A Leap Too Far (Or Maybe Just Enough)

by strange_bedfellows

Summary:

Minato boards a one-way flight to Fire Country for a girl he's never met in person. Their online connection started with a frog meme that spiraled into cursed diagrams, voice notes, and late-night science tangents. Now he's crossing the world with nothing but a backpack and a ridiculous amount of hope.

Notes:

Originally posted on FF.net, this story is now being rewritten with ✨ more context, 🍜 side stories, and 👁️‍🗨️ definitely multiple POVs. Expect: slow-burn science-flavored romance, frog facts no one asked for, and one man’s brave descent into voice-note-induced chaos.

Chapter 1: DM’d You Something Cursed

Summary:

He's just a regular guy: an evolutionary biologist, a part-time frog apologist, and a full-time disaster in love. And like any sane man (duh?), naturally, he buys a one-way ticket to the Fire Country to meet the girl he’s been voice-noting for months. They've never met. He might be delusional. His friends definitely think so. But hey—what’s a little existential panic in the name of romance? 🐸✈️

Notes:

Yes, this is a modern AU. Yes, there are mentions of Orochimaru here. No, he’s not evil—just wildly brilliant, mildly unhinged, and the kind of obsessive scientist who names lab rats after ancient jutsu. Nothing seriously crazy. Yet.

 

Minato's leg bounced like it was trying to outrun his thoughts. He sat perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair at the boarding gate—on a layover en route to the Fire Country, somewhere fluorescent and echoing, halfway between the life he’d built and the one he wasn’t sure he had the right to want. The air smelled like recycled oxygen and overpriced cologne, and the light glared a little too harshly off every surface. Every noise felt louder here—the zip of a suitcase, the sigh of a toddler nearby, the clatter of someone’s metal water bottle hitting the tile.

Twelve hours. That’s how far he was from landing in the Fire Country.

Twelve hours from possibly making the stupidest—or bravest—decision of his life.

His hands wouldn't stay still. Thumbs tapping against his phone, fingers twitching against the seam of his jeans. Restlessness lived under his skin, wired into the thrum of his pulse. He looked like someone preparing for impact.

His phone buzzed. Finally. Not a work email. Not a university group chat. Her name.

Sakura.

He’d finally told her. Just a few minutes ago. Not the whole truth. Just enough.

Minato (sent 3 min ago):
By the way, I booked a ticket.

He could imagine the way she’d read that. The sharp inhale. The slight pause in her typing. Probably biting the inside of her cheek. Probably annoyed. Probably worried. Maybe—hopefully—not entirely pissed.

Sakura:
Are you serious right now?

No emojis. No haha. Just that flat, deliberate tone she used when she was straddling the line between panic and patience.

Minato huffed a laugh through his nose and typed back:

Minato:
💀 serious

Dead serious.

He hesitated a moment, then snapped a quick photo of the boarding gate—the glowing screen with the flight number, the crowd of exhausted passengers slumped in their seats, his worn leather boots half in frame.

Sent.

He waited. The typing bubble came and went like nervous pacing. Then finally:

Sakura:
Just… Let me know when you land, okay? 🫡

He stared at the message like it would change if he blinked hard enough.

Not I’m excited. Not I can’t wait.

Just let me know when you land.

Short. Polite. Careful. Like she wasn’t sure how much space to give him.

Fair enough.

They’d never met in person. Most people didn’t buy one-way international tickets for someone they had randomly met online.

But he hadn’t been normal about this since day one.

From the moment she posted that blurry photo on Reddit—of all places—Minato had been a goner.

Some tiny niche thread. He couldn’t even remember which subreddit now. Maybe r/frogspotting. Or some regional trail group for Fire Country hikers. The kind of thread where usernames rarely interact twice. She’d posted a photo of a tree frog squatting on a leaf, looking supremely unimpressed with existence.

u/shannarooo_: is this guy okay??? found him on a hike and he looks like he just got bad news

The comments were mostly jokes. One-liners and emoji chains. A lot of frog memes.

And then there was him.

u/flying_thundergod: That’s a Cruziohyla calcarifer . 🐸 The skin pattern looks jagged because of cryptic camouflage—it helps break up the outline under shifting light. It’s healthy. Just extremely good at being weird.

