Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The touch of his fingertips on her bare back pulled Sakura out of half-sleep.
It was early. Too early – judging by the first blade of light slipping through the curtain. In the deserts of Suna, morning woke long before what she knew from Konoha.

Her body still felt heavy. She sighed softly as his fingers reached her nape. His breath was warm, his body familiar – close enough that she could feel his heartbeat.

“Are you awake?” His voice was rough, close to her ear. A question that needed no answer.

“Mm.” Nothing more came. She closed her eyes and let the silence between them work. His lips found her throat, and a quiet shiver ran down her back. Gooseflesh spread along her arms – not from cold.

Gaara was an attentive lover. Quiet, controlled, with an intensity that sometimes unbalanced her. She pressed closer as his hands explored her skin – slow, deliberate. Almost obsessive.

Her fingers found his neck, slid into his hair, while his hand moved over her breast and her belly. Then lower.

His movements were precise, deliberate. Every gentle circle of his fingers stoked the heat building in her. A sound slipped from her lips – soft, unguarded.
She knew she was tugging his hair too hard – yet he didn’t react. Or perhaps he did – in his way. Silent. Steady.

As always, he took his time. Held her in the tension, left her building want unanswered.

“Gaara…” His name left her mouth more felt than spoken.

His breath hitched. Only for a moment. Then he moved again – calm, unhurried. His hand stayed on her skin as if he were reading her, not demanding her.

Sakura swallowed. He knew what he was doing – how to bring her to the edge before stepping back, just far enough to leave her waiting there.

“You’re infuriating,” she murmured, barely audible.

He was quiet for a beat, then she felt his smile – fleeting, against her neck.
“And you’re impatient.”

His voice was as even as his touch. But she knew him well enough by now to sense what lay beneath – that deep, contained desire that waited inside him.
Gaara wasn’t cold. Never cold. No matter what others saw.

He was disciplined. A difference that showed in moments like this – when restraint pressed against what he truly wanted.

Sakura turned her head slightly, searching his gaze even though she couldn’t quite see him.
“You’re toying with me.”

“No.”
His voice stayed gentle.
His hand drifted up her back, tracing familiar lines until it settled at her nape.
“I’m just holding you.”

She closed her eyes.
Not because of the touch – but because of what she felt beneath it.
This closeness was dangerous. Not because of heat. Not because of his body.
Because of the silence.
Because of the depth.
Because he held her as if he’d forgotten she didn’t belong here.
As if she weren’t someone welcome in political alliances only so long as she was useful.

She turned to him, found his mouth. The kiss was soft but insistent – a silent admission.

Gaara answered at once. Drew her to him, covered her, settled between her thighs as if he had waited for this a long time.
And still, nothing about it felt assumed.
His hands on her skin were careful. Almost reverent.
He said nothing. But his silence was clear – louder than any word.

Sakura felt it.
In the way he held her.
How he paused when she trembled.
How he watched every small shift in her – as if she might break in the quiet.

Sometimes she believed it meant more to him.
Maybe.
But she didn’t know.
Couldn’t know.
And that was what moved her – not desire, but uncertainty. The questions. The not-understanding.

Because she understood politics.
Not from lectures – from experience.
Tsunade. Kakashi.
They had never explained things directly, but she had learned to read between the lines. Looks. Gestures. Silence.
The game beneath the surface.

Gaara was Kazekage.
A man whose decisions were never only his own.
And she was… not from Suna. No clan.
Just the talented medic from Konoha.
Good enough to be needed.
Never enough to be welcome.

He moved inside her – slow, deep – with a steadiness she could hardly endure.
He was present. Entirely.
But she was already somewhere else –
thinking of the day someone on his council would throw the first stone.

A flicker of panic rose.
She needed control.
Something that belonged to her – to her alone.

With a sudden motion she pushed him off, rolled over him, and sat astride.
Her hands on his chest. Her breath uneven.
He let it happen. Looked at her without surprise.
There was openness in his gaze. And something she couldn’t name.

Which only made it worse.

She moved against him – faster, more urgent. Not for what was, but for what she wanted to push away.
Not out of lust.
Not out of security.
But from the wish to be wrong. That this time would be different.
That she wouldn’t lose herself too quickly, too deeply, too blindly.

Like with Sasuke.
Like always.

Then she looked at him.
Truly looked.

His face was unguarded. His lips parted. His eyes fixed entirely on her.
His hands at her hips – not leading. Just there.
With her.

It was… tender.
Almost yielding.
And for a moment she thought she saw something in it.

Maybe he was in love.
Maybe.
But he had never said so. And she wouldn’t ask.
Because the answer could change everything.

Instead she rode the moment on.
Slower now. Calmer.
As if she had already accepted the terms of her surrender.

He held her gaze.
Let her be.
Said nothing.

And she wondered whether it was possible to love without losing.

Her movements grew deeper, more rhythmic. She felt everything coil inside her – not suddenly, but like a tide that could no longer be stopped.

Gaara moved with her beneath – not faster, but surer. His grip at her hips tightened, as if he finally allowed what he had kept in check all along.

Sakura was close. She could feel it – the tremor in her thighs, the burn low in her belly, the prickling under her skin drawing tighter and tighter. Her breath grew shallow, quick. She closed her eyes, let her head tip back, tried to focus only on the moment. Only on him. On what lived between them.

And then it was there.
It crashed over her in a wave – warm, insistent, overwhelming. Her body seized, clinging to what she couldn’t release. A sound escaped her – quiet, unguarded. Her nails bit into his shoulders and for a heartbeat there was only this: heat, closeness, release, the fall.

As she opened, as she burned through it, she felt him go taut beneath her. Gaara drew a sharp breath, his gaze unfocused, his hands clenching at her hips. No words – only a deep, suppressed sound from his chest, rough and real. His body tightened under her, and she felt him follow – deep, firm, holding on to her as if he, too, let go for a moment.

In that instant – with both of them locked at the crest, bodies shaking, breath lost to the shimmering air – she kissed him again.

Slow. Desperate. Afraid.

I should never have taken the mission, she thought.

Not because it was wrong to be here.

Not because she didn’t want it.

But because she knew, exactly in that moment, that she was losing whatever still separated her from reason.

She was past the point of lying to herself.
She had fallen. Again. Deeper than ever.
And she knew—it would hurt.

Chapter Text

It had started with an unassuming scroll from Suna.
A mission, formally ranked S-class – not for its danger, but for the political weight it carried.

Objective: stabilization of the Kazekage’s psychophysical health.
Specifically: insomnia.
It had plagued him for years, and no one in Suna had managed to break it.

When the request reached Konoha, it took less than three hours to land on Kakashi’s desk.
And he hadn’t hesitated.
She was the best.
And he knew she would go.

Sakura had nodded before he even finished speaking.

Gaara was a friend.
Since the Great Shinobi War, more than ever.

And if she was honest – truly honest – there was nothing left to hold her in Konoha.
Not after what had happened.

Not after him.
Again.

People didn’t say it outright.
But she saw it in their eyes.
In the short silences that fell when she entered a room.
In the faces turned just enough away, pretending nothing had passed.

And sometimes they did speak.
Not to her.
Never to her.
But close enough for the words to cut, like small, deliberate incisions beneath the skin.

“Did she really believe he’d stay this time?”

“Probably still naked in bed when he disappeared.”

“Everyone knew he’d leave again. Everyone but her.”

“That woman has no self-respect.”

Words like poison.
Not loud. Not raw.
Just casual. Balanced.
Designed to linger.

She had learned not to react.

Lifting her head, nodding, moving on.
But it made no difference.
The truth carved itself into her even in silence.

No self-respect.
Maybe.

Or maybe she was simply tired of piecing herself back together.
Of being strong when no one really noticed.
Of functioning.

Hopeless – she had been that for a long time.
But only now did she understand how deep that word could cut.

And so it had been easy to leave.
Easy not to see Kakashi’s request as escape.
Easy to disguise Suna as a mission, when in truth it was something else.
Something quiet.
A way of not breaking anymore – or at least of breaking somewhere no one could see.

The journey had cost her nothing.

Three days, dusty roads, no hesitation. By the morning of the third, she reached Suna’s walls – a little too soon, a little too eager.

She saw it in the guards’ faces: the quick lift of an eyebrow, the way one of them double-checked her name on the list.

No one had expected her. Not yet.

She hadn’t wasted time.
No words.
No farewells.
Not even to Naruto.

He would understand. Or maybe he wouldn’t.
He was busy – with Hinata, with the future, with the peace he had fought to claim for himself.
And she was glad for him. Truly.
But somewhere inside her, something felt unbearably lonely.

When she stood before Gaara, his greeting was polite, calm.
Considerate, as always.

His gaze lingered on her face a moment too long – but he didn’t ask.
He seemed to sense it.
That something was off.
But Gaara wasn’t the type to pry.

“Haruno-san,” he said. “Welcome to Suna.”

She smiled – polite, not too personal.
“Thank you, Kazekage-sama.”

“Gaara is fine,” he replied after a pause.

Sakura inclined her head.
“Then please – just Sakura. Not Haruno-san.”

He acknowledged it with the barest dip of his chin.

“A room has been prepared for you. You can rest. Settle in.”

Her shoulders drew back, just slightly.

“If you don’t mind… I’d like to do a first assessment tonight.”

The words sounded professional enough.
But she knew he would hear it anyway – the restlessness beneath.
That quiet urgency.
Not because she was in a hurry.
But because she couldn’t sit. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel.

She needed to do something. Anything.
That was why she was here.
Wasn’t it?

Gaara looked at her. Direct.
Like someone who didn’t need words to understand.

He had always been like that.
Reserved, controlled – but never indifferent.
She remembered the war.
How he had stood beside Naruto after the battle, silent yet unshakable.

“Tonight is fine,” was all he said.

He didn’t evade. Didn’t delay.
His answer was calm, direct.
Simple agreement – the kind people expected of him.

Sakura nodded.
Once. Brief.
And yet it felt like relief.
As if he had taken something from her she couldn’t name.

“Thank you,” she said. And meant it.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
His gaze was enough – watchful, restrained, almost… gentle.
As if he had already understood that she hadn’t really come here to rest.

She turned, following the chunin who would lead her to her room.
And when the door closed behind her, only one thought lingered in her mind:

Tonight.
Do something.
Not feel.

The day slipped past. She spent the hours in a strange half-sleep. Not awake enough to think, not tired enough to be spared the mocking fragments of dreams.

When she stepped into his house, it was quiet.

Not the tense kind of quiet that filled unfamiliar homes.
But the kind that suited someone like Gaara.
Dense. Subtle. Observant.

He was already waiting.
No formal robes like that morning.

Just simple trousers and a dark red vest, high-collared but relaxed – civilian enough that she blinked at the sight.

“Thank you for making time,” she said, professional.
Almost too clinical. But she was tired. Too empty for small talk.

He inclined his head, just slightly. “Of course.”

The room he led her into was spacious, warm with the soft glow of a single hanging lamp. Books lined open shelves, neatly ordered. On a low table of dark wood lay an open notebook beside a calligraphy brush, and a small hourglass – almost too symbolic.

A few plants rested in ceramic pots near the window.
A room to live in, not merely to endure.

No guards. No protocol.

He lowered himself onto one of the flat cushions without another word.
And waited.
For her.

Sakura drew in a breath, then stepped closer.

“I need to look at your chakra flow,” she said evenly.
“For that, I’ll have to touch you.”

He nodded. His face didn’t change, but she noticed the faintest tension in his shoulders.

She sat across from him, slipped off her gloves. Her fingers were cold but steady.
Routine.
She had done hundreds of these examinations.
Just never on him.

When she took his wrists, his skin was warmer than she expected.
The pulse beneath steady – almost too steady.

“When was your last full night of sleep?”
“I don’t remember.”
“And dreams?”
“Not every night. Some stay. Some fade.”
His voice was low, quiet.

She pressed her thumbs and forefingers gently to his forehead, tracing for blockages in the chakra stream.
Not deep – just the surface, only where the first signs might appear.

He didn’t flinch.
But she felt it anyway – the faint, restless flicker beneath his skin.
Not chaos. But not calm either.
Like a body refusing to surrender to rest. Functioning as long as demanded – but never letting go.

After several minutes she let her hands fall, slow and unforced, so the contact dissolved as though on its own.

“It isn’t purely somatic,” she murmured, almost more to herself.
“Your body is exhausted, but stable. You’re holding yourself in a state where you never truly collapse… but you never release, either.”

He looked at her.
Without expression. Without objection.
But she knew that look – silent, absorbing. Nothing slipped past it.

Leaning back slightly, she brushed stray hair from her face.
“Your melatonin levels are unusually low. And your cortisol is far too high.”

A pause.

“How long has it been since you slept properly?”
She hesitated, glanced at him again.
Then, almost offhandedly:
“Ah – and do you happen to have your medical records here?”

Wordlessly, he reached to the side and drew out a slim, neatly kept folder from beneath a stack of scrolls.
She hadn’t noticed it. Too focused on him.

Sakura accepted it, leafing through the few pages inside. Carefully maintained – like everything about him.
She listened as he spoke while her eyes traced the lines.

“Before the war, it was better,” he said. His voice calm. No regret, but something else – an absence that weighed heavier than emotion.
“I’ve never slept well. But there were nights when it was enough. Two, three hours straight.”
He paused.
“After the war… it worsened again.”

She glanced up at him briefly, said nothing.
Turned another page. And another.
Until, on the last one, her brows drew together.

The file was thinner than she had expected. And emptier.
No thorough diagnostics, no continuous records – just superficial examinations, pale phrases that avoided more than they explained.

A single paragraph mentioned chronic sleep deprivation.
Beneath it: a general recommendation for sedatives.
No details, no trials, no notes on response.
Nothing that resembled long-term treatment.

Sakura closed the file slowly.

“That’s all?” she asked – not accusing, but with a voice that wasn’t mere curiosity either.

Gaara met her gaze evenly. “That’s all they deemed necessary.”

She held his eyes.
A moment longer than she should have.
She wanted to understand. The silence. The gaps in the record. The things no one wanted to see.

“Why?”
Her voice was soft, measured.
Not accusing.
Just a question, reaching for some thread that would explain what exactly she was facing.

Something shifted in his eyes –
a flicker of amusement.
Almost like a smile that never reached his lips.

His eyes were so clear, so bright – like melted glacier water.

“They’re still afraid,” he said at last, his voice calm.
The truth spoken lightly, as if it had long since grown old.
“I don’t blame them.”

Sakura blinked, letting her gaze drop to the pages in her hands.
She could have asked why again.

It had been years since Shukaku was inside him.
Even longer since he had allowed the beast to control him.

And yet – nothing.
Only a few half-hearted lines.
Recommendations better suited for an overworked chunin, not the Kazekage. Not him – the one who gave so much to the very people of this village.

Anger rose in her. Slow, but insistent.
Her fingers twitched.
The file, a neutral object seconds ago, felt like an insult.
Silent. Indifference pressed into paper.

Her breath left her shallow through her nose.
She tried to catch the moment before it slipped from her grasp.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered – too low to be a declaration, too clear to be hidden.
With a sharp, too-quick movement, she pushed the folder back onto the table.

“I need access to the hospital,” she said.
“And clearance to use the laboratories. Tomorrow I’ll begin designing a targeted therapy. And while I’m at it – ”
She met his eyes directly.
“ – I’ll rewrite your medical file. The way someone should have done long ago.”

Gaara looked at her. A beat of silence. Then a slow nod.

“Very well.”

His gaze flicked to the file on the table. As if weighing whether to add something. Then:

“It was never complete.”
No regret. No reproach. Just the acknowledgment of a known lack.

Sakura opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

“Whatever you need – you’ll have it. Just say the word.”

She nodded, slowly, almost contemplative.
“Thank you,” she said softly. More than politeness. Less than what she meant.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, hesitated for a moment, then said:
“I could do something tonight. Not permanent – just for one night.”
She lifted her gaze, held his.
“I can trigger your sleep hormones – raise melatonin, calm serotonin. A focused chakra impulse to the brainstem, and your sleep center will respond.”

Gaara leaned back, arms crossing for a moment as he weighed her words, fingers tapping lightly against the fabric of his sleeve.
Sakura didn’t press. She waited.
Finally, he exhaled softly.

“If you believe it’s worthwhile – here?”

She gave a small smile. “Best where you intend to fall asleep. It won’t take long before your mind shuts down.”

He inclined his head, rose to his feet.
“Then come.”

She followed – silent, barefoot against the cool stone tiles.
The corridors were hushed. No staff, no guards. Only the faint whisper of wind slipping through the narrow slits of the windows.

The Kazekage’s residence was large. Old. Solid – like everything in Suna: built of stone.
Sakura’s eyes traced the long, unyielding halls ahead of her, austere and almost forbidding. She wondered if he lived here alone.

“Temari and Kankurō used to live here,” he said without turning – as though he had plucked the thought directly from her head.
Then, with a faint crease of his brow, he corrected himself:
“Kankurō still does sometimes. When he’s too drunk to find his way back to his own place. Or when his food’s run out.”

A laugh escaped her – quiet, startled.
“Yes… I can imagine.”

Something in her voice must have carried over to him. The faint line on his forehead smoothed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in the smallest twitch.

His bedroom lay at the end of the hall. A heavy door of pale wood, standing out against the darker stone walls.
He opened it without a word, holding it for her.

Sakura stepped inside – and felt it at once.
The coolness. The order. The absence of life.

A bed, neatly made. No excess furniture. No trace of disarray.
A small desk. Two books. A water bottle on the nightstand.
No colors. No plants. No fabrics that did more than serve a function.

She let her gaze wander for a silent moment.
Then turned to him.
“Sit,” she said quietly. “Or lie down, if you prefer.”

Gaara nodded, unfastened the belt of his cloak, slid it off and draped it neatly over the back of a plain wooden chair. Then he lowered himself to the edge of the bed, eyes calm on her.

Sakura stepped closer, let her hands brush together lightly to focus her chakra. It glowed faintly – pale green, almost transparent in the dimness.

“It won’t be uncomfortable,” she murmured – more out of habit than to reassure him.
“Maybe a pressure behind your eyes. And… heaviness.”
She looked at him. “If it feels too sudden, tell me.”

The softest breath of air escaped him – a flicker of amusement.

“And what if I fall asleep before I can tell you?”

There was no mockery in his tone. More dry. Almost… cautiously amused.

“Then you’d better blink quickly beforehand.”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll take that as consent.”

Sakura raised her hands, pressing her fingertips gently to his temples. The skin beneath her touch was warm, taut – not restless, but monitored, as if his body never truly released. Never truly trusted.

She began slowly, channeling chakra into his skin. Not deep – just at the surface, where the signals seeped into the nervous system.
One impulse, then another. Repeating.
Stimulation of the ventral brainstem.
Dulling vigilance.
Gentle, precise, controlled.

Gaara’s breath came shallow, his lids lowering without fully closing. His shoulders sank, barely perceptible.
Sakura shifted the chakra flow, adjusted it. Encouraged melatonin production. Damped serotonin.
The transitions were fragile, but she knew exactly what she was doing.

He blinked.
Once.

Then his lids slid shut.

One breath. Then another.
His body grew heavy. His posture loosened – so subtle, yet impossible to fake.

Sakura held the connection a moment longer than necessary. Then she lowered her hands slowly, letting them rest on his shoulders to steady him.

Gently, she eased his body back onto the bed.

She had barely brushed the edge of the blanket when the sand stirred.

A sharp breath escaped her, instinct tightening her muscles – yet the attack never came.

Instead, a stream of fine grains surged from the jar, wrapped briefly around her wrists, then slid beneath Gaara, lifting him with uncanny precision, settling him deeper against the pillow.

Gaara slept soundly – more deeply than his system had allowed in years. And still, his body remained vigilant, in its own way. Just as her chakra sometimes began to heal before she even willed it.

Sakura watched as the lattice of sand withdrew, noiseless, leaving nothing behind.

An involuntary smile flickered across her face.

Undeniable.

He was an outstanding shinobi.

Chapter Text

He had slept.

Not dozed.

Not restless.

Not dreamed.

Just slept.


When Gaara opened his eyes, it was bright. Shadows on the wall shifted with the morning wind, the sand in his gourd at rest. No pressure in his chest. No pull in his limbs. Only that strange, unfamiliar stillness in his mind – like someone had silenced an old gear that had screamed for years, long past the point where he noticed the sound.

He stayed where he was.

Didn’t test his body immediately, as he usually did. He let himself feel the aftermath. No pain, no fatigue. Just this emptiness that didn’t feel dangerous. It felt like space. Like room he no longer had to defend.

His eyes drifted to the ceiling. He knew the cracks in the plaster. He’d counted them often. But this time, he didn’t linger.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this rested. Maybe there had never been such a moment.

Slowly, he ran a hand across his face, lingered at his temples, as if to check whether the heaviness was truly gone. Then he sat up – not driven, not cautious. Simply awake.
Clear.

Now that his body was no longer locked in constant alertness, he realized how close he had come to the edge. One step more, and his system would have collapsed. Out of his control.

Temari had seen it.
Kankurō had said it.
And he… had ignored it too long.

Not out of pride. Not even out of duty.

But because the voices in the background had been loud – the voices of the Elders, who tied every weakness to the reputation of the village.

“Suna stands on its own.”
“The Kazekage bows to no foreign village.”
“Our problems are solved within our walls.”

A request for help from Konoha was considered humiliation.
Even more so that he had wanted her here.

As if she hadn’t already done all this once before –
as if she hadn’t saved Suna,
as if Kankurō and he hadn’t both walked away alive because of her hands.

But none of that counted. Not anymore.

What remained was her age.
Her origin.
Her closeness to Naruto. To Kakashi.
To Konoha.

And maybe also this:
that her name no longer ran quietly in the background.
That she wasn’t just part of something –
she stood on her own.

Tsunade’s heir.
And, to many now,
the third name alongside Uzumaki and Uchiha.

But with a clear mind, he saw:
The true weakness was never in asking.
It was in hesitating.

He should have called for her earlier. Far earlier.
Before the tremors started.
Before sleep became a myth.
Before exhaustion turned to silence, and silence to danger.

His gaze moved to the window. The sun rose higher over Suna’s rooftops.
A new day.
But something had shifted.

And this time he would not overlook it.
Would no longer quietly accept what felt wrong.
Not after realizing it was as if he’d been stumbling blind through his own life –
and only now saw the world with open eyes.

The small things suddenly carried weight.

The warm steam in the shower.
The clear light on the sand as he walked through Suna’s streets.
Even the coffee – still dark, still harsh – but not hollow. It held something that remained.

Gaara allowed himself time.
Not out of laziness. Out of awareness.

He greeted his shinobi with a brief nod.
Paused at a market stall and spoke with a merchant about the new import regulations that had gone into effect only days before.

Maybe it was the lingering effect of her technique –
or simply the fact that he had finally slept.

Whatever it was.
The day no longer felt like a wall.

It felt like something he could step into.

What didn’t change was the faint sting between his temples
as he stepped over the threshold of the tower.

One of his assistants fluttered toward him like a plucked chicken – breathless, frantic, papers in hand, as if a state crisis might erupt at any moment.

As always, Gaara ignored the commotion.
A quick glance at Baki –
no invasion, no diplomatic disaster.
Just… Tuesday.

He walked toward his office without a word.

“Kazekage-sama, you’re late!”
Of course he was. He planned to be late tomorrow as well.

“The education budget must be revised!”
No, it didn’t.
Kankurō had taken it over –
and was handling it well.

“The Elders demand yet another hearing on the import regulations.”
Of course they did.
Or demanded.
Or simply complained, because it grated on them that Suna functioned without their constant control.

Maybe he would make time at the end of the week.
Maybe not.

He entered his office, closed the door behind him –
and left Nobu’s voice in the hallway.
The man needed a few more seconds, as always, to stumble after him with arms overloaded.

Gaara set his cup carefully on the desk.
Then his gaze caught on something.

A file.

Paper slightly yellowed, freshly organized.
Filed differently.

He drew it toward him.
Opened it.

Treatment Plan – Phase 1.
Sakura’s handwriting.

