet of the space around them was a stark contrast to the heavy silence they'd just left behind. Their gaze now lingered on Sakura’s still form. Waiting. Hoping. 

Inori stood beside Tobirama, her posture tense, eyes flickering to the girl with unspoken hope. Her hands were still faintly trembling, chakra ebbing from her fingertips like mist.

Then slowly, Sakura’s lashes stirred.

Her brow creased ever so slightly before her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, pupils dilated from the long mental strain. She blinked again. And her gaze found them.

A sharp breath hitched in her chest.

“Sakura…” Inori breathed, relief evident in her tone.

Tobirama didn’t speak. He only watched her, arms at his sides, posture controlled, but his eyes were not cold.

Then, Sakura’s expression crumpled. Her throat bobbed with the effort of restraint. Her lips parted, trembling, and her eyes filled with tears that did not fall.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible. “Tobirama… I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t guilt that laced her voice—it was heartbreak. A raw confession from someone who had spent too long in silence, finally exposed and seen.

Tobirama’s expression was unreadable but not unfeeling. He looked at her for a long breath, as though weighing the pain in her voice against everything they had lived and lost. Then, without a word, he reached out. His hand hovered briefly—hesitant, deliberate—before settling on her cheek, warm, solid and comforting.

His voice, when it came, was softer than she had ever heard it.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, gaze steady on hers. “Not to me.”

A pause, heavy with meaning.

“I should have stopped you,” he added, more quietly, the admission low and rough at the edges. “I should have known what it meant when I let you leave. I see it now.”

His thumb brushed gently, almost imperceptibly, wiping away a lone tear that she had shed.

“You were never a burden. You never needed to carry everything alone.”

Sakura’s breath caught, and something fragile flickered in her eyes.

In that quiet space between heartbeats, Tobirama didn’t move. He simply held her face, anchoring her. Neither of them noticed Inori quietly excusing herself, knowing that they needed this moment to themselves. 

And for the first time, Sakura let herself lean into him—fully, unguardedly.

Her tears finally spilled over. 

And still, he didn’t look away.

Chapter Text

The silence of her home had grown familiar. Three days had passed since Sakura had woken up from her coma, and yet the emptiness in the quiet hours weighed more than any wound. Tobirama had ordered her to rest, his tone brooking no argument—and when she dared to protest, the single cold stare he gave her had frozen the words in her throat. Since then, she’d been stuck at home, reflecting, ruminating, remembering.

Truthfully, she had nothing better to do but think.

She thought of her body, finally beginning to feel like her own again. It still felt weak, most likely from muscle wastage after nearly a month of inactivity. Sakura knew she would have to rebuild her strength as soon as she could if she wanted to feel like herself again. She thought of the strange feeling in her chest, like something had been lifted. 

But also of the way Tobirama hadn’t come to see her, not once—not in person. But twice a day, without fail, someone would appear at her door with food. She knew who sent them. That was just like him to care for her from a distance.

Kagami and Hiruzen had stopped by the day after she woke, grinning as they handed over bags of food and fussed over her like overbearing brothers. Sakura had flushed crimson, remembering how she had completely broken down in front of them a month ago—sobbing and crumbling like a weak little girl. She apologized so profusely it bordered on comical, but both men had only laughed and told her they were just relieved that things were okay now between her and their sensei, they said with knowing smirks. That part embarrassed her even more.

Later on the same day, the girls had come. Koharu, Biwako, and Inori—bearing flowers, sweets, and idle chatter to keep her from going crazy. Koharu and Biwako, of course, tried to fish for answers. They wanted to know what happened. Why she collapsed. What she remembered. Sakura gave them polite smiles and vague responses, sidestepping like a seasoned kunoichi dodging enemy shuriken.

But it was Inori who unsettled her.

Quiet. Too quiet. The girl who usually never stopped talking sat there with a strange expression, her words few and far between. When the others left, Inori lingered behind and took Sakura’s hand with gentle, steady fingers. Her eyes were warm, sorrowful, and full of understanding when they met Sakura’s. And for a moment, Sakura couldn’t breathe.

"Inori... you—"

But Inori only shook her head and gave a small, knowing smile. Her eyes shone with kindness. “You’re way too hard on yourself, you know that?” Then, softer, more sincere. “I’m here. Anytime. You don’t have to deal with any of it alone, not when I’m around. So if you ever need to talk just come find me, okay?”

And then she left.

Sakura had stood there in the doorway for minutes, numb with the implications. The visions she remembered from the coma—the warped fragments of her past, her pain, her fears—those weren’t dreams, were they? Inori spoke as if she knew. And if Inori knew...

She set down the untouched cup of tea and sank down into her couch. The memory was hazy, but she distinctly remembered Inori standing beside Tobirama when she first woke up. Sakura wasn’t naive. She understood that Inori must have played a part in bringing her back. And if she had used any of the Yamanaka clan’s signature techniques—as Sakura strongly suspected—that meant she had entered her mind. Which raised a chilling question. 

Just how much had she seen?

Did she witness the Fourth War? The moments Sakura still couldn’t bear to speak aloud? Sasuke’s rejection? Their failed relationship? Her long years of pushing forward while everyone else left her behind? Did she see the night Sakura activated the Hiraishin seal—alone, desperate, reckless?

A spike of panic bloomed in her chest.

Did she see everything?

Her stomach twisted. Inori hadn’t looked at her with pity—but something worse. Understanding. A quiet, unspoken compassion that said. I know. I saw it all.

And yet… she hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t judged her. If anything, she’d held Sakura’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Still, the thought was unbearable. Her past, laid bare. Every scar, every silent scream, every inch of her heart dissected and displayed. 

Had Tobirama seen it too? Her breath hitched at the thought. No. She couldn’t think about that now.

And yet her mind wouldn't stop racing.

She remembered the look on his face when she first opened her eyes—tight-jawed, distant, his crimson gaze dark with something she couldn’t quite name. He looked like he was full of remorse and regret.

Regret for what, she wondered. For saving me? For wasting his time on someone like me—someone who lied to him?

He’d looked at her as if she were fragile. Breakable. Weak. And in many ways, maybe she was… but it still hurt. It wasn’t pity in his eyes—it was something else. Not cold, not exactly. If anything, it almost felt… pained.

A tension in his features, as if he was holding back words he couldn’t say. Like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know how. 

Is that why he’s stayed away these past few days? Her throat tightened. Does he think I’m pathetic? Or is he still hurting from the lies I told him? From everything I hid?

But then again… why send all these people to her to check in on her? Why make sure she was never alone?

Tobirama was many things, but indifferent wasn’t one of them. He didn’t do anything without a reason. And that, more than anything, left her reeling.

He’s giving me mixed signals, she thought bitterly. Keeping his distance with one hand while shoving people toward me with the other.

Was it guilt? Duty? Some twisted sense of responsibility?

The unease in her chest churned into frustration. It was too much—his silence, her shame, the uncertainty hanging between them like a blade poised to fall.

She wanted to scream. To shake him. To demand why he wouldn’t just say what he was thinking—whatever it was.

The knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.

Sakura padded to the entrance, tying her robe tighter around her waist, and opened the door, only to find a familiar red-haired woman standing on her doorstep.

“Mito-sama!” she blinked, surprised. “What brings you here?”

Mito smiled and held up a carefully wrapped bento box. “Special delivery.”

Sakura’s lips twitched upward, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Would you like to come in?”

“I’d love to,” Mito said, stepping inside with her usual grace.

Sakura moved to the kitchen. “Tea?” She reached into the cabinet above the sink, pulling out a box of tea leaves. “I’ve got jasmine.”

“That would be lovely.”

The soft clink of porcelain cups filled the silence as Sakura returned, placing two steaming mugs on the low table before settling beside the older woman on the couch. The warm scent of jasmine curled into the quiet air between them.

Mito took a small sip, then looked at her over the rim of her cup. “How are you holding up, Sakura?”

Sakura let out a low sigh and stared into her tea. “I’m... okay. Just frustrated I can’t go back to work.”

Mito chuckled knowingly. “I heard Tobirama has forbidden you from taking even one step into the hospital.”

“Yeah…” Sakura muttered, lips tightening. “I think he’s being completely unreasonable.” Her voice held a little more bite than usual.

Mito arched an elegant brow. “Unreasonable?”

Sakura looked away, jaw clenched. “It’s been three days, Mito-sama. I haven’t seen him once. Not a single visit. Just—” she gestured toward the counter, where another neatly wrapped bento box sat untouched—“deliveries. Bento, books, fruit, even new medical scrolls. But never him.”

Mito hummed softly, saying nothing. Her silence only made Sakura bristle more.

“He’s treating me like I’m fragile,” Sakura said, the words spilling out in a frustrated breath. “Like I might break if he so much as looks at me the wrong way.”

Mito exhaled gently. “You were unconscious for a month, Sakura. That’s not something easily brushed off.”

“I know that,” Sakura snapped—then immediately winced. It wasn’t Mito’s fault, and she had no right to take it out on her. With a quiet breath, her shoulders slumped. “I know. But I’m not made of glass. I should be back at the hospital by now. There are patients who need me, reports piling up… Hell, even just doing inventory would be better than this.” She gestured helplessly to the quiet room around her. “Sitting here, waiting, doing nothing… it’s driving me insane.”

Keeping busy had always been her coping mechanism. It gave her structure, purpose and something solid to hold onto when everything else slipped through her fingers. And right now, she needed that more than ever.

Mito studied her carefully. “And what would you do if the roles were reversed? If he was the one who collapsed in front of you, unresponsive?”

Sakura’s lips parted, but no sound came. She didn’t know the answer to Mito’s question. A thick silence stretched between them.

Mito set her cup down gently. “He means well, Sakura.”

Sakura gave a small, humorless smile. “Maybe. But it’s hard to believe that when he’s clearly avoiding me.” She could keep the bitterness in her tone hidden.

Mito’s gaze softened, and she leaned forward slightly to set down her cup. “You gave him quite a scare, you know.”

Sakura frowned. “Scare? I don’t understand…”

“This was the first time I’ve ever seen Tobirama truly unsettled,” Mito said, her voice low. “Shaken, even. He hides it well, but I know the signs. His composure is legendary… until it comes to you.” She gave her a wry smile.

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“He never left your side,” Mito continued, voice gentle. “While you were unconscious... he was there. Constantly. Only left long enough to eat, sleep, and shower. Everything else he handled through Kage Bunshin. But the real him? He sat at your bedside. Every single day.”

Sakura stared into her tea, the bitterness in her chest twisting into something more fragile. Her heart gave a quiet, disbelieving stutter.

He did all that? After all those lies I’ve told?

She’d expected distance. Anger. Maybe even indifference. She had lied to him… Kept the truth hidden until it shattered between them. She remembered the moment he looked at her not with warmth, but with betrayal in his eyes. “I trusted you,” he’d said.

And yet… he stayed. Not just once, not in passing. Every day.

The weight of that sank deep into her ribs, too heavy to breathe around.

Why?

Why would someone like him—sharp, proud, deeply principled—choose to remain at the side of someone who broke his trust? Someone who didn’t deserve his kindness?

She swallowed, her voice barely stronger than a breath. “I… didn’t know that.” Then, even softer and as fragile as glass, “Why would he do that for me?”

Mito reached over, laying both hands over Sakura’s. The warmth of her touch was steady, grounding.

“Because you’ve become precious to him,” Mito said softly. “And that terrifies him.”

Sakura’s breath caught. 

Mito’s gaze drifted toward the window, her voice dipping into memory. “Tobirama has always locked his heart away. After his mother and younger brothers died… after the wars… the only one had left was Hashirama.” Her voice faltered, grief rising like a tide. “And now he’s gone too.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

“I never thought I’d see him open that part of himself again,” Mito said. “But then you came along. And now it’s obvious. You hold a part of him no one else ever has.”

Sakura swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. She had been so focused on her own frustrations—at being told to rest, at being left alone—that she hadn’t stopped to consider why Tobirama was keeping his distance.

When he refused to let her return to work, she’d taken it as control. Punishment. But now, in the quiet of the room, with Mito’s words still echoing, she saw it differently. The deliveries. The carefully selected books. The medical journals. The meals. The silence. It hadn’t been indifference. It had been care—Tobirama’s care, in the only way he knew how to show it.

Guilt rose like a tide, swelling in her chest until it pressed against her ribs. She thought of the way she’d lashed out in her thoughts, the frustration that had simmered beneath her skin. The way she’d questioned his silence, his distance—accused him in the privacy of her own mind of abandoning her, of thinking she was weak.

And all this time… he had been there.

A flush of shame crept up her neck. How could I have been so unfair? He hadn’t turned his back on her. He’d been doing what he always did—carrying more than his share, quietly, without complaint.

“I… don’t know if I deserve him,” she said finally, voice cracking under the weight of her own shame. Her hands tightened into fists. 

Mito squeezed her hands gently. “You do. Tobirama might not say much, but his actions speak volumes. He cares for you, Sakura. Deeply. But he’s a man who doesn’t know how to handle that kind of feeling. It’s just all unfamiliar to him.”

Sakura looked down at their joined hands, throat tight. “I thought he was being cold and controlling.” She shook her head slightly. “I didn’t see him for what he really was.”

“You see it now,” Mito said softly. “That’s what matters.”

Sakura’s eyes drifted toward the door—toward the place she imagined him working in solitude, carrying the weight of it all in silence.

“I see...” she murmured, the ache in her chest softening, shifting into something quieter. Warmer.

For the first time in days, things didn’t feel so muddled. A little clarity had begun to settle in.

The Hokage's office was silent, save for the faint scratch of brush against parchment and the occasional shuffle of the breeze slipping through the half-open window. Tobirama sat behind his desk, posture rigid, though his gaze remained fixed on the scroll in front of him for far too long without reading a single word.

Tobirama had long mastered discipline. Routine. Focus.

But now, all he could think of was her.

Sakura.

He remembered the first time they met. She had been brought before him under scrutiny, under suspicion—a stranger from nowhere with too much talent. He'd expected fear from her, or at the very least, discomfort.

But instead, she had met his gaze with calm, unwavering boldness.

Measured in her words. Steady in her stance. There had been a flicker of calculation in her expression, but it was clear she was not intimidated. She was careful, yes—but not afraid. Even as he tested her, even as he dissected her presence with every question and silence, she had held her ground. Something about her made him pause then. She made him curious but also wary.

And soon, infuriatingly, he became intrigued.

She had challenged him, not with arrogance, but with conviction. She questioned his policies. She never challenged his rigidity with defiance. Instead, through quiet sincerity and unwavering respect, she slowly wore down the edges of his discipline, her warmth becoming a quiet counterpoint to his order. 

She had been fire and storm. Brash and infuriatingly perceptive.

But now…

Tobirama exhaled slowly, setting the brush down.

Now she was different. No less strong, but undeniably changed.

Since waking from her coma, Sakura had become… softer. Not in weakness, but in truth. She let herself be seen. No longer bracing herself with wit or stoicism, but instead letting her fears show. Her pain. Her doubts.

He had once believed vulnerability to be a liability and a weakness. Something to be contained. Suppressed. But now, he saw it differently.

She trusted him enough to break in front of him. Trusted him enough to stay , when she had every reason to return to the place and people she came from.

And Kami, how he had failed her.

The memory still burned. When he found her research—her notes on the Hiraishin, the time-space theory, the silent, obsessive calculations—he had assumed the worst. His pride had spoken louder than his heart. The sense of betrayal was suffocating. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak while she spilled her heart to him, her voice trembling with truth that was revealed too late.

But then she vanished.

She had tried to return to her own timeline, and instead became trapped in a void—an empty, unending place where his chakra could barely reach. He had torn through seals, pushed the limits of his own jutsu until he found a way to pull her back. But even when her body returned, her mind remained far away, adrift in that nothingness.

Weeks passed. She did not wake.

Through Inori’s jutsu as a desperate attempt to bring her back, through the shared visions of her mind, he had seen her. The child who had been overlooked. The girl desperate to prove her worth. The kunoichi who carried the war on her back with bloodied fists and a trembling heart. The woman who loved with everything she had, even when it left her empty.

He had seen her pain. Her heartbreaks. Her endless self-sacrifice.

And he realized he had misjudged her in the worst way.

She had never meant to deceive him. She had merely been trying to survive .

When she awoke, the first thing she did—the very first—was look him in the eyes and apologize. To him. And in that moment, Tobirama had felt something he rarely allowed himself to feel.

Shame.

Because this woman—this time-lost, aching woman—had given everything. And he, in return, had turned away.

He couldn’t even face her after she had woken up. He ordered her to rest and stay away from work, yes—but instead of visiting, he sent others in his place. He rationalized it as distance. As composure.

But deep down he knew it had been cowardice.

Mito had a way of seeing through him, of understanding things that others might miss. So it was no surprise when she walked into his office just an hour ago, calm yet unwavering, her presence still carrying a certain weight. She had simply stood there, arms folded with quiet authority, and said in her usual soft, but unyielding tone.

“Tobirama, it’s time you see her. You’ve avoided her for long enough.”

Her words weren’t an order, not exactly. They were more like a gentle push, a quiet understanding that he was only deceiving himself by staying away. There was no room for argument in her voice—just a certainty that he couldn’t ignore.

And Tobirama—who had faced warlords, Uchiha tempers, and assassination attempts— listened.

Because Mito always knew.

She had seen through him from the beginning. Just as Sakura had.

Everyone else had seen Hashirama when they looked at him. They saw the shadow. The younger brother. The colder version. The second choice.

Even in the Senju compound, whispers lingered in corners. Comparisons were drawn. Always Hashirama , always the legacy Tobirama had to carry but could never escape.

But Sakura… she never saw that. She never flinched when he spoke about his brother, never looked at him with pity or with idol-worship. When he told her—haltingly, quietly—about his past, his resentment, his grief, she simply listened. She saw not the Nidaime Hokage, not the Senju patriarch, but just a man.

Just him.

And now he fully understood the depth of what she had given up—for him. Her time. Her team. Her life. She had chosen him in a way no one ever had.

And in that moment, the weight of it settled on him like a wave he could no longer ignore. There was something quietly profound about it—the way she had stayed, despite everything. Despite the truth about her origins, despite the risks, despite the pain she carried. She had made the decision, and it wasn’t just about staying in this time or this place. It was about him.

He had always kept his distance, built walls around himself to keep the world out, and for good reason. He had his duty, his responsibilities—things that would always come first, that had to come first. Love, relationships, vulnerability—they were distractions, risks he couldn’t afford. He had learned that lesson long ago.

But Sakura…

She was different.

He had never considered that anyone could break through the walls he had built. But she had. She had shattered the boundaries with nothing more than her quiet strength, her fierce heart, and her willingness to love without hesitation. It was a love that had never asked for anything in return, not even his. Yet, she had given him hers.