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

He didn’t expect a reply. Instead:

u/shannarooo_: okay but why does it look like it owes someone money 😭
also thanks for the dissertation, Professor Frog

He grinned. Couldn’t help it.

u/flying_thundergod: It’s a public service. People need to understand the emotional complexity of frogs.

u/shannarooo_: oh we’re doing this, huh
fine. explain why it screamed at me when I got close

They went back and forth like that for hours. Jokes turned into anecdotes. She asked about slugs next—half serious, half mocking. He answered like it was a class discussion. Then she asked more questions. Real ones.

Eventually:

u/flying_thundergod: This is getting long. DM’d you a cursed frog diagram you might enjoy.

u/shannarooo_: received. curse accepted.

And that was it.

Voice notes followed. Her voice—low, thoughtful, occasionally snort-laughing—made something inside him go completely quiet. Like his brain had been tuned to suddenly go still and filter all the background noise.

She didn’t perform when she talked. She didn’t try to impress. She just showed up. Unfiltered. Funny without meaning to be. Smart without trying to prove it. She was sunlight through fog—gentle, but real.

“Why do you know this stuff?” she’d asked him once, after he went on a tangent about amphibian skin toxins.

“PhD in evolutionary biology,” he’d said. “Supposed to study birds. Got distracted. Ended up TA’ing a biodiversity class under a professor who was obsessed with frogs. It spiraled.”

She’d laughed. “So you’re telling me I stumbled into an academic spiral.”

“More like slid. There was a slug phase.”

He still remembered that laugh. It had wrecked him. Not because it was cute—which it was—but because it felt honest. Like she forgot to be careful around him for a second.

She’d send photos sometimes. Her reading shelf. The book spines were eclectic and chaotic—medical texts shoved between paperbacks and botany journals. And Kage—her cat—would show up in most of them, napping on textbooks or glaring at the camera like she’d interrupted something sacred.

She’d once sent a voice note just to complain about how Kage knocked over her tea mid-sentence. He’d played it back more times than he cared to admit. The way she cussed under her breath. The way she sighed and laughed in the same breath.

A message buzzed in then. From Inoichi:

Inoichi:
Heard you're frog-legging it back to Fire Country. Shikaku says you’re doomed.

Minato smirked, thumbs flying.

Minato:
I’m not frog-legging anything. I’m flying. Gracefully. Like a majestic heron.

Shikaku:
This entire plan is troublesome. Even herons do not travel that far.

Inoichi:
Do herons fall in love with frog girls online and abandon their careers? 🐸❤️

Minato:
Evolution says yes. Shut up. 

The teasing helped. Anchored him. They all worked under Orochimaru now, at a private research institute buried somewhere deep in the River Provinces—Ryūchi Institute. Orochimaru was a legend. Brilliant. Unsettling. The kind of man who casually published gene-editing papers and then wandered off into the jungle for three weeks to chase salamanders.

Minato had learned a lot there. But he missed home.

And somehow, Sakura made home feel less theoretical.

He leaned back now, the cabin lights too white, the window beside him dim with nothing but reflection. He should sleep. Should close his eyes and save what energy he had for customs and time zones and everything waiting on the other side of this gamble.

But he couldn’t stop thinking.

What if she didn’t like him?

Not the voice-note version. Not the clever replies or blurry profile photos. Him.

He caught his reflection in the screen of his phone. Messy blond hair. Tired eyes. A slightly-too-worn hoodie and boots that looked like he’d bartered them off a travel merchant, like he was trying too hard to look like he hadn’t tried at all. He remembered the time she said she liked that he wasn’t performative—he hoped that still counted when he was sleep-deprived and wrinkled.

She’d said once: The beach I go to isn’t pretty, but it’s honest. The water doesn’t lie to you.

That was Sakura. She didn’t sell herself. She just existed. Gently. Carefully. Like she was waiting to be misjudged.

But she stayed.

She stayed when he sent her four articles about frog biofluorescence.

She stayed when he admitted he liked moss more than most people.

She stayed when he said he missed her voice on days she didn’t send notes.

Now he was the one showing up.

One backpack. One way. One ridiculous hope.