He sat down slowly and began to read.
Page after page.
Within minutes, his brow furrowed.

What he held was the result of hours of work –
insights from yesterday’s examination, precise analysis, first therapeutic approaches.
Structured. Clear. Thought-through.

“Baki,” he said without looking up, cutting through Nobu’s persistent muttering,
“when was this submitted?”

“Right after the reception opened.”
So – four hours ago.
Which meant: she had worked through the night.

Something in his reaction must have set things off.

Because Nobu suddenly drew himself up, clutching his stack of papers like a shield.
“Kazekage-sama – there are numerous complaints about the Konoha-nin!”

Gaara lifted his eyes slightly. Waited.

“The head physician was outraged. She insulted him. Accused him of incompetence. And then – his exact words – demanded the entire hospital be set on fire, calling it a disgrace to the profession.”

Baki kept staring at the wall, unmoved. Only the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.

“Then let her do it,” he said at last. Dry as the desert.

Nobu nodded vigorously, lost in his own outrage.
“Yes, exactly – one should—”
He froze.
Blinking.
“Forgive me – what?”

Gaara closed the file. Calmly.
“If she wants to reform the hospital, she has my full support. It’s no secret Konoha surpasses us in medical expertise by years.”

“But, Kazekage-sama! That girl—”

“The woman,” Baki cut in sharply, without even looking at him.
“is the finest medical kunoichi in the Elemental Nations.
A name spoken alongside Tsunade – not beneath her.”
He turned his head slightly, fixing Nobu with a flat stare.
“Respect shouldn’t be a rare drop in the desert.”

Silence.

Gaara rose, file in hand.
“If she intends to break open the system here – then we’ll tear it open.”
His tone stayed calm, his gaze composed – but there was no mistaking it.

“But the Elders – Kazekage-sama? Kazekage-sama, where are you—?”

The door shut behind him.
The whining was cut off as a thin ribbon of sand slipped around the handle – firm enough to lock it. Baki could leave with Shunshin at any time.
Nobu… not so much.

Gaara moved down the corridor, purposeful.
Today he had no intention of listening to anyone who only wanted to talk.

The day Kankurō and Temari finally returned from their missions could not come soon enough.
Normally it was his siblings who bore the brunt of the chatter – all the nonsense that otherwise landed unfiltered on his desk was softened by their resistance.

Without lifting his eyes, Gaara slipped past anyone foolish enough to try and stop him.

He was heading for the hospital.
There were things to discuss.
Ten minutes later, he stood in the cool reception hall.

He hadn’t been here often – but in the past the waiting room had always been crowded. Civilians, injured shinobi, patients after missions.
Today: nearly empty.
Just two patients, a mother with her child. Quiet murmuring. No restless tension, no frantic waiting.

“Kazekage-sama!”
One of the receptionists hurried toward him, eyes bright, almost overly delighted. Behind her, two nurses had paused, curious but not impolite.

“Are you looking for Haruno-sama? She should still be in the labs.”
He opened his mouth, about to ask – but she kept going. Quick. Overflowing.

“She’s incredible! We haven’t had such a… relaxed routine in years.”

That made him pause.
“What exactly did she do?”

“Assigned medical-nin to civilian wound care,” answered an older nurse from the back, voice firm and satisfied. “Set up a provisional schedule for the ER. Honestly? Works better than the rubbish we had before.”

“And she listens,” the younger receptionist added softly. “Not like the chief physician, who brushed everything off with a nod. She spent two hours talking to the nursing staff.”

The older woman nodded, as if that alone was enough said.

Gaara’s gaze shifted between the two women for a quiet moment.

“Thank you. I’ll make sure it continues this way.”

The reaction swelled – no applause, but palpable. A soft murmur, almost reverent, as though he had just promised something no one else dared put into words.

He inclined his head in farewell, quiet, and left the bright voices behind.

Slowly. Thoughtfully.
His stride steady – but resolute.

Perhaps he should have tended to the system earlier.
But it had been like so many other things – he had set other priorities. Believed they were more important. The chief physician was established, the routines well-practiced. There had been no complaints.

But most likely…
…no one had spoken loudly enough.

He found her, as promised, in one of the back laboratories – bent over a mortar, brow faintly furrowed. The air was rich with the scent of ground herbs, threaded through with something bitter. For a moment, it reminded him of Chiyo-baasama.

He tapped lightly on the doorframe with his fingers, careful not to startle her.

“Kanna-san, if this is about Dr. Renjirō again—” she began without looking up, still focused on her work. “Then tell him to stop whining like a half-drowned kitten. If he has a problem with his own incompetence, he can take it up with the Kazekage.”

A low sound slipped from him – more breath than laughter, but genuine.

“I assume you’d prefer I don’t quote that when he does complain to me?”

Sakura froze. The motion of the pestle stalled in midair. Slowly, she lifted her head – and met his eyes directly.

The color drained from her face, only to rush back a heartbeat later, burning hot across her cheeks.

“I—oh God.”
She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead, as though she could smooth the situation away.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were… someone else. I didn’t know you were…”

Gaara tilted his head. The faintest trace of a smile flickered in his gaze – barely there, but undeniable.

Sakura grimaced, caught between regret and a dry smile.
“Not my most diplomatic moment.”

“No,” he agreed. “But probably your most honest.”

The file was still in his hand as he sat down on the stool. Sakura noticed, gesturing toward it with a loose wave.

“Already read it?”

Gaara nodded slowly.
“Of course. Would now be a good time to discuss some points?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Anytime.”

He opened the file, flipped back a few pages, and tapped one of the highlighted notes.
“‘Reduce stress factors.’” A quiet breath left him, almost like a laugh.
“I assume that’s harder to implement than to write.”

Sakura’s grin tilted wry. “You mean because you’re Kazekage and get provoked by at least five people before you’ve even had breakfast?”

Gaara inclined his head. “Five would be optimistic.”

She laughed – short, low. The sound lingered between the shelves.
Then her tone steadied again, calmer, more deliberate.
“You start small. Regular meals. Breaks. A sane daily structure.”

“I have a structure,” he countered.

“Mhm,” she hummed, arching her brows at him.
“And your bedroom looks like the storage room of a temple.”

Gaara said nothing – but his eyes made it clear he understood exactly what she meant.

“You sleep better when a space feels like home,” she said.
“Lived in. Personal. I don’t mean golden curtains and flowered wallpaper…” The corner of her mouth quirked.
“But a blanket that’s more than practical. Light that doesn’t glare. Books you haven’t already worn thin with rereading.”

Gaara leaned back slightly. The file now rested loosely on his lap.
“So: less stone, more cushions?”

“A start,” she confirmed with a light smile.
“If you want, I’ll help you. With the rearranging. Not the cushion shopping.”

He didn’t answer right away – but something in his gaze softened.
Then, the faintest nod.

“All right,” he said.

And in that moment – between mortars and diagnoses, herbs and sarcasm – the conversation felt… light.
Honest.

Like something worth continuing.

Chapter Text

Sakura held the house key between her fingers, the flat shadow of Gaara’s home brushing her back like a cool hand.
The midday sun blazed over Suna’s rooftops, the wind carrying fine grains of sand through the narrow streets – warm, dry, restless.

It felt surreal.
The Kazekage had given her his key.

“Change what needs to be changed,” he had said – and in doing so, opened more than just his door.

She had wanted to protest – shocked, almost indignant. But he had cut her off. Calm. Unshaken.
Like someone who had already made his choice.

Being Kazekage meant never having enough time.

She remembered the faint twitch at the corner of his eyes –
the closest thing Gaara ever came to a smile.

Then he had assigned Baki to her, so she could hand over a list. Everything she needed.

And now here she was. Standing at his doorstep, key in hand. Waiting for the man who was meant to accompany her.

The heat pressed against her temples, though she hardly noticed it. Not really.

Sakura blinked against the shimmering light scattering in the fine dust of sand. Her eyes stung – a dull, tired ache that had lingered for hours, ever since she’d spent the night drafting reports, sketching procedures, calculating dosages.

Sleep hadn’t happened.
Not even close.

She had tried – sometime just before dawn. But her body had resisted. Her mind had been too alert. Too full.

Too restless.

Sometimes Sakura was a mystery even to herself. She could think more clearly on a battlefield than in a quiet room. Could make split-second decisions when everything was burning. But now, when she finally had a moment to pause –
all she felt was motion within her.

A tremor under the surface.
Unseen, but undeniable.

Maybe it was the heat. Or the silence, which left too much space for thought.

Maybe it was the key in her hand.
Or… something deeper.

She exhaled slowly and closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.

The shadow of the house was cool – but it brought no peace.
Nothing brought peace.

“Haruno-san.”

She flinched. Only exhaustion – she told herself.
With a practiced smile, she turned to Baki.

“Baki-san. Good to see you. Thank you for coming.”

He inclined his head, curt as always.
“Likewise. No thanks necessary. The Kazekage has already informed me. If you’re ready, we’ll waste no time.”

Sakura stepped inside without hesitation.

She already knew the hallway – had entered it just last night in the half-dark, taking in the cool air, the smell of sand and old stone walls. Yet today it felt different. Less foreign. More like a task waiting for her.

Baki followed silently. His gaze swept once across the entryway, then settled on her as she slowly slipped off her shoes.

“You know what you need?” he asked evenly.

“Not everything yet.” She brushed her hair back – a reflex born more of inner unrest than vanity. “But I know where I have to start.”

She moved ahead, down the corridor, past the room where she had treated him yesterday. Her steps were softer, more deliberate than usual – not from uncertainty, but from the fatigue that dragged at her limbs, heavy as sand.

“I’ll make a list. For starters I need light, some fabric, maybe plants. His bedroom isn’t a place where anyone could find rest.”

Baki gave a short nod. “I’ll see to it.”

Sakura stopped, glancing back over her shoulder.

“I know it sounds trivial. But if he doesn’t feel that the space belongs to him, nothing in his mind will change.”

A brief silence stretched between them.

Then Baki said quietly, “You sound as though you’ve done this before.”

Sakura turned fully to face him. The smile on her lips was tired, but genuine. “A few times. Shinobi aren’t exactly famous for a stable psyche. Insomnia is more common than people think.”

For a fleeting moment she thought of neither Suna, nor lists, nor her newest patient.

She thought of Kakashi. Of the night he had nearly killed her in his sleep – reflex, panic.
Of lying on the floor, bleeding, while he, horrified, tried to tear nightmare from reality.
It had taken months to stabilize his sleep.
Months in which she had torn everything down to its foundations – and rebuilt it. Not just his routines. Him.

And maybe that was what defined her. Not just the ability to treat wounds. But what came after.

To heal where others had already given up.
Not just the body – but what lay beneath.
Unnoticed, patient, layer by layer.

There was no glory in it. No shine.
But she had never been made for that.
She healed. Always.

Everyone – except herself.
A medic survives, so others can too.
And the one who heals always stands last.
Never first.
Never whole.

Baki watched her in silence. There was respect in his gaze – but also a subtle, unreadable measure, as though he were quietly rearranging what he thought he knew of her.

“Then I know why the Kazekage wanted you.”

Sakura gave a small shrug, eyes dropping briefly to her hands. “Because I can write a file?”

“No.” Baki stepped closer, leaned against the wall, arms folding across his chest. “Because you don’t just treat. You change what needs to be changed.”

A faint smile ghosted over her lips.
“I like tearing things down. So something new can grow.”

He nodded. No question, no doubt. Just that quiet kind of acknowledgment men like Baki were known for.

Sakura drew in a deep breath. Fatigue clung to her bones, but she wouldn’t sleep. Not yet.
“I’ll give you the list tonight. Maybe not complete – but a start.”

Baki straightened, ready to leave.
“That’s enough.”

He left her with the key – and the quiet weight of responsibility.
Sakura watched him until the door closed softly behind him. Then she turned, back into the house.

Alone again.

The hallway stretched cool and still before her.
No sound, no footsteps, no shadow.

And so she began.
With the calm of someone fleeing into work.
Room by room. Systematic. Silent.

For every space she took notes. More fabric. Curtains. Light. Something personal. Something that remained.
Her fingers clutched the pen for hours, her handwriting flowing across the paper – steady, practiced, without hesitation.

The notebook filled – lists, sketches, thoughts.

She didn’t notice how much time slipped by. Not until the letters began to blur, as if someone dimmed the light under water.
She blinked. Slowly. Heavily.

Sunlight angled through the tall windows. Shadows had grown long. And with them came dizziness.
Faint, insistent. The echo of a body too long ignored.

Hunger. Fatigue.

She rubbed her temples and sank onto the couch in the living room. The stone beneath her feet still held the warmth of the afternoon sun, yet the room itself was quiet, cool.

A tired sound escaped her. Her fingers slipped into the familiar seal.

A soft breath – then a small version of Katsuyu appeared on the couch’s backrest.
“Sakura-sama,” she said gently, concern threading her voice. “You look exhausted.”

“Just a long day,” Sakura murmured, handing her the sealed notes.
“Take these to Baki-san, please. Tell him it’s the first draft.”

More a reminder –
of boundaries. Of respect.

Sakura exhaled quietly.

Katsuyu inclined her head.
“Of course. I’ll deliver them. Please, rest, Sakura-sama.”

With a faint rustle her form dissolved, merging with the air – gone before the last word faded.

Sakura let out a slow breath. Her shoulders sank deeper into the cushion. Her hands lay slack in her lap.

It wasn’t sleep that came – but exhaustion, quietly taking control. A moment where everything stilled.
At last.

And in the altered silence of a house that wasn’t hers, she closed her eyes.
Just for a moment, she told herself.

When Sakura opened her eyes again, for an instant she didn’t know where she was. The world felt soft and strange, as though time had wrapped itself in cotton.

She blinked, tried to orient herself.
The warm glow of a small lamp spilled from a side table beside the reading chair – muted, not harsh. Just enough to hold the shadows gently back.

A light breeze slipped through the open window, carrying the scent of desert sand and night’s coolness.

Sounds reached her ears. Porcelain. Not clattering, not loud. Just the faint clink of cups.

Slowly her mind caught up to her body.
She jerked upright too fast – the blanket slid from her shoulders and dropped soundlessly to the floor.

She grabbed at the fabric, as if that could salvage what was already lost. A glance at the clock: middle of the night.
And she had simply fallen asleep in his living room.

“Just resting for a moment,” she muttered.
“Brilliant idea.”

When she stepped into the kitchen, Gaara didn’t look at her – but she knew he had noticed.
He set two cups down, poured tea as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to share company at three in the morning.

She was just about to apologize when, without looking up, he said:

“If you fall asleep after sundown, it officially counts as an overnight stay.”

Sakura blinked.
Then just stared at him.
“…What?”

The faintest twitch of a smile crossed his features.

Sakura let out a sharp breath, settling herself.
“And that’s official Kazekage protocol?”

“Suna tradition,” he replied evenly, handing her the cup.
“Very old. I just invented it.”

The scent of jasmine rose to her nose – soft, familiar. She followed him back into the living room, still carrying a trace of embarrassment at the back of her neck.

“I still feel sorry,” she began the moment they stepped inside. “I only meant to—”

He lowered himself into the reading chair and raised a hand before she could continue.

“I don’t mind.” His tone was factual – but not cold. Simply honest.

Sakura eased down onto the couch, where her blanket had just been. The cushions still held her shape. The tea was hot in her hands. She took a sip – not from thirst, but to anchor her restlessness.

Gaara studied her for a moment. Not intrusive, not probing – just calm, attentive. Then he said quietly:
“You’ve accomplished more in a single day than my medical council has in the past year.”

A sidelong glance. “And that’s despite barely sleeping.”

Sakura pressed her lips together. “That obvious?”

Gaara leaned back, cup resting loosely in one hand.
“Not on you.”
The smallest twitch at his mouth.
“But the treatment plan on my desk this morning gave you away.”

She stayed silent.
Not because she had nothing to say – but because there was nothing to deny.

A moment passed in quiet before he spoke again. Calm, almost offhand – yet weighted:

“I didn’t bring you here to exhaust you.”
His gaze stayed open. “That was never the intention.”

No reproach.

“You notice too much,” she murmured at last, tilting her head against the cushion – just enough to still meet his eyes.

He gave the faintest shrug, a shadow of amusement threading the motion.
“Kazekage.”

The hint of a smile touched her lips.
“I do take care of myself. Most of the time. I just… get too driven when I start something.”

Not a lie. But not the whole truth either.

“Yes,” was all he said. “I know the feeling.”

Something in his face – subtle, hard to pin down – made her believe he saw through it. But he didn’t say so.

Instead she took another sip, letting the warmth linger in her chest.

“What about your eating habits?” she asked then, sounding almost casual.

He blinked. Looked at her like someone unsure whether he’d just walked into a trap. Then tilted his head slightly – honestly puzzled.
“I eat when I have time?”

Sakura stilled.
“So… irregular.”
She tapped a finger against her cup.
“When do you take lunch breaks?”

His silence stretched. Too long.

“You do take one, don’t you?”

“No.”

Sakura stared at him for a moment.
Then raised a brow – not surprised, but with that tired, resigned look that said more than words: of course not.

“Of course not,” she muttered under her breath.
She set the cup down. Gently, but with intent.
“You realize that without regular fuel, the body—”

“—slows down, loses focus, and becomes more prone to illness,” he finished calmly.
His expression was almost innocent.
“I know. It’s in your file.”

Sakura exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple with two fingers.
“And still? No break. No lunch?”

“I’m rarely hungry.”
A slight lift of his shoulder.
“Or I forget.”

She just looked at him – long – before sinking back against the cushions.
“You’re worse than Naruto.”

Gaara seemed to weigh that for a moment.
Then said dryly: “I’ll take that as a warning.”

For an instant she laughed. Soft, genuine.
Fatigue still clung to her bones, but in that moment it eased just enough. Then her tone sobered again.
“Starting tomorrow, you’ll have set meals. And you’ll be reminded.”

“By you?”
Not mocking – more as if he found it a practical solution.

“Yes. Or Katsuyu. Whoever handles stubborn resistance better.”

Gaara tilted his head, as though assessing.
“I’d call it a tie. But you threaten more effectively.”

Sakura raised a brow, letting out a quiet huff.
“A compliment?”

He didn’t answer right away – only a brief, barely audible exhale that felt like amused acknowledgment.
No laughter. No mockery. Just… recognition.

By now the tea had grown cold, but neither of them seemed to notice.
The silence between them wasn’t heavy – only calm, carried by fatigue and a strange, new familiarity.

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the shutters.
Inside, everything stayed quiet.
And for that moment – perfectly right.

Chapter Text

Three days in a row, right at midday, a small, gleaming slug appeared on his desk.
Unobtrusive. Polite.
It left a faint trail across his papers and apologized in a soft voice for the interruption.

“It is noon, Kazekage-sama.”

His assistant’s half-suppressed outcry was always louder than necessary.
Gaara, on the other hand, barely reacted.

He lifted his gaze, gave a short nod.
“Thank you.”

Katsuyu would then vanish without another word.
Soundless. As if she’d never been there.

For a moment he’d linger – then reach for the next document.

He understood what Sakura intended.
Regular breaks. A steady rhythm.
But the papers before him wouldn’t vanish on their own.
And ever since she had been guiding him into sleep at night with her chakra, the leaden exhaustion that used to crush him had been replaced by something clearer – steadier.

He felt better.
Not good.
But better.
And that was more than he had expected.

On the fourth day, he expected her.
He even pushed two important scrolls aside in advance – documents he’d rather not see coated in slime.

The clock struck twelve.

No smoke.
No wet plop.
No slug.

He waited a few breaths longer, without looking up, ignoring Nobu’s buzzing voice circling him like a fly.

Then he did glance up.
Maybe with the absurd expectation of seeing a silver trail across the desk.
Nothing came.

And that should have been warning enough.

The knock wasn’t loud, but firm.
A single rap.
A second – as if to remind him.

He knew before the door even opened.

Sakura stepped inside.
No apology, no greeting.
Just the cool scent of the outside air – and the warm steam rising from the paper bag in her hand.

“Midday has officially passed,” she said.
Not stern. Not quiet.
Simply in a tone that allowed no argument.

She set the bag down in front of him – precisely on the spot he’d been staring at seconds before.

“So I took over.”

Then she pulled a chair close, sat across from him, crossed one leg over the other – and said nothing.

Not a threat.
Just a fact:
This time, he would eat.

Gaara blinked.
He opened his mouth – maybe to politely decline.
Maybe to at least try.

He never got the chance.

“How dare you!” Nobu’s voice cracked in outrage. “The Kazekage has no time for such foolishness! With all due respect, Haruno-san – completely inappropriate! Eating? Here? In the middle of a working session? This is not – ”

Sakura didn’t so much as turn her head. She calmly reached into the bag, pulled out a neatly folded parcel, and placed it in front of Gaara.

“If you keep stalling me,” she said – cheerful, almost light –
“the Kazekage will miss his lunch. And then we’ll have to adjust his medication.”

Gaara lowered his gaze to the steaming food before him.
He recognized the dish. Nothing complicated. But chosen with care.

Nobu was now visibly flailing – arms full of papers, clinging to the kind of dignity that only someone possessed who spent his life trying to impose order on a system forever on the verge of explosion.
“This is outrageous! The day’s schedule is tightly structured! You cannot simply waltz in here as if this were a… a teahouse!”

Sakura handed Gaara a pair of chopsticks without a word.

“Suna Health Regulation § 4, subsection 3,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“Shinobi undergoing treatment are required to eat daily. Failure to comply may result in termination of care.” She flicked a glance at Nobu.
“Do you want to be responsible for that?”

Nobu shut his mouth, opened it again – then shut it once more.
A fish on dry land.
A very loud, very offended fish.

“I… will report this to the Council of Elders,” he finally spat.
Then he spun on his heel with dramatic flourish and stormed off – losing at least three papers in the wake of his exit.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Gaara watched him go. Then looked at Sakura. Then back at the food.
He reached for the chopsticks – slow, deliberate.

A small coup d’état, he thought.
But a remarkably effective one.

And then – an unsettlingly clear thought surfaced, quiet but sharp:

If Konoha had Temari,
perhaps he could simply keep Sakura as compensation.
Hardly grounds for a declaration of war.
More like… polished alliance politics.

“That could work,” he murmured.

Sakura arched a brow.
“Hm?”

Gaara gave a faint shake of his head. “Nothing important.”
Then, after a bite:
“How did you know I hadn’t taken a break?”

She smiled – calm, faintly triumphant.
“Katsuyu’s slime trail ended right on your desk. After that – no change of position.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his gaze.
“You tracked me.”

“I call it preventive patient management.”

“Sounds strategic.”
He took another bite, chewing unhurriedly.
“And what happens if I work straight through again tomorrow?”

Sakura lifted a brow.
“Then we escalate to stage two.”

He looked up, as if gauging whether she was bluffing.
“And that would be?”

“Full nutritional documentation. Daily pause monitoring. And if necessary, a public presentation of your heart-rate curve in the marketplace.”

Gaara froze – only for a fraction of a second.
“That would be… a diplomatic issue.”

“Not,” she said evenly, “if I declare it a health campaign.”

The laugh that broke from him came fast – and unplanned.
Brief, but genuine.
A dry sound that spoke louder than any comment:
Struck.
Surprised.
Amused – against his will.

Her eyes reflected his laughter back at him.
Not loud, not exaggerated – just that quiet spark that showed she’d noticed.
That she liked it.

She didn’t say anything.
Instead, she turned to her own food, content and steady.

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence.
The scent of the meal lingered in the air, the paper bags rustled softly in the draft of the open windows.

Then Gaara spoke, without looking up – almost offhand, as if it were one thought among many:
“I think we should consider Therapy Approach B.”

Sakura leaned back a little, suspicion edged with amusement.
“And that is?”

He set the chopsticks aside, finally met her eyes.
“Regular meals. Delivered directly. By medical personnel.”

A faint sideways glance.
“Additional benefit: she drives off unwelcome visitors.”

Sakura couldn’t help but grin.

“That sounds more like an evacuation measure than therapy.”