And as he sat there behind his desk, his mind began to turn over everything that had happened—the way she had been there for him in ways he never expected, the way her eyes held a tenderness that made his breath catch in his throat.

He didn’t just admire her. He didn’t just trust her.

He wanted her.

Not out of impulse or passing desire but because something in him had begun to feel incomplete in her absence.

He needed her, though he’d never meant to.

The thought was like a sudden burst of heat, a fire that ignited in his chest, warming him in a way he hadn’t known was possible. He could no longer deny it, could no longer pretend it wasn’t there. His feelings for her were no longer a distant, fleeting thought—they had become an undeniable truth, one that swelled inside him with an intensity that took him by surprise.

And it wasn’t just the fierce, physical desire that had simmered beneath his calm demeanor for so long. No, it was something deeper. It was the quiet yearning for the way she saw him— him , not as the Nidaime Hokage, not as Hashirama’s shadow, but just as Tobirama. It was the way she had made him feel human again, the way she made him feel like he wasn’t alone in his pain, his guilt, his fractured heart.

Kami, he wanted her. In a way he had never let himself want anyone. Not even in passing thought. Not even in the deepest recesses of unspoken hope. But with her… it was different.

He wanted her beside him. In his life. For every battle fought, every hard-won peace. For every quiet evening shared beneath the soft lantern glow of the compound. He wanted her laughter echoing through the corridors of his home, her stubbornness challenging the elders across meeting tables, her fingers brushing his hand in brief, private moments that grounded him more than any jutsu ever could.

He wanted her in the mess and the mundane. Her hair tousled in the morning as she grumbled about being kept up all night. The sight of her medical scrolls strewn across his desk. The sound of her voice murmuring in her sleep beside him.

He wanted a life with her. Not a fantasy. A life.

He wanted her presence not as a passing warmth, not as a fleeting comfort, but as something permanent. As someone who belonged—not by duty or necessity, but by choice.

And the part that terrified him most was how deeply he longed for that permanence.

He could already see her name woven into the fabric of his world.

Senju Sakura.

Not for alliance. Not for appearance. Not for convenience.

But for love.

The word still felt foreign in his chest, unfamiliar on his tongue, but he knew it was real. It had grown quietly between them—threaded through trust, trial, quiet devotion, and a fire neither of them had expected. She had become precious to him, not just in emotion, but in purpose. In meaning. She had challenged him, changed him, seen him.

And she had chosen to stay. Despite everything.

But that desire—to claim a future with her—was still a selfish one. Dangerous, even. She didn’t belong to this time. She wasn’t meant to be tied down by it, or by him. Not unless she truly wanted to be.

And that was the part he hadn’t yet earned.

The truth lingered like smoke in the air. She had already chosen him once. But trust, once shaken, was harder to restore than affection ever was. Her forgiveness was not guaranteed. Her future, even less so. He knew that.

And yet… he’d stayed away.

Not out of cruelty, but out of caution, pride and fear. He had told himself she needed space, time to recover. That pressing too soon would only make things worse.

But now, in the silence of his office, he saw the flaw in that logic.

He had let the distance speak louder than his actions.

He’d been there when she couldn’t see him but absent when she finally could. And in doing so, he had left her to navigate the aftermath alone, without the one thing she might have needed most. Him.

Tobirama exhaled slowly, the weight of his miscalculation settling heavily across his shoulders. 

He had made a mistake. He should have known better. He did know better—he had seen it with his own eyes, in the fractured glimpses of her memories. The loneliness. The rejection. The way people she loved had walked away, over and over, leaving her to pick up the pieces alone. He had seen how deeply those wounds ran—how carefully she masked them behind strength and selflessness. And yet, he had distanced himself. He had hesitated, pulled back when she needed him close.

Foolish.

He cursed himself for the silence he’d kept, the space he’d allowed to grow between them. If she saw that as abandonment—if she believed, even for a moment, that he had stopped caring—then he had only deepened the very pain she carried.

He needed to make it right. To make it up to her.

And so, if he wanted that future—if he wanted her, truly—he would have to be worthy of it.

Of her.

He would have to prove it, every day. Not with flowers. Not with grand gestures. But with constancy. With patience. With the quiet strength of someone who would stand beside her, not ahead or behind.

He would have to show her that she was not a detour in his life—she was his life. But until that day came, he would keep walking forward.

And earn his place at her side. 

​​It was well past dusk when the second knock came.

Sakura blinked, still seated on the couch, her tea long since gone cold. Mito had left a few hours ago, but her words still echoed in Sakura’s mind like ripples on a pond. She hadn't expected more visitors tonight. She rose slowly, smoothing her robe out of habit, and opened the door.

Tobirama stood there, tall and silent beneath the soft gold of the light at her doorway. His armor and happuri was gone, and he wore a simple dark blue yukata over a black long-sleeved turtle neck and matching pants that softened the edges of his presence—but not the tension in his frame. His expression was unreadable.

But his eyes… his eyes stopped her breath.

“Tobirama,” she breathed.

He looked at her fully then, gaze sweeping over her face like he was trying to memorize it—like he wasn’t quite sure she was real.

“May I come in?” His voice was quiet, smooth, but it carried something heavier underneath.

Sakura nodded, unsure what to say, and stepped aside. He crossed the threshold in silence. She watched him, pulse quick with confusion and something achingly close to hope.

He paused just inside, gaze flicking around the room before settling back on her. “Mito came by.”

“She did,” Sakura said carefully, closing the door behind him and locked it. “She brought food. We talked.”

The silence was thick between them and Sakura shifted slightly from awkwardness. 

“I should’ve come by earlier,” Tobirama finally said. 

Sakura looked up slightly surprised at his words. 

“I didn’t stay away because I wanted to,” he continued, voice low, rough around the edges. “There’s no excuse. I thought… I thought space would help. That I was giving you time.”

Sakura blinked, heart tightening. He wasn’t defending himself. He wasn’t pushing the blame elsewhere. He was just… telling the truth.

He looked away, the line of his jaw taut, hands curling slightly at his sides. The tension in his shoulders wasn’t just frustration—it carried something heavier. A silent admission that maybe, deep down, he regretted his choice to stay distant.

She studied him—the slight slump of his posture, the way his eyes flicked away from hers, the tight clench of his fists. The man who so often seemed unshakable was vulnerable now, stripped of pretense.

Her gaze softened. For a moment, all the walls she’d built around her own pain felt a little less necessary.

And then she murmured, “You were there for me when I woke up. I saw you. You looked at me like… like you’d seen something. Something you weren’t supposed to.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and fragile, until he finally spoke. “We did. Yamanaka Inori and I. We saw… everything.”

Her heart clenched and her eyes shone with quiet embarrassment and something close to shame. “I thought so…” she murmured. 

Tobirama turned to face her fully. For once, there was no steel in his posture. Just tiredness and remorse.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly.

Sakura met his gaze, emotions roiling in her chest. Disappointment that it had taken him this long. Relief that he was finally here.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “We do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy, either. There was too much unsaid, hovering just beneath the surface. Without exchanging a word, they moved toward the couch. Sakura sat first, smoothing the hem of her robe as she settled in. Tobirama followed, lowering himself beside her with the kind of precise, controlled movement that spoke of lingering tension.

A small, respectful distance remained between them. Neither reached to close it.

Sakura folded her hands in her lap, eyes focused ahead, even though she could feel the weight of his presence beside her. Close enough to touch. Just far enough to remind her that they hadn’t yet crossed the space between what was and what could be.

She swallowed. “So…”

But the words stuck. Where did you even begin, when everything had already been laid bare?

“I owe you an apology.”

Sakura blinked, turning toward him in surprise. Of all the things she thought he might say, that wasn’t one of them. Tobirama—precise, composed Tobirama—almost sounded… uncomfortable. Not visibly, not in any obvious way, but there was a slight tension in his voice, a tautness in his posture that hadn’t been there before.

Her brows drew together. “Apology…?”

“We had to enter your mind,” Tobirama started. “Your consciousness was trapped too deep for conventional methods. You weren’t responding to external stimuli, and your chakra network was unstable. Inori believed a mental dive would help. I agreed.”

Sakura swallowed, her voice a whisper. “So you saw…”

“Memories. Emotions. The past that shaped you.” His voice was quiet now. Controlled. “Your grief. Your loyalty. Your pain.”

Sakura turned her face away and closed her eyes. “Then you saw more than what I wanted anyone to see.” Her voice was low and quiet.

“I know.”

Silence.

“You called yourself weak in those memories,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “You weren’t.”

Her breath hitched. His words hit something raw. Too raw. Her heart clenched, aching under the weight of everything she had buried. All the shame, the heartbreak, the relentless pressure to be strong—for her team, for Konoha, for herself. Around Naruto, she was the pillar. Around Kakashi, the steady presence. Around Sasuke, the shadow that refused to give up.

She had never let herself crack. Not fully. Not where anyone could see.

But Tobirama had seen. And he hadn’t turned away.

His words cut into her, peeling back layers she hadn’t realized she was still holding onto. Her chest felt too tight, her throat constricted with unspoken grief and years of feeling like she was never quite enough.

“You saw all the times that I broke,” she whispered. 

“We all break,” Tobirama said, his voice quiet but resolute. The space between them shrank as he shifted closer, not even aware he was doing it. “But you came back. And you’re still here.”

Sakura looked up at him, breath shallow. Her fingers curled in her lap, gripping tight to the fabric of her robe.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken—thick with everything they’d said and everything they hadn’t.

Finally, her voice emerged, soft but strained. “You didn’t come see me since I woke up. Not once.” Her breath hitched. “I thought… maybe it was because you were disappointed in me. Especially after all that has happened and after everything you saw in my mind.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and something in his expression shifted. “You could never disappoint me, Sakura.”

She stared at him, stunned, her breath caught in her throat.

“I wanted to see you,” he said quietly.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips. “But still, you stayed away.”

Tobirama’s gaze lowered for the first time, as if the words weighed too heavily to meet her eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was low, controlled but laced with something quieter and more vulnerable. “Because I didn’t know how to approach you. After everything that has happened. The distance I created between us. I thought it would be easier for both of us if I stayed away.” He paused, jaw tightening. “But the truth is… I didn’t trust myself to face you. Not if you looked at me differently. Not if there was fear or regret… Or if you’d already decided to leave again.”

He exhaled slowly, as though it cost him something. “I’ve been called many things. Calculating, ruthless, cold. But none of those ever mattered. Not until I realized what it would mean to lose you.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Sakura sat motionless, his words echoing in the quiet like the slow pulse of an old wound reopened. Regret. Guilt. But more than that—fear. Not hers. His. And not of battle or bloodshed, but of something far more human.

Tobirama, the man who met death without hesitation, who dissected chaos with clarity and precision, had been afraid. Not of her past or her strength, but of her judgment. Of the possibility that she might look at him and see a stranger. That the distance he’d created, the silence he’d wrapped around himself, might have pushed her too far to return.

Her heart clenched, aching with the weight of understanding. She had expected coldness, calculation—a man unmoved by emotion. But instead, she found someone who had been quietly unraveling in her absence, struggling not with anger, but with doubt. And in that doubt was something profoundly tender—because it meant he cared. Enough that the thought of losing her had shaken even him.

Sakura shifted. Carefully. Quietly. Each movement deliberate, as though afraid the moment would shatter if she moved too fast. Like approaching a wild animal that might bolt if she breathed the wrong way.

“You stayed by my side for four weeks.”

He didn’t answer.

“When you could have assigned someone else to do it.”

Still nothing.

“…Why?” she asked again, barely more than a whisper.

The question lingered in the air, suspended in the hush between them.

And then he looked at her. Really looked at her.

Something in his expression cracked, raw and unguarded. For a moment, Senju Tobirama wasn’t the fearsome Hokage or the genius shinobi who wielded death like a blade. He was just a man wearing the weight of every choice, every regret, every fragile hope that had nowhere else to go.

“Because losing you,” he said quietly, “would have undone everything I’ve tried to become.”

Sakura inhaled sharply, the sound catching in her throat. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. She hadn’t expected that. The words struck deep, echoing in all the hollow places she’d tried to patch over with silence.

Then his hand—slow, uncertain—rose to her cheek. The touch was featherlight, reverent. As if he still couldn’t quite believe she was real, here, breathing before him.

He was quiet for a moment. His eyes searched hers, and when he spoke, it was as though he was peeling back the very walls he had spent a lifetime building.

“This… between us,” he murmured, “I may not have the words for it. I was never taught how to speak this way. But what I feel for you,” he paused, exhaling a slow breath, before continuing, “it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.”

He shifted closer, until their knees touched. “You are not just important to me, Sakura. You’ve become essential. You’ve unsettled everything I thought I knew about myself… and I no longer want to go back to who I was before you.”

His hand cupped her face more firmly now, thumb brushing the curve of her cheek. “I want you here. As a part of my life. My future. Whatever that looks like… whatever we have to fight through to get there… I want it to be with you.”

Then, slowly, he lowered his hand, letting it rest lightly on the tops of hers—soft, steady, grounding. His voice dropped to barely a breath. “I want you, Sakura. Completely. For as long as you’ll allow it.”

Sakura’s breath caught.

For a moment, all she could do was stare into those crimson eyes that had once looked at her with suspicion and cool calculation. Now those very eyes laid bare with something fragile and burning. He didn’t need to say the words aloud. She could feel it in every tremor of his voice, in the steady warmth of his gaze, in the way he held her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

This was his love for her. Unspoken, yet unmistakable.

Her throat tightened. She had imagined this moment before, in quiet evenings curled up with her thoughts, but the reality of it struck harder, deeper.

“Tobirama…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I came here by accident… I never meant to stay. But in the end I chose to because of you.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t look away. “You’ve seen the worst of me. My fears. My mistakes. And you still want me. I don’t know what kind of life this will be, or if we will ever get to have true peace. But I want to be with you too.”

Her free hand rose to cup his cheek. “I love you, Tobirama.”

The silence between them hummed, thick with unshed tears, unspoken hopes, and something sacred finally spoken aloud. Then, with aching slowness, she leaned in until their foreheads touched, and the world felt quiet for once.

She could feel his breath shift beneath her skin, steady but uneven, as if the simple closeness unsettled him in the best way. The warmth of his forehead against hers grounded her more than any jutsu or seal ever could.

The air between them thickened, weighted with unspoken emotion and fragile certainty.

For all his control, all his discipline, there was no shield against the way her presence broke through him—softening edges she’d thought were permanent.

His hand reached up slowly and rested atop hers that still cradled his cheek. The warmth of his skin beneath her fingers grounded her, a silent promise.

Tobirama’s eyes closed and he exhaled—a low, slow breath—and his voice came quiet but full of something raw and real. “Say that again.”

Her lips barely moved, but every syllable felt like a spark, a lifeline. “I love you.”

His eyes opened, and the look she found there nearly brought her to her knees—steady certainty, aching softness, a love carved from scars and pain, yet still fierce enough to choose her every day.

One hand slid to her waist, the other cupped the back of her neck, as if afraid she might disappear if he let go. His touch was gentle but desperate in its need to hold on.

He leaned in slowly, his breath mingling with hers, and when their lips met, it was soft and tentative—fragile, like the first whisper of a long-awaited confession.

Then, with growing certainty, the kiss deepened—firmer, richer, filled with the weight of years spent waiting, longing, hoping.

A soft sound escaped her—a breath caught between relief and something far more powerful. She pressed closer, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him in until the space between them vanished. The world around them faded until there was nothing but this—heat and promise and a connection that felt eternal.

It wasn’t desperate; it was profound. The loneliness and pain of decades cracked open between them, replaced now by something fierce and undeniable.

His kiss was honest and unyielding. Just like him.

Her fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, memorizing every contour anew. They had kissed before—stolen moments beneath moonlight, quiet touches shared in secret—but this was different. Deeper. No longer fragile or unsure.

This kiss didn’t ask questions.

It answered them.

There was no hesitation in the way he pulled her closer, no doubt in the way she met him. Beneath the strength of his grip, beneath the power and precision, was a quiet reverence—as if he were holding something sacred. 

In that moment, Sakura understood something undeniable. Those earlier kisses had been the fragile beginnings of something new.

But this… this was a promise.

When they finally parted, their breaths mingled, their foreheads resting together once more. Her eyes glistened with unshed emotion; his were fierce and unwavering.

Neither needed words.

The silence spoke everything. I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.

It was well past midnight by the time the bento was gone, the tea pot emptied, and the lamp turned low.

Sakura hadn’t meant to keep him for so long. Tobirama hadn’t said he intended to stay, either. But neither of them moved to end the evening. 

After that kiss the tension between them had eased. They remained on the couch, quieter now, their bodies close, no longer stiff with unspoken things.

Now, she sat between his legs on the narrow couch, her back resting lightly against his chest, a blanket draped over their legs. His hands moved gently through her hair, fingers toying with the strands in a slow, absent rhythm. The soft sound of night insects filtered in through the half-open window. The air felt different now—thicker, warmer, filled with something unspoken and fragile.

“Your hair is getting longer now,” Tobirama murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Sakura blinked, lifting a hand to the ends. “Huh. I didn’t even notice.” She let out a quiet laugh. “I’ll have to cut it soon, though. It’ll start getting in the way.”

“You should grow it,” he said, without hesitation. His fingers stilled for a moment against her scalp. “It’ll suit you.”

She went still, heart catching at the unexpected gentleness in his voice. “…You think so?”

He simply hummed in affirmation. 

Sakura glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He looked softer but undeniably tired. It was the kind of exhaustion that clung to a person, slow and heavy. She traced the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the hard line of his jaw that looked like it hadn’t relaxed in days, the slight crease between his brows that remained even in stillness.

His posture had eased, though. His other hand rested lightly on her thigh, fingers twitching now and then—like muscle memory still braced for battle.

She let out a quiet breath. “When’s the last time you had proper rest?”

There was a pause. His eyes stayed forward, focused on nothing in particular. “A few days ago,” he said.

It was a lie. Not outright, but she heard the omission in it. She felt it in the way his thumb pressed once against her leg, then stilled.

She didn’t let it pass.

Leaning back just enough to let her shoulder brush his, she fixed him with a wry look and said, “Right. And I’m the Daimyo of the Land of Fire.” A faint, knowing smile tugged at her lips as she waited for his reaction.

He glanced at her—brief, sidelong—before his expression shifted just slightly, a barely-there twitch at the corner of his mouth. Still, he said nothing.

Her gaze moved forward again, her voice softening into something gentler, almost teasing. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

There was no accusation in her tone—just quiet knowing. A soft offering.

Tobirama didn’t reply right away, but his hand—still resting on her thigh—curled slightly, his thumb brushing once against her skin. 