“Mate,” Inoichi had said, half-laughing, half-dead serious. “What if she doesn’t even like you? What if online and real life don’t match?”

Minato had shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I like her.”

Shikaku had snorted. “You’re insane.”

“I hope so,” Minato had said with a smile. Whatever that meant.

It wasn’t a crush.

It was something else. Something that lived in the space between half-sent messages and voice notes sent too late at night. Something soft. And sharp. And real.

He wasn’t nervous.

He was terrified.

And completely, recklessly in love with someone who didn’t know it yet.

 

Notes:

Thanks for hopping by 🐸 If this chapter gave you a case of long-distance pining or “oh no he’s cute AND emotionally available” whiplash, please leave a comment or a kudos—ribbit. Reactions, rambles, and wild theories all welcome. Your feedback is the biofluorescent bug to my frog brain, but I implore thee, croak responsibly. 💬✨💚

Chapter 2: Everything's Fine (It's Not)

Summary:

Sakura accidentally manifesting her internet crush into real life sounded cute—until he actually showed up, twelve hours' notice, zero accommodations, and maximum emotional damage. Now she’s sweating through her blouse, dodging her meddling friend, and wondering why she thought letting a hot professor into her apartment (and possibly her feelings) was a good idea 😵‍💫

Notes:

Welcome to a spiraling descent into feelings. Also, logistics. Also, floor space and existential dread. There’s one bed, no chill, a very smug cat, and the academic crush of a lifetime standing on Sakura’s doorstep like a rom-com plot twist with excellent hair. You’ve been warned. 🐸💘

For andyyouu and AshGrove1014 — my very first commenters 💌
I still can’t believe someone’s actually reading this!! Thank you for making me scream (in the best way). You are the serotonin behind this chaos. ✨✨✨

The text had landed like a threat:

Made it. I’m here.

No emoji. No screaming punctuation. Just here .

Apparently, that was enough time for her to question every decision she had ever made in her life. The last-minute confirmation. The address she’d sent three weeks ago in a moment of flirty bravado. The weeks of late-night voice notes and heart-scrambling messages.

Now she was sweat-slick and vibrating with nerves, pacing the worn floorboards of her tiny Fire Country apartment like she was trying to dig herself a portal.

“You’re gonna wear a trench into the floor,” Kushina called lazily from the couch, limbs flopped like she paid rent. Which she didn’t, but she might as well have, the way she treated the place, claiming her own drawer space and a cupboard for her instant ramen.

Sakura froze mid-step, heat creeping up her neck. “I’m not nervous.”

Kushina gave her The Look™—the one that said please don't insult me with that weak shrug . “Babe. You are literally vibrating. ”

“Am not,” Sakura muttered, tugging at the hem of her blouse.

Ignoring her friend's weak denial, Kushina continued, “And honestly? Reasonable. It’s weird, letting someone from your phone into your actual house. Though that never stopped you before,” she added, wiggling her eyebrows and pointing to herself.

“And you just told me everything last night. Remember that? The meltdown? The panic confessional? The romantic origin story you thought was totally normal, except it’s very much not ?”

Sakura flushed hot, neck to ears. “That was because I was shocked. It’s not like I planned to tell you.”

“Mmhm,” Kushina hummed, stretching like a cat. “You’ve been vague for months. Just ‘a friend overseas.’ Some academic pen pal. Not a peep about the fact that your mystery man is a cute professor with big gentle energy who sends you nerdy voice notes and actually listens to your rambles about slug-based wound recovery. ”

“I told you that in confidence,” Sakura hissed, arms crossed. “And it’s not like that. I don’t—we're not a thing. ”

Kushina examined her nails with exaggerated interest. “Sure. You just think he laughs like sunlight. And he flew halfway across the world to see you in the most aggressively unremarkable town known in Fire Country. If that’s not suspicious behavior, I don’t know what is.”

Sakura narrowed her eyes. “You’re here too, you know?”

“Which drives my point,” Kushina said smugly. “Because you're here, and I came to see you. It's just a nice bonus that this place keeps some spots that look straight out of a Ghibli movie, which I plan to gatekeep from the Internet forever by the way. Also, not the point. Point is: this man is into you. ”

Sakura blinked like she was buffering. “That’s—no. That can’t be. He’s just… kind. And smart. And stable. And not judgy. And sweet. And thoughtful. And…” She trailed off, horrified at herself.