“Some symptoms disappear best when you remove the cause.”
His eyes flicked to the door Nobu had stormed out of earlier – and lingered a moment too long. Then he looked back at her, a trace of dry commentary in his gaze that he didn’t put into words.

She shook her head slowly – amused, quietly so.
Her smile remained. And with it, something that felt like agreement.

If he had known that a single lunch break would cause such ripples, he might have ended work earlier – and hidden in a sandstorm.

“Haruno-san interferes too much!” The Elder stood as if his posture alone proved his argument.
Behind him: Nobu, nodding dutifully, eager to secure a front-row seat in the choir of complaints.

Gaara said nothing.

He took a sip of tea – deliberately slow.
The warmth spread instantly, the taste strong, clean.
Sakura had warned him it would act medicinally.
Not sweet, not mild – but… better than a healing tea had any right to be.
Probably the best herbal tea he had ever had.

“First she disrupts the entire hospital – and now she disrupts you!”
The Elder’s voice cut through the room, sharp and accusatory.

Gaara refocused on the men before him.

“Pressed you to eat!” Nobu cried, one step behind the Elder, like an overexcited shadow.
“In front of witnesses! Without prior consultation!”

The Kazekage blinked. Once.
Then exhaled – steady, even.

A fleeting thought passed through his mind:
Perhaps he should transfer Nobu into the desert.
Far into the desert.

He lowered the cup, setting it down with precise calm.
“You mean… persuaded me to take a break?”
His gaze shifted from Nobu to the Elder – cool, waiting.
“With food?”

“With force!” the Elder hissed, scandalized.
“She is unpredictable!”

Unpredictable.
Gaara lifted an eyebrow inwardly.
If a structured lunch now counted as a threat, then a sandwich was high treason.

He said nothing. Only the faintest breath of a sigh rose in his chest – not loud, not heavy, just enough to send the tea in his cup rippling.

“She brought me food.”
He took his time.
“I ate it.”

Silence.

“If that was an attack,” he added at last,
“it was surprisingly palatable.”

The Elder gasped as if Gaara had just declared a revolution.
“She undermines your authority!”

“By making sure I don’t starve?”

Nobu opened his mouth – closed it again – tried once more:
“But… the impression, Kazekage-sama! What will the people think?”

Gaara regarded him for a long moment.

Then he lifted the cup again, took another sip, and said:
“That their Kazekage eats. And lives.”
A brief pause.
“I think that’s a rather good impression.”

Silence.

But not long enough.

“Kazekage-sama, with all respect – ”
“It looks negligent!”
“She isn’t even part of our structure!”
“If anyone can influence you with a lunchbox – ”

Gaara’s patience snapped.

With it, the sand rose from his jug – soft, but unmistakable. The room fell silent.

“Enough.”

No shouting. No anger.
Just a single, clean-cut word.
Cold. Final.

Gaara rose. No grand gesture – just a movement that made any further debate unnecessary.
He set the cup down with precise calm, as though marking a line in the sand.

“I will not be told by anyone when or with whom I eat.”
His gaze slid to Nobu.
“Least of all when it concerns prescribed medical measures.”

The Elder drew breath to speak.
Gaara merely looked at him.

He closed his mouth again.

The Kazekage rested his hands on the table’s edge. Calm. Controlled.
But there was something in his eyes – not anger.
Something weightier.

“If there are no further relevant topics, this meeting is concluded.”

No threat.
Just a fact.
Unshakeable.

The Elders bowed hastily.
Nobu edged back as though the sand itself had warned him.

When the door closed, the room was silent once more.

Gaara exhaled slowly.
Then reached for the cup.

The tea was cold.
But it still tasted good.

The door opened again, and for a fleeting moment Gaara seriously considered resignation.

Then he saw who entered – and the exhaustion gave way to quiet relief.
Temari.

As always, without knocking, as though the place belonged to her.
Dust on her boots, the strap of her fan still over her shoulder – straight from the city outskirts, judging by the sand.

She stopped, raised a brow at him.
“You look like you just killed someone.”

“No,” Gaara replied evenly. “I drank tea.”

Temari’s brow climbed higher.
“And that required that much sand?”

“Therapy-related measure.”

She snorted. “So you almost killed someone.”

“Nobu doesn’t count,” Gaara said, glancing briefly at the faint dust still hanging in the air.
“And he’s still alive.”

“Same for Hiroshi.” She stepped closer. “Both of them were pretty pale when they rushed past me.”

Gaara said nothing.
Temari studied him, tilting her head.

“Can’t be that bad. As far as I know, Sakura’s only been in Suna for five days.”

“Her treatment plan prescribes daily lunch breaks.”
He lowered his gaze slightly. “So today she brought me food.”

Temari lifted an eyebrow. “And that’s bad because…?”

“She seems to be plotting an invasion with fried rice.”

Temari blinked. Then gave a short snort.
“Hm. Treacherous. Konoha was always subtle.”

Gaara remained silent. The sand in his jar had long since stilled, suspended in the glass like held breath. Temari glanced at the nearly empty teacup on his desk.

“And? Was it good?”

“Yes.”

Temari snorted again. “Deadly precision. First she handles your vital functions, then she takes care of your defenses.”

Gaara leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the door – where the two men had stood earlier. Where the air still carried a faint echo of their outrage.

“She silenced Nobu. More efficiently than either of you.”

Temari actually looked impressed for a moment.
Then a grin crept across her face – sharp, knowing.
“If you want to keep her, you’ll have to put in an official request.”

Gaara looked up from his cup, as though weighing how seriously she meant it.
“If Konoha gets you,” he said at last – quiet, like stating a law,
“I’m entitled to compensation.”

Temari arched a brow.
“So I’m diplomatic property now?”

“A strategic weakening.”
His tone didn’t shift. No jab, just fact.

She laughed – short, loud, the sound of someone too tired for ceremony.
“Good luck negotiating with Shikamaru.”

Gaara rested his fingertips against the cup, eyes lowering again.
“I don’t plan on telling him.”

“Telling who?” Her voice carried that suspicious lilt. “Him – or Sakura?”

He stayed silent. One of those pauses that gave away more than words ever could.
Then, without looking up:
“Both. For now.”

Temari crossed her arms, chin jutting forward.
“Kazekage tactics?”
A step closer. Another. Now she stood in front of his desk.
“Or just big-brother cowardice?”

Gaara finally raised his gaze.
“Refined alliance policy.”

The laugh that escaped her this time was softer. Full.
It had none of her usual sharpness – only tired relief, and real humor.
For a fleeting moment, it sounded like she was breathing the way she used to – before wars, before burdens, before knowledge too heavy to put down.

“I want to be there when you make it official. The faces, when you demand Sakura as compensation – unforgettable.”
Temari shot him a sidelong grin. Then her expression shifted as the thought sank in.
“Wait… you don’t actually mean that. Do you?”

Gaara blinked. Slowly.
Not a yes. Not quite a no.

“Gaara!”

He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he reached for the next scroll, turning it absently between his fingers.
“I’m glad you made it back safely. How was the mission?”

Temari studied him for a beat, then dropped into the chair opposite with a long sigh.
“Rough. Wet. Too much talk, not enough action.”
She propped her boots on the edge of his desk as if she’d never left.

Gaara said nothing.
But that small weight in his chest – the one that sometimes felt like fatigue, sometimes like duty, sometimes like a question without an answer – quieted for a moment.

Temari stayed.
The wind pressed on.
And Gaara worked.
Silent – but not alone.

Chapter Text

It was hot.
Not the scorching midday heat that stole your breath – but that sluggish, sticky warmth of early afternoon, when everything smelled of dust and the world lay in muted gold.

Sakura stood in the shade of Gaara’s house.
The door half-closed behind her. Before her: a mountain. Not sand.
A mountain of crates, bundles, bolts of fabric, tools, packaged furniture – and a crooked lamp that most definitely had not been on her list.

She drew in a slow breath.

“This is… a lot.”

No one answered. Of course not.
She was alone – and at the same time responsible for every single one of those packages.

The list she had handed in had been detailed.
“More homely” was a stretch of a word, but she had done her best.

Now she saw the result. And it looked like a move.
Or a renovation.
Or – more realistically – a personal breakdown in forty-eight separate pieces.

Slowly, she planted her hands on her hips, blinking against the sun.
This was the moment she most wanted to slap the list right out of her own hands.

“Okay,” she muttered.
“I can do this.”

The past few days she had at least gotten some hours of sleep.
Not much, but enough not to feel as if she were constantly running from herself.

It also helped that Suna didn’t have gossiping shinobi overly invested in her private life.
No Naruto, insisting with unstoppable optimism that everything would turn out fine. That she could handle it.

Just heat.
Friendly hospital staff.
And villagers who treated her as if she were a welcome guest – or maybe even more.

The old man on the corner handed her a bag of fresh fruit every time.
Maybe because civilians at the hospital no longer had to wait for hours to have their wounds treated.
Or because, for the first time in years, the emergency ward actually felt organized.

A faint smile tugged at Sakura’s lips. She rolled up her sleeves and looked at the mountain again.
She nodded once to herself, pushed the door wide, and stepped aside.

The living room. She would start there.

And so she did.
One old piece of furniture after another went out onto the street – replaced with lighter wood, softer lines, gentler colors.
Everything felt a little friendlier now. A little more refined.
Not cold. But clear.

Old lamps vanished, new ones took their place.
Even the table was swapped out. Not bigger, but more elegant.
And on the wall above the couch now hung a large painting, covering nearly half the space.

Not obtrusive.
But present.

The walls, above all.
They were no longer bare.
She didn’t talk about it, didn’t think much of it.
But she filled them. Piece by piece.

Not with personal things.
Not yet.
But with a trace of… life.

Sakura stood on the armrest of the couch, one hand on the window latch, the other on the fabric. The new curtains – burgundy, soft-falling – stirred slightly in the breeze. She hesitated. Then adjusted them and studied her work with a critical eye.

“Wow.”

The voice came so suddenly that Sakura nearly got tangled in the fabric.

“Oh, for – Temari!” She spun around, a hand pressed to her chest. “Would it kill you to make a sound or something?”

Temari was already leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I did make a sound. It was ‘wow.’” She grinned. “You’ve turned the living room into a halfway habitable zone. I’m impressed.”

Sakura stepped down from the couch, still a little out of breath, but the smile sneaking onto her lips refused to be suppressed.

“I didn’t want to… completely change it. Just bring in a little warmth.”

“A little,” Temari repeated dryly, her gaze drifting slowly across the room.
“It’s never looked this inviting before.”

She paused – and her voice dipped, almost imperceptibly.

“Father was never the caring type. And we…” – her shoulders lifted in a small shrug – “we never changed anything. As if this was still his house.”

Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Just still – as if the room itself were listening for a moment.

Then Temari exhaled and waved it off. “Anyway – good work. And that table?” She pointed at the new piece of furniture. “Looks sturdy enough that even Kankurō won’t accidentally break it.”

Sakura blinked. “He… breaks tables?”

Temari nodded, face deadly serious.
“Regularly. He has a… fascinatingly efficient way of driving Gaara insane. Mostly unintentional. Sometimes he just… falls through furniture.”

Sakura laughed – quiet, but genuine.
“Sounds like a talent.”

“Oh, it is,” Temari confirmed flatly.
“Some people collect weapons. Kankurō collects collateral damage.”

For a moment Temari stood in silence, then let out a quiet breath.

“You know what?”
She slipped off her jacket and draped it over one of the new chair backs.
“If I’m already here admiring your work – I might as well help.”

Sakura tilted her head, surprised.
“You… want to help?”

“I’ve got two free hands, no current mission, and a very healthy respect for how much you’ve managed in a week.” Temari patted the nearest box.
“So? Where do we start?”

Sakura hesitated, then smiled.
“The guest room. If we set up the bed together, with less chance of him hanging it from the ceiling.”

“No promises,” Temari muttered – already rolling up her sleeves.

Against all odds, the guest room was set up in under two hours – and not a single bed ended up on the ceiling.

Temari dropped onto the new mattress with an audible uff, stretching her legs out in front of her.
“If you ever quit being a shinobi, open a business. You’ve got the knack for it.”

Sakura leaned against the doorframe, water bottle in hand. “Noted. Maybe I’ll call it Silent Leaf. Cash only. No emotional baggage allowed.”

“Then you’re in the wrong village.” Temari grinned, pushing herself upright with a long, weary sigh.

“Come on. Before Gaara comes back and catches us debating curtain colors.” She shot Sakura a look – part teasing amusement, part sibling pity.
“I don’t know how much secondhand embarrassment he can handle at once – but I suspect we’re testing the limit.”

Sakura laughed softly, brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, and grabbed the next box.
“Then we’d better finish his bedroom.”

Together they left the guest room – tired, slightly disheveled, but moving in a quiet rhythm that had formed somewhere between boxes and conversation.
It felt good, Sakura thought, as they hauled out the first of the old furniture.
Good to simply… do. Without overthinking. Without explanation. Without the constant question of how it should feel.

Temari made a dry remark about the antique bedframe’s carved edges, calling them “an architectural threat,” and Sakura laughed.
Not forced. Not polite.
A true laugh, breaking loose from somewhere deep in her chest.
She had laughed a lot today – more than she expected.
And it reminded her how good it felt to be with a friend.
With someone who didn’t ask – who was just there.

The hours slipped by. The sun had dipped lower, spilling warm light across the newly laid fabrics, across the freshly dressed bed that no longer looked like a soldier’s cot but a place one could stay.

Temari dropped heavily into the new armchair, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
Sakura felt her gaze on her back as she carefully arranged small clay pots on the windowsill. Thoughtful. Intentional. Each cactus a little spiny greeting from the desert.

“Naruto once said he likes raising them,” she explained – more to herself than to Temari.
“So… they went on the list.”

Temari stayed quiet for a moment. Then:
“I never thought you’d be this thorough.”

“I did.” Sakura glanced over her shoulder with a small smile.
“I’m not great at doing things halfway.”

A short silence lingered – broken only by the faint scrape of clay pots shifting across the wood.

Then Temari spoke – light, but not without weight:
“I got a letter from Shikamaru. Came while I was still away.”

Sakura froze. Her fingers rested against the edge of a small, round cactus.
The moment stretched. Then she lifted her head slightly, aiming for casual: “Did he?”

“Yeah.” Temari didn’t look directly at her, but the weight of her attention landed there anyway.
“He only writes if I’ve forgotten to send him something. Or if it’s urgent.”

Sakura nodded once – slow – as though still adjusting the pot, though her fingers had long since gone still.

“He sounded… concerned,” Temari added lightly.

Then she grabbed the water bottle, took a sip, as if she hadn’t just said something heavy.
“The rumors—”

“—are a pile of half-truths.” Sakura’s voice cut sharply through the room – louder than it had been all day. “Made up by people who don’t know what they’re talking about.”

It wasn’t an explanation.
Just defense.
Rougher than she’d meant it.

Temari set the bottle down carefully. She didn’t move – just watched. Like someone gauging whether a chair was about to tip.

Sakura’s hands didn’t tremble. Not yet.
But the clay pot in her fingers split with a sharp crack, shards scattering.
She didn’t flinch. Not when the pieces scraped her skin. Not when the spines dug into her palm.

The blood ran slow, indifferent.

“I don’t know what you know – or what Shikamaru told you.”
Her voice was steady, controlled. “But next time he should keep his eyes on the clouds.”

She didn’t look up. Not at Temari.
“Before he meddles in things that aren’t his concern.”

“Holy— okay, easy.” Temari lifted her hands in surrender, but stayed planted on the mattress – still as someone who knew the wrong move could break a fragile balance.

“I don’t know what kind of hornet’s nest I just stepped into…” Her voice was gentle, cautious. “But Shikamaru didn’t tell me anything. He’s not that kind of friend – you know that. He doesn’t give secrets away.”

Sakura stayed silent. Her breath came shallow – like the air before a storm.

“He only said maybe you’re not doing well. And that I shouldn’t listen to any rumors.” A pause. “That’s all.”

Temari’s gaze dropped – to Sakura’s hand.
The bright patter was soft but unmistakable. A dark stain slowly spread across the wood.

“Sakura,” Temari said quietly. “Your hand.”

Only then did she seem to notice it – like something ignored too long, now undeniable whether she wanted it or not.

Sakura pressed her lips together. She raised her arm – controlled, precise – to keep from dripping more.

No curse. No complaint.
Just a small turn.
A motion that explained nothing.

Then she left the room.

The hallway was quiet. The floorboards beneath her steps gave off faint sounds – like breaths too careful to disturb.
In the kitchen, the day’s dust hung in the air; warm light spilled through the half-open window, brushing against the edges of the furniture.

Sakura stepped up to the sink, dropped the shattered pieces of the small cactus into the trash without a word. Then she turned on the water.

Coolness flooded her fingers, streamed over the small cuts, over the faint throbbing that only now pressed into her awareness.
Blood and water blended into a soft pink –
and disappeared down the drain.

A steady sound. Calming.
Almost like breathing.

Of course Shikamaru hadn’t kept quiet. Not after she had half-bled out on his doorstep.

He was too sharp. Too loyal.
A friend who never said more than necessary – but just enough to set something in motion.

Of course he’d told Temari something.
Not much.
Just enough to make her wary.

Sakura still heard Temari’s footsteps when she turned the water off.
A faint dripping, then silence. The wounds were already closing.

“I know we’re not exactly the closest of friends,” Temari said, not stepping into the room. Her voice was calm, almost casual. “But if you ever want to talk – I’ll listen.”

Sakura blinked. Turned halfway, just her shoulder, a glance over her cheek.

“I overreacted.” The sentence came too fast, thin as a bandage already coming loose. “Just forget it happened.”

She reached for the dish towel, dried her hands on it though it was already damp. A short breath, then a smile – smaller than it should’ve been.

“Besides…” – a hesitation so slight it was barely there – “I think we’re pretty good friends. Aren’t we?”

Temari’s mouth curved. Not mocking – more like someone recognizing a familiar trick, and letting it slide this time.

Sakura saw it.
Saw how Temari weighed the moment – then set it aside.
Not out of pity. Out of experience.

Maybe that’s something you learn when you grow up with someone who one day decided not to destroy anymore – but to grow quiet. Not from weakness, but by choice.

And maybe Temari remembered:
the crunch of sand,
the second before an explosion,
a gaze that could kill because it had never learned anything else.

You learn when to hold back.
When a step less closeness is more trust than any embrace.

Temari nodded slowly.
“We are,” she said softly, almost as if to herself. Then, with a sidelong glance:
“Come on, let’s eat. I don’t know about you – but I’m starving.”

“I’d like that,” Sakura replied.
She followed.
And felt something inside her settle – the restlessness that rose too quickly whenever things pressed too close. That dark edge she sometimes felt herself tipping toward.
Now: a step back. One more breath.
It was enough.

As she shut the door behind her, Temari stretched wide – as if shaking the whole moment off.
Then she shot Sakura a crooked look over her shoulder.

“If you marry Gaara, we could be even better friends.”

“What?!”

Sakura froze, horrified.
Then hurried after Temari, as if she could undo the words just by catching up fast enough.

“I— Temari, that’s not… that’s not even…!”

The words jammed, shapeless, directionless.
Her voice scrambled for ground as if someone had yanked it out from under her.
Then she shook her head – too fast, too many times.

“That’s absurd.”
She said it too quickly. Too neatly.
As though slamming a window shut she hadn’t even realized was open.

Temari only grinned.

“If you say so.”

Sakura stopped – half a beat too late.
“You’re impossible.”

“That’s why I’d make a fantastic sister-in-law.”

“You need help.”

Temari laughed – warm, unbothered, as if she hadn’t said anything that could leave a mark.
But something had shifted. Something Sakura couldn’t quite touch.

She followed Temari through the narrow alley. The stone beneath her feet was warm, the air dry, filled with sounds that should have been familiar: the clatter of cutlery, voices, a faint wind.

But nothing sounded quite right anymore.

Gaara.

Not as Kazekage. Not as patient. Not as political shadow.
Simply – as a thought.

Sakura frowned. Not even seriously. More like someone reacting to a note that had slipped wrongly into the air. It wasn’t even a feeling. Just an irritation.

She had never thought in that direction. Not once.
Not even by accident.
Not even in those quiet nights when, for a moment, everything seemed possible.

And yet.
Now it was there.
A picture, vague, indistinct. Like seen through frozen glass.
Not sweet. Not romantic.

Just… there.

Temari held the door open for her, as if nothing had happened.
The scent of oil, spices, warm dough swept toward her.
Familiar. Saving.

Sakura stepped inside without a word.
But she knew Temari was grinning behind her.
Not mockingly. Not cruelly. Just knowingly.

And she knew she wouldn’t manage to shake that sentence off.
Not today.
Perhaps never.

Chapter Text

The coffee dripped slowly through the filter.
Drop by drop, accompanied by a steady sound that was almost meditative.

Gaara stood at the kitchen counter.
Arms loosely folded, weight shifted slightly to the left.
His hair was more disheveled than usual, the sand not yet arranged in its usual flawless order.

He didn’t like coffee.
He had tried – several times. Out of courtesy, out of curiosity, later out of necessity.
The taste had always been too bitter, too earthy, too loud.

But in two hours he had a meeting with the Elders – one of those conversations where even breathing felt like work.
He had put them off for a week, with clipped notes, deliberately vague wording, and the politest form of disinterest he could manage.
Today, that wouldn’t be enough.

He watched the coffee drip, as if the outcome of his day depended on it.
Perhaps it did.

His gaze drifted across the room – not for the first time this morning.
And yet it caught again.
On what had changed.

The living room was… new.
Not foreign. But new.
Different from how he had ever seen it.
Different from what it had ever been meant to be.

Burgundy curtains now framed the window – heavy fabric that didn’t block the light but softened it, as if the day itself had grown cautious.
The furniture had been replaced. Light wood, soft cushions, a low table with rounded edges, leaving space for feet, for bowls, for carelessness.
A rug beneath it all – warm in color, textured in its weave, a quiet counterpoint to the hard smoothness of the floor.

She had outdone herself. The tone of the room had shifted.
Quieter. Warmer. Not soft – but human.

Nothing was excessive. Nothing begged for attention.
But everything was chosen so deliberately that it made him notice how silent it had been before.
Silent in the wrong way.

He could imagine feeling at home here.
Not immediately. Not yet.
But someday.

Maybe in a year.
Maybe in a month.
Maybe tomorrow.

He poured the coffee that had sat too long in the filter.
Steam curled upward, rippling in the light that spilled through the red curtains.

Gaara took a sip – and grimaced.
As bitter as expected.
But he drank anyway, without setting the cup down. Instead, he crossed to the new armchair in the corner of the living room.

The cushions gave slightly under him as he sank into them.
Just in time –
because the front door crashed open against the wall a heartbeat later.
He would deny he flinched.
The Kazekage did not get caught off guard.
Certainly not.

“Good morning!”

Temari. Of course.
Who else would storm into his house this early, like a sandstorm?
No one, he thought.
Except maybe someone with a genuine death wish.

Temari stepped across the threshold and tossed a bag at his feet.
The dull thump was almost as firm as her tone.
“I’m staying two days. You owe me breakfast.”

Gaara looked at the bag.
Then at her.
Then at his cup.
“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Wrong.” Temari nudged the bag aside with her foot as if it were just another argument.
“You owe me peace. And this armchair?”
She gestured at it casually, without even looking.
“Suspiciously comfortable.”

Gaara took a slow sip of coffee, letting the silence between them stretch deliberately.
“You realize that’s extortion.”

“Call it a strategic alliance. I bring breakfast, you shut up, and nobody dies.”

He blinked. Once.
Then set his cup back down, precisely, as always.

“How much breakfast are we talking about?”

“Rice. Miso. Steamed vegetables. And mochi.”

“So you don’t actually want me to eat any of it.”

Temari grinned wide.
“You’re the Kazekage. You don’t get anything without committee approval.”

He suppressed the sigh with practiced ease.
Instead, he watched his sister march through the living room into the kitchen, moving as if everything she stepped into already belonged to her.

A few days ago, he had actually missed her. Now the thought seemed absurd. He must have been poisoned. Or delirious.
Or maybe a mild stroke.