“I sleep enough,” he said finally.

“That’s not an answer.”

His lips tugged faintly, almost wry. “You’re persistent.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She glanced at him again, catching the weariness behind his eyes more clearly now, and the small crease in his brow that hadn’t eased since the moment he walked in.

“Maybe you should go home,” she said gently. “Get some proper rest for once.”

He turned his head, one silver brow lifting slightly and gave her a frown. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” He sounded almost offended. 

Sakura gave a soft huff of laughter. “Not exactly. Just… looking out for you. Someone has to.”

Tobirama studied her for a long moment, then leaned back slightly, his voice low and deliberate. “Then perhaps I’ll stay here tonight.”

Sakura’s breath caught. “Tobirama…”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Do you not want me to?”

She looked away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket draped across her lap. “It’s not that. I do,” she said softly. “But… you’re the head of your clan. And this is still a conservative time. If word got out that you spent the night here—unmarried—it could reflect badly on you.” A beat passed before she added, quieter, “I just don’t want to be the reason people question your integrity.”

The words lingered, fragile and uncertain.

“I mean, not that I think it’s wrong or anything,” she added quickly, flustered. “It’s just… people talk. And you’re the Senju patriarch. Your position, your reputation… it matters.”

Tobirama’s reply was soft but steady. “It wouldn’t be the first time I stayed over.”

Sakura stilled.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Because they both remembered. The warmth of that night—the slow, aching way they had reached for each other and found something they hadn’t known they needed. The safety. The surrender.

And the morning after. The half-read notes. The brief flash of Hiraishin formula spread across her desk. The silence that had followed. The sharp, stunned realization in his eyes. The terrible, inescapable truth she had tried so hard to bury.

She swallowed hard, voice soft and sincere. “I’m… sorry you had to find out that way… especially after what we shared that night.”

Tobirama was still for a moment, his usual stoic mask slipping just enough to reveal the depth of his feeling. Then, gently, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“It’s all behind us now,” he murmured softly into her hair, his voice calm and steady. “I understand you never meant any harm.”

The simple reassurance wrapped around her like a balm, and for the first time in days, Sakura allowed herself to breathe a little easier.

“So…” she murmured, still curled up against his back, “how did you even bring me back?”

He didn’t hesitate.

As he spoke—low and thoughtful—he outlined the way he’d pored over the modified sealwork she’d left behind. How he’d analyzed her additions to his Hiraishin formula, how he’d realized that her modifications had unintentionally created a recursive loop in the space-time fabric, trapping her in a dimensional void with no defined anchor. His voice held no arrogance, only focus—precision, like every word was part of a diagram only he could see.

Sakura listened in stunned silence, awe threading through her heartbeat. It was always like this with him—like watching the unfolding of some elegant, terrifying force of nature. He’d pieced together what had taken her months of sleepless nights in a matter of days. Not just that—he had understood her theory, extended it, refined it. Saved her with it.

She could barely breathe through the fierce admiration pressing against her ribs.

Brilliant didn’t even begin to describe it. Tobirama didn’t just study jutsu. He understood them on a level that bordered on instinct. Space-time bending formulas, chakra phase shifts, recursive sealing logic. He spoke of them as though he were merely describing weather. Natural. Inevitable. His mind worked like the edge of a blade—sharp, exacting, dangerous in all the ways she couldn’t help but respect.

And he’d used that mind—all of it—to bring her home.

He continued speaking, voice low and steady against the hush of the room.

“The formula you used was sound,” he said, almost absently, like he was still piecing the theory together even now. “But I think… you didn’t account for the recursive displacement it created. There was no fixed temporal tether. No anchor to your original timeline. The moment your chakra destabilized, it collapsed inward. Like folding paper without a crease.”

She listened, barely blinking, the words washing over her in layers. She had suspected as much, of course. But to hear it confirmed—to hear it from him —was another thing entirely. Senju Tobirama, who could deconstruct space-time theory like it was shogi, who spoke of her desperate work not with disdain, but understanding.

Admiration bloomed in her again, sharp and blinding.

But then his voice shifted—lower now, quieter as he spoke of her unconscious state. 

“I was hesitant to let Inori proceed with the mental dive,” he said, voice low. “There was always the risk of going too far—of seeing things neither of us had any right to. Things that could… complicate what lies ahead.”

His hand shifted slightly, brushing against hers. “But she was insistent. And I allowed it. Because I knew you wouldn’t come back unless you chose to. And unless I did something to reach you.”

Her breath hitched at that.

Tobirama—rational, guarded, ever-responsible Tobirama—had chosen her. Not just as someone to save, but as someone to trust. Someone he would risk the balance of the future for.

Her voice, when it came, was almost a whisper.

“You saw everything though, didn’t you?” she asked, not looking at him. “In my mind.”

He gave a slow nod.

“I don’t know if I’m more embarrassed or horrified,” she said, half-laughing, half-aching.

“Don’t be,” he replied, voice low. “What I saw only made me understand you more. Respect you more.”

Her heart clenched.

She breathed in quietly, the steady rhythm of his chest behind her grounding her in a way she didn’t know she needed. The weight of his arms resting loosely around her waist was comforting, warm. And then—

“Sakura,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath, “your teammates. Naruto. Sasuke, and your sensei. I caught… glimpses of them. But I want to know more. About them. About what they meant to you.”

The question took her by surprise. She tilted her head slightly, cheek brushing his collarbone as she looked up toward him. “They were everything to me,” she started. “The reason I got stronger. The reason I kept fighting. Everything I did back then was for them.”

His silence urged her on, patient and attentive.

“Naruto was the heart of our team,” Sakura said softly, a faint, distant smile tugging at her lips. “Loud, reckless, and impossible not to believe in. He had this way of crashing headfirst into everything—walls, enemies, people’s hearts. He was all instinct and conviction. He talked about dreams like they were inevitable, like all we had to do was want them badly enough. And somehow… that foolish, stubborn faith of his made us believe, too. Even when everything was crumbling.”

Her throat tightened, the warmth of memory catching painfully in her chest.

“His dream is to become Hokage,” she added after a pause, her voice a little quieter. “And honestly… he’s well on his way. If anyone deserves it, it’s him.”

Tobirama let out a quiet breath beside her, the barest curve to his mouth. “He sounds just like Elder Brother,” he said offhandedly, voice dry but not unkind.

Sakura blinked, then let out a breath of laughter—wry, fond, aching all at once. “Yeah,” she murmured, glancing sideways at him. “I think they would’ve gotten along well.”

Then her gaze fell, and the levity slipped from her voice.

“Sasuke-kun…” Her voice thinned to a whisper. “He was the wound that never healed. The one I couldn’t stop chasing, even when I knew it would tear me apart.”

She swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room. “He carried the kind of silence that made the world feel colder. Always a step ahead, always drifting just out of reach. I used to think if I could just catch up, just say the right thing, maybe I could bring him back.”

Her fingers curled slightly into her lap.

“Ever since the massacre, ever since he lost everything… he became someone shaped by grief. By vengeance. Hatred was all he had left. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want peace. He wanted justice or maybe just destruction. For the people who took his clan from him. For the village that let it happen.” 

She felt it then—Tobirama stilling beside her. A pause in his breath, sharp and near-imperceptible, and the faintest tightening in his shoulders. It wasn’t her pain he was reacting to, she realized. It was the implication of her words.

The Uchiha had been massacred. An entire clan—brilliant, proud, and burdened with too much pain—reduced to bloodstained legend in the mere course of a single night.

And as Sakura sat beside Tobirama, feeling the shift in his posture, the sudden stillness that rippled through his carefully maintained composure, a storm of thoughts stirred within her.

She knew what history said about him. About the way he’d kept the Uchiha at arm’s length, had warned others to be wary of their pride, their cursed eyes. It had painted him as cold, even prejudiced—an architect of division. Some records, especially those whispered in the wake of the massacre, had gone so far as to suggest that his mistrust was the first crack in the foundation that led to their ruin.

But Sakura had never believed that.

Not fully. Especially not after everything she’d come to know.

She’d spent long nights poring through the Hokage’s archives, with clearance only granted to a Hokage’s student. Initially, that access had been granted so she could study the intricacies of Tobirama’s Hiraishin formation—an attempt to develop her own medical stasis and rapid patient transportation method. But somewhere along the way, she had stumbled upon something else entirely. A terrible truth buried beneath layers of official redaction and half-truths. She’d seen the records—had read every cold report, every buried letter, every scribbled, unsent memo. She knew the truth, or at least more of it than most.

Tobirama had given the Uchiha real authority. A place of structure and visibility, even respect, in the Konoha Military Police Force. They hadn’t been shunned under his reign. They’d been trusted with responsibility, with law and order. For a time, it had worked. The balance had held.

All of it came to a head after the Kyuubi attacked the village—the attack orchestrated in secret by Obito on the day Naruto was born. In the aftermath, suspicion turned like a blade toward the Uchiha. They were watched. Contained. Forced from the heart of the village to its outer edges, as though their presence alone might invite disaster again.

Then, shockingly, she came across the reports detailing the truth behind the Uchiha Massacre. What had long been whispered as an unavoidable tragedy, an internal clan revolt, was laid bare as something far darker. A sanctioned execution. A desperate political maneuver disguised as necessity. A village turning on its own. 

But it wasn’t Tobirama who destroyed that.

It was the others.

Danzo, with his manipulation and obsession with control. Koharu and Homura, clinging to their positions and fears like relics. Even Hiruzen, who, despite his kindness, had enabled Danzo’s corruption through silence and inaction.

And Itachi... Itachi, who had been forced to bear the unspeakable, made the executioner of his own people in the name of a fragile peace.

She remembered the bile rising in her throat, the sick disbelief. Not just from the act itself, but at the quiet complicity, the silence of the very people entrusted to protect the village’s soul.

She cried for Sasuke—her teammate, her friend, the boy who had once shouldered the weight of a clan’s legacy on trembling shoulders. He had lost everything. Not just his family, but the innocence of childhood, the comfort of belonging. The village’s mistrust had sowed the seeds of rebellion, had pushed the Uchiha into a corner, and it was Sasuke who’d been left to carry the ashes of that consequence.

And she cried for Itachi, too.

She had never spoken to him—only seen glimpses, fragments of who he truly was beneath the mask of a rogue shinobi. But she’d read enough to understand. He had only been thirteen. Thirteen. And they had tasked him with the unimaginable. The unthinkable. To murder his kin. To slaughter his mother. His father. His friends. All in the name of a village that turned its back on its own.

He had died a traitor in the eyes of many. But Sakura had learned the truth.

And it broke her heart.

For a fleeting second, Sakura wondered if she had said too much. If she’d given Tobirama a glimpse of the truth too terrible to bear—one that had never been meant for him to know.

But the thought passed almost as quickly as it came.

She trusted him—with her words, her silences, her pain. Even with the terrible weight of futures never meant to be spoken.

Perhaps, she thought quietly, even with this knowledge, things might still change for the better. Maybe the massacre could be prevented. She filed that fragile hope away somewhere deep in her mind.

Tobirama remained silent beside her, his presence steady and unwavering, listening without interruption.

So she continued. “We chased him across countries, across years. And every time we reached out… he pulled further away. Like the closer we got, the more it hurt him. Like we were reminders of something he didn’t want to remember.”

She felt Tobirama’s thumb brush a slow, absent circle along the inside of her wrist. It lulled her into stillness—until it stopped.

“You loved him,” he said, quiet and sure, no edge to it. Just a statement drawn from the fragments he’d seen in her mind.

“Yes,” she murmured. “For the longest time.”

A pause, longer and measured this time. 

“And did he love you back?”

Sakura blinked.

The question didn’t sting—it just settled in her chest like something she’d asked herself too many times to count. She stared ahead, into the dim hush of her living room, into the way the light caught the curve of his hand over hers.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “We dated for a few years after the war, but… he never really said it. Not in the way I needed to hear. He tried, I think. In his own way. But sometimes… effort isn’t the same as love.”

She felt the way Tobirama stilled behind her—not sharply, but with the weight of someone drawing conclusions in silence.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, his voice, low and even, broke the quiet. “That Uchiha boy was a fool.”

Sakura startled softly, the unexpected flatness in his tone drawing her attention. She turned slightly in his hold, just enough to glance back at him.

He wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on some faraway point, jaw set, but not tight. It wasn’t jealousy burning in his voice—it was disappointment and disbelief. 

“He had you,” Tobirama continued, eyes flickering toward her now. “And he let you walk away not knowing if he ever cared.”

Sakura’s throat felt suddenly tight.

“It’s not that simple,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Sasuke-kun was… broken in ways I couldn’t fix.”

“You weren’t meant to fix him,” Tobirama said firmly. “That wasn’t your duty.”

She didn’t answer. Just let herself sink back into the warmth of his chest again, curling her fingers loosely over his forearm as his words filtered through her. They were not sharp, not judgmental, just… honest.

It was strange, hearing someone speak so plainly about something she’d always carried in silence. All the aching, unspoken things between her and Sasuke—the emotional breadcrumb trail she’d followed for years, hoping it might one day lead to something more. But it never had. And now, with Tobirama, the contrast was stark.

Where Sasuke had been distant, unreadable—Tobirama was clear. Steady. Grounded. Even in silence, he never made her feel like she was asking for too much.

“You shouldn’t have had to give so much just to be seen,” he added, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “You’re not… disposable.”

Her breath caught, eyes burning before she could stop it. Not from pain but from something gentler. Something that felt like being wanted for who she was, not for how far she was willing to bend.

He looked at her then, really looked, and the weight of his gaze wasn’t possessive, but deliberate. Like he was committing her to memory. As if she mattered.

Sakura found herself holding his stare, lips parting around words that didn’t come. Maybe they didn’t need to.

“And what about your sensei?” Tobirama’s voice broke the silence. 

“Kakashi-sensei?” she asked, blinking back the sudden shift in emotion.

He hummed low in his chest.

Her voice softened, a hint of warmth threading through the memory. “Kakashi-sensei was… well, he had his quirks. Always late to training, with some ridiculous excuse about how he lost track of time reading. But beneath all that,” she continued, voice steady, “he cared deeply for the team. He was the kind of person who’d put himself last every time. Quietly watching, protecting, ready to step in when it mattered most, even if it meant hiding behind that stupid mask of his and those lazy excuses. He was the steady hand we all needed, even if he wasn’t always there in the way we expected.” 

She smiled faintly. “He was our anchor. Not perfect. Not always present in the way we needed. But he carried so much for all of us.”

There was a long, quiet beat. Not heavy. Just full.

“I love them… all of them,” she said softly. “And I don’t regret it. But… I think I regret how much of myself I lost along the way.”

Tobirama’s arms tightened around her just a little.

“You didn’t lose yourself,” he murmured, his voice warm against her hair. “You carried their strengths, their weaknesses, their burdens… all of it. That’s what made you strong.”

His words warmed her heart, a quiet reassurance that seeped into the places she thought were broken beyond repair. And for a moment, she didn’t feel like she was falling anymore. 

She turned to him fully now, eyes searching his face. “I keep wondering if I deserve this. You. This peace. After everything.”

“You do,” Tobirama said, without hesitation.

Her heart skipped a beat at the certainty in his voice—so steady, so sure it almost hurt. Sakura reached up, brushing a hand through her hair, suddenly too aware of the silence, the closeness, the soft flicker of the overhead light casting golden shadows across his face. She couldn’t stop the creeping worry that she might shatter whatever fragile hope was blooming between them. What if she wasn’t enough for this man? What if the past clung too tightly to her—what if, one day, she disappointed him?

“I…”

He looked at her again, gaze steady.

Tobirama’s eyes remained fixed on hers, unwavering even as the silence stretched—deep, contemplative, but never uncomfortable.

“I see it,” he said at last, voice low. “The way you carry yourself like you always have something to prove. Like no matter what you do, it’ll never be enough.”

Sakura’s chest tightened.

“You take on everything without complaint, but I’ve seen how hard you are on yourself when no one’s looking,” he continued. “That doubt… it’s always just beneath the surface.”

His tone never wavered. He wasn’t accusing her. He was simply stating the truth. Seeing her.

“I see the pain you try to bury. The way you never let yourself rest. Like peace is something you have to earn.”

She swallowed hard, throat tight. Her hand dropped from her hair, fingers curling in her lap. “I… I’m not like that, not always—”

“I know,” he said gently, interrupting without sharpness. “But you don’t need to try so hard to earn something that’s already yours.”

Sakura blinked at him, startled by the certainty in his voice.

“You are brilliant,” he went on, calm and measured, as if listing irrefutable truths. “Strategic. Inventive. Compassionate… so much so it frightens me sometimes. Because you’d carry the weight of the world without ever asking anyone to help.”

Her breath hitched.

“And strong,” he added, a wry twist touching his mouth. “Strong enough to pummel Saru, my prized student, into the dirt when you caught him peeking into the women’s onsen.”

Sakura gasped, her face turning scarlet. “He deserved it! And I don’t regret it for a second!”

Tobirama arched a brow, clearly amused. “I never said he didn’t. Frankly, I’m impressed you didn’t break a few ribs.”

She groaned, burying her face in her hands, mortified—not just by the memory of Hiruzen’s terror, but by what came after. She remembered the way her chakra had flared in anger… and then how it had stuttered to a halt. Because she’d looked up and seen him—Tobirama—sitting waist-deep in the hot spring, utterly unbothered by the chaos. Broad shoulders, droplets tracing down his bare chest, not a towel in sight. She’d ogled. Shamelessly. Every inch of him was seared into her memory.

A flicker of chakra teased at her senses, warm and steady. She peeked out between her fingers.

Tobirama’s eyes were on her, glinting with unmistakable amusement. She realized with growing horror that he knew. He absolutely knew what she’d been thinking.

“You think this is funny, don’t you,” she muttered, glaring at him with helpless, burning embarrassment.

“I do,” he said, completely unapologetic, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.

She shifted in his arms, turned to face him, and gave him a weak shove. He chuckled—actually chuckled—and the sound was low and warm and far too satisfying for her already flustered state.

Her heart flipped, her indignation unraveling at the edges. Damn him. Damn him and his perfect, smug face.

But before she could bite back another retort, his expression changed—just slightly. The laughter lingered at the edge of his lips, but something softer pulled in beneath it. Thoughtfulness. Weight.

“But my point is,” he said, his tone evening out, “you’ve walked through war, betrayal, and grief… and somehow, you’re still you . Still standing. Still giving. You didn’t lose yourself, Sakura. You forged yourself into something stronger.”

His voice held no admiration for her strength as a concept—it wasn’t flattery. It was reverence for the choices she’d made. The battles she’d survived.

He paused, brows drawing together—not with doubt, but with careful thought.