Kushina smirked. “Exactly.”

“He’s just nice to talk to,” Sakura said quickly, arms flailing. “We talk about work and animals and weird field anecdotes. And—he said I'm a research goddess who'd likely bag a Nobel prize, but that was a joke! Probably. Mostly. And anyway, I was lonely when I moved here, and he was the only person who didn’t treat me like a walking med chart.”

“You like him,” Kushina sing-songed.

“I respect him,” Sakura said stiffly.

“Your voice cracked.”

“That’s actually a congenital condition.”

Kushina just grinned wider. “You got it bad.”

Now she was sweating again. Great. One guest—who was already a handful—and another incoming. Her apartment was officially at full capacity for feelings and floor space.

“One bed, Kushina. One. This is not a romance simulator. There is no option to unlock an annex wing unless I start building one—or at least some bunk beds—out of panic.”

“Make it cozy,” Kushina chirped. “Blanket fort. Platonic cuddles. Or, you know… non-platonic.”

“Kushina! Focus!” Sakura said, scandalized, and then almost resigned, “I hate how good you are at pretending things aren’t disasters.”

That was the real problem. She hadn’t planned for this. For him . For this .

Sakura liked outlines. She liked notes in the margins. She liked knowing where the story was going.

But now?

Kushina on the couch. Minato en route. No spare mattress. No vacancies at local inns. Tourist season had infected Fire Country like an unchecked fever, complete with yukata-clad crowds and the sound of distant taiko drums haunting every available booking site. Hotels—booked. Hostels—booked. Homestays—full. Even the sketchy one halfway down the mountain trail with two-star reviews and a deeply cursed mattress situation? Booked.

She could ask Anko next door for a spare futon, but that would trigger gossip within minutes. Anko would say yes—but also ask why. Loudly. With commentary. This town had eyes. And very fast Wi-Fi.

Send Minato to her parents? They lived two bullet train hours away in the capital, and they’d absolutely host him—but at the cost of his dignity and hers. Her mother would interrogate him over pickled daikon and propose marriage before he finished his first cup of barley tea.

Send Kushina instead? Tempting. But not foolproof. Her mother liked Kushina. Too much . She’d switch tactics and start matchmaking her only daughter and Kushina like it was her last crusade. Which, while not entirely tragic, was beside the point. Also, Kushina would absolutely report back with hourly updates. Possibly with photos. And definitely accidentally rat her out for harboring a man in her apartment.

Leave herself out of the equation entirely—send herself to her parents' house and leave them here like some weird Airbnb host sacrificing herself for the greater good? Humiliating. Ultimate surrender. Zero dignity, but ten out of ten solution.

Build a fort, as suggested. Childish. Possibly charming. Definitely desperate.

Or… pray for a minor, non-lethal natural disaster. Just enough drama to trigger a mass evacuation, nothing fatal. Kami-sama, now would be great. Or just right after he gets here. She’s not really picky.

Kushina, predictably unbothered, hummed from her post like they’re on a picnic, not perched on the edge of emotional catastrophe.

Sakura’s brain, running five tabs too many, drifted back to the night before. When she’d laid it all out to her friend—every detail, like she was confessing a crime.

About how Minato had told her he was originally from Fire Country, but he’d moved to the Land of Rivers in middle school when his family—classic geologists—sold everything and began following rocks like migrating birds. No house left. No land. No family ties. He’d said it casually, like he was reading off his own Wikipedia page. Now, he was based in the Land of Waterfalls, teaching evolutionary biology at a privately funded university and doing field research on amphibians and something about gene flow in toads that she didn’t totally get—but she had listened. Closely.

They’d swapped childhood stories. Because it’s totally normal to discuss such histories with another scientist you accidentally met online, right? She talked about dissecting medicinal plants in middle school. He told her about catching tree frogs and getting yelled at for keeping slugs in his lunchbox when he was six, maybe seven. They had a whole sub-thread of voice notes about weird fieldwork injuries and favorite lab disasters.