He waited until she returned – two plates in one hand, a steaming cup in the other, the contents of which were clearly not intended for him.

“Why do you want to stay here?” he asked, quiet, almost cautious.
The question wasn’t suspicious.
But it wasn’t rhetorical, either.

She unpacked the breakfast from the plastic bag, arranging it casually onto two plates. The smell was familiar – plain, salty, not excessive.
At least she had brought something he could eat without regretting it for the rest of the day.

“You’re my little brother,” she said, without looking up.
“And I’m getting married soon. Before I move out, I have to put your life in order so I don’t have to worry.”

The words were delivered flatly. But she slid his plate across with a gesture balanced between care and command.

Then she dropped onto the couch opposite.
She ignored his frown with the seasoned ease of a sister who knew when she was right.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You should worry about Kankurō more than me.”
His voice sounded absolutely not defensive.
No.
Certainly not.

Temari lifted an eyebrow – slowly, precisely.
Waited.

“I’m the Kazekage,” he added.

Silence.

Okay.
That had definitely sounded defensive.

Temari took a sip of tea.
Then leaned back, arms draping over the couch as though she had all the time in the world.

“Mhm.”
One single sound.
Completely neutral.
And yet a full judgment.

Gaara narrowed his eyes slightly. “My life is fine,” he said calmly, firmly. Topic closed.

Temari sat up. The joke had vanished from her face.
“It’s not about what’s fine. It’s about what isn’t.”

She set her cup down – slow, precise.
“You’ve had insomnia for years. You don’t eat well. You’re drowning in work. And ever since my engagement, the Elders have been whispering nonstop that you should finally get married.”

His lips tightened.
The marriage issue – he’d successfully repressed it.
Or actively shoved it out of his mind.
Which was basically the same thing.

“I don’t intend to give in to their pressure.”
The words came sharp. Dismissive. Reflexive.

Temari sighed. Not dramatically. Just tired.
“Yes, now. And in a few years?”

Her voice had lowered – but grown firmer.
“I don’t want you to end up like our parents. Trapped in something you never wanted. Just because one day you’re too tired to say no.”

Gaara said nothing.
Instead, he took a sip.
Not rushed, not evasive –
but the timing was too neat.
A movement that didn’t end the moment, only prevented him from speaking.

A gesture that revealed more than any answer could have.

Temari watched him. Quiet. Without pressing.
She knew that kind of evasion.
Then she nodded. Slowly. Not in reaction to him – but to a point inside herself she had already crossed.

“That’s why I’m taking this into my hands,” she said. Calm.
Not loud, not triumphant.

More like someone who was done watching everything quietly worsen.

His grip on the cup tightened.
A moment too long.

“I spoke to Sakura. I got her to consider marriage.”

Gaara choked.
Hard. He coughed once, twice – quietly, but in a way that couldn’t be ignored.

Temari waited.
Unmoving. Like someone who knows the moment is about to hit – and only wants to see how far it carries.

“What did you do?!”
It wasn’t a shout. Just a horrified hiss –
low, sharp, like air escaping an old crack.

The coffee sloshed over. A dark drop hit the new rug.
And the horror on his face was, for the first time in a long time, not hidden – but… visible.

Temari lifted a hand – calming, but steady. She made no move to rise.

“Relax. I didn’t march in and tell her to marry you.” One eyebrow arched.
“I only put the thought in her head. And now in yours. Harmless.”

He shot to his feet. Far too fast. Too jerky for someone as used to control as breathing.
“Harmless? You can’t just—”

“You told me you want to keep her.”

Lightly said. Almost offhand.
As if talking about a well-kept chair.

He froze.

A moment of complete stillness – like before a sandstorm.
Then it broke out of him. Too raw. And too quick to still pass as composed:

“As an assistant. Or chief medic.”
He paused.
“Not as my wife.”

Temari was unfazed.
“I’d prefer her as your wife,” she said simply.

Then she nudged his plate closer. Not dramatic – but clear. A quiet command to sit back down.

Gaara hesitated.
He looked at her, then at the plate.
His face unreadable – but inside he wasn’t sure how to answer any of this.

That was often the case with Temari.
And most of the time, he lost.

Slowly, wordlessly, he sat back down. The sand gourd still rested against the wall. He had set it aside that morning, thinking it would be a quiet day.

A faint scraping inside betrayed the sand’s unrest. Not strong, not dangerous – but there. Like his own thoughts.

He didn’t touch the food.
Instead, he took the cup in hand, turning it once, twice.
An attempt to look calm.

“Thoughts like that make no difference,” he said at last, like an afterthought. “If she’s still chasing someone else.”

He meant Sasuke. That much was clear. A clumsy attempt to end the subject, to slip free of it without having to say more.

Temari tilted her head. Nothing in her posture was forceful –
but the look was enough.

For a moment, he really thought he had gotten away with it.

Until she spoke.

“Shikamaru says Sasuke hasn’t been an issue for a long time. Quite a while.”
She paused, then continued evenly: “And judging by what he wrote me in his last letter – and the way Sakura reacted when I brought it up – something must have happened. Something that makes Shikamaru certain there’s been a clean break.”

She leaned back, took a sip of tea.
No embellishment. No exaggeration.
Just facts, plain as they were.

Gaara froze, then frowned.
“Less than two weeks ago Naruto wrote me that everything was fine with them.” He looked at her, as if for confirmation.
“If there really was a break – don’t you think that’s the first thing he’d tell me?”

Temari arched her brows.
“Gaara, I know Naruto’s your friend. But honestly—” She tilted her head slightly.
“He’s never really seen clearly where Sasuke’s concerned. You know that. Everyone does.”

She shrugged.
“I trust Shikamaru on this one.”

He broke eye contact, glanced briefly at the window.
“Maybe Naruto sees things others don’t. Things that… are still there. Even if no one else recognizes them.”

A decent attempt to slip out. Rational enough to pass as an argument. Vague enough not to need further explanation.

Temari let it stand – for three seconds.

Then she folded her arms, slowly.
“Or he overlooks what’s right in front of him. Because he doesn’t want to see it.”

A brief pause where neither spoke.

Then she simply looked at him.
Clear. Unimpressed.

“You’re really trying to talk your way out of this, aren’t you?”

Gaara pressed his lips together. He didn’t meet her eyes.
Just kept staring at the plate in front of him, as if he might find something there that could undo the conversation.

Temari sighed. “Just think about it. Sakura would be an asset. For Suna. And for you.”

Gaara said nothing.
He rose, carried his empty cup to the sink and set it down with exaggerated precision. Then he turned slightly – not fully to her, but no longer away.

His gaze stayed guarded.
“I don’t have time for things like that.”

Nothing more. No anger in his voice. No cynicism.
Just a clean full stop, placed with quiet determination.

He left the kitchen, footsteps steady, controlled. In the hall he took the Kazekage cloak from its hook – folded thick as a board, stiff from use. He pulled it on without haste, but with that practiced motion that always felt a little like donning armor.

Then he reached for the gourd, checked the strap.
Everything in place. Everything as it should be.

Only inside, something had shifted.

When he closed the door behind him, the house lay silent. And the day waited. The sun was still low, but the stone beneath his feet was already warm. The walk to the council hall was short – and he knew he was far too early.

He had left the house faster than necessary.
Not because he was in a hurry.
But because he no longer wanted to hear Temari’s voice.
Or rather – because he knew she was right, and he didn’t like it.

The guard at the entrance blinked in surprise as he entered the long corridor.
“Kazekage-sama. The council… is not yet assembled.”

Gaara gave a brief nod. “I’ll wait inside.”

The chamber was cool and empty. Only the light falling through the wooden slats carved long lines across the floor. He didn’t sit. Just stood at the table, hands braced on the wood, gaze lowered.
Forced himself to push the thoughts aside.
Managed it halfway.

The surface beneath his fingers was smooth. He felt the small notch on the left edge. A flaw in the grain – hardly visible, but he knew it was there. Like a thought that wouldn’t leave.

Gaara sat, arms folded across his chest, leaning back slightly. His sister knew exactly how to knock him off balance. Not with drama – but with that dry persistence that was hard to ignore. Words placed so they didn’t demand an immediate response – but lingered. He hated that.

Objectively speaking, Sakura was a good choice.
Competent. Disciplined. Politically respected. Maybe not in the eyes of all the elders – but that could be managed.
If it had to be.

He drew a slow breath.

He liked her – as a friend.
Respected her. Their acquaintance went back many years.
She was professional, reliable, sharper than she often let on.
And – undeniable – a bond with her would raise the alliance between Konoha and Suna to a new level.
Long-term. Stable.

His fingers tapped absently against his arm.
Not impatient – more searching.

The longer he thought about it, the clearer it became –
Sakura was, objectively, better than anything the elders would ever suggest to him.
Not only as a medic or political partner.
But as a person.
Familiar. Trustworthy. Knowable.

The thought of having a complete stranger at his side –
just for the sake of political convenience –
made the hair at the back of his neck rise.

And he knew himself. Knew it was only a matter of time before he gave in to the elders’ pressure.
Not out of weakness. Not even resignation.
But because he understood the logic behind it.

If Temari had children – and she likely would –
they would formally belong to the Kazekage line.

And sooner or later, things would get complicated.

The elders would insist on succession rules.
On clear responsibilities.
On a legitimate heir from his line – not Temari’s.

He knew how these things went. And how little he could rely on their patience.
He exhaled – quiet, almost imperceptible.
Even to himself it felt uncharacteristic.

Then he leaned back, tilted his head, and let his eyes rest for a moment on the fine cracks in the ceiling. Maybe he could dump the hat on Kankurō and disappear into the desert.

Not a serious thought.
But not entirely a lie, either.

The door opened, pulling him out of it.
His posture shifted – almost automatically. Straight back, calm gaze, hands resting lightly on the edge of the table. Even before the footsteps came. Slow, dry, familiar.

The council had arrived.

Five people. Four men, one woman.
Old enough to have sand in their bones.
Old enough to believe in tradition, even if the world had long since shifted in another direction.

They nodded to him – formal, almost in unison.
A choreography built on long habit.

He returned the gesture briefly. No word wasted, no expression too soon. In sessions like this, silence was often the only advantage you had.

The speaker began. Dōshin, as always. A voice rough but steady.
“Kazekage-sama. We thank you for your time.”

Gaara did not answer.
He simply looked at him – polite, but unmoved.

“There are developments along the eastern trade routes. Two minor disputes. Nothing requiring immediate intervention. But we are monitoring them.”

He gave a short nod. “Good.”

A few papers were passed across the table.
Names, tariffs, borders.
The usual.

The meeting was llike hauling stone uphill through sand. Slow, grinding, inevitable. Over hours: nodding assent, refusing, occasionally issuing a clear objection – all while resisting the urge to crush someone with his sand.

Then, eventually: a brief exchange of glances among the elders.
Unobtrusive – but he noticed.

“One more point concerns your long-term planning,” Dōshin continued.
The voice remained calm, but it shifted – just slightly.
Formal. And at the same time, direct.

Gaara raised a brow.

“We would like to suggest clarifying the matter of your personal succession.”
The sentence hung there. Dry. And dangerously open.

He was silent. Jaw clenched tight.
He should have stayed in bed today.

The woman – Setsuna – folded her hands in front of her.
“We know you carry your office with duty and integrity. But stability comes not only from leadership, but also—”

Gaara rose.
Not abruptly – the way he wanted to.
But slowly. Controlled. With the kind of authority that left no room for questions.

“I believe we have accomplished everything that needed to be accomplished today.”

“Kazekage-sama, we are not yet—”

He didn’t hear the rest. In the next instant there was only sand – and then silence.

His feet touched soft carpet.
That familiar resistance under his soles, burgundy curtains in his line of sight – his living room. Quiet. Ordered.

Gaara stood there for a moment, unmoving.
Only the faint hiss as the sand settled back into the gourd broke the silence.

Then he exhaled. Slowly.
Sank into the chair and rubbed both hands over his face. This was … not his strongest diplomatic moment.

From the next room came a quiet clearing of a throat.
He froze for the fraction of a second.
The voice was familiar –
and now he also felt her presence.

Perfect.
A truly brilliant day for the Kazekage’s reputation.
First he fled from his sister.
Then he walked out on the council of elders.
And now he let himself be surprised in his own home.
And lost his composure.

Slowly, he lowered his hands.

Sakura stood in the kitchen doorway, a steaming cup in her hand.
She wore no forehead protector, no shoes – only her usual pragmatism
and a look that carried deep amusement.

Her mouth twitched, and laughter lingered in her voice:
“It’s honestly comforting to know that even the Kazekage runs from the council.”

His hands rested loosely in his lap as he tilted his head slightly.
“How would you know?”
Maybe it didn’t look that bad.
Maybe it was only that obvious inside his own head.

She studied him.
“Because you all look the same when you come from council – desperate and disheveled. Or what would you call it? Political tactic? Spontaneous escape?”

He said nothing at first. Then sighed – soft, but audible.
Because there was no point in contradicting her.
He had, after all, been caught mid-breakdown.

“I prefer tactical retreat with leftover dignity.”
Dry. Without the faintest hint of defense.

Sakura stepped closer and set her cup on the low table.
A gesture that said unmistakably: You need this more than I do.

“Chin up. You were far more elegant than Tsunade or Kakashi.”

He looked at her – as though considering whether she meant that seriously, or just enjoyed his misery.

“That doesn’t help.”
His tone remained calm.
“Tsunade would talk her way out of it, then get drunk – and Kakashi would climb out the window and later claim it was meditation.”

Sakura snorted softly.
Then said nothing more.

Gaara lifted the cup, took a sip.
Still warm. Chamomile.
Better than expected.

She sat down – not too close, not deliberately – simply with a light sigh.
“I put the food in the kitchen.”
A sentence tossed out almost casually.
“And Temari said you wanted to discuss the treatment plan. That’s why I’m even here.”

Gaara set the cup down.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He was going to kill someone today.
Not many. Just Temari and the council.

He had never said he wanted to discuss the plan.
There was nothing to discuss.
The dosage was set, the intervals known.
He took the medicine. He didn’t sleep without it. That was the situation. End of story.

She continued – after a short pause.
Maybe she had seen something in his face.
Something that had slipped through the mask, which today wasn’t quite as firm.

“But we don’t have to talk about it right away. If you’d like, I can heat up your food?”

He blinked – slowly.
His gaze had lingered on the wall.

“Not necessary. I’m not hungry.”
A moment passed.
Then he caught her expression.
No words – only the faintest trace of objection.

He corrected himself:
“Later.”

A small retreat – subtle, but noticeable.
Then he shifted the subject.

“How long do you think the therapy will actually take?”
His voice sounded calmer than he felt.

Sakura thought for a moment, leaning forward slightly.
“Hard to say. It depends on how your body responds to the stabilization. If the dosage holds, we can—”

He no longer heard what came after.

Something had changed.
Not inside the room. Outside.

A faint ripple of chakra. Hastened steps across the sand he had laid around the house –
a silent warning system against anything that approached uninvited.

His eyes slid past her, to the wall, as if he could see through it.
The sounds in the room dulled.
A filter. A switch.

His fingers no longer rested loosely on the armrest.
They tightened slightly. Reflexive. Controlled.

Sakura fell silent.
“What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Waited. Felt.
Then recognized who it was.

What happened next he blamed entirely on his already frayed nerves.
And he would forever deny that his reaction had anything to do with rising panic.

His sand stirred.

Before Sakura managed more than a startled gasp, he had already pulled her in, and the room vanished.

Within seconds they were gone.
Out of the city.
South-east, toward the canyons, where wind and stone offered cover –
and where Nobu would never dare follow.

Chapter Text

The sand settled.
Like a final, heavy breath – warm, dusty, everywhere.

Sakura needed a moment before her vision cleared again.
The world was there, but slightly off, as if it had slipped a little out of place.
The ground beneath her feet didn’t feel like ground at all, more like a fading memory of what stability was supposed to feel like.

Her knees buckled, and she staggered sideways – too late.
A hand caught her arm, steadying her.
Not rough. Not hesitant. Just… reliable.

She blinked, drew in a long breath.
Nausea surged up her throat, then receded again.
Leaning forward, she braced her palms against her knees, eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay,” she muttered.
“Even though I’d really love to punch you right now…”
She lifted her head, meeting his gaze.
“…that was impressive.”

Gaara stood there as if nothing had happened.
No gust of wind had touched him, not a single grain of sand out of place.
She couldn’t tell if that was fascinating – or infuriating.

Probably both.

He turned his eyes away, and if she hadn’t known better, she might have taken it for something like shame.

“It was Nobu,” he murmured at last.

An explanation, not an apology.
A faint tremor of unease in his voice, maybe even a drop of panic he was trying to hide.
His face was as composed as ever, but Sakura knew him well enough by now to see what pulsed beneath it:
barely contained panic.
Not much. But there.

He must’ve been having a really shitty day.

Sakura sighed, straightened up, brushed the sand off her legs.
“Next time you decide to bury me alive in sand, maybe give me a little warning first?”
She gestured at herself.
“And, I don’t know, five seconds to at least put on shoes before you dump me barefoot in the middle of the desert?”

Gaara looked at her – a fraction too fast.
As if he’d only just realized she… wasn’t exactly equipped for a spontaneous trip into the wilderness.
His gaze dropped to her bare feet, then flicked to the horizon, and back to her again, with the expression of a man watching his reputation as a leader crumble in real time.

“I only wanted… peace,” he murmured.
“Not… this.”

Sakura studied him. The rigid profile, the tight set of his shoulders, the way he carried himself.
She exhaled slowly.
Something in her gaze softened.
Not pity – more like a loosening of the tension she herself had dragged into this place. Then she turned away.

Hands on her hips, she looked around.
The canyons of Suna.
She had never been here before, and hadn’t expected it to feel… like this.
The rocks rose high and pale against the sky, carved by wind and time. The ground beneath her bare feet was warm, but not unpleasant. The air tasted dry, clean, edged with stone.

Her gaze grew calm.
And when she spoke again, there was something gentle in her voice – barely audible, but true.
“It’s beautiful here.”

A small pause.

“Quiet. Somehow… clear.”

She half-turned toward him – not fully, but enough for him to hear.
“I can see why you’d want to escape sometimes.”

He was silent for a moment. Then:
“I don’t do it often.”
A brief pause, steadier now. “But today was… different. Exhausting.”

His hand lifted, hesitant. The sand at her feet stirred.
Sakura watched as the ground shifted beneath her soles, solidifying into something firm – shoes, simple and practical. Not pretty, but deliberate.
She raised a brow, glanced from the improvised sandals back to him.

He didn’t look away.
“There are scorpions here,” he said quietly, almost apologetic.

Sakura blinked.
It was thoughtful.
Awkward.
And… oddly sweet.

“Thanks,” she replied softly.

Gaara gave a small nod, then turned aside.
“Not far from here. Fifteen minutes – more shade, less wind.”

It wasn’t a question.
But when he glanced over his shoulder, just for a heartbeat, she could feel that it was.

She shrugged, tightened the makeshift sandals on her feet.
“Better than walking barefoot through scorpions, right?”

A barely-there twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile.
Then he started walking.
She followed.

The sand beneath her feet was still warm, but no longer as sharp as before. The wind was gentler here, almost as if Gaara had chosen the path with care.

They walked in silence.
Not unpleasant. Just quiet.

Gaara moved a few steps ahead, eyes fixed on the ridges as if he knew the way by heart – not with his sight, but from memory.
His pace was steady. Not hurried, not forced.
And, she noticed, just a little slower than it needed to be.

Sakura didn’t comment.
But a part of her registered it. Took note. Stored it away.

After maybe ten minutes, the narrow path opened between the rocks. A faint trace of moisture lingered in the air.
And then: the sound of water.
Soft, uneven – like breathing.

The oasis didn’t appear suddenly, yet it felt that way.
A small hollow, sheltered between dark stones.
Shaded trees. A shallow stream winding through the earth.
Cooler air. A touch of green. A place that felt distant, not just from the village, but from everything.

Sakura stopped.

Her gaze drifted, slow and deliberate.
The wind was gentler here. The noise in her head, too.

Between the stones, the water gleamed in muted light.
Not a mirror, but still enough to rest in.

“If I didn’t know better,” she said at last, “I’d think you’d kidnapped me on purpose, dragged me out here without warning, straight into a date.”

It had sounded lighter in her head.
Really, she’d just wanted to say something – anything – to ease the stiffness still wound tight in his shoulders.
And maybe to cut through the quiet romance of this place before it got the chance to settle.

She saw him falter for just a moment.
Then he turned his head, glanced back at her over his shoulder.

“Maybe I did,” he replied, dry as sand, and for a heartbeat, amusement flickered in his eyes.

Sakura let out a quiet laugh, gave the faintest shake of her head, and found a smooth rock to sit on.
“What’s next? A picnic? Sake? A poetic sunset?”
She brushed a few loose strands of hair from her face.
“Just so I know what I’m signing up for.”

“I thought that was your department,” he countered evenly.
“According to Temari, I starve the moment no one’s watching me.”

Sakura laughed softly under her breath, shaking her head.
“You seriously need a better reputation.”

“Probably. But I can’t fire her. I’ve tried.”
Gaara’s mouth shifted slightly, an expression caught somewhere between self-mockery and quiet suffering.

Then he moved past her, toward a flat stone at the edge of the shade.
He sat down – slowly, almost hesitantly, like someone slipping into a state he only allowed himself for limited stretches of time.
His back remained straight, his shoulders taut, as though his body had forgotten what it meant to let go.
And yet: he sat. He stayed still. He exhaled once, deeper, and closed his eyes.

Sakura leaned back against the rock behind her.
She didn’t speak. Not out of courtesy, but because it would have felt wrong to disturb the silence.
It wasn’t empty. It was filled, with sand, with light, with wind. And with him.

Her gaze drifted to him.
At first casually, then lingering.
An old reflex she’d never fully lost as a healer.

His hands: resting loosely on his thighs. Not clenched, but not truly relaxed either.
A small muscle twitched beneath his thumb – a betraying remnant of tension.

His chin: tilted slightly, as if he were listening to some inner voice.
His brow: calm, but not smooth.

She had seen him often – injured, exhausted, under pressure.
But like this… not often.
Not alone. Not unobserved.
Not… beautiful.

The thought arrived before she could stop it.
And then it stayed.

Gaara was a beautiful man.

Not in any loud or obvious way.
But his features carried a quiet symmetry that seemed to fall into place on its own.
Clean lines, almost elegant.
Something in the way light and shadow moved across his face made him seem older.
Not aged. Just… shaped. Tempered.

And soft.
Not physically, but in the stillness he radiated.
In that unguarded, almost awkward way he never seemed to know what to do with himself when no one demanded anything of him.

Sakura blinked.
Once.
Then again.

And straightened slightly, as if she needed to shake off a thought she hadn’t invited.
What the hell.

She frowned faintly, drew a breath.
Quiet. Almost soundless.

And silently – utterly silently – she cursed Temari.

“Everything alright?”

Her head snapped around.
Gaara was watching her, calm, head slightly inclined. No accusation. No suspicion.
Just that quiet attentiveness that pressed harder than any harsh question.

Of course he’d noticed. Her movement, her glance, her hesitation.
Sakura felt caught, and, at the same time, foolish for ever thinking he wouldn’t.

“Nothing,” she answered too quickly.
And definitely too high.
She cleared her throat. No way in hell was she going to blush now.

“I was just…”
Oh god. Her cheeks were burning. Of course.
“Uh… when is Kankurō getting back from his mission?”
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, Haruno. About as subtle as a brick to the head.

Gaara’s brow furrowed slightly.
Not stern – more puzzled.

“Temari said he was checking something near the border,” she added in a rush.
As if that would somehow make her sudden, over-eager question sound logical.

Instead of an answer, there was… nothing.
Just a slow blink on his part – like he was internally filing away how this conversation had just gone completely off track.

Then, after a moment of silence:
“In two days.”

Short. Flat.
But his gaze stayed on her – steady, watchful, without judgment.