“So no,” he continued quietly, “I don’t understand your insecurities. Not logically. Not when everything you are disproves them. But I see them. Because I see you.”

Her chest tightened. The ache she’d buried—the one she’d grown so used to living with—shivered loose under the weight of his words.

“I see them,” Tobirama said again, softer now. “Because I watch you. Because I care. And that’s not something I say lightly.”

Her eyes widened, startled by the quiet conviction in his voice. “Why me?” she breathed before she could stop herself.

A faint smile tugged at his lips and it undid her.

“Because you saw me too.”

Sakura’s breath hitched. Her gaze lifted to his and the look on his face knocked the air from her lungs. There was no distance in it. No reservation, no mask, no calculation. Just open sincerity, laid bare.

Her heart clenched.

Because she saw it now. Clear and unshaking. The weight of what he felt for her. The way he valued her, the space she’d carved in his world without ever realizing it. How, in a life that had demanded so much sacrifice, he had made space for her.

And just like that, the final thread holding her together slipped from her grasp. She folded into him without hesitation, burying her face against the steady thrum of his heart—the one rhythm she trusted more than her own. She breathed in his scent—clean, crisp, and edged with something unmistakably him, like rain-soaked paper and distant smoke—and felt tears well up in her eyes.

“You’re allowed peace, Sakura,” he murmured into her hair, his hand rested on her back. “You deserve it. And if you forget… I’ll remind you. Again… and again.”

Sakura leaned back enough to look at him—really look at him—and felt something inside her begin to soften, to unfold.

The man before her, always controlled and calculating, now watched her with a quiet tenderness that disarmed everything inside her. There was no judgment in his expression, no cold logic. Only certainty. Love. Reassurance, written into the slight slack of his jaw, the faint crease at his brow, the softness in his eyes—as though he’d laid down his armor just for her.

His words echoed, but it was his gaze that anchored her. He didn’t recoil from her pain. He met it. Held it. Cradled it in silence more comforting than any promise ever spoken aloud.

And then, there it was. His smile.

Not the faint, fleeting curve she’d grown used to catching in rare, quiet moments. This one bloomed slowly, deepening as his gaze held hers. Genuine and warm. Brighter than she ever imagined he was capable of.

It softened everything about him, made him look younger, almost boyish, and achingly human.

Her breath caught, heart stuttering at the sight and warmth bloomed in her chest—fragile and overwhelming.

“I don’t know what I did to find you in this life,” she whispered after a moment of silence.

His lips twitched with the smallest tug of affection before it shifted into a smirk. “Perhaps meddling with my Hiraishin was the universe’s way of sending you exactly where you belonged.”

Sakura let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound catching between disbelief and something far more tender.

“Oh, so now it’s fate?” she murmured, eyes gleamed playfully even as emotion shimmered just beneath the surface. “That’s rich coming from the man who doesn’t believe in superstition and only in logic.”

He arched a brow, entirely unrepentant.

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “If I’d known messing with your jutsu would land me here, maybe I should’ve done it sooner.”

Tobirama’s lips twitched with amusement, his voice low and warm. “Then I suppose I should thank you for your recklessness.”

His words carried a tenderness that made her smile falter, the teasing giving way to something quieter, more fragile.

She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw—slow, deliberate—feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint rasp of stubble beneath her touch. Her eyes held his, steady and sure.

“I won’t run anymore,” she said. “I was afraid. I still am, a little. But I know what I want now.”

Tobirama’s hand came up to cover hers, grounding her, anchoring them both. “And what’s that?”

“You,” she said softly. “This. Whatever we’re building.”

For a breath, neither of them moved. The space between them felt charged—thick with everything unspoken, every brush of near-misses and unguarded moments.

Then he leaned in.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t cautious. His hand slid up, fingers threading through the back of her hair, tilting her face to his. When their lips met, it was with quiet certainty and a heat that curled low in her spine.

The kiss deepened—slow, lingering, full of intent. His mouth moved against hers like he was savoring her, learning her all over again. She responded in kind, her fingers tightening at the collar of his yukata, pulling him closer until there was no space left to spare.

She tasted the warmth of his breath, the faint salt of his skin, the soft hum in the back of his throat that made her stomach flutter. One of his hands slid to her waist, firm and possessive, anchoring her against him as his lips brushed hers again—and again—with increasing hunger, though never rushed.

Sakura shifted, pressing herself fully into him, her heart thrumming wildly under her ribs. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she parted for him without hesitation, the kiss turning slow and molten, like honey poured over flame.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, he didn’t move far. Their foreheads touched, noses brushing, breath mingling in the scant space between them.

“You,” he murmured again, voice low and rough, “are the most dangerous kind of distraction.”

Sakura smiled against his mouth, her breath still unsteady. “Then stop pretending you don’t like being distracted.”

His answer was another kiss—deeper this time, slower, as if savoring her. His hand cupped the back of her neck, the other firm on her waist, drawing her closer until there was no space between them. The heat between them surged, unmistakable and undeniable.

She leaned into him fully, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling him down to her. His breath hitched at the sensation, and she felt it—felt him—responding with a kind of hunger he rarely let show.

Their mouths met again and again, each kiss more fervent than the last. The air around them felt charged, every touch sparking a deeper ache. His hand slid to her back, pressing her to him as if anchoring himself, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real beneath his hands.

She gasped softly as his mouth found the edge of her jaw, then down to the curve of her neck. Her fingers tightened around the fabric of his yukata, her heart thundering. Her name fell from his lips like a breathless vow and she was already lost in the sound of it.

Time blurred. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his hands, the way they moved instinctively around each other, lips bruising, breath uneven, caught in the pull of something neither of them wanted to stop.

But eventually—slowly—he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His breathing was rough, controlled only by sheer will, and his hands stayed planted on her waist as though letting go might undo everything.

Sakura exhaled shakily, her lips tingling, her thoughts scattered. She didn’t move either. Just laid there with him in the hush of her dimly lit living room, the scent of him and the taste of his kiss still lingering.

They didn’t speak right away. They didn’t need to.

Because in that moment—tangled in each other’s arms, hearts racing—there was nothing left to say. Only the echo of all the things that had already been spoken without words.

Tobirama wasn’t used to this kind of silence.

Not the silence of surveillance or meditation. Not the stillness of a mission night where every breath had to be controlled, every shift in weight calculated, where silence was a matter of survival.

This was different.

This was peace.

He lay on his side in the dim quiet of Sakura’s bedroom, the faint moonlight filtering in from the curtain casting pale shadows over the curve of her shoulder. Her hair was a mess of pink strands against the pillow, one hand curled loosely against his chest like she was anchoring herself to him, even in sleep.

Her breathing was soft, even. Slow. The steady rise and fall of her body matched a rhythm he’d memorized long before tonight, back when he sat by her hospital bed counting each inhale like it might be her last.

Now she was here. Warm and alive.

His hand rested over hers, fingers brushing the edge of her knuckles in the smallest of gestures.

He hadn’t meant to stay—not at first. He’d come to set things right. That was the real reason. No more pretending. No more distance. No more silence left to rot between them like an open wound. He came to apologize  for the way everything had unfolded. For letting fear dictate his response. For staying away when all she had ever done was offer her heart.

The truth had come later—beneath dim light in her apartment and quiet words spoken in low tones.

He’d told her how much she meant to him.

It was perhaps the most he’d ever said in his life. The most vulnerable he had ever been. Not in passing gestures or sidelong glances—but in spoken truth, plain and bare and frightening. He told her everything. How the thought of losing her had haunted him. How it had twisted like a kunai lodged in his chest ever since brought her back from the void, her pulse barely holding on. How the idea of looking into her eyes as she woke up from her coma and seeing regret—of seeing her choose to walk away from him—terrified him more than any battlefield ever had.

So he confessed it all.

That she meant everything to him.

That he wanted to build a life with her—not just moments stolen in silence, not just soft touches behind closed doors—but a future. Something real. Something lasting.

And she had said it back.

Not with the same restraint, not with his tight-lipped economy of words—but in a way that struck far deeper. She told him she’d been afraid. Afraid to hope. Afraid to believe that someone like him could love someone like her. But she did. She wanted him. Loved him.

And somehow—impossibly—he fit into that wanting.

Her words had settled something in him. Reassured him in a way nothing else ever had. Because she felt it too. The fear. The longing. The ache. She understood it. Shared it. And when she whispered, “I love you,” with her hands trembling slightly in his grip—something in him had shifted.

Strange, what three simple words could do to a man so long governed by logic and discipline.

And now, here she was.

Breathing softly beside him, curled close like she’d always belonged there.

His eyes drifted to her sleeping face, and something in his expression softened. She looked younger like this. Less burdened. As if she’d set her grief down, if only for a few hours. He exhaled quietly and let his mind wander, back to their conversation just hours earlier when he’d asked her about her teammates.

Naruto. Sasuke. Kakashi.

There had been a flicker of nostalgia in her eyes as she spoke, even pain, but it was Naruto who drew the smile from her. The stories she told—loud declarations, impossible optimism, a kind of willpower that defied logic—Tobirama had found himself staring at her mid-sentence, recognizing every bit of Hashirama in the boy’s spirit. A smile had curled at the corner of his lips as he’d imagined it. Naruto and Hashirama, side by side. That same ridiculous belief in people. That same blazing heart.

Then there was Sasuke.

Tobirama’s brow furrowed.

He hadn’t liked what he’d seen—what he’d felt —from her memories of the boy. Brooding. Selfish. Cold. Driven by vengeance even when love had stood right in front of him. A boy swallowed by shadows of his own making. Tobirama had known that type far too well.

Foolish boy.

To have had her loyalty—her love—and discarded it? He didn’t care how broken the Uchiha had been. He didn’t forgive it. He couldn't.

And yet…

Her words echoed still.

The Uchiha had been massacred. All of them. Slaughtered in a single night, leaving Sasuke the lone survivor. And the village was responsible.

Tobirama went still.

A child. Just a child.

His chest tightened with something quieter, more painful. He had built the shinobi academy for this. To take children off the battlefield. To delay the day they would learn the weight of loss and grief. He had fought—sacrificed—for that dream. And yet it seems, even generations later, war and hatred still found them. 

To think that such a powerful clan had been so utterly wiped from existence disturbed him on a level he couldn’t quite name.

What exactly had gone wrong?

And if the Uchiha had fallen… what of the Senju?

The thought gripped him with cold, creeping dread. Had they disappeared too? Were his people—his bloodline—reduced to names in a book? Faded out with time?

He didn’t know. And the not-knowing clawed at something deep in his gut. But he pushed it aside for now. 

Still, he supposed… he owed Sasuke something.

If the boy had truly chosen her—if he had loved her in turn, if things had gone the way she must have once dreamed—then Tobirama would never have had this. Would never have known her.

A dark irony.

So perhaps, in some strange, roundabout way… he should be grateful.

But he still didn’t forgive him. He could sympathise with him but not forgive.

Sakura stirred in her sleep, sighing faintly against his chest, and Tobirama’s hand curled more securely over hers. He exhaled quietly through his nose, gaze softening as it returned to Sakura’s face. Her brows furrowed slightly in sleep, as if dreaming something she didn’t quite like, and without thinking, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb lightly across her forehead, smoothing the tension away and continued to watch her as she slept.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Wasn’t even sure when he had. One moment, he’d been watching the rise and fall of her breathing, the soft curve of her lashes against her cheeks and the next, the room had blurred around the edges, warmth and silence pulling him under. Maybe an hour passed. Maybe two. Time had slipped through his fingers unnoticed.

Then came the shift.

Faint, at first. A twitch of her fingers. The slightest furrow in her brow. And then, a sound. Barely audible. A whimper.

Tobirama’s eyes snapped open.

It came again—sharper now. A broken gasp. A muffled cry scraped raw from somewhere deep.

He turned toward her fully, every instinct sharpening in an instant.

Sakura’s eyes were squeezed shut, lashes trembling against her cheeks. Her breath hitched—uneven, shallow, frightened. Her shoulders tensed, and her hand curled into a tight fist where it rested against his chest.

“Sakura,” he said softly.

She didn’t wake.

Her lips parted in a silent scream.

And then—

“No… don’t… Tobirama!”

He stilled, every muscle locking at the sound of his name on her lips. The raw fear in her voice—how it cracked—cut through him with icy precision.

Just what in the world was she seeing? he thought, a cold knot forming in his chest.

He sat up swiftly, cradling her shoulders and giving her a gentle shake.

“Sakura.”

Still, she thrashed lightly, trapped in whatever nightmare held her. Her skin was clammy, damp with sweat that matted strands of hair to her temple. The sheets were tangled around her legs, twisted tight like restraints, her breath coming faster now in short, desperate gasps.

“Sakura,” he said again, more firmly this time, brushing damp hair from her face with a steady hand. “It’s a dream. You’re safe. Wake up.”

Her eyes flew open.

She bolted upright with a choked sob, gasping like someone dragged from deep water. Her hands grasped at him instinctively—trembling, disoriented, searching for something real.

And when her eyes finally found his—truly focused on him —she exhaled a fractured breath, like her lungs had only just remembered how.

“I’m here,” Tobirama said quietly, steadying her shoulders, grounding her. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

She blinked. Then covered her mouth with one shaking hand as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

“It felt so real…” she whispered, voice cracking.

Tobirama said nothing at first. Just watched her. Studied her. The sharp edge of her pain stirred something deep and visceral inside him.

“What did you see?” he asked, though part of him already suspected.

She swallowed hard. “You... Dying. I was trying to reach you, to heal you, but I was too slow. You—” Her voice broke. “You died in my arms.”

His jaw tightened. A slow inhale. Exhale.

“This is not the first time,” she whispered. “The same scene keeps replaying in my head. You, bleeding out. And I’m helpless again.”

Tobirama took her hand and brought it to his chest, pressing her palm over his heartbeat.

“I’m clearly still alive and well right now.”

She let out a watery laugh, shaky and broken. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he said. “It’s the truth.”

She was looking at him with eyes that shimmered in the dim light, emotion held too tightly behind them.

“But you’re always putting yourself in danger,” she said quietly. “Not recklessly, I know. You always calculate, always think ahead. But it’s still danger. It still feels like one day you’ll be gone, and I won’t be able to stop it.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, and Tobirama felt something twist inside him. He didn’t flinch from her words. Didn’t deflect. He knew she wasn’t accusing him. She knew him too well for that. This was fear, not frustration. And he could feel it in the way her fingers had tightened slightly against his arm, as if trying to anchor him here.

“That is the risk of who I am,” he said, his voice low. “Of what I do.”

Sakura met his gaze, steady despite the tightness in her chest. “I know the risks. I’ve always known.” Her voice wavered, just slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to watch you throw your life away.”

Tobirama stilled, her words threading deep, because they weren’t about logic, or responsibility, or even survival.

They were about him. As a man. As someone she cared for.

He didn’t answer right away. He let the quiet stretch, let it settle between them. Then, gently, he leaned forward until their foreheads touched, his hand lifting to the back of her neck, steady and warm.

“I won’t,” he murmured. 

And he meant it. Because for the first time in a long time, his life wasn’t just about the village, or sacrifice, or duty. It was about her.

Her fingers curled into a fist against his chest. “I don’t ever want to go through that again,” she whispered, voice splintering with lingering fear. “Watching you die… even in a dream… it felt real. I felt so helpless.”

Tobirama remained still and silent.

He had known something was wrong the moment her body jolted awake—too fast, too rigid, her skin clammy with sweat. Her eyes had been wide and wet when she looked at him, as if expecting him to vanish between blinks. And now she trembled against him, fragile in a way he rarely saw her.

He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, pulling her tightly to his chest. One hand anchored at the base of her spine, the other stroking up along her back in slow, even lines. She was shaking still.

“You won’t have to face that. Not now, not ever.” he murmured into her hair. 

Her breath hitched against him.

And for a long time, she said nothing. Just held on—forehead pressed into his collarbone, breath warm and uneven against his skin. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Only held her, like a steady current against the storm.

She exhaled eventually. Slow and shaky. 

He knew what it was like to carry the image of death long after waking. To feel the echo of loss in your bones even when logic insisted you were safe. He had seen and experienced too much himself to dismiss her fear. Had buried too many comrades and kin to brush off her nightmare.

When her trembling finally began to quiet, Tobirama shifted with care, pulling the covers over their bodies. She didn’t move. Just let herself be gathered close, her head tucked beneath his chin, her body curling naturally into his. One of his hands remained curved protectively around her waist, fingers relaxed but firm—anchoring her to him, to this moment. The other arm bent behind his head, tucked beneath the pillow, his palm resting just above the nape of his neck. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he didn’t move.

Not when her body was finally still.

Not when her breathing had softened into something close to sleep. She fell asleep like that. Gradually. Like a tide pulling back from the shore.

But he did not sleep again.

Not tonight.

His eyes remained open, focused on the curtain that fluttered gently from the night breeze, on the way moonlight cut through the drapes and traced soft lines across the room. Sakura’s breathing had evened, but he could still feel the subtle tension in her limbs. The echo of fear hadn’t fully left her.

He stared into the dark, jaw tight.

The image of himself dying in her dream unsettled him—not for what it meant about his fate, but for what it had done to her. To think of her breaking like that, because of him, was a weight he hadn’t anticipated. He had accepted long ago that his death might come without warning. That it was a matter of when, not if.

But now… now it was different.

There was someone who would mourn. Someone who would carry that pain. And that made the risk… heavier.

His hand curled slightly at her side.

Never again.

It wasn’t a dramatic vow. Not some foolish promise to never die—he wasn’t that naïve. But he would fight for his life now. For her.

For the chance to stay in this quiet space, night after night, where she slept safely in his arms.

The morning light was soft when it filtered through her bedroom curtain, just pale streaks of gold brushing the floor. Sakura stirred slowly, her body warm, enveloped in a sense of safety she hadn’t felt in weeks.

The first thing she noticed was the steady rhythm beneath her cheek. It was the thump of a heartbeat.

Her eyes opened.

Tobirama was still here.

Still holding her.

She blinked, adjusting to the light, and slowly lifted her head. His eyes were open. Watching her. Sharp and calm, but behind them—tired. Not the kind of tired that came from a short night’s sleep, but the kind earned through long hours of watchfulness. Of burden carried in silence.

She propped herself up slightly, her voice hushed. “Did you not sleep at all?”

A faint shake of his head. “Didn’t need to.”

Sakura frowned. “Tobirama…”

“You needed rest more than I did,” he said simply. As if that answered everything.

And in a way, it did.

Her chest ached. She remembered the nightmare—how vivid it had felt, how his blood had stained her hands, how she’d screamed and screamed and still failed to save him. But now, in this moment, he was real. Warm beneath her touch. Present.