She’d shown Kushina everything —her “Frog Logs,” as she mentally called them, consisting of screenshots, inside jokes, the late-night voice notes that lived rent-free in her phone. The ones she definitely didn’t save. Or absolutely did not play back during long commutes. Especially not the one where he said her name like he was thinking it before he spoke.

Kushina had, of course, absorbed it all with a look that said you’re doomed and this is adorable at the same time.

And yet, even with all that… Sakura never thought he’d actually come.

But there it was. That hypothetical conversation weeks ago, coming back to slap her across the face in HD. She scrolled back through the thread, thumb pausing under his contact name:
Prof Yellow Treefrog 🐸🎓✨

Of course that was his name in her contacts. She’d added it one night after an especially spirited exchange about camouflage strategies in frogs. He’d said something nerdy and graceful, and she’d just typed it in without thinking. Now it mocked her like a pastel Post-It stuck to her frontal cortex.

Their back-and-forth about summer had permanent residency in her brain—especially now, when every smug comment of his was coming true with excruciating accuracy.

She never thought he’d actually follow through.

They’d joked about it. Teased and sent increasingly ridiculous GIFs. She told him that if he ever did visit, he couldn’t miss her apartment—it was the only building in town shaped like a half-octagon and painted a warm coral that, depending on the light, either gave peach sherbet or industrial mistake with unsettling confidence. The wooden lattice balconies leaned slightly left, like they’d lost a quiet argument with gravity. The hanging planters were half-dead but trying their best.

It stood out among the neat rows of traditional homes like a weird, loud cousin who’d shown up uninvited—and stayed.

Locals didn’t need an address. Just say “the coral one.” They’d know.

She’d called him an idiot. He’d sent her a frog emoji and a photo of his suitcase.

At the time, it had been funny. Endearing. Something you laugh about and archive under not gonna happen .

Now it was just evidence .

Kushina had since retreated—possibly to the bedroom, possibly to the kitchen, possibly to wherever smug redheads go when they're done supervising someone else's panic.

Sakura repositioned herself by the window. Not pacing anymore. Now she was just… stationed. Like a lighthouse. If the lighthouse had anxiety and pink hair.

The fan clicked in the background, adding its opinion. Everything felt humid and slightly unfair, like the walls were inching closer.

It's just a guy, she told herself. Just a guy.

Except it wasn't. It was Minato.

Why did she say yes to this? Who did she think she was?

But it wasn't like that. He didn't feel like a stranger. Talking to him was like pulling an old book off a forgotten shelf—one that fit perfectly in her hands the second she touched it. Like it had been waiting for her the whole time.

And now he was coming here. To this too-small, too-much apartment. To this messy, unfinished version of herself she usually kept carefully edited for public viewing.

She should’ve been at the airport. But no—
He’d insisted. Said he wanted to “see the country for himself, for the first time in a while.” That he had Google Maps, a rail pass, and the heart of a traveler. That she should trust him not to get lost. Or murdered by Fire Country's winding roads and suspicious signage.

She’d said okay.

She was an idiot.

He hadn’t asked for hotel suggestions, either. When they joked about summer trips, he just laughed and said, “I’m sure we’ll sort something out.” Which sounded so charming at the time. So breezy. So not panic-inducing.

And now? Now the entire region was crawling with tourists and all lodging options had been absorbed into the void.

And then his final message dropped like a guillotine:

Made it. I’m here.

Not the airport. Not the train station. But the valley. Her valley. Thirty minutes away, if even.  Meaning he’d made it through customs, trains, and a bus up winding forest roads.

Meaning he was close. Practically her doorstep.

The soft meow behind her interrupted the spiral.

Kage, her judgmental tuxedo cat, leapt onto the windowsill, flicking his tail like a royal gavel.

"Don’t," she muttered, scratching behind his ears. "Okay, you're the only one allowed to judge me."

Purring. Smug confirmed.

And then—movement. A cab pulled up.

It’s him!

Sakura jumped. Heart in her throat. Kage yowled as her abrupt movement nearly sent his chonky body flying.

She opened the door before her brain could even register a vote. Her body just moved, drawn forward by something older than logic. She barely registered her feet hitting the floor, only the sound of the door swinging open—
and the shape of him.

Real. Solid. Impossibly here.