As if he’d noticed something.
Not exactly what. But enough to make her feel as though she’d just been shoved onto an invisible stage.

Sakura forced herself to nod.
“Good. So… uh…” She nudged a small pebble with her foot.
“In case he needs anything. Or if Temari… said something. Just so I’d know.”

She could hear herself talking. And hated it.
It wasn’t even a real sentence.

“Forget I said anything!” she blurted, and as a clumsy afterthought added, “I mean… if they need something. Or you…”
Stop talking!
Was she eleven?
The ground could go ahead and swallow her whole. Right now.

“Sakura,” he said calmly.

She didn’t look at him. Shifted a little to the side instead, as if movement might untangle the mess inside her.

“I’m… uh… I’m here to help, after all.”
Her voice sounded thin. Annoyed, at herself.

“Sakura.”

This time more insistent. Closer.

She finally looked at him.
His gaze was no longer puzzled, but sharp. Fixed.
Not on her.
But on something just over her shoulder.

A faint twitch of his fingers – barely visible –
and she felt it:
the sand stirring, quiet, alert.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Not loud. Not panicked. But in a tone that allowed no argument.
A command, plain and precise, like a kunai aimed straight between the ribs.

She should have obeyed.

Really.

But she’d spent too long in a team where “stay put” usually meant “run.”
Where “wait” translated to “hurry up,”
and “don’t attack” was just code for “get ready, we’re about to.”

Naruto had been a terrible teacher in the art of self-preservation.
And Sasuke had never once waited for anyone to decide whether they wanted to live.

So Sakura had been – systematically, over years – conditioned to do the exact opposite of whatever she was just told.

And of course she did it now:
She turned.
Slowly.
Reflexively.
With a small voice in her head, sounding a lot like Kakashi: That was stupid.

The snake lay coiled on the rock.

Brown, almost invisible against the stone – if not for the taut hiss, sharp and steady, right in front of her face.
Not a meter away. More like ten centimeters.
And its eyes: cold, round, unmistakably hostile.

Sakura didn’t breathe.

Only now did she notice the sand in the air.
Subtle, controlled, like fingertips poised for a delicate incision.
Gaara was trying to remove the creature carefully.
No bite. No chaos.
Elegant. Precise. Kazekage-like.

A plan.

A good one.

Only – she’d grown up, as mentioned, in a team where “wait” meant something was about to explode before you had time to breathe.
Where “coordination” meant three people bolting in three different directions at once – one of them usually Naruto.

So what followed wasn’t really a decision.
More a muscular inheritance, trained into her by years of running with walking time bombs.

Sakura jumped, shouted, and struck.
With chakra.
Way too much chakra.

The rock didn’t just crack.
It exploded. Shards flew, dust billowed, the ground shuddered beneath her feet.

Only when a low rumble rolled down from above the canyon did she realize what she’d actually hit:
Not a loose boulder.
But the supporting flank of the canyon wall.

A single fracture shot across the stone like a spark.
Then another.
And suddenly, it was a house of cards made of rock.
A domino collapse.

Dust surged upward. Sand slid in waves.
Birds burst from the few trees clinging to the gorge.

A slab of stone, heavy as a mountain, tore free with a thunderous roar –
and sand rushed past her. Too much of it.

Sakura sensed more than she saw as Gaara stepped past her.
Arms raised, gaze fixed in razor focus.
The sand swirled around him, layering itself into a living shield.
He wasn’t trying to stop everything, only the worst of it.

Above them, the rocks cracked, groaned.
Walls gave way.
And even as he braced the structure at its weakest points, the damage was already done.

One massive boulder slipped free of his control,
crashed into the shallow basin of the oasis, and unleashed a surge of water.

Sakura’s eyes widened.
“Oh –”

Then the water hit them both.
Hard. Cold. Unforgiving.

It didn’t strike so much as yank, a reckless grip dragging them off their feet.

She staggered back, stones shifting beneath her soles, and then came the moment when balance was gone.

Water flooded through cloth, sand lurched into motion.
Gaara called her name – she thought she heard it – and then they were both down in the shallows, soaked, gasping for air.

Silence.
Only the faint, restless trickle of water gathering itself again.
A startled bird beat its wings and darted overhead.

Somewhere in the distance she still heard it, the slide of loosened stone, the clatter of rock against rock. Softer now, like an echo fading away.
Sakura blinked, water dripping from her lashes, then pushed herself up on trembling arms.

A spark of panic flared in her chest as her gaze darted to Gaara.
He was beside her, half-sitting as well, soaked, breathing – alive.

Somewhere, from a very sarcastic corner of her consciousness, Kakashi’s voice drawled: Team Seven would be proud.

“I…”
That was all she managed.

Gaara dragged a hand across his face, clumsy with fatigue. Sand crumbled off his skin, his protective armor peeling away as if even it had grown tired.

He glanced at her – wet, disheveled, with an expression caught between disbelief…

and the desperate effort not to laugh.

“You’re laughing?” she demanded, horrified.

“No.”
But the laugh slipped out anyway, brief, dry, unwilling.

“Stop it!”
She shoved at his shoulder, not seriously, but firmly enough.
And she had to choke down her own laughter.

“I’m trying,” he murmured, only half-apologetic.

“Oh god.”
Sakura froze, her voice dropping lower, as if a realization had suddenly washed over her.
“I almost killed you.”

Gaara raised a single brow.
Looked at her, not shocked, not accusing.
More as if he were running the statement through his mind, checking it once…
…and then simply nodded.

“True.”
Calm. No drama.
“But you had style.”

She blinked.
“What?”

He tilted his chin toward the collapsed wall.
Half the slope had given way. A few boulders still steamed in the water.
“If you’re going to almost die – might as well make it spectacular.”

Sakura groaned and let herself fall back onto the wet ground.
Her hand dragged through her dripping hair.
“You’re impossible.”

“I hear that a lot.”

“If Naruto finds out…”
She looked at him, half pleading, half resigned.
“Or Temari. Or Kankurō. Or anyone with a tongue, really.”

He looked thoughtful.
“Then my reputation is finished.”

A pause. Then he raised a brow, just slightly.
“Want to make a deal?”

Sakura drew a long breath.
“Silence pact for first aid?”

Gaara nodded without hesitation.
“Deal.”

For a moment, only the soft dripping of water filled the air.
A distant sound, echoing the remnants of their chaos.
Between the rocks, the shallow pool glimmered like shattered glass, still, but not yet clear again.

Then, into the silence:
“We’re a disaster.”

“A very efficient disaster,” Gaara replied dryly.

Sakura snorted softly, studying him.
Wet cloak, drenched shoulders, sand clinging to his lashes.
And right on top of his head – a single stubborn leaf.

She leaned forward, plucked it gently from his hair.
“You’ve got decoration,” she murmured with a grin, holding the leaf up to his face.

Gaara glanced up, blinked – then lifted a brow as if weighing whether this was, in fact, his ultimate low point.

Sakura held the leaf aloft like a trophy.
And then she laughed.

Not loud – but real. Warm.
It just came, like the first deep breath after a storm.

Gaara looked at her. And then – quietly, almost surprised at himself – he laughed too.
Brief. Rough. But it counted.

For a moment, everything was light.

Chapter Text

It seemed he would soon have to renegotiate trade terms with the Land of Lightning. Metal tariffs had risen by nearly five percent – a quiet provocation A no doubt considered trivial. But if he thought he could get away with it, Gaara would prove him wrong soon enough.

He pulled another document toward him, skimmed the numbers, and reached for his brush. With one short, decisive stroke, he altered Suna’s export conditions for medical goods – plus five percent.
A silent counterbalance. Precise. No threats. But deliberate.

Leaning back, his gaze flicked briefly over the half-sorted stack. Three petitions, four complaints, two new letters from Konoha – one of them from Shikamaru. Gaara exhaled softly, picked up the next document, and let the sand slide the previous one aside. His focus held.
More than it ever had in the past. The regular meals – a side effect of Sakura’s interference – were showing results. He worked calmer. Clearer.

Perhaps a small price for the occasional eye-roll at lunchtime.

He set the brush against the paper, steady, just as –

“So?”

The door hadn’t really opened loudly, but Temari could barge in with tone alone. Gaara didn’t look up. Not yet.

“So what?” he asked.

“Did you invite her?”

Now he looked.
Temari stood squarely in the room as always, arms folded, an expression caught somewhere between patient mockery and genuine curiosity.

He frowned. “Invite who?”

Temari arched a brow.
“Sakura. The Hoshikusa Festival’s in a few days.”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.
Then he dropped his eyes back to the paper in front of him.

“I’m working.”

“Mhm.”
Temari stepped closer, eyeing the stack without the slightest shame.
“And still …no box ticked under ‘social life.’ Amazing.”

Gaara pressed his lips thinned.
“Don’t you have better things to do? Like your wedding?”

Temari leaned against his desk without hesitation.
“Nope.”
She picked up one of his brushes, twirled it between her fingers as though looking for a reason not to leave.

Then her hand drifted to one of the documents.
A quick tug – the sheet slid crookedly out of the stack.
She pulled another after it, and another.

Gaara watched her.
Watched as she systematically unraveled his careful order.
Watched as, with the precision of an older sibling, she knew exactly which papers to move so it would bother him to the maximum – but never quite enough to make him snap.

“Temari,” he said in warning.

“What? I’m just helping with your social outreach.”
She made air quotes.
“A little chaos. For balance.”

His stare stayed fixed. Her hands didn’t.
Another brush rolled toward the edge of the desk.

“You’re impossible.”

“Everyone says so.”
She grinned without looking up, still twirling his brush between her fingers.
“And yet everyone calls me when their life falls apart.”

Gaara regarded her in silence.

Then she set the brush back down – deliberately not where it had been – and met his eyes.
Direct.
“Ask her,” Temari said quietly.

Then she pushed off the desk, casually scooping up another one of his brushes as she moved, spinning it between her fingers.
“Or do you want me to do it?”

Gaara’s expression was familiar. That look – the one that says, I’ve got sand and I’m not afraid to use it.

“If you do, I’ll cut you out of the wedding budget.”

“Too late.”
She grinned and dropped onto the couch in the room.
“I already ordered the wine list. The rosé’s on you.”

His fingers twitched around the document.
Breathe. Just breathe.

Meanwhile, Temari had kicked off her shoes, propped her feet on the couch as if this were her own private living room – which, sometimes, it was – and grabbed a pillow.

“Don’t stress,” she drawled, making herself comfortable. “I’ll just wait until you’re done working. Then we can plan your social relevance together.”

He ignored her. Or tried to.
Eyes back on the paper. Paragraph five.

“Just a heads-up,” she added dryly, without looking up, “reading the fifth paragraph three times won’t give you any new information.”

“You’re a pain.”

“I know.”
A broad, deeply satisfied grin.

Silence.

Then:

“So you really haven’t asked her yet?”
She said it casually, almost offhand. But he heard the weight beneath it.

Gaara said nothing. Turned the page. Slowly.

Temari snorted. “Gaara.”

He sighed, tilted his head back toward the ceiling as though it might offer enlightenment.
“If I ask her, will you leave me alone?”

“For now,” she said – far too quickly.

Gaara blinked, slow and deliberate.
That didn’t sound like peace at all.

Ever since Temari had set her mind on marriage, she’d been relentless.
Sakura this, Sakura that – “Invite her, bring her something, try being charming for once.”

He hadn’t even decided if he wanted anything like that at all. It wasn’t as though time was running out. And even if it were – this wasn’t something to be settled between political briefings and sandstorms.
Especially not while the matter of Uchiha still gnawed at him like grit beneath his armor.
Uncomfortable. Persistent. Unresolved.

Before he could finish the thought, the door swung open without so much as a knock.

“I’m alive,” Kankurō’s voice announced – accompanied by dusty clothes and a satisfied grin.

Gaara lifted his gaze. “I see that.”

“Border sector was quiet. Rain’s not making trouble, not even at the mid-levels. No signs of movement. Everything stayed along the old routes.”

Temari straightened. “And the intel on that civil conflict south of Tanzaku?”

Kankurō waved it off. “Overblown. Just a few local skirmishes, nothing that concerns our side.”

Gaara folded his arms across his chest.
A barely perceptible relief eased through his shoulders.

His brother looked exhausted – but upright, alert, returned in one piece.
Dust in his hair, scratches on his armor, that crooked grin stamped across his face.

As long as he stood there breathing, whole, one thing at least had not gone wrong today.

Kankurō leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
He wore that trademark grin – wide, too self-satisfied – and waggled his brows far too suggestively.
“So, little brother. A personal medic, huh? How’s that work out… you know – late at night, all alone during those check-ups?”

Gaara blinked. Once.
Then turned his head slowly, staring at him as if someone had just dumped a sand toad in the middle of his office.
“What,” he said flatly, “are you talking about.”

Kankurō’s grin only widened. “You know… hand on the forehead, chakra readings, all very intimate. Medically, of course.”

“You’re repulsive,” Gaara said simply.

Temari snorted. Didn’t even bother trying to hide her laughter. She shook her head. “I tell him that all the time.”

“I’m just saying,” Kankurō went on, utterly unfazed, “I come home after four weeks of rain, bandits, and an exhausted border patrol, and what do I find out? You’re eating. Regularly. Supposedly even voluntarily. And not alone, either. With medical supervision.”
He let the words hang – thick with implication.

“Daily.”

Temari raised her brows in a show of exaggerated neutrality, as though she were entirely impartial in the matter.

Kankurō stepped further into the room, reached into his pouch, and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper.
“Also…” – he waved it as if it were official evidence – “…someone mentioned a bit of landscape remodeling. Southeast. Rocks. Water. Very dramatic use of sand.”
He grinned. “Wonderfully descriptive, by the way.”

Gaara glanced at the paper, then at Temari.
A look that didn’t make a sound – but sighed all the same: Really? You’re writing to him?

She shrugged. “One has to stay informed.”

He turned back to Kankurō – with a trace of weary justification.
“It was an accident.”

“Of course!” Kankurō nodded immediately, as if he had never doubted it.
“A very… romantic accident.”

Temari laughed. Loud. Unrestrained. And far, far too long.

Gaara’s expression barely shifted.
“The canyons collapsed – not my common sense.”
Then, dry as the desert:
“Romantic, really? The rockslide or the flood?”
Kankurō grinned as though he’d been waiting for that line.
“Okay, maybe not romantic, but come on. Sakura. Barefoot. Disheveled. Soaked through…”
He made a vague gesture, as if painting a particularly atmospheric portrait.
“Not saying anything, but that screams special healing methods.”

Silence.

Temari pressed a pillow over her mouth, because otherwise her laughter might have shaken the windows.

Gaara blinked slowly.
Then raised a hand. No words. No flourish.
Kankurō’s eyes widened.
“Wait, Gaara, that was—”

A precise sweep of sand caught him and, with surprising elegance, swept him right out the door.

Click.

The door closed. Gently.
Almost politely.

Temari drew in a sharp breath.
“Don’t tell me you actually—?”

“He was finished.”
Gaara turned a page – and the conversation was over.

The rest of the afternoon passed in silence, both of them working.
No mention of Sakura, no more hints.
Only the steady rustle of paper, the tick of the clock.

And somewhere in that rhythm, he found his clarity again.

It was late by the time he finally withdrew.

A comfortable chair.
A steaming cup of tea – jasmine, of course.
And across from him: Sakura.

Barefoot, relaxed, the hem of her clothes draped loosely around her legs.
Her gaze half-drowsy, half-mocking – like someone perfectly aware of how pleasant this moment was and in no hurry at all to end it.

It had become their habit: the same quiet rhythm each evening. A few words, sometimes a book between them, pages turning in time with his breath. Until at last he surrendered to sleep – and she, almost offhandedly, eased him into it with her chakra.
And then, without warning, she said:

“By the way… your brother seems to think that kinky water play in remote mountain regions is part of my treatment method for chronic insomnia.”

He stared at her.
An instant in which his gaze lingered on her face – not because he was surprised, but because he was suppressing the urge to shake his head.
At least he hadn’t choked on his tea. Small victory.

“What?” he asked slowly. His voice level, as if testing a stone before casting it into the water. Maybe it wouldn’t echo. Maybe he’d misheard.

Sakura sipped her tea, utterly unfazed. Steam curled upward, brushing his nose.
“He said it was… innovative, at the very least.”

Gaara closed his eyes briefly.
It never worked, but sometimes he pretended he could let memories slip through his fingers like sand.

“I’ll abandon him in the desert,” he muttered.
“In the middle of the night. Without water.”
He took a sip of tea – longer than necessary – as if the heat could weigh the words down.
“Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe not.”

From the next room came Temari’s voice. What had started as two days in the house had stretched to five by now.
“Don’t forget to at least leave him a compass.”

Gaara leaned back slightly, as though weighing the remark. His mouth twitched – barely – while he watched Sakura struggle, not very successfully, to stifle her laughter.
He liked when she laughed. It lit her eyes, made the already piercing green shine even clearer. He had noticed quickly that she truly enjoyed the way he and his siblings interacted – enjoyed it enough that the tension in her shoulders eased a little more every time.

“Would only waste time,” he replied dryly.

Temari stepped in, hand curled loosely around her own cup. The scent of something spiced and sweet mingled with the tea’s aroma as she sank down on the couch beside Sakura – a movement that carried the quiet claim of someone intending to stay.

“Speaking of treatment methods,” Temari began slowly, leaning toward Sakura as if seeking some confidential detail, “how long is this nightly therapy supposed to last?”

Sakura tapped her finger thoughtfully against her lip.
“A few more weeks. But we’re making good progress. The hormones are starting to regulate again.”

Gaara glanced up, as if to see whether they were really talking about him in clinical terms – or whether he’d just become the uneasy center of a joke poised to strike at his back.

Temari nodded slowly, mirroring Sakura’s thoughtful look almost perfectly. The only difference: her eyes stayed locked on his, the spark of amusement in them promising trouble.

He drew breath to redirect the exchange – but Temari was faster.
“Actually,” she began, tone so casual it instantly triggered his suspicion, “you might as well move in here. Would make things easier, don’t you think?”

The remark lingered in the air a moment, like steam above a teacup.
Sakura blinked once, her lips twitching. Gaara could see her weighing whether to counter – or simply let the blow pass.
He himself said nothing – a deliberate choice, though it didn’t prevent Temari’s gaze from sharpening.

Sakura raised her brows. “And who would water my plants?”

Temari shook her head lightly, as if holding back laughter.
“You don’t even have any.”

“Then I’ll buy some.” The line came instantly, smooth enough to sound practiced. Her hand rested loosely on the armrest – but her eyes stayed just a fraction too intent on Temari, as if gauging whether the retort had ended their little sparring match.

She didn’t. Temari only leaned back a little, the weight of her cup in her hand, and held her gaze. No smirk, no wink – just calm, deliberate seriousness.

Sakura’s smile lingered for a breath longer before it faltered slightly – not embarrassment, but a careful kind of realization.
“… You actually mean it.”

“Why not?” Temari’s voice was even, as if the suggestion were nothing more than practical. “You’re here every evening anyway.”

Gaara felt her glance flick toward him, though she kept her eyes on Sakura. He knew perfectly well that Temari enjoyed dragging him into these kinds of conversations.
Sakura’s gaze, on the other hand, felt like a cautious probing – as though she were trying to see whether he had already buried the idea in silence or, at the very least, considered it.
In the end, it was his house.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t just move in!” Sakura protested, her voice carrying a shade too much energy to sound entirely casual. “Next thing you know, people will say I’m seducing the Kazekage – or worse, they’ll spin a story, and suddenly we’re engaged.”

The last word hung in the air – heavier than the others.

He blinked, finally turning his gaze to her.
The flush rising on her cheeks bloomed almost in the same instant that her voice faltered – as if she herself had only just realized how far she’d taken it.

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, warm and heavy like the air before a summer storm.
Temari shifted her weight lazily to one side, watching them both with the patience of a huntress who knew her prey was about to walk straight into the trap.

Sakura cleared her throat, as if to break the silence – or rescue herself from it.
“Not… um… not that being engaged… to you… would be so bad.”

One hand lifted, then the other, as if she could somehow shape the words in the air while she kept talking: “I didn’t mean to suggest it would be so… uh… awful. It wouldn’t.”

The last line came faster, almost rushed, as though it might undo the one before. But it only stumbled after it – and every attempt to steer the words back onto solid ground only sent her further off balance.
“So… not that it would ever… I mean, I… well…”

The flush on her skin climbed from her neck to her cheekbones, and even her ears seemed to catch the color.

Gaara tilted his head slightly, never taking his eyes off her. He said nothing – simply watched in silence as she tangled herself in her own sentences. Like observing a rare, undisturbed natural phenomenon that one was wise not to interrupt.

Temari, on the other hand, made no effort to hide her reaction. The faint twitch of her mouth spread into a wide, self-satisfied grin as she sank deeper into the couch. For her, this conversation had already become the best entertainment Suna had to offer all week.

“Maybe you should stop talking before you accidentally propose to my brother,” she remarked at last – in a tone so casual it only made the words cut sharper.

Sakura grimaced and leaned back slightly, eyes lifting to the ceiling as though it might provide an escape.
“Can we just pretend the last few minutes never happened?”
Her voice was pitched half a note higher than usual – and he realized he actually found that… charming. And sweet.

“Or,” he said quietly, “we pretend they’re the first minutes after you’ve moved in.”

Sakura blinked, as though he’d just spoken an entirely different language. Then her mouth pressed into a thin line.
“That wasn’t an invitation.”

“It was,” he replied, without the slightest hesitation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Temari set her cup down, sink deeper into the couch, and jump in with a grin that had clearly been waiting for just such an opportunity.
“And a pretty good one at that.”

Sakura pressed her lips together, closed her eyes for a moment, and let out a quiet sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
“You two are impossible.”

“Pragmatic,” Gaara corrected.

“Persistent,” Temari added.

Sakura drew a breath, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear – and the small smile brushing her lips gave away more than she meant it to.
“Fine,” she murmured. “But only until the therapy’s over.”

Gaara didn’t answer. He held her gaze long enough for her to catch the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Temari leaned back as if she had just finished a particularly good game of shogi.

Outside, the warm desert wind pressed against the windows, and inside a silence settled – one none of them chose to break.

Chapter Text

Suna smelled different in the mornings: dusty warmth, carrying the faint sweetness of cactus blossoms. The light cut so sharply through the windows that even the shadows had clean edges.

Sakura stood barefoot on the cool kitchen tiles, knife in hand, slicing fruit into even pieces – sweet melon, soft dates, and pomegranate seeds, their juice scattering in small red drops across the cutting board. The first days after she had moved in had felt strangely unreal – like so much in Suna. The heat, the colors, the quiet way Gaara moved through his home.

But the sense of strangeness had faded faster than she expected. Within days a rhythm had taken hold – subtle, steady – much like the nightly routine in which she eased him into sleep with her chakra.

She had also noticed how he seemed to believe one cup of tea and a stack of papers could sustain him through an entire morning – as though willpower alone could replace calories. It hadn’t taken long to realize he never ate breakfast. No rice balls, no fruit, not even a piece of bread.

Well, she thought with a sly curve of her lips, that was about to change.
Turning, satisfied, she set the plate down in front of him – close enough that he had no excuse to ignore it.

“Here. This is more balanced than tea,” she said, as the warm scent of miso and grilled fish rose between them, mingling with the light tang of pickled vegetables.

Gaara looked up. Only briefly – long enough for her to feel his attention, but long enough, too, to see him weigh a response.
“I hadn’t considered tea unhealthy.”

“When it’s the only thing you’ve had by midday, it is.”
She pulled her own portion toward her, sat across from him, and picked up her chopsticks.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him pause after the first bite – not to speak, but because his food suddenly commanded more of his attention. A quiet spark of satisfaction unfurled in her chest.

It had taken her a few tries to get the flavors right. Suna liked it hot, and he was no exception. By now she knew exactly how much spice he would accept without complaint and how much he secretly preferred.

He ate in silence, seemingly absorbed in his papers. Only the faintest hesitation between bites betrayed that he noticed the difference. No comments, no praise but he reached for more, without pushing the plate aside.