Alive.

“You should’ve slept,” she murmured, brushing a lock of silver hair from his temple.

“I wanted to make sure your peace wasn’t disturbed.”

A rush of warmth and something unspoken settling in her chest. His care wasn’t just duty—it was something deeper, more personal. More him.

Sakura smiled before she could stop herself—soft and unguarded. There was something quietly disarming about waking up like this, tangled in blankets and silence, and finding him still here. Not just present, but watching over her.

She lifted her gaze to meet his, and he didn’t look away.

“What?” he asked, brow twitching slightly. That usual Tobirama wariness, like he was already bracing for whatever comment she might throw.

She shook her head, still smiling. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

She let out a soft breath of laughter. “I was thinking that you’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

His expression didn’t change, but she caught it—the slight stilling of his breath, the way his thumb flexed where it rested at her waist beneath the blanket.

“And here I thought I was hiding it well,” he said dryly.

“You really aren’t.” She shifted onto her side, propping her cheek on one hand. “You care too much. It leaks out.”

“Only for some people.”

Her stomach fluttered, unprepared for how easily he said it.

“Oh?” she teased, trying to steady herself. “So who else have you stayed up all night for?”

There was a pause, and then he answered with seriousness, “Once, for Kagami. He wouldn’t stop talking about kunai design theory but ended up falling asleep mid-sentence. I waited to see if he’d finish the thought.”

Sakura snorted. “That doesn’t count.”

“I agree.” His voice softened. “You’re… different.”

Her breath hitched. His gaze was steady, quiet, full of things unsaid. But she heard them anyway.

Her throat tightened. “You’re different for me too,” she whispered.

They stayed like that for a while—just breathing, just being, surrounded by the hush of morning and the comfort of knowing neither of them was alone.

Eventually, Sakura sighed and pushed herself up, letting the blanket slide from her shoulders. “Alright. I should get up.”

Tobirama’s hand, still resting on her waist, hesitated before withdrawing. “Where are you going?” The slight delay wasn’t lost on her. He almost looked reluctant to let her go. The thought stirred something warm in her chest.

She looked back at him over her shoulder, amused. “To make breakfast. You, Hokage-sama, should take a shower. Might actually help with your sleep deprivation.”

He blinked at her, then narrowed his eyes in mock offense. “You’re giving me orders now?”

“I’m the medic here,” she said sweetly, rising to her feet and stretching. She pulled open the curtains and the sunlight caught her hair. “Consider it a prescription.”

He made a sound in his throat—something close to a laugh but too dry and reluctant to be anything that undignified.

“And if I refuse?” he asked.

She leaned in, brushed her lips against his cheek, just beside his mouth, and murmured with a mischievous tilt to her voice, “Then I’ll have to put you on bedrest. Strictly monitored. No fieldwork. No paperwork. And absolutely no brooding.”

When she pulled back, his gaze followed her like a touch. Heat bloomed beneath her skin.

She padded out of the room, bare feet silent against the polished wood, and felt his eyes on her the whole way.

She didn’t need to turn back to know he was smirking.

The scent of miso and steamed rice drifted through the quiet of Sakura’s little apartment, curling through the air like a memory he hadn’t lived until now.

Tobirama stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, hair damp. He paused in the hallway, feet still on the wooden floorboards, listening. Soft footsteps. The faint clink of ceramic. The low hiss of the tea kettle over the stove. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that would draw the attention of a shinobi trained to hear threats in every shadow.

And yet…

His heart gave a slow, unfamiliar thump.

It was domestic. Ordinary. And something about it pulled at him with the quiet intensity of a seal drawn taut.

When he stepped into the kitchen, Sakura was already laying out breakfast—precise, thoughtful. A pot of tea sat between two bowls, just beginning to cool. She didn’t notice him right away, too focused on arranging thin slices of pickled daikon. Her robe hung slightly loose at one shoulder, and her hair was still a mess from sleep.

She was radiant.

For a brief, unguarded moment, his mind betrayed him—casting her not in the warm light of her modest kitchen, but in his home. The Senju compound. Standing barefoot on polished wood floors, a silk robe wrapped around her frame as she poured tea in his study, her laugh echoing down the quiet hallways as she moved through spaces that had long since felt too large for one man. He imagined her there like she belonged—like she’d always been there.

When Sakura finally looked up, her face brightened, and the smile she gave him—unthinking, genuine—felt like sunlight cracking through winter fog.

“You’re right on time,” she said lightly.

“I make a habit of it,” he replied, voice dry, but his gaze lingered on her longer than it should have.

They sat. Ate in companionable silence. It struck him then how rare such a thing was in his life—quiet not born of tension, but of comfort. Of familiarity. She didn’t feel the need to fill it with idle talk, and he was grateful for that. She simply existed beside him, her presence warm and unintrusive, like steam rising from her tea.

He watched her more than he ate.

The way her eyes softened when she sipped from her cup. The way her fingers absently tucked her hair behind her ear. She looked well-rested, her body still soft with the gentle calm of sleep.

After the meal, Tobirama stood, reaching for his yukata, but she was already stepping forward.

“Let me,” Sakura said, taking the fabric from his hands before he could argue.

“It isn’t necessary.”

“You stayed up all night for me,” she countered, lifting the garment over his shoulders with practiced ease. “Let me at least help you dress.”

He didn’t argue further. Not when her fingers moved so gently over him, smoothing the folds with quiet care. She was so close he could feel her breath when she focused, see the crease between her brows as she adjusted the sash with her usual precision. Her knuckles brushed against his ribs, and he stayed perfectly still—not because he was indifferent, but because something in him ached with how much he wanted this to last.

When she stepped back, turning to heard back into the kitchen, he moved before he could think. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him from behind. He felt her stiffen slightly in surprise, then melt against him with a soft, yielding sigh.

“Tobi…”

He found himself smiling at the nickname—he hadn’t been called that since his mother was alive. Hearing it now from her felt unexpectedly endearing, a quiet comfort that eased the weight on his shoulders. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, resting his forehead against the crown of hers. She smelled like clean soap and camellia flowers, something uniquely hers—something warm and grounding that had already carved itself into his memory.

“You’re going to be late,” she murmured, though her voice had no real urgency. She leaned into him as she said it.

“Just let me have this moment.”

She chuckled under her breath, bringing her hand up to lightly trace along his forearm.

“You say that, but it’s never just a moment with you.”

Still, she turned in his arms. Her hand lifted to his face, fingers brushing over the red facial marking on his cheek.

“It won’t look good if the Hokage starts showing up late. You’re supposed to lead by example,” she said, soft and teasing.

He met her gaze, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You forget I’m a master of the Hiraishin,” he replied smoothly. “If I wanted, I could be at my office in the blink of an eye. I can afford to take my sweet time.”

Then he kissed her.

His mouth pressed fully to hers, and when she didn’t pull back. When she gave the smallest sigh against his lips, breath warm and yielding, he deepened it. One of his hands slid up her spine, into her hair, fingers threading through the soft pink strands as he tilted her head just slightly, angling her closer.

His tongue slipped past her lips with quiet intent, brushing hers in a way that made her knees buckle just a little. He felt the way her fingers clutched at his yukata, curling into the fabric at his chest, not pulling him closer—because he was already there—but like she was anchoring herself to the moment. To him.

Sakura moaned softly in his mouth, a breathless sound that sent a ripple through his body

A low, almost guttural growl slipped past his lips as something fierce and protective stirred within him. Without hesitation, he deepened the kiss, deliberate yet urgent, as if trying to speak all the words he couldn’t voice. In one swift motion, he guided her back until she met a wall, his body pressing close, caging her in without force, only need.

His hands began to wander—resting first on her waist, then gliding slowly upward, over the fabric of her robe. One hand trailed higher, fingers brushing along her ribs before skimming the soft curve just beneath her breasts. He lingered there, teasing, his touch light but deliberate. Her breath hitched, a quiet, shivering moan slipping from her lips, and he paused just long enough to feel it before leaning in again, his mouth claiming hers with renewed intensity.

When he finally pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, breath uneven. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed—looking at him as if she could hardly believe he was really there.

“I’ll miss this,” he said quietly, his voice low and husky, thick with restraint more than need.

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. “You will?”

He arched an eyebrow, a teasing glint sparking in his eyes. “Really? You didn’t figure it out after the last ten hours of me hovering like a shadow?”

She narrowed her eyes, a playful glare lighting her features. “You’re… impossible.”

“And you…” His thumb brushed over the corner of her mouth. His touch lingered, gently wiping away the faintest trace of moisture, making her blush deepen. “...are a distraction.”

She turned her head away. He caught the way her cheeks flushed, how her breath hitched ever so slightly, and it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward. She was disarmingly easy to tease, and he found it… unexpectedly satisfying.

Before he could dwell any further on that thought, Sakura broke the moment with a steady, but soft voice. “You can come by after work. I can make dinner for us.”

He paused, just for a moment then gave her a smile. Not the polished, political mask. Not a guarded facade. A real, honest smile.

“Then I’ll look forward to tonight.”

With that he stepped back, slipped on his sandals and moved toward the door. Before stepping out, he glanced back, his eyes lingering as he took in her expression—flushed, wide-eyed, and frozen in quiet surprise—and silently committed it to memory.

And in that shared glance, the unspoken promise between them hung softly in the air.

And then he was gone.

Outside, Tobirama inhaled the morning air, the faint scent of her still clinging to him.

And for the first time in a long time, he hoped the day would pass quickly.

Tobirama sat behind his desk over the numerous scrolls stacked before him. The Hokage’s office was suffocating in its usual silence. His fingers drummed against the edge of the desk as he scanned the latest mission report, his brow furrowing the longer he read.

It had been a simple escort mission. A young chuunin squad assigned to protect the Daimyo's son during his travels through the Land of Hot Water. Standard protocol. A mission that, on paper, was as unremarkable as any other. And yet, here they were—an ambush. A skirmish. And not a single casualty among the Daimyo’s men.

His eyes narrowed further as he read the names of the assailants. Kumogakure shinobi.

That was troubling enough.

Konoha and Kumo had always had a strained relationship—two powerful nations, too proud to truly trust one another, too wary of each other’s growing strength. But they had maintained a fragile peace for years, an uneasy truce of sorts. The attacks on Konoha had always been subtle—incidents that could be dismissed as misunderstandings, small border skirmishes that never seemed to escalate.

But lately, it was different. Too many encounters. Too many close calls. Each incident had its own peculiarities. The raid on Uzushiogakure was the first sign, but no one had paid much attention to it at the time. They had mistaken Sakura for a Konoha shinobi, a regrettable error on their part.

Then there was the ambush—well-coordinated, well-thought-out. The extraction of the Uzumaki scroll, an operation that should have gone smoothly if it weren’t for the sudden, calculated attack. He had been forced to reconsider the timing, the precision. Was it coincidence that they had come for the scroll, or was there more at play?

And now this—an escort mission turned into a combat engagement. The Daimyo's son had not been the target. It had been the Konoha shinobi. It didn’t make sense. Escort missions were meant to be a show of force, of protection. So why would Kumogakure shinobi risk attacking them?

Tobirama’s gaze flickered back to the report. His mind churned with suspicion. Something was off. Too many pieces had aligned over the past few months, too many unexpected run-ins with Kumogakure forces. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore.

The attack had been calculated—targeting Konoha shinobi in a remote region. It wasn’t a random encounter. That much was clear. But why? Why now? What did Kumogakure want? The more he thought about it, the more questions piled up in his mind, and the more certain he became that there was something larger at play here.

He had always been a man of logic. A man of reason. He prided himself on seeing through the noise, cutting through the chaos to find the truth. But this? This was more than a simple attack. This felt like a warning. Or worse—a deliberate provocation.

Tobirama leaned back in his chair, rubbing his fingers along his temple. His thoughts swirled, tracing back to the years of negotiations with the Raikage, to the shifting alliances and political maneuvering that had defined Konoha’s relationship with Kumo. They had always been on a razor's edge, barely maintaining their peace. If they weren’t careful, it could all tip over into something far worse.

Was this a declaration of war? Was Kumogakure testing Konoha’s resolve?

He couldn’t be certain. But he needed to be.

Tobirama’s eyes flickered to the window. Time. The one thing he didn’t have much of these days. He didn’t need more reports, more intel. He needed answers. And for that, he’d have to go straight to the source.

The Raikage.

Tobirama could not afford to let this continue unchecked. The growing tension between Konoha and Kumo, the repeated attacks—it was a volatile situation, one that could spiral out of control if not addressed. He didn’t like the idea of taking the first step, of playing into Kumo’s political games, but he needed to know what was happening. He needed to understand Kumo’s motivations before things got worse.

He let out a slow breath, his mind made up. He would need to speak to the Raikage, face-to-face. Only then would he have a clear understanding of where Kumo stood, and what, if anything, they were planning.

Tobirama’s gaze returned to the mission report in front of him. There was still so much uncertainty. But at least now he had a plan.

His fingers tapped once more against the desk before pulling out a blank scroll. Tobirama’s brush hovered over the blank scroll, a single bead of ink trembling at its tip. He stared at the parchment for a long moment, his thoughts carefully assembling themselves into measured diplomacy. This was not just a letter—it was a potential trigger, or a de-escalation, depending on how it was worded and received.

He dipped the brush again and began to write.

To the Esteemed Nidaime Raikage of Kumogakure,

I, Senju Tobirama, Hokage of Konohagakure, request an audience to discuss recent developments concerning joint security interests along our border. It is my sincere hope that through mutual respect and open dialogue, we may preserve the fragile peace between our villages.

Tobirama paused, eyes narrowing slightly. It had to sound respectful, but not weak. Neutral, yet pressing. He continued.

This message is sent in good faith with the intention of understanding the involvement of shinobi bearing Kumogakure identifiers in operations that have directly impacted Konoha's personnel. I trust you will recognize the urgency of this matter and respond accordingly.

With Respect,
Senju Tobirama
Nidaime Hokage of Konohagakure

He set the brush down, lips a thin line. The words felt tight, constrained by politics, but they would serve. Folding the scroll with practiced precision, he bound it with a wax seal imprinted with the Konoha insignia. This wasn’t a broad declaration; it was a warning disguised as a request.

He stood, straightening the front of his robes, and strode out of the Hokage’s office. The guards outside stiffened as he passed, and he made his way toward the mission staging grounds, where chuunin and jounin cycled in and out with updates and new assignments.

“Ueno, Tanaka, Shima,” Tobirama called, voice clipped but firm.

Three chuunin—each seasoned, reliable, and fast—snapped to attention at his command. They were young, but not green. He needed that mix of obedience and instinct.

“You’re to deliver this message directly to the Raikage of Kumogakure,” he said, handing Ueno the sealed scroll. “You will not deviate from your route. Do not engage with anyone who approaches you unless necessary. Your objective is to deliver this intact, and in person, to the Raikage or his appointed adjutant.”

“Yes, Hokage-sama,” Ueno replied.

Tobirama's gaze sharpened. “If anyone attempts to intercept you, assume they are hostile. If you’re separated, one of you must make it through. Understood?”

“Understood,” all three answered in unison.

He nodded once. “Depart within the hour. And don’t take the obvious roads—there may already be eyes watching for couriers.”

As they dispersed to prepare, Tobirama stood still in the afternoon light that spilled across the yard, shadows lengthening behind him. Every step from here on would be part of a dangerous game—and someone was already playing several moves ahead.

Chapter Text

It had been nearly two weeks since Sakura woke from her coma, and the days had taken on a comforting rhythm. Mornings often began with slow strolls through Konoha’s streets, followed by hours of training and reacquainting herself with her body’s limits. She had returned to the hospital as well, the familiar scent of antiseptic a strange sort of comfort as she slipped back into her duties. On some days, she trained with Hiruzen and Kagami. These sessions had quickly reminded them just how terrifying her strength could be. Her recovery had been swift, her muscles had regained their strength and her punches, devastating as ever, left both boys wary enough to keep a careful distance. But more often than not, Sakura found herself at the Senju compound where Tobirama waited with quiet patience, and where Mito welcomed her with warm tea and wiser words.

The late afternoon sun spilled golden through the shoji screens, lighting the small guest room in a soft amber hue. Outside, the gentle rustling of cherry blossoms filled the air with a faint, sweet fragrance. Inside, Sakura and Mito sat at a low wooden table, steam curling up from an iron teapot between them.

“You’ve been looking better,” Mito said as she poured Sakura another cup of roasted green tea. “Your eyes have color again. Less haunted.”

Sakura gave a small smile. “I think part of it’s the tea. And part of it’s… this.” She gestured at the quiet room. “The peace.”

Mito’s eyes crinkled with warmth. “Then I’m glad you’re here so often. Though I’d wager a certain Hokage has more to do with that than I do,” the older woman teased.

Sakura flushed and gave a sheepish smile. “He doesn’t certainly complain when I linger.”

Mito laughed, a sound like a bell in the spring air. “No, I imagine he does not. For a man who acts like he keeps the world balanced on his shoulders, Tobirama has never been very good at hiding where his heart is. Not from those who know where to look.”

The smile on Sakura’s lips wavered, touched by affection, but also something else. Mito seemed to notice.

“You remind me of myself sometimes,” the older woman said softly. “Not in temperament but in the weight you carry. Of duty, secrets and sacrifice.”

Sakura looked up, surprised. Mito stared out at the garden beyond the shoji, her profile backlit by the fading sun.

“I was very young when I lost my parents,” Mito began, voice quiet but steady. “They were killed in the war. I don’t remember their faces clearly. Only the red of my mother’s hair. After that, it was my grandfather who raised me. Uzumaki Ashina, head of the Uzumaki clan.”

Sakura nodded slowly. “I’ve read about him and the alliance he forged with the Senju…”

“It was more than a treaty to him,” Mito said, staring at her cup of tea deep in her thoughts. “He wanted security for the Uzumaki and for me to have a future. So when Hashirama came with his dreams of peace, and offered marriage as part of the alliance, I agreed. I did it to repay the clan. To make my grandfather proud.”

She paused, taking a sip of tea. Her gaze drifted, not to the blossoms, but to the horizon beyond them—memories only she could see.

“Luckily,” she continued with a smile gracing her lips, “Hashirama was everything I never knew I wanted. Kind, boisterous, foolishly idealistic, yes… but he loved fiercely. He made me laugh. And he saw me for who I am, not just a woman who sacrificed herself for political gain.”

Sakura’s heart swelled. “You truly loved him.” 

“With everything I had,” Mito said softly. “And he gave me a daughter. Nobara.”

Sakura blinked at the unfamiliar name. “Tsunade’s mother?”

Mito nodded. “She was bright and wild. Nothing like me. From the moment she could walk, she ran toward freedom and away from duty. She told us at fourteen that she no longer wanted to be a kunoichi. That she’d fallen in love with a civilian boy from the outskirts.”

Sakura’s lips parted in surprise.

“Hashirama adored her,” Mito went on, a wistful smile playing on her lips. “He gave her his blessing without hesitation. I… didn’t.” Her fingers tightened slightly around her teacup. “I believed in obligation. In legacy and duty. But Nobara wanted a simple life. So… he let her go.”

Sakura’s voice was quiet. “Then how is Tsunade here? In Konoha?”

“Nobara sent her to us,” Mito said, her voice softening. “After Tsunade was born. Said she wanted her daughter to have the opportunity to choose a life for herself, whether it be to lead the life of a shinobi or a civilian. Hashirama helped raise her for the first three years. Then… he passed. I’ve cared for her since.”

There was a beat of silence before Mito continued, voice more measured now.

“There was a time,” she said, “when the clans were discussing the need for a jinchuuriki. After Hashirama’s battle with Uchiha Madara, they realised the Kyuubi had to be contained, and they wanted someone strong to bear that burden. Someone with the right blood.”

Sakura’s breath caught.

“They wanted Nobara,” Mito said plainly. “Senju and Uzumaki blood ran through her veins. Strong chakra, vital reserves, excellent compatibility. She was the perfect candidate.”

Sakura’s eyes widened. None of the history books had ever mentioned that.

“Hashirama was pressured by both clans and the village,” Mito said, her voice turning somber. “They wanted him to convince her. But the very thought of sealing that monster inside his only daughter broke him. I remember the night he sat on our engawa and cried.”

Sakura’s throat tightened.

“So I offered myself instead,” Mito continued, softer now. “To make him happy. To protect our daughter. To protect the village he loved so much.”

She paused, her gaze settling somewhere far away. “It was in that moment I realized… Hashirama’s love for Nobara was far greater than his love for me. And when I offered myself, the look on his face… it was as though his greatest burden had finally been lifted.” A quiet breath escaped her. “That look broke something in me. For a time, I even resented my own daughter for it.” She shook her head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “It’s not something I am proud of.”

Sakura’s voice wavered. “I’m… so sorry for all that you’ve been through.”

Mito chuckled softly, though her eyes glistened. “Perhaps telling you all this makes you realise that I’m not as admirable as you once thought. I am, at the end of the day, just a woman who loved too much and gave too much.”

The weight of her words settled into the quiet.

Sakura thought about Mito’s words. About the life she had just laid bare with such unguarded honesty. The trust behind that openness settled heavily in Sakura’s chest, and with it came the realization that she hadn’t been nearly as forthcoming in return. Mito had exposed everything to her at that moment. Her pain, her regrets, her love. 

Sakura stared down at her teacup. The warmth there couldn’t compare to the burning in her chest—the ache of truth she had buried too long. She thought of the hurt in Tobirama’s eyes when he discovered her secret. Of how hiding had nearly broken them. Of how freely Mito had bared her soul just now.

She couldn’t lie. Not again. Not to someone who had just laid so much bare before her.

“I’m not exactly admirable myself… I haven’t been completely honest with you,” Sakura said, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s something I should have told you before.”

Mito turned toward her with calm, steady eyes. “Go on.”

Sakura hesitated, then met her gaze. “I’m not… from here. Not from this time.”

She braced herself for disbelief, rejection.

But Mito only gave a small, knowing smile. “I see.” She took a sip of her tea. “I suspected as much.”

Sakura blinked. “You… did?”

“You speak like someone who has seen what hasn’t yet come to pass,” Mito said. “You wield techniques not even Tobirama understands. And the way you look at this village… it’s as if you’re mourning something before it’s gone.” Her eyes softened, drifting upward to Sakura’s forehead. “But what truly made me question your origin was that seal of yours.”

Instinctively, Sakura’s hand rose to her brow. “My seal?”

“The Yin Seal,” Mito explained, her voice low and reverent. “That is an Uzumaki fuuinjutsu, passed down only through the royal bloodline, entrusted exclusively to the women of our clan. As it stands, I am the sole bearer of this technique, until I decide to pass it on to my child, and so forth.”

Sakura froze. For a heartbeat, the world tilted. She had never once questioned her shishou about the origins of the Byakugou seal—only that Tsunade had mastered it, perfected it, and passed it on to her. But now, as Mito’s words sank in, everything she had taken for granted fell into place with a crushing clarity.

The seal wasn’t something Tsunade had forged from nothing. It was a legacy. A piece of Uzumaki Mito herself, carried forward through blood and time, and entrusted—finally—to her.

Her chest tightened painfully. Kami, she missed her shishou. That sharp voice, that unshakable strength, the warmth hidden beneath every harsh word. Tsunade had never had children of her own, unfortunately, but Sakura had always known, deep down, that she and Shizune were as close as they came. Almost like daughters. Shizune had never managed to manifest the seal, but Sakura had and she could still remember, as vividly as if it were yesterday, the look on Tsunade’s face when she did. Pride. Fierce, unguarded pride.

In that instant, Sakura could almost feel Tsunade’s hand on her head again, steadying her. And for the first time, she truly understood the depth of the trust that had been given to her, that Tsunade had chosen her to inherit something so sacred.

A sting burned behind her eyes, but she blinked it back, clutching at her teacup like it might anchor her.

“Ah,” Mito murmured softly, and Sakura felt the woman’s gaze on her, warm and unerring. “It means something to you, doesn’t it? Whoever entrusted you with it.”

Sakura swallowed hard and nodded. “More than I can ever put into words.”

Mito tilted her head, studying her. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she started gently, “who taught you the seal?”

Sakura met her calm gaze and felt a quiet certainty stirring within her. Perhaps Mito already knew the answer deep down in her heart, and that her question was less about curiosity and more about seeking confirmation. A small smile formed on Sakura’s lips.

“It was Tsunade-shishou,” she said quietly, pride and affection coloring every syllable. “Your granddaughter.”

For a moment, silence settled between them. She watched as Mito’s eyes widened—just a fraction—before softening, as though the name had struck something deep within her. Slowly, her lips curved into a smile, a smile that held so much unspoken emotion Sakura almost forgot to breathe. Pride, longing, maybe even relief… it was all there, layered in a way words could never capture.

Sakura’s heart twisted at the sight. She wondered if Mito, even now, was thinking of the little girl she already loved and protected—a bright, stubborn six-year-old with golden hair and a will like fire. And for just a moment, it felt like she was showing her a glimpse of the future that awaited that child. The woman Tsunade would become, the legacy she would carry, and the strength she would one day embody.

“I see,” Mito murmured at last, her thumb brushing absently against the rim of her teacup. Sakura watched as her eyes seemed to drift inward, distant for a moment, lost in memories or thoughts only she could touch. The soft crease between her brows deepened slightly, and for a heartbeat the room felt suspended in quiet reverence.

Then, as if gathering herself, Mito’s gaze returned to Sakura’s with renewed focus. Her voice was gentle but steady as she asked, “And what made you decide to tell me all this now?”

Sakura smiled. “You’ve always been there for me, Mito-sama… sharing your past, your strength, your kindness. I realized I shouldn’t keep parts of myself hidden from someone who trusts me with so much of their own story…” she paused, voice softening. “I was scared of how it might change things, but more than that, I’m grateful… Grateful that you’ve shown me what it means to be open and honest. I also know what happens when I stay silent too long.” She thought of Tobirama. Of how she’d almost lost his trust. “I didn’t want to make that mistake again.”

Mito reached across the table, gently placing her hand over Sakura’s.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said softly. “You can always talk to me about anything. You don’t have to carry your burdens alone.”

Sakura’s eyes stung, but she managed a smile. The cherry blossoms outside fluttered in the breeze, and the late sun bathed the room in a soft and warm light.

“Mito-sama…”

Mito’s eyes softened and she smiled. “Just call me Mito, Sakura. No need for such formalities between us.”

The night air was crisp, tinged with the earthy scent of pine and the faint minerality of steam. Sakura stepped carefully along the narrow stone path, her wooden sandals echoing softly against the rock as she followed the trail Mito had shown her. The older woman had smiled with a knowing tilt of her head, gesturing toward a secluded area nestled behind the far edge of the Senju compound.

“The springs back there are older than the village itself,” Mito had said. “A private place. You’re welcome to use it whenever you wish.”

Sakura hadn’t known such a retreat existed, hidden behind a veil of sakura trees. The path opened at last into a clearing, where a natural hot spring, cupped in smooth grey stones, steamed under a sky scattered with stars. Lanterns perched along the perimeter flickered low, their light golden and soft, painting shadows across the mossy ground. A low wooden fence encircled the space, more symbolic than necessary—this was a secret sanctuary.

She let the yukata fall from her shoulders and eased into the water, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the warmth enveloped her. Muscles she'd been carrying tense for days began to unwind. The conversation with Mito replayed in her mind—the honesty, the pain, the courage of a woman who had given everything to love and duty alike. Mito had shared so much… and never asked for anything in return.

Sakura leaned forward against the smooth edge of the spring, her eyes drawn skyward, to stars peeking between swaying branches and fluttering cherry blossoms. The world felt still, the air cool against her damp shoulders, the water curling like silk around her skin.

And then she felt it.

A ripple behind her. A shift in the air. A familiar presence that tugged at something low and warm in her chest.

Before she could turn, strong arms slid around her waist, wet and firm, drawing her back against a solid chest. The scent of pine and water and him enveloped her. Tobirama’s mouth brushed the curve of her neck, and she felt the smile he pressed into her skin.

“So,” he murmured against her ear, “I see you found my secret spot.”

Sakura couldn’t help the quiet laugh that bubbled up. “Mito showed me. She said I would like it.”

“Did she now?” His voice was low, warm, and amused. “She has excellent judgment.”

She leaned into him, her head resting back against his shoulder. “It’s a beautiful place. You should learn to share,” she teased, glancing up at his face from the corner of her eye.

Tobirama shifted, his hands gliding along her sides beneath the water, languid and reverent. “I will,” he said, dipping his mouth to the hollow of her throat, “but only with you.”

Sakura shivered, despite the heat. His lips traced the edge of her collarbone, slow and deliberate, each kiss a silent declaration. One of his hands slid to her hip, anchoring her against him, while the other splayed over her stomach.

“I told Mito everything,” she said, steady and sure, her voice carrying the weight of resolve. “About the future. About me.”

Tobirama didn’t speak at first. He nuzzled just below her jaw, then his voice—rougher now—drifted into her ear. “Is that so?”

Sakura turned in his arms to face him. The water lapped quietly around them, and their bodies were close—bare, open, and unguarded.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” she said.

“You were never hiding,” he replied softly. His fingers brushed her cheek, tracing down to her lips. “But I still prefer to keep you to myself.”

He kissed her then—slowly, deeply. The kind of kiss that anchored her to the present, that made time feel irrelevant. Sakura responded with aching need, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. When they broke apart, breathless, he was already lifting her slightly, guiding her to straddle his front beneath the surface of the water.

Their foreheads pressed together, his hands cupping her face, hers sliding over his shoulders, their skin slick and warm. Steam curled around them like a veil, blurring the stars overhead.

“You belong here, Sakura,” he said low against her skin, voice like water slipping over stone. “With me.”

Sakura’s breath hitched at the quiet conviction in his tone—no grand declaration, just a truth spoken with all the weight of a man who rarely let anyone in. His hand, splayed against the small of her back, pulled her more firmly into his lap beneath the warm water. The thick muscles of his thighs bracketed hers as she straddled him, knees brushing smooth stone.

His gaze flicked up to hers, crimson eyes half-lidded and unreadable, but something in them burned.

“But I won’t share what’s mine,” he murmured. “And you won’t be leaving me any time soon.”

The tone in his voice held a promise—and something darker, hungrier. Her breath hitched, heart skipping at the tension coiled beneath his words.

“You’re possessive,” she whispered, teasing.

He hummed low in his throat. “Only when it comes to you.”

His hands traced slowly over her waist, fingers spreading against her ribs. Under the water, he moved with a practiced patience, letting his touch wander—across her stomach, the underside of her breast, the dip of her hip, and lower. All the while his crimson eyes remained locked intensely on her face. His fingers traced over the swollen bundle of nerves down below and Sakura’s body stirred with heat far more potent than the onsen’s warmth.

“Tobirama, wait—” she began, nerves tinged in her voice, “this is… this is your clan’s bath—”

He cut her off with a kiss, lips pressing firm against hers. His fingers slid back up, teasing the peak of her breast with a slow, deliberate flick, and her protest dissolved into a breathless sigh.

“No one will hear us,” he murmured against her lips. “I’ve already erected a barrier.”

His hand dipped lower, slipping between her thighs under the water. She gasped, back arching as his fingers found the sensitive nub of her clit again. He circled it slowly, relentlessly, until her body shook and her head fell back against his shoulder.

“Tobi—” she whimpered, voice half-caught between embarrassment and need.

“I want to feel you unravel,” he said, crimson eyes shining thick with passion. “Completely.”

One finger slid inside her, coaxing her open, then another. The stretch burned exquisitely, and Sakura found herself moving with him, thighs parting under the weight of his hand. Heat surged through her, rising with every curl and press of his fingers. She moaned at his ministrations. Tobirama growled in approval, his mouth pressing kisses along her jaw as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of her warm cavern.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, burying her face into the crook of his neck as his fingers curled just right, stroking that deep, devastating spot inside her. Her breath stuttered—sharp, desperate—each exhale brushing against his skin like a confession.

“T-Tobirama…” she gasped, her voice trembling.

His lips hovered just at the curve of her ear, warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. His voice was low, commanding but laced with need. “Let go.”

Before her mind could protest, her body obeyed—a sharp, jarring jerk of her hips, thighs trembling uncontrollably as a fierce, searing climax crashed through her like a tidal wave smashing against jagged stone.

“O-Oh—” she gasped, biting back a cry, every muscle clenching tightly around his fingers as she came.

But Tobirama was relentless. His fingers didn’t falter; instead, they moved with slow, deliberate purpose, continuing to slide in and out with precision that teased her mercilessly. His long digits curled and stretched her insides, igniting a fresh blaze of pleasure that stole her breath away.

His crimson eyes bore into her face, watching her every flicker of expression—the flutter of her lashes, the way her lips parted, the flush that bloomed across her cheeks. It was as if he were mapping her desire, analyzing every micro-reaction to find the perfect angle, the most exquisite stroke that would unravel her completely.

Heat pooled deep in her core, mixing with the flush burning her skin.

The wave hit her again, stronger this time. Her legs grew weak and her thighs trembled but his other hand curved around her waist, steadying her with a firm, grounding grip.

Then, his fingers shifted to gently, expertly stroke her clit, sending sharp sparks of sensation rippling through her. The teasing circles and delicate presses drove her higher, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Without hesitation, he slipped his fingers back inside but this time a third finger was added, stretching her further, moving with an unyielding rhythm that left her breathless and trembling.

“Ah—!”

Soft moans spilled from her lips, raw and desperate, hidden beneath the sound barrier that cocooned them in privacy.

Her body convulsed a third time, every nerve alight, every inch alive under his touch.

She whimpered, voice thick with need and surrender, “Tobi… I can’t… not anymore.”

A low, rough chuckle rumbled against her ear. “Are you sure about that?” Tobirama murmured, his tone carrying a faint edge of amusement.

He turned her around and guided her forward, until she was braced on the smooth edge of the onsen, arms planted on the warm stone. He lifted her so that her hips were above the water. She turned her head slightly, question forming on her lips, but his body moved in behind her—water lapping around his hip—and she felt the hard length of cock slide against her folds, teasing.

A blush bloomed across her cheeks, but she didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. Nor did she want to. 

“Tobirama,” she whispered, breathless. “This is…”

“This is what, Sakura?”

Sakura felt the heat in her face rival the temperature of the water. “It’s… improper… We shouldn't be doing this here.”

Tobirama’s low chuckle rumbled against her back. The deep, knowing sound sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice low and deliberate.

“If this is so improper…” he murmured, the rich timbre of his voice sending a shiver straight through her.

Sakura’s breath caught, her hands gripping the edge of the stone as he shifted behind her. The blunt head of his cock slid between her folds, slow and deliberate—just enough pressure to make her gasp. 

“…then explain,” he went on, voice darkening as he eased forward just a fraction, teasing her entrance, “why you’re soaking wet for me.”

Her whole body flushed. Heat bloomed across her cheeks. He hadn’t spoken crudely; not really. But there was something in his tone—in the control, the intimacy of it—that undid her more thoroughly than any vulgarity ever could.

“I—” She moaned softly, unable to help it, as a jolt of pleasure shot down her spine as the tip of his cock grazed her clit.

Tobirama growled under his breath, the sound sharp and low like a promise. “You want this,” he said, not a question but a fact. One he could feel in the way her body trembled, how she instinctively pressed closer, hips rocking ever so slightly into him. “Say it.”

Sakura turned her head toward him, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted in surrender.

“I want you,” she whispered, voice rough with need. “Please.”

And that was all it took. His hands closed around her hips, firm and sure, and in one slow, unyielding motion he pressed forward, burying himself inside her. A low, guttural groan tore from Tobirama’s throat as the heat and tightness of her wrapped around him.

The stretch was deep, perfect—an exquisite burn that made her arch back against him with a moan as he seated himself fully, no rush, no hesitation. For a moment, neither of them moved, caught between the heat of the water and the pounding of their hearts—the world narrowed to the point where their bodies joined, and the thrum of shared breath in the misted air.

Then Tobirama began to move, steady and sure, his hands gripping her hips. Water splashed gently around them as he thrust into her, each movement firm and claiming. Her fingers curled against the stone, her body arching into him. Sakura whimpered and her hand flew to cover her mouth but was promptly seized by Tobirama. He grabbed both her wrists and held them back behind her.

Tobirama leaned over her back, lips grazing her ear. “Don’t hold back,” he said, voice thick with passion. “No one can hear you but me.”

Her response was a whimper, a plea, her body already spiraling again under the relentless rhythm of his hips. He reached around and found her clit again, rubbing her in time with his fingers. The pressure built quickly and tore through her with breathtaking force.

“T–Tobirama!”

She sobbed his name, overwhelmed. Tobirama growled in approval and grabbed a fistful on her hair and pulled her head back further as he continued to thrust inside her with his cock, while his other hand played mercilessly with her clit.

Sakura couldn’t hold back the cries spilling from her lips, each one torn from her throat by the relentless pleasure of Tobirama’s cock thrusting deep inside her and the tug against her scalp. She wasn’t inexperienced—she’d known intimacy before, with Sasuke in the distant past, and more recently in the quiet, smoldering moments she and Tobirama had shared. But this… this was unlike anything she’d ever felt.