Sakura took a spoonful of miso soup herself and let the moment stand. He wouldn’t say anything, she knew that. But she knew him well enough by now to notice the faintest trace of satisfaction in the way his posture shifted – the slightly looser set of his shoulders, the barely perceptible lean back whenever he liked something.

His silence, she realized, didn’t bother her.
It wasn’t that cold, cutting silence she remembered from the past – heavy with disdain, disinterest, or that paralyzing sense of being unnecessary.
Sasuke’s silence had always cut sharp, precise as a blade, and no matter how much she told herself it couldn’t touch her, in the end, it always had.

Gaara’s silence was different. It was rarely empty. Almost always filled with something – quiet attention, careful thought, sometimes that dry humor he only revealed when he was certain it would strike true.

Right now it was filled with contentment. Warm, quiet, unobtrusive. And she realized that difference mattered to her more than she had expected.

She set her bowl aside, wiped her hands on a cloth, and rested her chin in her palm.
“Do you think I could use one of your training fields today?”

He looked up, slow, as though testing whether she was serious.
“Anytime. You don’t need my permission for that.”

Sakura smiled faintly.
“Thanks. I just thought I’d ask – wouldn’t want anyone filing a complaint with the Kazekage.”

The smallest twitch crossed his mouth, and amusement flickered in his eyes.
“I believe I heard the Kazekage isn’t taking complaints today.”

Sakura kept her chin propped in her palm, her gaze lingering on him for a breath.
“And what about a challenge? Is he taking those today?”

The words were out before she could stop them. Definitely not fully awake yet, she thought – foolish enough to challenge a Kazekage over breakfast. Judging by his surprised expression, he was thinking much the same.

“A sparring match?” he asked slowly, savoring each part of the word as if to make sure he hadn’t misheard. The chopsticks stilled between his fingers, unmoving; only his eyes sharpened a fraction, skeptical yet intrigued.

She raised a brow, as if to say: Why not?
The scent of miso and grilled fish still lingered in the warm air, sunlight cutting sharp edges across the windowsill outside.

“A short one,” she added at last, pragmatic as ever. “After breakfast. Before the sun roasts us both.”

The flicker of amusement stayed – but beneath it, something else now, a quiet agreement.
“Field Three. Little wind. No audience.”

Sakura’s smile tilted narrow.
“Perfect.”

Perfect was also his stance. Arms crossed, utterly still, as if he belonged here as naturally as the sand under her feet. The training ground lay just outside Suna – a wide, open expanse broken by the remains of old walls that threw scattered patches of shade. In the distance the air already shimmered with heat, though the morning was still young.

“Are you sure?” he asked – not mocking, only confirming.

“Of course. Or are you getting nervous?” She tugged her gloves into place, a thread of provocation laced into her voice.

It had been a long time since she’d had a real fight. The little scuffles with Naruto hardly counted – he never gave it his all. A spark trying to outmatch a thunderstorm.

The same imbalance was true with Gaara. But he gave her the respect she wanted. That was the difference.

His mouth twitched – barely perceptible, but enough to erase any time for interpretation.
To her surprise, the sand at her side erupted upward, coiling in tight, swift streams until they hardened into massive pillars. The dry rasp of grain against grain filled the air, and for a heartbeat everything held still – before the first column jerked forward.

Sakura tensed, adrenaline sparking through her limbs, and knew: the fight had begun.

She slipped sideways from the first strike, the sand brushing the sleeve of her arm. He wasn’t coming at her head-on – not yet. Instead the streams slid around her, forming a loose circle, as if he were quietly staking out the edges of his terrain.

“Still leaning on defense?” she called out, keeping her pace steady.

“Efficient.” His voice was calm – as if he were outlining a strategy, not standing in the middle of a fight.

A second pillar burst from the ground – this time at an angle before her – while a flat wave of sand rolled in from behind. He was forcing her into the path he wanted.

Sakura clenched her teeth, locked onto the gap between two sand walls, and launched herself with full force. The impact of her feet cracked the ground beneath her – a deliberate disruption. The sand responded instantly, drawing in to seal the fracture, and in that moment she cut the distance.

Gaara never moved from his place. The sand before him rose like a shield, catching her strike before it could reach him. The force shook loose a haze of dust, but the barrier held.

His eyes tracked every motion – calculating, unhurried.
“Your aim is too obvious.”

“I’m just baiting you,” she shot back, already driving into her next strike.

She shifted the rhythm of her steps, didn’t break off the attack but angled in again. Each blow forced the sand to respond from multiple directions at once – small, rapid combinations that looked like feints, until one might slip through.

Gaara wasn’t deceived. Every move was met with the bare minimum of defense, as if he had known where she would land before she did. Only sometimes – barely – the sand answered a heartbeat slower.

She noticed. And he noticed her noticing.

“You’re testing me,” he observed, as the next cloud of dust swelled between them.

“I’m forcing you to move,” she corrected – her voice taut, but not breathless.

His gaze narrowed slightly – not anger, only focus. The sand before him pulled back, and instead of a wall a long, whip-like column lashed in from the side. She leapt, narrowly clearing it, but in the air she had no ground to build power from.

Exactly what he wanted. A second column surged from below, targeting her landing spot.

Sakura slammed her fist into the ground before she touched it, the impact scattering rubble and dust. The sand veered instinctively, avoiding the heavy chunks – and she was already moving again, straight at him.

This time she didn’t disguise the strike.

He lifted his hand, and the sand rose in a denser wave – just fast enough to halt her at the very last instant.

“Close,” he said.

“Intentional,” she shot back, eyes flashing. Sweat burned at the corners of her vision, but she didn’t blink it away. His defense was seamless. Whatever she threw at him – he blocked it all.
And he didn’t look strained in the slightest. No quicker breath, no sign of fatigue, as though his reserves were endless.

Her next strike went straight into that flawless defense. She poured so much chakra into her fist that she felt the resistance – the grains giving way beneath her knuckles, scattering outward, collapsing in every direction. It was wasteful. Inefficient. But that wasn’t the point.

She wanted one thing only – to reach him.

For the briefest heartbeat his eyes widened – barely a flicker, but enough for her to know she’d caught him off guard.

She drove forward, closing the distance in a rush. The sand scrambled to catch up, forming too late, and she was already half through the breach.

Two more steps.

He actually shifted back half a pace – and to her, that was proof her gamble was working.

But then the balance tipped.

Sand snapped tight around her ankles – not hard enough to hurt, but fast enough to steal her footing. She tore herself free, dropped low into a crouch, ready to spring again – only to feel the ground itself soften beneath her, like loose desert silt.

Her legs sank, dragged down to the knees, only her arms left free. The grip around her thighs tightened, and he approached at a measured pace – calm, unhurried, as if time itself favored him.

“Had enough?” His voice was even, but he kept his distance, eyes intent on her face. There was keen curiosity in them—and, to her annoyance, a glimmer of amusement. He was enjoying this far too much, she thought.

The sand around her legs hummed faintly – subtle, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Sakura kept perfectly still, every muscle under strict control. Instead of thrashing, she set her palms lightly on the surface – as if she had already accepted defeat.

Bit by bit, she let chakra seep into the ground – not raw force, but fine and precise, like a crack threading silently through stone.

Gaara’s gaze stayed on her, calm, assessing. She gave him nothing but a brief, mocking smile.

Then – the faintest flicker – his eyelids twitched.

That was her opening.

A tiny, almost invisible lapse in his focus – just enough to mimic a stutter in a genjutsu. He blinked.

It was all she needed.

With a pinpoint release of chakra she ruptured the sand – not in a wild burst, but forward, deliberate. The shockwave tore the ground apart, flung grit into his line of sight, and forced him back on reflex.

Before the sand could heed his silent command, she was already on him. Her hand touched his shoulder – no force, no blow, just enough pressure to say, unmistakably: I’m free.

“I don’t surrender,” she murmured, the words edged with teasing defiance.

His eyes dropped to her hand on his shoulder. No twitch, no visible shift – and yet she felt the sand stir.

Before she could retreat, it surged up behind her, coiling around her waist and yanking her off her feet in one sharp, seamless motion. She hit the ground hard, dust flaring around her – and in the next instant the sand beneath her spine hardened, snapping shut like a sprung trap.

Her eyes widened – not in fear, but in sharp recognition: he had actually taken her down. And now he was above her – one knee braced in the dirt beside her hip, one hand resting in the sand. Close enough that his shadow crossed her face – but far enough not to threaten.

“Genjutsu?” he asked, genuinely surprised, his brow drawn in the faintest crease.

She blinked against the sun over his shoulder, lips curling into a faint smile. Only then did she realize the sand around her waist had solidified – firmer, heavier – and was spreading lower. Around her wrists. Her ankles. Even the grains felt altered, glinting in the light as though flecked with hidden shards.

“Diamond?” The word slipped out before she could stop it.

For a heartbeat they only looked at each other – as if each were weighing whether they’d actually heard right.

“Seems we both had a plan,” she said at last, her voice a little rough from the grit of sand hanging in the air.

“I think mine’s working better.” His reply came without the slightest hurry, accompanied by the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.

“We’ll see.”

“We are,” he returned – dry, amused, his eyes steady on her. He hadn’t shifted an inch, and only now did she register how close he truly was. One knee beside her hip, one hand braced in the sand – close enough that she felt his warmth despite the burning desert heat.

Oh.

The thought was simple, but it hit with sudden weight – enough to shake her for a moment. Her gaze slid over him before she could stop it. His hair, disheveled from the fight, with fine sand clinging to the ends – it looked absurdly good on him.

To her dismay, warmth pooled deep in her body – heavy, insistent, impossible to ignore. Her face burned – and this time, not because of the sun. Her heartbeat raced. The air grew thin, heavy, the longer he hovered above her.

He didn’t move. And yet she felt his focus tighten – as though he tracked every flicker, every involuntary shift of tension in her.

Sakura could have sworn he knew exactly what he was doing to her. Maybe it was the near-invisible pull at his mouth. Maybe the slow, controlled rhythm of his breathing, set against the ragged edge of her own.

“What?” he asked softly. Not a real question – a test.

“Nothing.” Her voice was too rough to be convincing.

His eyes traced her face, lingered at her mouth, then back to hers.

He stayed silent. Close. Close enough that she felt the weight of his presence without a single touch. She hated that her body betrayed her – even more that he noticed, and did nothing.

“Sakura.”
“Yes?” Her voice sounded far too high in her own ears.
“Do you yield?”

She swallowed, goosebumps racing up her arms. Had his voice always been this smooth – warm and low, like liquid whisky spreading slow?

“I…” She cleared her throat, forced her voice into a straight line. “I yield.”

The sand held for one more heartbeat. Maybe she imagined it – wishful thinking – but she could have sworn he leaned a fraction closer.

Then, as if he’d stretched the moment on purpose, the hold loosened. The sand slid from her, and he rose. She watched him rake his disheveled hair from his eyes with a casual motion before he offered his hand.

His grip around her fingers was firm and warm – gentle, with no trace of hardness.
“Did Temari tell you about the Hoshikusa Festival?” he asked as he pulled her easily to her feet.

She nodded, brushing dust from her clothes. Her cheeks still felt too hot, but she kept her tone even.
“Yes. Even if she hadn’t – the preparations are everywhere. Why?”

“Would you join me?”

Sakura paused, eyes on him. “Accompany… as a colleague? Or as…” The last words slipped out of her voice, barely audible over the soft rush of wind that drew shimmering streaks of dust across the ground.

He stepped closer – quiet, controlled. His fingers lifted, grazing her temple as he teased a thin, dry blade of grass from her hair. For a breath he hesitated, turning the stem between his fingers while his gaze measured her – alert, attentive, too calm to be accidental.

“As whatever you prefer.” The words were even – but there was enough warmth in his eyes to set her cheeks burning again.

The stem fell from his fingers and the wind carried it off. Before she could shape an answer, the sand at his feet stirred, rose, dense streams coiling up around him like something alive. A gold-brown whirl closed over his form – and in the next second he was gone, vanished as if the desert had swallowed him whole.

Sakura still stood there, the smell of warm sand in her nose and the ghost of his touch like a fleeting brand along her skin. The heat on her cheeks throbbed, as if the sun had struck her full in the face.

Her fingers brushed over it – light, almost hesitant – as though she could erase the moment that way.
It stayed.

And she wondered since when a simple invitation could sound so dangerously close.

Chapter Text

The letters lay before her, neatly stacked as if they were nothing more than harmless pieces of paper.
They weren’t.

Gaara had handed them to her after dinner without a word, the movement calm, almost casual. Three in total: one from Naruto, one from Kakashi, and, to her surprise, one from Shikamaru.

She had only nodded, offering a quiet “thank you”, but something in her chest had shifted instantly.
The gentle warmth that had carried the evening vanished, as if someone had opened a window and let the cold in.

She could feel the others’ eyes on her. Temari was too polite to ask outright, and Kankurō too smart to interfere, but she saw it in their expressions: that unspoken awareness that letters from Konoha rarely meant just greetings.

And so the subject stayed untouched while they finished their meal. Yet the envelopes sat there like a weight beside her plate, heavier than they had any right to be.
It felt as though they had drawn an invisible line between her and this house.

With them, every trace of energy that had been there before was gone. Like a blow to the face, silent and precise, a reminder that she didn’t live here.
That she was only visiting.
That she had a task, nothing more.

She drew a deep breath, leaned back on the bed, and let her eyes wander over the three envelopes. Her fingers twitched, almost of their own accord, toward Kakashi’s. Start with the supposedly harmless one, she thought dryly.

The paper felt rough beneath her fingertips as she tore it open, not hastily, but with that hesitant, controlled movement of someone bracing themselves. She unfolded the sheet, felt the faint crackle as it stretched between her hands.

The first lines already carried his mark, not just in the script, but in tone. At first, the formal words of the Hokage: correct, clear, nearly impersonal, and yet she could hear his voice in them. That faint, unshakable nonchalance he could never fully keep out, even from official phrasing.

Her eyes skimmed the opening sentences, formal and distant, as befitted the Hokage.
A few standardized phrases about the mission proceeding “according to plan.”

According to plan…
She could have laughed, if it hadn’t sounded so much like “under supervision.”

Then her gaze caught on a single line:
“… would appreciate it if you reached out outside official channels.”

Which translated, quite plainly, to: You left without saying goodbye.
She could almost hear him say it, that mild tone that never needed to rise in volume to cut straight through.

The next paragraph was clinical, detached. A reminder of her research into the long-term effects of psychological trauma.
“… must not be paused… too valuable to gather dust.”

Her fingers tightened around the paper.
The project.
Her idea.
And yet, every attempt to move it forward had been like slamming into an invisible wall.
Or rather – into someone.

Naruto and Kakashi still spoke of it as if it were only a matter of time before she produced results.
As if motivation and good intentions were enough to mend something that had already shattered beyond repair.
She saw things more clearly now. Much more clearly.
And perhaps that clarity was what kept her awake at night.
Not the work itself, but the knowledge that in this one thing she had failed and that it had been with him, of all people.

At the very end, almost tucked away, was the final line:
“… take care of yourself, too.”

Of course.
It read like concern, but to her it tasted of mockery. Or worse—of that well-meant but entirely misguided comfort people gave when they had no idea how deep a fracture really ran.

She folded the letter carefully, set it aside as though doing so could silence the echo of his tone in her head. Two envelopes remained.

Her fingers hovered briefly over Naruto’s messy scrawl, but she pulled back. Too much exuberance, too much unrestrained optimism for later.

Instead, she reached for Shikamaru’s letter.
He would not have written unless it mattered.

His handwriting was like him: small, precise, without unnecessary flourishes. No space for words that did nothing. Even before she had finished the first line, she could feel that calm, unhurried weight that was his alone.

Don’t waste your thoughts on Kakashi and Naruto.

The idea itself felt almost alien. For months, it was all she had done, worry about the two of them. Most often because she was inevitably drawn into their expectations, whether she wanted it or not. She leaned back against the headboard, the paper loose between her fingers, and closed her eyes for a moment. If anyone had the right to say it, it was him.

Let them both go to hell.

The corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile, more the shadow of dry agreement. It was almost liberating to see it written down in plain words, without diplomatic phrasing, without the eternal “You know they only mean well.”

He wrote nothing of reports. Nothing of missions. Nothing of the progress she was supposedly meant to be making. He wrote about her. About what was happening to her if she kept giving everything until there was nothing left.

The next words on the page made her lips press thin. Not trembling, not breaking, just that tightness in the chest that caught her breath. Unwanted, stinging tears rose to her eyes before she could blink them back.

The Uchiha’s a lost cause.

Yes.
She had known that for months if she was honest, for years. He was her friend, in a way. And Naruto’s most important person.
And she… she had tried everything, only to finally understand that there was nothing she could do. That her hands, hands capable of saving lives, reached into nothingness when it came to him.

It hurt. All the more because she seemed to be the only one willing to admit it. Naruto clung to hope like a rope already frayed to nothing. Kakashi spoke of patience, as if time alone could be wielded like a weapon.
But Shikamaru… he simply wrote it down.

She read on, more out of duty than genuine interest. Tsunade. No progress. Everything set down in that sober, clear tone that never softened and struck all the harder because of it.

She let out a long breath, closed her eyes, and tilted her head back. Minutes passed or was it only seconds? before her hand reached for the last letter.

Naruto’s was the exact opposite of Shikamaru’s. The handwriting large and slightly crooked, the lines too long, as though he had no patience to finish them neatly. Even at a glance she could hear his voice, bright, insistent, full of that unshakable drive that had always carried him forward.

Hey Sakura-chan, I hope you’re having fun in Suna!

Her lips pressed together. Fun. Right. Of course.

He wrote about Konoha, about missions, about small victories he listed with such enthusiasm it felt like she was supposed to celebrate each one with him.
And then came the line.

I think Sasuke misses you.

Her fingers clenched around the paper as if the words themselves had struck her. Heat surged up her face, not pleasant warmth, but that sharp, biting fire that started deep in her stomach and climbed upward, burning as it rose. At the edge of her senses she felt her chakra stir, restless, agitated, sparking in uneven currents as though it wanted to carry her anger for her. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and something inside her coiled tight, an echo she wanted no part of.

Misses.
The word reverberated inside her as if he had whispered it straight into her ear—without the faintest understanding of what it truly meant.

Her eyes skimmed down the lines.

You can’t give up on him, it read. Followed quickly by: ‘He needs both of us.’

Her jaw ached from how hard she clenched it. Every word felt like an accusation, even though she knew Naruto hadn’t meant it that way. He simply didn’t know what it really meant to stay with Sasuke.

Her grip on the letter tightened until the paper bent and curled under the pressure. The edge cut into her skin, though she barely felt it.
Naruto didn’t know.
He couldn’t know.

He didn’t know the feel of Kusanagi piercing a chest, the dull, searing pain that was somehow too hot and too cold at once. He didn’t know the way lightning flooded through veins, how every muscle seized as though the body were trying to tear itself apart from the inside out.

He hadn’t looked into those eyes.
That void of smooth, endless black. No recognition.
And then suddenly, all at once, too much recognition.
Not relief, not connection, only the clear, merciless resolve to kill.

A shallow breath slipped from her. More an exercise in control than a need for air.

Her fingers uncurled at last. The letter slipped into her lap. Almost without thinking, her hand rose to her chest, to the small, narrow imperfection in the skin. The scar.
Tiny, almost invisible unless you knew where to look. And yet it weighed on her like a brand.

She was alive only because, for a single, flickering instant, he had been himself again.
Because panic had flashed across his features. Because his voice had broken when he screamed at her to get away.

And she had been gone.
Blind, staggering, without breath, until the doorframe of the Nara estate stopped her.
There, in Shikamaru’s arms, she collapsed—without resistance, as if her body had finally decided to surrender the fight.
Blood poured from her in steady, pulsing warmth, so much that even in her half-conscious state she knew: this wasn’t just any wound.
It was the kind of artery you weren’t meant to survive.

Shikamaru’s voice reached her, muffled, his hands trying to press down, while her eyes fixed on the darkening grain of the wooden frame.

And in that moment she was certain she would never feel her legs again.

Sakura drew in a long breath.

The smell of blood was long gone.
The doorframe, Shikamaru’s voice, the pounding in her ears—everything was only a shadow now, lingering in her mind.
But Naruto’s words burned like fresh ink.

She blinked, and the present returned.
The letter lay in her hand again, crumpled under her grip.
The small scar beneath her fingers throbbed in rhythm with the anger rising in her chest.

He misses you.
He needs both of us.

Her lips pressed together as though she could erase the words that way.

It took her a few seconds to even register the knocking—three short, even raps.
Her chakra was still unsettled. She could feel it herself, flowing in restless, uneven currents, like a heart beating too fast. No wonder he was at her door. It had probably been felt throughout the entire house.

With Naruto’s letter still in her hand, she opened it. Weariness hung in her shoulders.
“Sorry,” she began before he could speak. “I’m working on steadying the fluctuations.”

His gaze flicked to the crumpled paper, then back to her face.
“It’s the letters.” Not a question, just a quiet statement, clear enough to show he had seen more than she wanted to admit.

“Maybe.” Her voice was clipped, but she did not look away.

For a moment he said nothing, and in the silence she felt him weighing her, not as Kazekage, but as someone who understood what it meant when chakra spoke too loudly.
“Come outside,” he said at last, his voice low but carrying that note that allowed no refusal. “Movement helps.”

“So I can stir up the sand outside the gates?” she shot back, dry.

A faint twitch crossed his mouth and that small hint of amusement took just enough heat from the anger still burning in her.
“Better there than here,” he replied, and she knew he wasn’t only talking about the sand.

She hesitated, no more than a heartbeat, then gave a short nod and followed him out of the room. Naruto’s letter disappeared, crumpled, into her pocket.

“If you’ll allow me,” he said, and her eyes dropped to the sand shifting quietly at his feet.

He held out his hand.
She studied it for a moment, as though weighing a decision, then finally took it.

His fingers were warm and steady, without the slightest trace of force. The moment her hand touched his, the sand beneath him stirred, lifted, and began to carry them away, gentle, almost careful. This time she was ready for it. Not like the “abduction” a week ago.

For a heartbeat she was still in the hallway, before her door.
The next moment the cool, clear air of the Sunan night swept over her skin. She breathed it in deeply, let the dry air and faint scent of stone and desert sink into her lungs.

She forced herself not to think. Not of Konoha. Not of the letters in her pocket. Only of the steady, calming rhythm of the sand that wrapped around her, carrying her forward.

When her eyes opened wider, her vision had changed.
Gaara had brought her to the highest point of the Kazekage’s building, the tower that overlooked every roof.

The city stretched before her, bathed in golden and amber light of late night. From here the streets looked like narrow lines in a drawing, the glow of oil lamps scattered like a net of warm points across the settlement. Further out, the buildings thinned, and the walls of Suna stood sharp against the horizon.

Beyond them began the desert. Endless.
A sea of softly curving dunes, their contours drawn in silver under the moonlight. As far as the eye could reach, nothing but sand, fading into the haze of the night sky.

At the edge of her vision, a faint band of light glowed, the place where the sky already knew that a new day was coming.

The wind up here was cooler, sharper. It carried the scent of dry earth and fine dust, tugged at the loose strands of Sakura’s hair, and set Gaara’s cloak whispering against itself.

It was a beautiful view. And yet in his voice lay a weight, a shadow cast across the golden lights of the city.

“This view has often calmed me,” he said quietly. His hand, which had only just held hers, slipped away slowly, as if the letting go were a deliberate choice.

“And when it doesn’t?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the endless sweep of the desert, even as his words pressed at the back of her mind. The absence of his hand struck her suddenly, like something you only notice once it is gone.

His lips curved into something that was half a smile and half a bitter reflex. “Most of the time, it’s because someone has died.”

The wind carried his voice off, as if trying to scatter the heaviness so it wouldn’t crush everything here. Sakura felt something tighten in her chest, not from fear, but from that restless understanding only shared by those who had witnessed too many endings.

She liked the silence, his silence.

It never felt suffocating. It was like the city below them, vast, quiet, and yet full of life. The sight eased something in her that rarely found rest.

She drew in a deep breath, tipped her head back, and let the sky wash over her. Here, it seemed endless. In Konoha the stars often blurred behind clouds or lantern glow; here they cut sharp and brilliant, like shards of glass embedded in the dark.

“...Naruto is a good man. The best I know,” she said at last. Her voice broke the silence almost reluctantly, as if she had not fully meant to speak.
She didn’t know why it came out here, of all times. Maybe it was the wind, or the height, or this rare, fragile quiet that loosened something inside her.
Or maybe it was that restless creature within her—pacing, pacing—that needed an exit.

She felt his eyes on her. Not demanding, not prying, just that quiet watchfulness that told her he already guessed where her thoughts were headed. Perhaps he understood more than he would ever say aloud.

“As good as he is…” She let the words linger in the air, searching for the right balance between affection and truth. “…he’s also impossibly idealistic. Naïve. Detached from reality.”
She drew another breath, as though she had to arrange the weight of her next words before speaking them. “And that makes it… sometimes really hard to stay in his orbit.”

Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric at her side, brushing the crumpled letter through the layer of cloth. Just knowing it was there made her thoughts sharper, heavier.
“Sometimes,” she went on more softly, “it’s like he sees a world that doesn’t exist. And he expects us all to see it too.”

The wind shifted through her hair, and only then did she realize she was still clutching her bag. She let go slowly, almost unwillingly.

“He’s trying to hold onto something he can’t bear to lose.”
Gaara’s voice was quiet, as if the thought had first been meant for himself.
He folded his arms, his gaze stretching over the desert’s vastness. “But not everyone has the strength to blind themselves for it.”

The words struck—not like a blow, but like sand, settling everywhere, soft yet impossible to escape. The knot in her chest pulled tighter, aching like a wound that had never healed right.
“Yes,” she admitted at last, her voice rougher than intended. Her arms folded across her chest, stiff, too deliberate. Her eyes fixed on a distant, empty point beyond Suna, a place she could pretend no one was listening.

This was where she should stop.
Gaara might be a friend, but he was also Kazekage. And what gnawed at her was secret enough that even a breath too many could be dangerous.

But the words broke loose anyway, as if they had been dammed up too long to be contained.
“I can’t heal Sasuke,” she said quietly, almost soundless, “and he doesn’t see it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the faint crease forming between his brows. He didn’t know, he couldn’t know.
Officially, the Uchiha wandered the lands, taking missions, seeking atonement. That was the picture painted across the nations: neat, clean, without the fractures she had seen. Without the nights he buried himself in his own shadows, without the frost in his eyes.

“Sasuke has been living with severe, chronic post-war trauma,” she said, her voice low, strained. “Psychotic breaks triggered by trauma.”
Her fingers dug into her arms as if she needed to hold herself together.
“I spent two years trying to heal him. Two years where I saw nothing else. I tore the human psyche apart, dissected every theory, every model, every gray zone. I treated him with medication, I attempted invasive techniques, I even—” she pressed her lips together, then forced it out, “—short-circuited his damn synapses. Everything. No result.”

Her eyes dropped to the sand beneath them, as though it could carry the weight of what she said.
“All I accomplished was shifting his trauma-focus. Away from the battlefields.”
Her breath came sharp. “Onto me.”

Her hands loosened briefly, only to clamp tighter around her arms.
“...Naruto doesn’t understand what that means. To him, it looks like I just gave up, like I left Sasuke with Tsunade because I got tired.”

She inhaled, but it sounded more like tension than breath.
“He’s contained now. Because you can’t let him walk through a village without risking an episode. And then…” She shook her head.
“Then he isn’t just a danger to himself.”

Her gaze dropped further, as if avoiding the images crowding her mind.
“I can’t go near him anymore. Not without knowing he’d kill me. And I don’t mean those broken, half-hearted attempts from before.” Her throat tightened. “I mean with intent. With everything he has.”

A sharp breath escaped her, half bitter laugh, half broken reflex.
“And unlike Naruto, I wouldn’t survive that.” The words landed flat, but heavy as stone.

She lifted her head then, forcing herself to meet his eyes. For a moment, there was only stripped-down certainty in her gaze, no space left for comforting illusions.

He didn’t look away. No blink, no hesitation. Only that steady, weighing silence he carried so well.

“And still Naruto wants you to try again.” His voice was calm. No reproach. No question. Just a clean, clear statement of the absurd.

Something inside her pulled taut. Not because of Naruto. Not because of Sasuke.
But because Gaara said it aloud.
Because the words lingered in the silence between them like a shadow that would not move.

Chapter Text

He had been sitting at his desk for at least ten minutes now, his chin resting in his right palm. His other hand lay on one of the reports that had no real priority today, his index finger tapping in an even rhythm against the paper, as if trying to pin down a thought that kept slipping away. His gaze didn’t fall on the characters in front of him but lingered somewhere above the door, fixed on one of the fine cracks in the wall. A crack he had probably seen a hundred times before, now interesting only because it offered no answer to the unrest in his mind.

His eyes narrowed. He should be writing a letter to Konoha, polite in wording, but sharp enough for the blade to show between the lines. One of those masterfully passive-aggressive notes where everyone knew it was a threat, but no one could officially prove it.

A few well-placed hints that their handling of the Uchiha and the lies they fed to the other nations, were nothing more than a tired masquerade. One so brittle the peace treaty was already creaking beneath it.

The problem: he would have to drag Sakura down with him. Sharing S-rank information with the leader of another village was…
He pressed his lips together.
Yes. Politically, a disaster.

His gaze narrowed further. Or he could write to Naruto. Directly. Spell out how absurd it was to make Sakura carry this task. And how foolish it was to think you could solve a problem by throwing the same person into it again and again, hoping it would eventually “just work.”

He tapped the paper, considering. The letter to Konoha would have style. The one to Naruto would be… more satisfying.

“I hate to interrupt, whatever exactly you’re doing, but if you keep staring at that wall, it really is going to start crumbling.”
Kankurō’s voice drifted in, lazy but with that familiar undertone of amusement that had followed him since childhood.

Gaara stopped the steady tapping of his finger on the crumpled report in front of him. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “I’m thinking,” he said at last, as flat as ever. “I haven’t decided what to do yet.”

Kankurō stepped closer, leaning on the edge of the desk with both hands, pretending to listen with great seriousness. “Is this about the trade agreement with Konoha?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or are you planning how best to dump the Elders in the middle of the desert?”

Gaara opened his mouth, ready to let the first syllable out, then stopped. Any answer would have been either too honest or too long. He exhaled quietly, his eyes sliding back to the wall. “Maybe I’ll just talk to Temari about it later.”

Kankurō frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone carried the faint sting of offense. “I’m your older brother. I can give you advice just as well as Temari.”

Gaara slowly looked up from the papers, fixing him for a moment, watching how Kankurō planted his hands on his hips, his posture bristling as if to reinforce his words.
“May I remind you,” Gaara said evenly, “that your last ‘solution’ to a problem at the market stalls was to unleash one of your puppets on a few pickpockets, in the middle of a crowd.”

Kankurō just shrugged, as if it barely mattered. “It worked.”

“Yes. If by ‘worked’ you mean you knocked over three market stalls, scared a child so badly it refused to go back for a week, and…” Gaara paused, his eyes narrowing just a fraction more. “…the blacksmith is still looking for his goat.”

“Still?” Kankurō looked honestly surprised and a little amused. “Well, technically, that wasn’t my fault.”

Gaara only raised an eyebrow.

“I mean… sure, I was the one controlling the puppet,” Kankurō admitted, waving a hand as if it barely counted. “But how was I supposed to know the guy with the goat wasn’t a thief?”

“Maybe,” Gaara replied flatly, “because he was standing at his own stall. And the goat was tied to a post. With a price tag.”

Kankurō grimaced, then lifted both hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “Fine. But the thieves got away, didn’t they?”

Gaara drew in a slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment as if choosing his words carefully. “That,” he said at last, “is exactly why I doubt your diplomatic instincts.”

“Oh, come on.” Kankurō planted both hands on the desk, scattering a few neatly stacked papers. One sheet slid to the floor, but he didn’t so much as glance at it. Leaning forward, elbows nearly on the desk, he fixed Gaara with that insistent look that said: I’m not leaving until you talk.
“At least try me. You know I can listen just as well as Temari.”

Gaara held his stare for a heartbeat, perfectly still. Then he let out the faintest sigh and lowered his hand from his chin into his lap. A try couldn’t hurt, he thought.

“It’s about Konoha… and Sakura.”

Kankurō’s eyebrows shot up, and that smug grin spread across his face at once. “Don’t tell me Temari’s matchmaking actually worked and you’re about to file an official request with the Hokage.”

Gaara didn’t react to the jab. His voice stayed as steady as ever. “She gave me information that officially does not exist.”

The grin vanished instantly. Kankurō straightened a little, hands still on the desk, his gaze sharpening.

“The Uchiha,” Gaara continued calmly, “the one supposedly traveling the world, taking on missions, seeking redemption, the way it’s been sold to us all? According to Sakura, he’s in Konoha. Confined. And… mentally unstable.”

Kankurō’s mouth twitched as if to make a joke but the words stalled before they reached his tongue. His eyes narrowed, the grin gone for good. “That’s… a long way from the story we’ve been fed.”

Gaara met his gaze without blinking, then leaned back slightly in his chair. His right hand folded over his left, one of those subtle movements that gave away how much he was already weighing every possible outcome.

“I’m deciding how to handle it,” he said, calm, almost deliberate. “If I confront Konoha officially, I expose the fact that Sakura entrusted me with information she wasn’t supposed to share. That would be seen as betrayal on her part, she would face the consequences, not me.”

His eyes drifted for a second, as though testing the taste of the thought, before he went on. “If I write to Naruto… the best I can hope for is indifference. More likely, it turns into an endless argument. Naruto is convinced Sakura can still ‘heal’ the Uchiha. Konoha depends on that. But she herself told me it isn’t possible.”

A dry breath slipped from him, not quite a sigh, more the last exhale of a thought. “Either path brings problems. The only question is which one costs me less.”

“Damn.” Kankurō straightened, folding his arms and glancing aside as if chewing over the thought himself. His brow furrowed. “So whatever you do, you step on someone’s toes.”

“Yes.” Gaara’s reply was short, immediate and heavy with a decision he hadn’t yet made.

“You know what you should do?”

Gaara lifted his head, waiting, still, patient, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Nothing.”

The word dropped between them like a small stone into water. Seemingly harmless, but sending slow ripples outward.

Kankurō shrugged. “Let them play their own game. As long as they don’t come at Suna or at you directly, it’s not our problem.”

Gaara stayed silent a moment longer than necessary. His gaze held steady on his brother, but deep down there was something that didn’t match the advice just given.

“Sometimes,” he said quietly at last, “doing nothing causes more damage than anything else.”

Kankurō tilted his head slightly, as though weighing something. Then he spoke slower, more deliberate. “Or… maybe you just want to pick a fight with someone because it involves Sakura.”

The words lingered in the air. No smirk, no teasing lilt, only a sharp, probing edge that made clear he was watching his brother’s reaction very closely.

“It’s about principles.”
The words came out sharply defined, precise and dry, as if they could have been lifted straight into an official report. “Konoha withheld something that concerns all of us.”

Gaara lowered his gaze as though the matter was settled, his tone leaving no room for argument. But Kankurō’s voice cut through the silence, flat and unimpressed: “Gaara.”

Slowly, Gaara lifted his head, a faint crease forming between his brows. Neither spoke further. They just held each other’s gaze, a silent contest of endurance, measured not in volume but in how long the eye contact would last.

He wanted to hold steady. To cling to the principles that had always shielded him. But there was something in Kankurō’s expression, that small, almost invisible knowledge that he’d already seen through him, that gnawed at his defense.

A nearly inaudible exhale slipped out of him, more like a concession to himself, before his eyes drifted aside.
“Fine… maybe I just want to piss someone off, like you said.” He spoke the phrase as if rolling it around in his mouth, uncertain if it even fit him. A pause, then, quieter, almost reluctant:
“She’s… a good friend.”

Kankurō blinked and then a grin broke across his face. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
Gaara didn’t flinch. “It was a statement.”
“Sure,” Kankurō muttered, throwing a broad gesture toward the door. “But if you go strolling around the festival with her tonight, don’t pretend you’re only checking whether the vendors have their permits.”

Gaara’s eyes flicked up briefly. “It’s an official inspection.”
“Of course.” Kankurō’s grin widened, heavy with unspoken amusement. “With stops. And maybe a stall selling red sugar candy. Together with a good friend.”

He gave no reaction, or at least none that Kankurō caught.
But when his brother left the room, the words lingered like an echo.

Gaara stayed where he was, fingers laced together on the desk, while the sounds of preparation drifted through the open window: the dull thud of wooden posts, merchants calling to each other, fragments of music already hinting at the evening to come.

The Hoshikusa Festival wasn’t official business. No politics, no council sessions. Just streets draped with colorful cloths fluttering in the warm wind, lanterns soon to glow, the smell of spices and fresh pastry slowly seeping into the city. A different heartbeat for Suna. Quieter. Softer.

He rose at last and stepped to the window. From here he could see the bustle below, the merchants arranging their wares, the first children darting curiously between stalls.

And as he looked down, his thoughts continued. He still had to decide what to do.
Perhaps he would simply write to Naruto. Brief, polite, the way one addressed a friend, while elegantly making it clear that he was an idiot. Friendly, of course.

Another thought pressed forward. Officially, Sakura was in Suna for only three months. Two had already passed. One remained. But in theory… he could easily extend her stay. Her expertise was undeniably useful. Her presence helpful. Her… company, anything but unwelcome.

Slowly he turned, pulling open a desk drawer. A short search, and the right form was in his hand. The longer he looked at it, the more obvious the step seemed. Yes. The more he considered it, the more he liked it.

It didn’t take long to fill out the lines: an official request for extension. Only the justification field remained blank. He paused, pen hovering, thoughts clearer than he cared to admit. Then he wrote, in his careful, sweeping script: “Her presence has proven far more valuable than the Hokage’s rather decorative reports suggested.

Gaara lowered the pen and regarded the form in full. Yes. He very much wanted to piss someone off.

With one signature, he solved three problems at once:
He removed Sakura from Konoha and from Kakashi and Naruto.
He gave her more time to work with Suna’s medical system.
And he bought himself space to decide whether he truly wanted to pursue the matter of marriage any further.

His fingers brushed lightly over the form, as if weighing the decision itself. Sometimes, he thought, he really was a genius.

He rolled the parchment neatly, stood, and left the office without hesitation. On his way out, he handed the scroll to his assistant, one sharp look, a single word was enough: “Today.” He wanted it gone before any doubts could creep in.

Instead of taking the long walk down the tower, he let the sand carry him. Minutes later he landed soundlessly on the balcony of his house. Less than an hour after that, freshly showered and changed into light formal festival attire, he sat in the cool shade of his living room. The official part of the day was done. Now began the other.

“Let me get this straight.”

Temari sat across from him, already dressed for the Hoshikusa Festival, cream-colored fabric that almost glowed in the dusk, her hair, for once, loose over her shoulders. It gave her an unusual softness, immediately cut through as she arched a brow and fixed him with a sharp stare.

“So you sent Konoha a letter saying you want to keep Sakura for a whole year?”

Gaara nodded once. No flicker, no twitch.

Temari blinked slowly, as if to make sure she had heard him right. “And,” she went on, her tone razor-sharp, “you didn’t use the usual C-form for regular extensions. No. You went straight for B28.”

She let the pause stretch, leaning back in her chair, arms folded, a smile tugging at her lips that didn’t match the edge in her voice. “The B28. The form reserved only for matters of highest S-priority. The one tied directly to the peace treaty.”

She leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, as if she’d like to shake him. “The form Kakashi cannot refuse. No matter how much he wants to.”

Gaara held her gaze. “Yes.”

For a beat the silence held. Temari stared at him the way one watches a sandstorm on the horizon, knowing it will hit whether you want it to or not. Then she laughed. At first a sharp snort, then a bright, unrestrained sound that spilled out before she could stop it.

“You really can be a little bastard.” She shook her head, shoulders still trembling with laughter. “Do you realize Kakashi’s going to hate you for this? I mean really hate you. Not that diplomatic Hokage-mask stuff, no, the kind of swearing he saves for when nobody’s listening.”

She rubbed two fingers over her forehead, but her grin only widened. “And the best part, you know it. You know exactly what you’ve done. He can’t even back out without tripping over himself.”

Gaara said nothing. Hands calmly folded, gaze steady. But Temari caught the faint gleam at the corner of his eyes, that rare flicker he only showed when he was truly satisfied.

She let out a dry laugh, stood, and smoothed her robes. “No wonder the Raikage will only deal with you by written list these days instead of face-to-face. You’re about as pleasant for him as holy water to the devil.”

With one last shake of her head, she moved toward the door, her footsteps ringing with easy confidence. At the threshold she paused, turning just enough for him to catch her grin.

“Don’t forget,” she said, raising a warning finger, “tell her she looks beautiful. Pay for everything she wants. And walk her through the streets like a proper gentleman.”

Then she vanished, the door closing with a muted thud.

Gaara exhaled quietly and actually rolled his eyes. Good thing Temari wasn’t there to see it. What did she think he was? He’d dined with Kage, daimyō, and generals for years, he could play the perfect gentleman for one evening.

Silence settled, broken only by the muffled sounds of the festival outside. Then came the creak of the stairs. Not loud, but enough to make him lift his head and wait.

Another step, this time with the soft whisper of fabric. Gaara looked up and in the same breath cursed his sister.

Temari. Of course.

He could almost hear her giggling over the scheme: a dress that didn’t just flatter, but matched his own robes so perfectly it looked like a deliberate statement. Political. Personal. A signal he couldn’t undo without making Sakura herself the target.

And yet, though he silently wished Temari every dune in Suna at once, he couldn’t deny it. He liked it. Far too much.

Sakura descended the last steps, the gold embroidery on her gown catching the light like the patterns on his own attire. Two halves of a whole, as if planned long ago. She didn’t look costumed, didn’t look forced into someone else’s role, she looked natural. As if she belonged here.

His breath caught, a second too long.

She noticed at once. Her eyes flicked to him, a tiny crease forming between her brows, as if to ask whether something was wrong.

He forced the tension in his chest to ease, exhaled evenly. Words formed, spare, plain, but honest.
“You look… beautiful.”

A statement, not a compliment. And yet there was something in his tone that betrayed him.

Chapter Text

Sakura felt his gaze before she reached the bottom step. It weighed on her, heavier than words, sharper than touch. For a fleeting second she wondered if she should have ignored Temari’s advice and chosen something simpler. But there was no mockery in his eyes. Only that faint hesitation, so small and yet so clear it unsettled her more than she expected.

“You look… really good,” Gaara said at last. His words were clipped, calm, like almost everything he said. But underneath lay something else, a tiny crack in his usual calm composure.

He rose from his seat, the movement deliberate, and extended his hand. No flourish, no false gallantry. Just the gesture itself, simple but weighty, as though it were rarer for him than any official seal he had ever set.

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. For a heartbeat she didn’t know how to respond. Gaara was not a man who offered his hand lightly. And yet he did now, not in public, not in Suna’s name, but here, in private, only to her.

A smile flickered across her face, hesitant at first, then warmer. Slowly, she placed her fingers in his. His hand was warm, firmer than she’d expected, but without the slightest trace of force. Her pulse quickened as she tried to put the moment into familiar terms. He was Kazekage, after all. Of course he could be polished, of course he could wield gestures like weapons. But she hadn’t expected him to use them on her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softer than she meant. She hoped the warmth in her cheeks wasn’t obvious. “You look good too.”

She caught the subtle glint of amusement in his eyes as he led her to the door.
“Not what I usually hear.”
“And what do you usually hear?” she asked, aiming for a lighter tone.

The evening air greeted them, warm and threaded with fine sand. Instead of letting go, he shifted her hand almost imperceptibly, settling it against his arm. The gesture felt natural, unforced and perhaps for that very reason, unfamiliar.

The fabric of his tunic brushed her skin, moving in time with the desert wind. She admitted to herself that the small act struck her more deeply than she would have thought, not because it was overly intimate, but because he carried it out with such gentle confidence.

Gaara lowered his gaze as if considering it seriously. Then he said, quiet but not cold: “Most people say nothing. They avoid it.”

Sakura’s brows rose, and a smile tugged at her lips. There was disbelief and amusement in her tone.
“You know that isn’t true, right? I overheard a group of kunoichi the other day. And I quote ‘hot.’”

The faintest twist of his expression pulled an honest laugh from her. For a moment she felt she’d nudged him out of his composure. His reply came level as ever, though she heard the dry pull beneath it.
“I’d hoped it was just a phase.”

“Why would you think that?” she asked, still laughing, curiosity woven through her words.

They passed beneath swaths of fabric strung across the streets, bright banners shifting like waves in the evening breeze. Lanternlight was beginning to bloom, mixing with the scents of spice and fresh bread.

“I made sure not to encourage them,” he said at last. This time his voice was quieter, as though he wasn’t speaking as Kazekage, but simply as Gaara.

Sakura’s laughter softened into something gentler, almost fond. “That doesn’t work the way you think. The less attention you give, the more… interesting you make yourself.”

The smallest twitch ghosted across his mouth, as if he realized she was teasing him. “That’s… inconvenient.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied solemnly, playing along. “Very inconvenient. Imagine, the poor Kazekage forced to endure an entire flock of secret admirers.”

He fell silent for a moment, the wind pressing the fabric of his tunic lightly against her wrist. Then he turned his head just enough for her to catch the faint glimmer in his eyes.
“That sounds like a battle I have no intention of winning.”

His voice was calm as ever, but the trace of amusement was so fine she might have missed it.

She was drawing breath to answer when a bright, friendly voice cut her off.

“Oh, Kazekage-sama!”

An older vendor, sleeves rolled up, was lining up skewers of bright sweets in neat rows. The glaze shimmered under the lanterns, steam carrying the smell of sugar mixed with the lingering smoke of the coals. He wiped sticky fingers on his apron and came forward, beaming.
“What an honor to have you here tonight!”

His gaze brushed briefly over Sakura, curious, not scrutinizing, the way one sizes up a new face they can’t quite place. Her pulse jumped a little, and she forced her shoulders to stay calm.

“And with such a lovely lady!” He laughed awkwardly, as though realizing he had gone too far, and cleared his throat. “Forgive me… you must be the new doctor? The one they speak so highly of at the clinic?”

“Haruno Sakura,” she said, inclining her head. The courtesy came automatically, the smile just a fraction too quick. “I’m only helping for a short while.”

“Ah, of course!” The vendor reached behind him and lifted a skewer, still steaming. “Mitarashi dango, fresh off the grill. For the Kazekage’s guest, of course, it’s on the house.”

“That really isn’t…” Sakura began.

“Tonight it is,” he cut her off cheerfully. “It’s festival. You share what you have.”

Gaara reached out and accepted the skewer with a brief nod. For a moment he held it, testing the heat that rose from the glaze, then turned the wood at the ends so she could hold it comfortably and passed it to her, as if that had been the plan all along. The sugar shone darkly, tiny bubbles still bursting at the surface with a sweet, warm scent.

Sakura nodded to the man. “Thank you.”

Her first bite was hot enough to burn, but the sweetness came instantly, thick and familiar, like summer evenings she hadn’t thought of in years. She let out a breath, hoping it disguised the burn, and smoothed a stray drop of sauce from the corner with her thumb.

“Tastes good, doesn’t it?” The vendor’s face lit up before he turned back toward the grill. “Enjoy your evening, Kazekage-sama, Hime-sama.”

Sakura stepped aside to make room for other customers, glancing up at Gaara. Lanterns swayed overhead in the breeze; somewhere a child shouted, and from a side street drifted the sharp, warm scent of spices. She gave the vendor another nod and took a second bite. The glaze stuck to her tongue, the heat spreading warmly into her cheeks.

“People are very kind,” she said, more as an observation than surprise. Festivals always felt like this, open words, generous smiles, a little more warmth than usual.