The way he had her now—bent over the slick edge of the onsen, hand tugging at her hair, surrounded by steam and stars—was the most unabashedly filthy position she’d ever been in. And yet, instead of shame, it only heightened her arousal. Every stroke hit her just right, brushing against the sweetest spot deep inside her, making her legs tremble and her breath catch.

Tobirama moved with control, with purpose, like he knew her body better than she did and maybe, in this moment, he did.

“Do you enjoy this, Sakura?” he asked darkly, nibbling at her earlobe. “Do you enjoy it when I take you from behind?”

Sakura whimpered in pleasure. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. “Y-Yes,” she whispered. 

Tobirama‘s breath was hot against her ear. “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

“Yes—yes! I love it!” Sakura sobbed, voice trembling. “Fuck me harder, Tobirama-sama!”

For a split second, everything stopped. He stilled deep inside her, so suddenly she gasped, unsure if she had done something wrong. Her mind scrambled, panic and want colliding, but then she felt it—the sharp exhale against her neck, the subtle shift of his body as if collecting himself.

Then, Tobirama moved in a blur of heat and dominance, one arm wrapping tight around her middle to haul her upright, the solid press of his chest flush against her back. The sudden shift knocked the breath from her lungs, leaving her pulse pounding in her ears.

His breath came hot and steady against the shell of her ear, and she felt his hand tangle briefly in her damp hair before sliding down—slow, deliberate—to the elegant curve of her throat.

Her breath hitched, but there was no fear. Not even a flicker. Only a fierce, unshakable awareness of him, of the weight of his hand and the steady, unspoken promise in that touch.

He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t restrain. His fingertips resting lightly, a silent reminder of his presence, of his power, of how completely he held this moment. Held her. The contrast stole through her. How something so gentle could feel like the most possessive claim of all. His touch was reverent and commanding at once, as though he were marking not just her body, but every shiver, every sigh, every unspoken thought she had ever tried to keep from him.

His fingers traced her jaw and tilted her head slightly so that their eyes met. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he growled, voice low and rough, fraying at the edges with need. His mouth brushed her ear as he spoke, and Sakura shivered, the heat of his words sinking into her skin like a brand. “Every part of you is mine. You belong to me. You understand?”

“Y-Yes…”

“Say it.”

His thrusts were relentless—deep, fast, hungry. 

“I-I’m yours!”

The slap of skin echoed off the stone as steam curled around them, clinging to their sweat-slicked bodies. The wet heat of him, the way his cock slid in and out of her, so greedily, was driving her insane.

“Say my name, Sakura” he growled into her ear, his voice ragged and dark with need. 

“T-Tobirama-sama!”

Her body clenched around him without warning—tight, sudden, uncontrollable—and the reaction it drew from him was immediate. Behind her, Tobirama choked on a low groan, the sound torn from deep in his chest.

“Fuck—” he hissed, the curse hot against her ear. His hips faltered, just for a moment, as if the way she gripped him was almost too much, too intense, an unbearable kind of bliss that held him suspended.

She felt his hand at her throat flex, fingers tightening—not to hurt, never to choke—but to remind her that he was there, grounding her, claiming her. Through that touch she felt everything. The hammering beat of her own pulse, the heat in his palm, the way he seemed to drink in every staggered breath she took as if it belonged to him.

And then he moved.

With a guttural snarl, he removed his hand from her neck and pushed her forward, forcing her to brace her on her arms against the stone edge of the pool, his hands were now on her hips and he thrust into her with a force that made stars burst behind her eyelids. Every push was deep, relentless, sending waves of heat coiling through her belly until the sound that ripped from her throat was no longer a whimper but a cry.

It was overwhelming. Too much.  

And then he buried himself to the hilt, a final, punishing thrust that stole the air from her lungs—and finally stilled.

Sakura felt him come undone inside her, his release hot and heavy, each pulse of his cock setting off another wave of sensation that tore through her. His groan—raw, unguarded, unrestrained—shuddered against the curve of her shoulder as he pressed his face into her skin, breathing her in like he couldn’t get close enough.

The fullness of him, the heat, the weight of his body collapsing over her—it was all too much, and it broke her. Another climax slammed into her, stealing her voice, leaving her trembling under him as she milked every last shiver from his body.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of water and their own ragged breathing.

His hands curled tightly around her waist. With a soft grunt, he pulled her back against his chest, wrapping both arms around her as if he needed to hold her there, to anchor her to him so she wouldn’t slip away.

Their slick bodies pressed together, her back molded to the solid, unyielding plane of his chest. She could feel every rise and fall of his breath against her spine, each one uneven, as though even he needed time to catch up to what had just passed between them. Warm water beaded on their skin, tracing slow paths downward before disappearing into the pool around them.

The tip of his nose brushed the side of her neck, sending a soft shiver down her damp skin. His breath fanned hot over her shoulder, steadying little by little, and she closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the weight and certainty of him.

When his forehead came to rest against the side of her head, his lips ghosting over her temple in a fleeting touch, something inside her chest loosened.

They stayed like that, silent, the only sound the faint lap of water and the dull roar of her pulse in her ears. Mist curled around them, veiling the edges of the world. Above, the stars burned bright and still, as if holding witness to a moment that belonged only to them.

The soft rustle of paper accompanied the low murmur of conversation in the Hokage’s office. Two weeks had passed since Tobirama had sent his letter to Kumogakure, and now the long-awaited reply lay freshly unsealed on his desk. He stood behind it, posture straight, the morning sunlight slicing through the blinds and casting sharp lines across his broad shoulders. Before him stood Kagami and Danzo, both straight-backed and silent, their attention fixed on the scroll Tobirama had just set down.

“The Raikage has responded,” Tobirama said, his tone clipped but calm. “They’ve proposed peace. Envoys from Kumogakure will arrive this afternoon to negotiate an alliance.”

Danzo’s lips twitched in a grim line. “Convenient timing.”

Kagami nodded slowly. “Still, it’s an opportunity.”

Tobirama’s crimson gaze sharpened. “And one we will receive with caution. You two will meet them at the main gate. Show diplomacy, but remain alert.”

“Understood,” Kagami and Danzo replied in unison, bowing slightly.

“You’re dismissed.”

The two turned to leave, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

Tobirama remained still for a moment, hands folded across his chest as he stared out the window. The sun lit the village rooftops in golden light, but his thoughts drifted to darker corners.

Peace.

It would be beneficial. Konoha was still stabilizing after the war, and alliances were critical. If Kumogakure truly wanted peace, it could open access to trade routes, military intelligence, and a balancing of powers that would deter further conflict. But…

His expression hardened.

What of the past ambushes? The near-constant skirmishes on their borders? The masked hostility cloaked as diplomacy? And then there was the raid on Uzushiogakure. The hidden motive behind it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. The scroll they’d sought—his team had recovered it, yes—but its contents remained unknown, even now. As was standard protocol in such missions, the shinobi had not been privy to what lay within. Their objective had been simple: retrieve and return. And so they had, delivering it promptly back to the Uzumaki clan without question. Still, something about the mission continued to gnaw at him. 

Could all of it be connected? The pattern was too precise to be coincidence—the ambushes, the skirmishes, the raid, and that elusive scroll. Threads of a larger scheme, woven just out of reach.

He would need to speak with the leader of the Uzumaki clan. And soon. Answers were buried beneath old alliances and older secrets, and he could no longer afford to wait.

Just then, a knock sounded against the office door. It was measured, firm, and unmistakably familiar. It wasn’t urgent, but it carried purpose. Tobirama’s sharp focus flickered toward the sound and the chakra signature behind the door. He knew who it was. 

Sakura.

Tobirama’s mouth quirked up, almost involuntarily. “Enter.”

The door slid open and Sakura stepped inside. For the first time in a long while, Tobirama’s composure wavered.

She looked… dangerous.

Not in the battlefield sense. No, this was something else entirely. Something far more unsettling, far more personal.

Her outfit wasn’t scandalous by shinobi standards—not modest, but not indecent either. But the way it fit her, the way it moved with her, made his throat go dry. Tobirama couldn’t tear his eyes away. She wore a crimson zipped crop top that hugged her chest, the high neckline dipping just enough to tease at the curve of her collarbones. Underneath, a black short-sleeved fishnet mesh clung to her torso, translucent and maddening, revealing just enough skin to stoke the imagination. Every movement drew attention to the way the material shifted across her body—like it was made to be touched.

Her short skirt matched the deep red of her top, trimmed in white and slit high along her thighs. It flared slightly when she walked, and with every step, it offered a fleeting glimpse of toned muscle and pale skin below the edge of the tight black shorts she wore underneath. What the outfit didn’t show outright, it suggested—shamelessly.

And she wore it like she didn’t even realize the effect it had. 

Or maybe she did.

Tobirama’s gaze dropped despite himself, following the curve of her legs, the slight sway of her hips, the way her mesh shirt framed her bare midriff like an invitation written in silk and steel.

His eyes were drawn to the exposed strip of skin between the hem of her shorts and the tops of her knee-high heels. Pale, smooth, and utterly touchable. The contrast against the black leather and red fabric was lethal. Unfair, even. Her legs were long and toned, her stride graceful in its elegance.

A surge of heat coiled low in his belly, sharp and sudden, and he clenched his jaw hard enough to ache. The faint twitch in his fingers betrayed the sharp, animal urge to touch her, to drag her against him, to strip that smug elegance away and see if she looked just as composed with her back arched and his name on her tongue.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, burying the reaction deep but it was there, coiling beneath the surface like a barely leashed beast. He was a master of discipline, a shinobi of restraint… but she was testing it. 

“Sakura,” he said, voice neutral. “To what do I owe the visit?”

She stepped closer, settling into a comfortable stance. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to mention.” Her voice was casual but carried a hopeful edge.

Tobirama raised an eyebrow, curious. “What’s on your mind?”

Sakura smiled. “A few genin have come to me this past week and asked about medical ninjutsu. They’re actually interested. I didn’t expect it, but… it feels like there’s real potential in this young generation.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s promising. If the next generation takes this seriously, it could change how the village handles injuries and battle.”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes brightening. “I just wish the council saw it the way we do. When we brought it up before, it was shelved… lack of resources, time, and… well, me being someone they didn’t know or fully trust.” She gave a small, rueful shrug.

Tobirama’s gaze softened. “They’re cautious, yes. But sometimes caution becomes an obstacle. You’ve proven yourself, Sakura. If these genin are eager, it’s a sign the council needs to listen again.”

She glanced at him, a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes. “I’m not giving up. Not yet.”

He gave a faint smile, noting how her eyes held his a second longer than usual.

They were talking about medical ninjutsu now. The words exchanged between them were intelligent, precise, even useful. But Tobirama wasn’t hearing half of them anymore.

He was too busy watching her.

Her mouth moved around the shape of her theories with such focus, such ease, that Tobirama found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on her words. His mind betrayed him, wondering how those lips would feel wrapped around him, how her voice, so calm and clinical now, would sound breathless and broken beneath him. She spoke with such control, such precision… but her glances gave her away. Quick flicks of her gaze beneath lowered lashes, like she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him. Like the thought of what could happen, what might, was lingering just beneath the surface for her, too.

The tension was subtle. Neither of them acknowledged it aloud, but it was there and it was undeniable. It hung between them like thick smoke, like chakra pulled taut and vibrating just shy of snapping. And Kami, it was driving him mad.

Tobirama knew better than to let desire dictate his actions. He had mastered discipline in every aspect of his life… But it seemed Sakura always liked to test him, whether intentionally or not. 

He caught himself smirking before he could stop it, an involuntary curl of his lips as the memory of her—wet, shaking, gasping his name in the onsen—flashed behind his eyes. His member twitched in his pants, a slow, insistent throb, and for a breath he let himself feel it—let the desire curl like fire low in his gut.

She must’ve noticed the shift in his expression as her reaction was instant—cheeks blooming crimson, voice faltering, eyes darting away as she fumbled for an exit like a startled animal sensing a predator in the dark.

“Well, I should let you—”

No.

Before she could turn, Tobirama moved.

In a blink, he was in front of her—against her. Her back hit the wall with a soft gasp, her breath catching in her throat as he crowded into her space. One hand braced beside her head, the other finding her waist with measured pressure. He didn’t grab—he didn’t need to. His presence was enough to trap her.

He could feel the heat rolling off her skin, see the way her throat worked around a swallowed breath. Her chest rose and fell, just brushing against his, and he could feel the subtle tremble that betrayed her outward poise.

His gaze dropped—first to her parted lips, still slightly damp from where she’d licked them, then to the delicate line of her jaw and the graceful column of her throat. Even the high collar of her shirt, snug against her neck, seemed to emphasize everything it hid. The sharp cut of the fabric, the way it stopped underneath her ribs, only made his mind spiral deeper—imagining what it would be like to peel it away, inch by inch, and see the warmth beneath the restraint.

Tobirama leaned in just enough for her breath to ghost against his jaw, just enough for her scent—clean, sweet, undeniably hers—to fill his lungs.

“Going somewhere?”

His voice came out rougher than he intended—low, steady, but thrumming with tension. She didn’t respond, not with words. Just that look. Her emerald eyes had darkened, her pupils blown wide with desire. The realization sent a hot surge through him—primal and possessive. 

She wanted him. 

And the knowledge made something fierce settle behind his eyes, satisfaction curling at the edges of his mouth.

Tobirama’s fingers flexed slightly at her waist.

She wanted him to lose control. She just didn’t know what that meant yet.

She parted her lips to speak, but nothing came. The tension between them hummed—thick, undeniable. And in that breathless space between heartbeats, Tobirama moved. He leaned in and claimed her mouth in a kiss that was anything but restrained—searing, possessive, unyielding. It wasn’t a question. It was an answer to the tension that had been burning between them for far too long.

The room felt tighter around them, the air thick with need. Chakra buzzed faintly in his limbs—not from battle, but from the raw, electric pull of wanting her. 

He broke the kiss just enough to murmur against her skin, voice like velvet dragged over steel. “Wearing that and expecting me to think clearly,” he whispered, his breath grazing the shell of her ear, “Are you trying to tempt me, woman?”

Sakura trembled, her cheeks blooming red, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her body leaned into his, caught in the gravity of his presence, tethered by the heat in his eyes.

With swift, fluid motion, Tobirama caught both her wrists and pinned them above her head, pressing them firmly against the wall. The sound of her breath hitching—sharp and soft—fed the hunger coiling in his gut.

His mouth found hers again, more forceful this time, tasting the sweet, shaky exhale of her surprise. Their lips parted and met in waves—hot, deep, open-mouthed—tongues sliding and tangling in a dance that spoke of tension too long denied. Every brush of her lips against his made him want more.

With one hand holding her wrists in place, his other hand slid down slowly, leaving a trail of heat in its wake as it followed the curve of her side, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. When he reached the hem of her skirt, his fingers paused, teasing the edge with calculated patience.

His hand moved underneath. Slender fingers made their way to the top of the waistband of her tight black shorts. Slowly, he tugged the fabric downwards, just enough to expose the top of her thighs, fingertips grazing bare skin.

Her gasp against his mouth was music to his ears and full of pure, breathless arousal.

Tobirama’s hand kept going, knuckles brushing the thin barrier of her panties. He felt the heat radiating from her core before he even touched her properly. When his fingers slid between her legs and pressed gently against the thin fabric, he stilled.

The evidence of her desire clung to his fingers.

His breath came out rough. “You’re already fucking wet, Sakura.”

Her moan was quiet but aching, as if the words alone had unraveled her just a little more. Her head tipped back against the wall, lips parted in helpless surrender.

Tobirama’s fingers began to move—slow strokes through the damp fabric, grazing her clit with maddening precision. He didn’t rush. He savored. Each motion was a promise—of control, of pleasure, of everything he intended to give her… and take from her in return.

Sakura whimpered, the sound muffled by her attempt to bite her lip. But her body betrayed her—hips twitching, thighs quivering, her breath falling in ragged, shallow bursts.

“Tobirama…” she gasped, voice shaking, eyes screwed shut from the sheer intensity of his touch.

With deliberate slowness, Tobirama withdrew his fingers from her clit, eliciting a soft, breathy protest from Sakura. Her body still trembling with need, she opened her mouth to beg him not to stop, but before she could speak, Tobirama’s eyes flicked to his desk with a pointed glance.

In the next moment, Sakura’s back was pressed firmly against the cool, wooden surface, the sharp thud sending a flurry of papers and scrolls fluttering to the floor like startled birds. Ink also tumbled to the floor in a messy splatter. Tobirama paid no attention to any of this—they could be gathered and cleaned later. Right now, nothing mattered besides pleasuring the woman beneath him.

She looked up at him, eyes wide and shimmering with a mixture of surprise, desperation and raw desire. Her breath caught in her throat as he smirked down at her, a predator’s confidence shining in his crimson gaze.

With a smooth motion, Tobirama tugged her shorts down her legs, past her knee length boots, and let them fall soundlessly to the ground. Then he lifted her thighs, resting her legs gently but possessively over his shoulders. The position exposed her to him fully, vulnerable and open in the most intimate way.

His voice dropped to a low, reverent murmur. “You have no idea how long I’ve imagined this,” he admitted, his gaze drinking her in like she was a dream made real.

Sakura’s cheeks bloomed crimson, her breath catching at the raw honesty in his tone. Her eyes lowered shyly, a silent answer shimmering between them.

Tobirama’s smirk deepened. “Let me see how sweet you really are,” he murmured, his voice dark and intoxicating. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her inner thigh as he planted a small kiss on her flesh. “Just make sure to stay quiet for me… I haven’t put up a sound barrier,” he added, almost ruefully, “and the door isn’t locked.”

Her eyes widened in sudden alarm. “W-What if someone hears?” she whispered, a flush of panic coloring her cheeks.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and intimate, brushing against her skin like a caress. “Then you’ll just have to hold it in,” he murmured and his eyes locked intensely onto hers, “while I make certain you remember every moment of this.”

Before she could object, her panties were gone, ripped away with one swift relentless motion that left her breathless and bare beneath him. The cool air of the room kissed her slick folds, and the sight of her like this—glossy, flushed, aching for him—stole the breath from his lungs.

Tobirama stilled for a heartbeat, gaze locked between her legs, jaw clenched as arousal slammed into him all over again.

“So pink…” he breathed with a hiss, “and wet.”

Sakura flushed deeply, the rawness of his words crashing over her like a wave. She instinctively tried to close her thighs to cover herself, but Tobirama was quicker—he leaned in, his hands gently yet firmly settling on her thighs to still her.

His lips curled up into a smirk and he looked at her with eyes dampened with desire. “It’s a little late to be hiding now, isn’t it, Sakura.”

And then he lowered his mouth.