“Festival nights make people more generous,” Gaara replied, face unreadable. “And merchants have a good sense for courtesy.” A faint tug at her arm guided her between two stalls where colored cloths rippled like waves in the evening wind.

Sakura swallowed, brow furrowing. The word clung like a crumb. Hime-sama. She lowered her voice beneath the hum of the street.
“Why Hime-sama? Outside Katsuyu and a few villages on Rain’s outskirts, no one calls me that.”

“Here it’s a polite address when they don’t know your name,” Gaara said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world. “On festival days they lean toward higher forms. And physicians get added respect.”

“Ah.” She nodded. That made sense, another festival custom, like new shoes and too much spice in the stew.

A gust made the lanterns above them snap; sand hissed softly against the wood. Sakura moved a step closer to his arm, instinctively avoiding a post, and focused back on the skewer. Sweet, warm, sticky. Beautiful, she thought as they walked on, like a dream made of color. Konoha had its own festivals, large and small, but none had ever felt as light, as magical, as this night in Suna. She absently licked the last glaze from the empty stick, eyes drifting over the stalls.

A table of jewelry caught her. Cool turquoise stones lay beside reddish-brown beads that glowed warmly in the lanternlight. Between them, delicate wirework, thin settings hammered to patterns like wind in sand. Without noticing, she slowed; her hold on his arm tightened just slightly, enough for the fabric beneath her fingers to yield. Gaara matched her pace without a word, without a question, just that adjustment.

She leaned closer to the display. The air smelled of metal polish and warm flames. One necklace of matte stones seemed plain beside the smooth turquoise discs, and maybe that was why her eyes lingered there.

“Turquoise from the northern quarries,” Gaara said after a pause, as though noting it aloud. “The red is usually carnelian, sometimes ruby.”

Sakura blinked, surprised, rolling an oval bead between thumb and forefinger to catch the light. “You know gemstones?”

“Only where they come from.” His tone stayed level. “It makes negotiations easier if you know what you’re looking at.”

A shadow fell across the table. The vendor had noticed her interest and slid a tray forward. “If I may,” he said, unassuming, placing a narrow bracelet on the cloth. “Ruby suits the lady best.”

It was simple, well made. Small round and teardrop stones set in gold, the links fine enough to gleam like a steady line under the lanterns.

Sakura hesitated. She liked jewelry, though she owned little. As a kunoichi it was rarely practical, and on missions one carried nothing personal. Her fingers hovered without touching. The red was warm, not gaudy, the gold more steady than showy.

“If you want, try it,” Gaara said. No pressure, only permission.

She nodded faintly. The vendor undid the clasp, and the metal slid cool against her skin. It fit easily, not heavy but like a clean mark against her wrist. As she turned her arm, the rubies shifted with a soft click, lost at once in the festival’s noise.

“How much is it?” Her voice was steady, though she felt the pull between liking it and the practicality of restraint. It really was beautiful.

The vendor named the price, friendly, without insistence. More than she planned to spend, less than she’d feared once she knew they were real rubies.

She only noticed Gaara move when the vendor said with satisfaction, “Understood, Kazekage-sama.”

Sakura’s head snapped up. A cloth was already being folded, a slip of paper scribbled and handed over. She realized only then that Gaara had just bought her the bracelet.

“What?” she blurted, eyes wide. “Gaara, you can’t—”

“I wanted to,” he said evenly. He held her gaze, no performance in it. “It’s festival. Consider it a welcome from Suna. From me, personally.”

“But I could have—”

“If you’d rather,” he added, tone dry as parchment, “you can buy me tea later. Or water. Without sweets.”

The vendor smiled to himself as he checked the clasp at her wrist with a small, sure motion. The gold lay cool against her skin, the red stones catching the lantern light and scattering it like a faint spark across the setting. Sakura traced a fingertip along the smooth edges, searching for a word to fit the moment and found none. She exhaled.

“Thank you,” she said at last, softer than she had intended.

“You’re welcome.” His voice was nearly toneless, yet there was a thread of warmth in it, rare, but unmistakable. With a brief nod to the merchant, he guided her away from the stall and further down the street.

Sakura’s gaze lingered on the bracelet, turning her wrist lightly back and forth. The lantern light slid across the delicate setting, and for a moment she felt foolish, staring at it like a magpie at something shiny. But the longer she looked, the clearer it became: it wasn’t only the ornament that quickened her pulse.

Her cheeks burned as she realized she’d been holding on to his arm the entire time and that he’d allowed it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

A smile tugged at her lips. The evening had not only been beautiful, it had stirred something she hadn’t felt in a long while: that restless, fluttering rush that comes when someone is effortlessly charming, without even trying.

And as they walked side by side through the warm glow of the night, she knew in silence that this evening would linger with her for a long time to come.

Chapter Text

The air was filled with voices and laughter, with the shuffle of footsteps and the clink of coins. Vendors called out their prices, but no one bought in haste. This was a night for strolling, for marveling. At one stall, fabrics rippled like a sea of colors, silk gleaming in the lantern light, brocade laced with gold threads like stardust.

Sakura knew Suna was beautiful. She had lived here for two months, and yet she had never seen it quite like this. Missions left no time for leisure. Tonight was different.

Scents mingled in the air: grilled lamb, the sweet cardamom of tea, the heavy honey of dango. Children ran barefoot through the sand, scattering grains that glimmered like sparks in the lantern glow.

From a wide alley rose music: drums that reverberated in the chest, a flute winding like a serpent through the night. Dancers spun in vibrant veils.

The bracelet weighed almost nothing, and yet she felt it constantly, a silent reminder of who had given it to her. Even more than that, she felt the warmth of his arm where her hand rested. Natural, and yet unfamiliar, enough to set her heart stumbling. She fixed her gaze on the lights and colors, tried to drown herself in the sounds but the louder the festival grew, the harder her own pulse hammered.

It wasn’t good. She had been on dates before, fleeting evenings, shallow conversations, stolen moments. But none of them had ever unsettled her like this. No glance, no smile, no touch of a hand had ever set so much in motion. Gaara was different. He broke every pattern she thought she knew.

He moved through the evening with a composure so quiet and unforced it was almost uncanny. He spoke little, made no grand gestures and precisely for that reason his presence felt inescapable. Every glance, every movement made her feel she was the center of his night. Not because he tried, but simply because he was himself.

That ease left her defenseless. No game. No role. No mask to hold on to. Everything he gave her was real. And it was that honesty that left her unsteady.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked softly.

Sakura’s head snapped up as though he’d pulled her from a dream. For a heartbeat her heart stopped when her eyes met his. There it was, that faint spark, amused but not mocking, more like warmth. As though he had seen how far away she had just drifted.

Her cheeks flared instantly, hotter than any lantern’s glow.

“I…” Her voice was uncertain, pitched too high. She cleared her throat quickly, scrambling to gather control. “Yes. Why not.”

As she spoke, his gaze lingered on her. Still, calm, hard to read, yet with a warmth beneath it that unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

“Are you alright?” His tone was quiet, casual and yet it cut straight through the noise.

“What? Yes.” Too quick. Her fingers tightened on his arm, as if she were afraid of losing her balance.

One eyebrow lifted. No skepticism, only that quiet awareness that made her nervous, as if he could read her thoughts without a word. But he didn’t press. He let the silence stand, as though it were his way of leaving her the choice.

They walked on. Ahead, a grillstand glowed. The air was heavy with the scent of meat and pepper, laced with the bitter smoke of charcoal. Sparks leapt upward, hung like fleeting stars, and died in the dark.

“Kazekage-sama, spicy or mild tonight?” the vendor asked.

“Spicy,” Gaara replied at once. No hesitation.

“And for the lady?”

Sakura stepped closer, the heat rising in her face. “Mild, please.”

From the corner of her eye she caught him turning his head slightly toward her. “Are you sure?” His voice was gentle, but with a hint of doubt, barely there, meant only for her.

“Completely.” Firmer than she felt.

He accepted the skewers and handed one to her. Their fingers brushed briefly before parting again. No comment, no smile—just a glance, unreadable, before he turned away.

As they walked side by side, Sakura bit carefully into her skewer. At first the meat was soft, almost sweet with smoke, then the burn followed. Subtle at first, then rising, relentless. She coughed, drew in a sharp breath through her teeth, and laughed at herself, a quick, bright sound.

“Mild here isn’t mild,” she gasped, eyes watering. She knew Suna liked its food hot but not that mild already counted as a warning.

“Here, mild is polite,” Gaara said dryly, biting into his spicy skewer. His face showed nothing, only the faintest blink.

He led her from the crowd to a narrow bench. She sank down, fanning her mouth, her eyes flicking to him again and again.

“I’ll remember that,” she muttered hoarsely.

Gaara disappeared into the crowd without hurry and returned with a small clay cup.

“Milk,” he said simply, handing it to her. “Takes the edge off.”

The coolness spread across her tongue, the pepper eased, a trace of lemon lingering. “Thank you,” she whispered, setting the cup beside her.

Above them, lanterns swayed in the wind, voices rolled past in muffled waves. Gaara sat beside her, a hand’s breadth away.

They stayed there until the flush faded from her cheeks and the air grew cooler. In the distance, laughter died down, dishes clattered. The glow of a lantern slipped across the red gems on her bracelet, catching like a spark before leaping away. Her heartbeat slowed. The restlessness softened into something calmer. Quiet. His presence was never loud and for that very reason, it made peace so easy to find.

“Shall we go on?” she said. He nodded. She rose, returned the cup, and slipped her hand back around his arm. It felt natural and the fact that he said nothing about it made her smile. His step fell into rhythm with hers. Steady. Even.

The night stretched on. Some stalls burned like red islands, others stacked their last dishes in rows. Music drifted thinner now, the sand underfoot softer. Lanterns drew golden borders along the ground. Above them, the stars sharpened, the air clear and dry, only the warmth of his arm constant.

Then a new scent mingled in the street: sharp, almost green, like rain on hot stone. Ahead stood a pale wooden counter, carafes lined beside small clear glasses. In a shallow dish lay golden-brown biscuits.

Curious, she tugged him toward the stall. Liquids in shades from green to red shimmered in the glasses. The vendor stepped forward, fingers painted with delicate patterns.

“Finest cactus liquor,” she said, pointing to the row. “Saguara is mild, for gentler tastes.” Her smile turned playful. “But for the student of the slug princess, I’d recommend the Teyuila.”

Sakura blinked, a ghost of a smile crossed her face. Only now did she notice what she had overlooked before: the calm stance, the sharp eyes, the calluses at her knuckles. Not a simple vendor, but a kunoichi, one who knew exactly who stood before her.

“You know Tsunade-sama?” Sakura asked quietly.

“You hear enough if you listen,” the woman replied, friendly, without a trace of prying curiosity.

Sakura glanced at the glasses. The green smelled cool and resinous, the red warmer, tinged with sweet bitterness. Beside her, Gaara stood still, steady as a fixed point in the flow of voices.

“Then I’ll try the Teyuila,” she said, casting him a quick look.
“Slowly,” he murmured, faintly amused. “The first sip is fire. The second is taste.”

She grinned. “Speaking from experience?”
The corner of his mouth shifted. “You could call it that. Kankurō insisted I learn every variety Suna makes.”

She laughed softly, lifted the glass to her nose once more, and tipped it back.
At first only heat, as if her throat had burst into flame.
But the sharpness faded quickly.
What remained was flavor, cool and syrupy, neither sweet nor bitter, hard to name but not unpleasant.

The vendor slid a cookie toward her wordlessly. “To smooth it out.”
Sakura bit in. The faint bitterness sharpened the aftertaste, made it almost friendly. Her shoulders loosened.

Gaara studied her glass as though inspecting the hue. “Teyuila’s distilled in the northern fields. The more sun the plants get, the rounder the flavor.”

She took another sip and nodded. “Then they had a lot of sun this year.”

“Enough.” He pointed to the lines pressed into the cookie. “Flower scars. They bake them in like a seal.”

She traced the marks with her thumb and smiled. “Then I’ve eaten sunlight.”

“And drunk it,” he returned. For a heartbeat, something light, almost playful, slipped into his tone and it caught her off guard. Her heart stumbled again.

Tonight was nothing but rise and fall.
Calm and nervousness.
Warmth and racing pulse.
Always because of him.

The vendor refilled their glasses to a finger’s breadth. Sakura took a smaller sip, just enough for warmth to flare behind her breastbone. From a side street, the music shifted, slower now, and the crowd drifted past as though the night itself had changed pace.

“The second is taste,” she murmured, repeating his words.
“And the cookie, reason,” he said.

She laughed softly.
Broke the rest of the cookie and let it melt on her tongue.
Lanternlight slid over the gold at her wrist. When the glasses were empty, Gaara laid coins on the counter, gave a curt thanks, and led her back into the current of the street.

“Did you know those cookies would be banned in Konoha?” she asked, tucking her arm back into his, firmer than before.

“In Konoha, a lot of things are banned that make no sense,” he said dryly.

Sakura giggled. “Maybe it’s because Suna likes experimenting with… mind-altering substances.”

A faint snort from his side as he flicked her a glance. “Put like that, it sounds worse. Here it’s about measure, not excess. Cactus cookies and liquor are lightly dosed. Recipes go through the guilds, and med-nin test every batch for festivals.”

She lifted her chin, half-teasing. “So it’s officially sanctioned indulgence.”

“You could call it that.” His voice stayed even. “The desert doesn’t forgive mistakes. Clarity is precious. That’s why the rules: one cookie is custom, two are sociable. More only at home, where no one else is at risk.”

“Sounds almost like a medical directive.” A smile tugged at her lips as she noticed how smoothly he matched his stride to hers.

“At the core, it is. It’s not about intoxication. It’s about culture. Flavor, warmth, a touch of ease, so people actually talk to each other.”

“Ever caused trouble?”

“Once, in Kiri.” He paused. “Kankurō had a packet and offered some to Chōjūrō. Either they were stronger than usual or Chōjūrō’s tolerance was very low.”

Sakura raised her brows. “And then?”

“According to Mei-sama’s report, they held a serious discussion on the merits of different weapons oils.” His voice stayed dry. “On the Mizukage’s roof. In the rain. In their underwear.”

She pressed her lips together, failed, and burst out laughing. “Please tell me there were no witnesses.”

“Half the watch rotation.” A faint twitch tugged at his mouth. “The report read: two identified subjects, strategic exchange on oil viscosity, minimal clothing, unfavorable weather.”

“Strategic exchange,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “Chōjūrō must have been very convincing.”

“Apparently he demonstrated the glide properties on wet roof tiles. Very didactic.”

Still laughing, she realized how effortlessly he guided her through a knot of civilians, so smoothly she hardly felt the press of bodies. Almost without thinking, she set her free hand on his forearm as well. It felt natural, too natural.

“And Kankurō?” she asked, once her laughter ebbed.

He actually rolled his eyes. “Claimed underwear was climate adaptation.” A breath, then: “That same night I received a polite note asking if Sunagakure’s festival goods were really considered essential travel supplies.”

“And since then?”

“Kankurō’s luggage gets checked by Baki.” A quiet huff, then silence.

Sakura’s smile lingered for a heartbeat, then smoothed out. The alley narrowed, lanterns hung lower, casting their light like little bowls across the ground. Ahead, a shutter slammed, the dull sound rippling through the night.

“Tired?” he asked softly.
“A little.”
“Home,” he said. Not like an order, more like a word that had already been waiting between them. She liked that he asked without demanding.

She nodded. Two merchants bowed in passing, a woman fanned spice-dust from the air. The liquor was only an aftertaste now, the cookie a faint trace of warmth.

She glanced at him, catching his profile in the lantern light, calm, more attentive than he looked. The closer they came to the door, the softer the glow became, lanterns fading behind them like tiny islands. Her hand was steady on his arm when the key turned and the latch gave way.

The door closed softly at their backs. Outside, the noise dropped away as though behind a curtain. Inside, only the milky light in the hall burned. Sakura slipped off her shoes; he hung his cloak on the hook.

“It was a beautiful evening,” she said with a smile, her heart stumbling as the words hung in the air.

“Anytime,” he replied calmly, in a tone that carried more weight than a vow. “I enjoy your company.” He paused. “Tea?”

Sakura tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, though the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her. “Yes, pleas—ow.” The word broke off as her new bracelet snagged in her hair.

She started to reach for it herself, but his voice came first, quiet, reassuring. “Wait.”

He stepped closer, fingers circling her wrist, firm enough to steady, gentle enough that she could trust the hold. With his other hand, he slid into her hair, searching for the fine clasp.

“May I?” His voice was low.
Warm.
She nodded.

Strand by strand, he freed it.
Patient.
Never tugging.
The gold glinted in the muted light, his breath brushing her temple, dry as desert air, edged faintly with cactus liquor. Her shoulders sank as though the moment itself was a release. His fingertips touched only as much as needed.

A soft click. The clasp gave. One last lock slipped over her skin, and then it was free.

“All done,” he murmured. His hand lingered a heartbeat longer at her wrist. Beneath his warmth lay the cool line of metal.

“Thank you,” she whispered, lifting her gaze.
In the dim light, his eyes looked darker.
Closer.
He didn’t look away.
Only a hand’s breadth separated them.

His thumb brushed once more across the clasp, then he let go. The air between them tightened, not heavy, but like a string drawn taut, waiting for its note.

She didn’t know when the impulse had risen, maybe when he freed the clasp. Maybe earlier, somewhere between laughter and silence.
She only knew she wanted to touch him.
A thought, warm and defiant: To hell with it, why not.

Her fingers found his collar. She stepped in half a pace and pressed her lips to his.

It wasn’t tentative, not cautious. It was a plunge into water, hot, urgent, honest. The liquor still lay cool and resinous on her tongue, mixed with the sweetness of dango. She pressed into him, felt the quiet strength of his body. A sound escaped her, half sigh, half wonder, at how right it felt.

His hesitation lasted only a breath.
Then he kissed her back, clear, steady, unhurried.
One hand at her waist, the other pulling her closer.
He didn’t kiss like someone who demanded, but like someone who rarely asked and now knew exactly what he wanted.

His breath grazed her cheek, rough, vibrating in his chest as she urged him toward the stairs. She was too fast, too eager, she could feel it in his brief pause, in the careful touches with which he steadied her heat.

But she wanted, and he gave. With the next kiss, hotter, more insistent, she drove him to his bedroom door. Her fingers tangled in his hair, as though all the warmth would vanish if she let go.

The room received them with muted light, the smell of dry linen and beneath it, his own familiar scent. Her lips caught his lower lip, held it, a gentle pull with her teeth, nothing more. His answer was a sound, deep, rough, darker than she had ever heard from him and it shot hot into her belly.

She pulled him with her until the mattress yielded under her back. His hands at her hips, hesitant, searching, never gripping. For a moment she feared he might pull away, that she had been too forceful. But he stayed. Braced over her, yielding. Her dress had slipped up, and his hand found bare skin. First cool, then warmer, steadier, as his thumb traced a slow line along the edge of fabric. Goosebumps followed him, as if her body had already decided.

His breath slid from her lips down to her throat; she tilted her head, let him closer, and a sound escaped her. Her fingers in his hair gave direction, and he followed, not hurried, but with an intent that pulsed through her in waves of heat. His hand at her hip grew firmer, the other drifted up her back, found the hollow of her neck, holding her so that she had to arch toward him.

For a heartbeat he lingered there, savoring the contact. Then his thumb traced the fine tendon as though memorizing every reaction, every breath, every sound. Careful, never unsure. So focused that every movement of hers was met with an answer.

She could feel him trying to rein her in. His calm dampened her fire. When he broke away, not rough, just certain and pressed his hand to her throat, a needy sound tore from her. He held her there, no harsh pressure, but unmistakable, until her gaze found his.

His breath came ragged, a flush across his cheeks, hair falling loose into his eyes. And all she thought was: shameless. Yes, she was. She wanted more. She wanted to pull him out of his calm, to claim the answers he never gave the world.

“Are you sure?” His voice was hoarse, dark, as though the night itself had left sand in it. It slid down her spine like silk.

Her fingers traced his nape, lingered at the dip above his collarbone, drew him closer.
“Yes,” she whispered. Small. Quiet. But enough.

Something in him released audibly. His fingers eased, his thumb stroked her jaw, then his mouth touched her throat. Inch by inch he followed the line up beneath her ear, lingered there for a breath, then returned to the pulse point, savoring her yes in unhurried detail. Every touch sent goosebumps racing down her arms.

Her palm lay flat on his chest. The quick, heavy beat matched her own.

His hand at her hip pulled her close until no space remained. Cloth rubbed against cloth, linen gave way, and the friction sent fire surging through her belly. She lifted her leg higher; his grip tightened, more certain now, taking her rhythm and giving it back.

Her name left his lips in a rough breath, short, raw. The way he said it wrenched a moan from her. The sheet crumpled under her shoulder blades, his weight pressing her deeper into the bed. Heat met heat, breaths fell into the same rhythm, and each time she pulled him closer, he answered with that quiet, affirming sound.

A rustle, a whisper of cool air over hot skin. The dress slid to the floor. What remained was bare skin under his fingers, her name in his throat, and the taste of night on his lips.

The coolness on her skin lasted only a beat before his fingers left a burning trail, from collarbone to the tendon at her throat, down to the narrow line above her hip. She arched toward him instinctively, as though her body had already chosen. His breath grew warmer, his hand steadier, and every new kiss sent a wave rolling through her stomach. With each heartbeat, the world outside dimmed until only he remained, breath to breath, close, insistent.

Hot was far too weak a word. She melted beneath him, lost herself in the clarity of his movements. And even when she sensed the brief hesitation, the faint tremor, the barely veiled restraint, she only wanted him more. That rare fracture in his calm told her he was giving her something he showed no one else.

She guided him, warm, determined, just as she needed, just as she needed him. He followed, not blindly, but with precision, answering every shift, every small signal. That seriousness, the way he responded to even her slightest motion, unraveled her. Her breaths grew heavier, less steady, because he kept the rhythm she set, returned it, until it was theirs.

The sheet cooled her back, his breath burned on her skin. She lifted her hips, stripped the last doubt from his hands. Her legs held him fast, open, close. Everything narrowed to breath, skin, and the steady pressure of his hand keeping time with her.

His fingers found the same point again and again, pressing, easing, returning, until every tremor in her body drew an answer.

“Yes,” it slipped out, more air than voice. “Just like that.”

He stayed with her, followed the path she gave him. The closeness deepened, grew easier, a rhythm rising and falling as if on its own. Her hand clenched the sheet, slid to his shoulder, traced the arc of his back, while the heat inside her stretched tight and bright.

The rhythm deepened. A breathless cry broke from her when he found the spot where everything turned both taut and soft. “Oh,” she gasped, rough and small. He stayed there, held, and the tension rippled through her in long waves, until her body set its own pace.

When it broke over her, a cry tore loose, half sob, half release. Her back arched, fingers clawed into his shoulders. The rush ripped through her so sharply that she rose against him, twisting. His hand at her hip tightened in surprise, not harsh, only steady, pulling her back, taking the force with her, guiding her through instead of letting it crush her.

The bed creaked, linen wrinkled beneath her shoulder blades, and everywhere was his warmth, his chest pressed to hers, the unwavering steadiness of his hand. Slowly she sank back, letting the sheet cradle her. The trembling ebbed, left only a fine hum in her muscles. He eased his grip without pulling away, rested his forehead against her shoulder. His breath was rough, his muscles taut beneath her hand.

A final tremor ran through her, and a soft laugh slipped out, more breath than sound. His breath warmed her collarbones, still harsh, but no longer searching. Her fingers slid into his hair, wiped sweat from his nape; his heartbeat thundered against her ribs, quick, then slower, until it matched hers. He stayed close, solid, familiar. His hand slid down her side and came to rest on her stomach, warm enough to quiet the last shivers.

The tension in him was only stored heat now, no demand. He took nothing, only held, as though that was the point of the night. She slid her foot along his calf, seeking warmth, and found it. A faint hum vibrated in his chest, more breath than sound. Just a pause, she thought, to soothe the pounding. And her eyes grew heavy.