The moment his lips touched her, Tobirama felt her jolt—every muscle in her body tensing like a drawn bowstring. She was so warm, so slick, the taste of her hitting his tongue with a rich, intoxicating sweetness that short-circuited thought.

He took his time.

This wasn’t rushed need—this was study, this was worship. He’d always approached mastery through discipline, and this was no different. Every flick of his tongue, every pass of his lips, was measured and intentional. He wanted to know what made her squirm, what made her sigh, what shattered the control in her voice and turned it into breathless sound.

“O-Oh—“

And Kami—her sounds.

Even muffled behind bitten lips, the way her breath hitched, the faint moans she tried to stifle, they lit something savage inside him. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, thumbs stroking circles into her skin, holding her wide open for him. No flinching. No hiding. Not from him.

He dragged his tongue up her folds slowly, savoring every twitch of her hips. At the same time, one of his hands slipped between her legs, fingers gliding through her slick heat, teasing her entrance with featherlight strokes that made her squirm. 

Then, slowly, Tobirama slipped one finger inside her, the motion unhurried, deliberate. He savored the way her slick heat clung to him with every slow thrust, the way her walls fluttered in response. Sakura’s breathy pants filled the room, each one a melody that stirred something primal in him.

He added a second finger, and the tight grip around him made him groan with satisfaction. Still, he moved with purpose—deep, steady strokes designed to unravel her inch by inch.

All the while, his mouth stayed locked on her—tongue flicking and swirling around her clit with relentless precision, lips wrapping around the sensitive nub before he sucked hard, drawing a sharp cry from her throat. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth and the steady thrust of his fingers created a rhythm that was filthy and flawless, dragging her closer to the edge with every stroke.

He curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot that made her hips jerk helplessly, and latched onto her clit again, sucking with purpose—hungry, focused.

That was when it happened.

He felt it—the subtle tremor in her thighs, the breath caught in her throat, and then suddenly, all of her unraveled. Her entire body jolted against his hold, hips bucking as hot, wet release spilled across his mouth.

“A-Ah, Tobi—!”

Tobirama froze, not in shock, but awe. The taste of her flooded his senses, the force of her climax striking him like a blow.

She’d lost control for him.

He let out a guttural groan, low and hungry, and didn’t pull back. He drank her in like he’d never get the chance again, chasing every last drop with slow, languid licks that made her whimper from oversensitivity.

When her spasms quieted and her breaths came in soft, shattered bursts, Tobirama finally lifted his head. His lips were slick, his jaw tight with restraint he didn’t know how much longer he could hold.

Crimson eyes drank her in—flushed, panting, trembling, and completely on his desk.

He swiped his fingers across his mouth and sucked it clean. “You taste like sin,” he growled, voice rough, barely recognizable. 

Tobirama saw the exact moment it happened—when her breath hitched and her eyes dropped to his mouth. The way she watched him suck his fingers clean, slow and shameless, made something feral curl in his chest. Her expression shifted and darkened. Her pupils were blown wide, lips slightly parted, her chest rising with quick, shallow breaths. The sheer want in her gaze hit him like a strike to the gut.

“Please,” Sakura managed to breathe out. Her gaze was glazed but smoldered with undeniable want.

Tobirama raised an eyebrow. His eyes—dark, heavy-lidded with desire—met hers, and he smirked, voice low and teasing.  “Please what, Sakura?”

She blinked slowly down at him, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. A flush crept across her cheeks, but she didn’t look away—not even for a second. Her eyes burned with heat and certainty. “I want you,” she said, voice low but unwavering. “I need you.”

His brows lifted faintly. “How?” he asked, trailing his fingers lazily along her thighs, the pads of them sketching feather-light circles that made her shiver.

She hesitated. Her breath hitched, but her gaze stayed locked on his, unflinching. “I want you,” she said finally. “Right here. Right now. Hard. Against your desk.” Her breath caught, but she held his gaze, refusing to look away. “I want to feel your cock inside me, stretching me open. I want to feel every inch. Please don’t hold back.”

The blush was still there, creeping up her neck, but it didn’t come from embarrassment—it came from anticipation.

For a moment, silence wrapped around them like a held breath. Then Tobirama leaned in, brushing his lips across her cheek with reverence. His breath was hot against Sakura’s skin as he kissed his way down her face. His lips grazing the sensitive curve of her neck as a slow, wicked smile curled on his mouth. “Then your wish,” he whispered, voice thick with promise and dark hunger, “is mine to fulfill.”

Reaching down he pulled down his pants and pulled out his aching member, pumping it firmly with his hand. His other hand slid down her sides, firm and unyielding, gripping her thigh with possessive strength. He paused just at the threshold of her entrance, the tip of his cock teasing the slick, inviting heat waiting for him. He pressed slowly, deliberately, savoring the friction as her wetness coated him like silk.

Sakura’s soft gasp—half plea, half surrender—sent a jolt of craving straight through him. He traced lazy circles with the tip, each movement stoking the fire building between them, every teasing touch a silent command to want more. Her body trembled beneath him, every shiver and hitch of breath fueling his need to dominate.

“Stop teasing…” she demanded. 

A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest as he rocked his hips forward just enough to brush past her tight folds, then pulled back, prolonging the delicious torture. The slick, wet heat clung to him, warm and hungry, and Tobirama reveled in the intoxicating power he held—the ability to unravel her with just his patience and touch.

“Y-You’re impossible!” she snapped, breathless, squirming beneath him. Her hands gripped his arms, trying to pull him closer, but he didn’t budge. He just looked at her—calm, controlled, maddeningly patient.

“Maybe,” he said, almost thoughtfully. His fingers slid between her thighs again, brushing over her soaked folds with excruciating care. “But I’m not the one desperate right now.”

She gasped, hips jerking at the featherlight touch that refused to give her what she needed. “Tobirama—”

He dipped his head, lips grazing hers without giving her a real kiss. “But perhaps,” he whispered, his voice like velvet over steel, “if you tell me how badly you want this… then maybe I’ll be nice.”

She growled in frustration, nails digging into his arms. He only chuckled low in his throat, and then thrust his fingers inside her—just once—deep and slow, before pulling out completely.

A choked cry escaped her lips.

“I can do this all day,” he said, fingers trailing up her trembling thigh again. “But you’re going to break before I do. So go on, Sakura. Use that sharp tongue of yours. Beg.”

She clenched her jaw, stubborn to the end—but her body was already trembling, her skin flushed, her breath ragged. She hated how much he was right and he could tell.

“…Please,” she whispered.

He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Louder.”

She looked up at him, eyes blazing with defiance and desperation all at once. Then finally—finally—she caved.

“Please, Tobirama,” she breathed out, eyes glossy. “I need you to fuck me. Hard. Now. I’m begging you!”

His smirk turned into something darker. “That’s a good girl.”

In one deep, slow motion, he thrust inside, stealing her breath and forcing her to arch into him. The world shrank to the searing connection between their bodies—the slick glide of skin, the intoxicating scent of desire, the symphony of gasps and soft cries filling the air.

“Y-Yes, that’s it…! O-Oh—“

His grip tightened on her thighs, holding her steady as he let her adjust to the delicious fullness, committing every gasp, every shiver, every pulse of need to memory. She was his—every inch—and he intended to claim her completely, to leave no part of her untouched by his fire.

Sakura clung to him, her hands sliding up to grasp at his shoulders, pulling him closer. “Tobirama-sama,” she moaned, voice trembling. 

Something primal stirred deep within him. There it was again. A thrill—dark and addictive—whenever Sakura addressed him with such reverent formality in moments like this. It ignited something in him, made his restraint waver. 

Tobirama-sama . A title of deference, of submission. It hit him low, hard, and fast. It signified that she liked giving up control. Liked surrendering to him. The realization struck like lightning in his veins, sending a dark, possessive thrill straight through his core.

“Sakura.” His voice was rough and low, the last of his self-control waving with each thrust.  “You fit me perfectly. Every time. Like your body was made to take me.” He began to move faster, letting the rhythm build naturally between them. Each motion stoked the fire curling in her belly, each thrust deepened the lust growing between them. 

Sakura bit her lip, struggling to contain the rising sounds in her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

Tobirama noticed, eyes flicking up with a quiet, wicked smirk. “Trying to be quiet for me?”

She blushed, nodding with effort.

“Good.” His pace deepened. “Wouldn’t want anyone hearing Konoha’s beautiful pink-haired medic being fucked by the Hokage in his office, now would we?”

Before Sakura could react, a sharp knock echoed from the door. They both froze. 

“Sensei,” came Hiruzen’s muffled voice. “I’ve finished compiling the mission reports from yesterday. Can I come in?”

Tobirama stilled inside her, though the heat radiating from their joined bodies remained searing. He felt her tense beneath him, her breath caught, spine rigid, hands scrambling to grip the desk for something—anything—to anchor herself.

He didn’t move. Not fully.

Instead, Tobirama leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear with maddening softness. “Should I let him in?” he murmured, voice low and husky with amusement, but laced with the seductive edge of someone who was entirely in control. “Let him see exactly what you look like stretched around my cock?”

Sakura’s entire body flushed. She shook her head frantically, but the moment she did, he felt it—a subtle, delicious tightening around him. Not fear. Something else.

His smirk deepened. “Interesting,” he murmured, nipping lightly at her earlobe before straightening. 

“I’m in the middle of an important meeting, Saru,” Tobirama called out, his tone effortlessly composed despite the molten heat beneath his skin. “Come back later.”

A pause. 

“But sensei.” Hiruzen’s voice was tinged with a subtle whine. “I’ve got plans this after—”

Sakura whimpered softly, clearly mortified, her face buried in the crook of her arm to hide her blush.

“I said later,” Tobirama snapped, sharp enough to carry weight, but not enough to break the quiet storm of intimacy surrounding them.

Silence followed by a sigh. Then the sound of retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into blessed quiet.

Tobirama looked down at Sakura again. Her eyes were closed and lashes lowered, her face red as fire, lips bitten to keep from crying out. But her body betrayed her, the slick warmth and the way she clenched around him telling a far different story.

​​He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his breath grazing her cheek like a warning. “You’re flushed,” he murmured, voice low and cool, but his grip on her hip tightened, thumb digging into sweat-slick skin. “But something tells me it’s not from shame.”

“W-what—“

He thrust once, slow but brutal, and felt the way her body responded—tightening, fluttering around him like a secret she couldn’t hide. “You got tighter the moment he knocked.”

She shook her head, jaw trembling, but the noise she made—sharp and strangled—told the truth. “That’s not true!”

“Don’t lie to me, Sakura.” His lips touched the outer shell of her ear. “You liked it. The risk. The thought of being caught.” Another thrust, deeper this time, and her legs nearly gave out.

“T-Tobirama—stop talking—”

He chuckled darkly, quiet and pleased. “Why? Embarrassed?” His fingers slid up her front, dragged slow circles under her navel before dipping lower, making her gasp. “Or is it that you’re afraid I’ll make you admit it?”

She whimpered. “Kami, you’re—”

“What?” His teeth grazed her ear, just enough to leave a mark. He ground into her, hips relentless now. “You think I didn’t feel the way you clenched around me when his voice came through that door?”

The desk creaked violently under them, every motion ricocheting through her bones. Paper fluttered off the edge, forgotten. All that existed was him—his hands, his voice, the punishing rhythm that left no room to breathe.

“May I should’ve made you answer him,” he growled against her skin. “Sprawled over my desk, trembling just like this. Let him hear your voice—hear what I do to you.”

“Tobirama—!” Her voice cracked as he angled deeper, hitting something that shattered her rhythm completely. Her hands scrambled for purchase, fingernails raking across wood.

“Look at you,” he ground out, voice low and rough. “Still trying to fight it… when your body has already given up.” His hand slipped between her thighs, fingers slick as he found her clit. “You’re shaking, Sakura. You think I don’t feel how badly you want this?”

“That’s not—” she gasped, head tipping back into his shoulder, dazed and glowing and utterly undone.

He pressed his mouth to her ear, voice like gravel and smoke. “Say it.”

“I—Oh, Kami—“

“Say it, Sakura.” His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate—torturously controlled.

“I—I wanted it,” she sobbed and moaned, her back arching. “I didn’t want you to stop—I liked it. I liked the thrill. Happy?!” She gasped, broken. “Just don’t stop now, Tobirama, please—”

His groan was low, guttural, pulled from somewhere deep as the last threads of his restraint frayed. “That’s it,” he growled, straightening up and fixing her with an intense look. “You’re mine. Say it when you come.”

“I—Tobirama—”

His hips snapped back and forth relentlessly and she shattered around him, crying out his name, raw, unfiltered, no longer muffled behind shaking fingers.

That was all it took.

“Tobi—!”

The way her body clamped down on him—tight, pulsing, desperate—dragged a sound out of him that was half growl, half groan. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat before he drove in deep, burying himself to the hilt. Tobirama snarled, head tipping back, breath breaking in uneven gasps. Pleasure ripped through him like wildfire, hot and consuming. His release hit hard—spilling deep inside her as his grip on her hips turned bruising, grinding through every last pulse until he was spent.

But he didn’t stop. Not right away. Not until she sagged against the desk, trembling, her voice gone hoarse and wrecked. Not until there was nothing left in him but the echo of her name.

Only then did he finally still, his lips curling into a slow, wolfish grin as he took in the dazed, blissed-out look on her face. A fierce, primal satisfaction surged through him, knowing it was his touch that had unraveled her completely.

She knew she was playing with fire walking into his office like that.

The dress had been too short. Too tight. She hadn’t worn it to seduce him exactly but she’d known it would have an effect. And the moment Tobirama looked up from his desk, eyes darkening with restrained hunger, she felt it like a spark catching kindling.

Ever since the onsen. That moment in the steamy quiet, pressed between the rock and his chest, water sluicing off their skin as he made her feel completely unmoored—she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. About him.

The way his voice had dropped into something low and gravelly. The way his fingers gripped her hips with firm, decisive purpose. The way he’d taken control of her body like he’d studied it. Memorized it. Claimed it.

Sakura had known for a while now that she liked being dominated, liked being taken, but this … what Tobirama gave her… it was different. Commanding. Focused. Reverent, in its own fierce way.

When he shoved her against the office wall, she hadn’t felt fear but instead a delicious, melting heat blooming low in her belly. A thrill so sharp it had stolen her breath.

But it was when he had her sprawled out on his desk, tongue between her thighs, hands holding her open, eyes fixed on her like she was something rare and sacred, that was when she lost herself.

Nothing in her life had prepared her for that.

She’d only ever heard Ino speak about it in passing—grinning wickedly, describing in detail the feeling of being on the receiving end. Sakura had blushed furiously at the time, barely able to imagine what that would even feel like.

Now she knew.

Now she understood.

And not just because of the sensation—though Kami, that alone had been overwhelming. But because it had been Tobirama who did it. Tobirama, with his mouth and his hands and his maddening restraint. Because it wasn’t just about making her come—it was about undoing her. Piece by piece. About proving that she couldn’t hide anything from him—not even pleasure.

And when Hiruzen knocked, the fear of being caught slammed into her like lightning—but impossibly, it only deepened the heat pooling in her belly. That sharp jolt of exposure, the proximity of another voice, so close yet unaware of what was happening behind the door... it sent a thrill straight through her.

Tobirama had felt it too. He knew.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t soften. If anything, he had grown more focused, more ruthless in his precision. And then, with maddening calm, he leaned down, lips brushing her ear, and murmured, “Should I let him in?”

Sakura froze.

His next words were silk-wrapped steel. “Let him see exactly what you look like stretched around my cock?”

She nearly died on the spot.

A sharp wave of embarrassment slammed into her, face burning hot as fire. Her mouth opened in protest, but no sound came out—just a strangled gasp. But the worst part—the most humiliating, soul-melting part—was the way her core tightened at the suggestion. That split-second thrill. That heat that pulsed at the idea, however shameful, of being walked in on—of being seen with Tobirama’s body flush against hers, her moans echoing in a space meant for work and diplomacy.

Kami, what was wrong with her?

She tried to shove the thought aside, to bury it in the pit of her stomach like it hadn’t even happened—but Tobirama noticed everything. He felt it. The way she clenched around him. The shiver that rolled down her spine.

And his voice dropped further, rougher now, almost a growl. “Still trying to fight it… when your body has already given up.” 

She tried to shake her head, tried to salvage some shred of dignity—but his hand was between her thighs, his mouth hot at her ear, and her body was betraying every lie her lips couldn’t form.

“Say it.”

The command was soft. Barely a breath.

And she had.

Shamelessly. Breathlessly.

“I–I wanted it,” she’d moaned back, the confession trembling from her mouth. 

The memory of it now made her tremble.

She looked up at him, catching the flicker of restraint still held tight in his shoulders—like he wasn’t finished with her. Like he wanted to keep going, to unravel her again and again until she forgot every reason she’d ever had to play coy.

Like he knew exactly what kind of power he held in that moment and exactly how much she wanted to give it to him. Because somewhere beneath the haze and the heat, under the weight of her own stunned arousal, Sakura finally understood. She wanted him to break her down like that. To command her. To know her.

And he already did.

He had no idea just how far she’d go to feel that again.

Or maybe, maybe he did. And that thought made her ache.

But as her heartbeat began to steady, the heat in her limbs still lingering like a low simmer, her thoughts shifted. Because now, in the quiet after, as Tobirama stepped back, his breathing still slightly uneven, Sakura realized something else.

She wanted to please him.

Not out of duty. But because the need was hers . Fierce and blooming in her chest. She wanted to see him come undone. To hear his breath stutter. To taste the edge of control he fought so hard to maintain. She wanted him to feel what she had felt—vulnerable, overwhelmed, desired.

Tobirama had always been so composed, so tightly coiled even in intimacy. His dominance was precise, deliberate—never casual. He always took what he wanted with unshakable control. But this time, Sakura wanted something different. This time, she wanted to be the one to guide him, to pull him past that control and show him what it felt like to be unraveled in someone else’s hands.

Tobirama’s fingers reached for the waistband of his pants to steady himself but before he could go any further, her hand caught his wrist.

He stilled.

No. Not yet.

Sakura rose from the desk, movements languid and feline, as if every part of her still hummed with the aftermath of what had just transpired. Her hand slid from his wrist to his forearm, grounding him with that simple, intimate touch. A flicker of courage surged up inside her.

When their eyes met, there was a newfound boldness beneath her hidden shyness—a quiet, burning desire that glowed in the depths of her gaze. A smile, soft and sultry, curved her lips as she stepped closer, brushing her fingers just above his waistband and pulled it back down with gentle ease.

She wasn’t sure if he’d allow it. But she needed him to know. She wanted to. Not because she owed him anything. But because he had broken her open in the best way… And now she wanted to worship him back.