Backpack slung like an afterthought. Hair chaotic, golden strands windblown from the trip. Grinning like a kid set loose in a candy store. Buzzing with something electric. Beautiful.

And behind him—the cab, already pulling away. 

Of course. He took a cab. So much for the dramatic entrance.

Guess he didn’t want the princess carry after all.

“Sakura!” His face went full sun. Bright. Disarming. “Finally. I can't believe this is actually happening.”

He blinked at her like she might vanish if he didn’t keep her in sight. His hands lifted, hovered, then settled gently on her shoulders.

"You're… real," he said, as if he needed proof.

Something sharp and bright danced behind her ribs. Electricity. Or panic. Same difference.

His hands dropped a second later, like he remembered how to be polite all at once. Creating a respectable distance. Containing the static energy barely held together by his limbs.

"Yeah." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, suddenly unsure how hands were supposed to work. "Real. And sweating like hell. Also—what kind of psycho gives someone twelve hours' notice before an international visit?" It came out in one breath, sharp with the panic she hadn't meant to show.

Instant regret. She probably looked like a startled cat—or a millennial pretending she had her life together while quietly panicking inside.

Perfect. Really charming. Exactly how every girl dreams of greeting someone who's crossed time zones for her.

But he laughed—beamed—like she'd just told the funniest joke on earth. "I thought it'd be fun."

"Fun," she echoed flatly, like the word had betrayed her. "Sure. Yeah. Anyway—welcome to… this."

She gestured vaguely at the building. The chipped walls. The faintly dying plants. The general air of I wasn't ready for this .

Neither of them moved closer. The gravity hadn't quite figured itself out yet, like two mismatched magnets spinning on a desk.

“You look… good,” he said.

He said it evenly—like he wasn’t bursting with energy—but his hand betrayed him, pushing through his hair a little too fast, a little too often. The other stayed clutched to his backpack strap like it was doing the hard work of keeping him grounded.

He shifted, subtly. A small bounce in his heel. Like he was trying to stand still and absolutely failing.

Cool on the surface. Barely. But she could see it—excitement humming just under his skin, leaking out in every twitch of his fingers.

God, she wished she didn't like that as much as she did. "Thanks. You look like you just wrestled your way out of international baggage claim."

That cracked the tension. Both of them laughed—too loud, too sudden—the kind of laughter that felt like a power surge the wiring might not handle.

And he kept looking at her, like she was the best surprise package someone forgot they ordered.

It should've been flattering. It should've been thrilling.

Instead, it felt like someone had unplugged her entire nervous system and reassembled it backwards.

Brain: buffering like bad Wi-Fi.

Face: stuck somewhere between “act natural” and “fake your death.”

And then the apartment reminded her exactly why she wanted to dissolve through the floor. The barely-holding-together couch. The fan clicking like a countdown. The weight of unfinished things, all of it shouting not ready, not yet, not like this .

"It's fine. Totally fine," she added too fast, heat crawling up her neck. "Just wasn't planning for… multiple people in the square-footage department."

The words hung there. Awkward. Dangling. Like mismatched socks on a laundry line.

They still hadn't even set foot inside. The door was open just wide enough to show the modest living room, warm and worn in, the obnoxiously green couch sitting right in the middle like someone had dared it to be that loud. It looked like home. Not impressive—but hers.

Minato rubbed the back of his neck, trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to a boy caught sneaking cookies before dinner . "I mean—I can crash anywhere. Couch. Floor. I could camp outside if that's better." He gave her a grin that was mostly nerves dressed up like a joke. "I'm very outdoorsy now."

He glanced around the yard like he was already scouting for tent space, eyes landing on a scooter and two young trees, and to his left, just across the street—two middle-aged neighbors not even pretending not to crane their necks for a better look at him. Sakura clocked it too. Great. Now she had local headlines forming in real time.

And the worst part? He was trying. Earnest, open, doing his best to blend into a situation that was already spiraling in her head. It only made things worse—like someone offering to build you a shelter out of pool noodles during a hurricane. Sweet. Ridiculous. Completely missing the point.

Sakura's heart did that embarrassing wobble thing, like someone had just reset her blood pressure with a slingshot.

Now both of them were embarrassed. Minato clearly realizing that "a surprise international visit" came with the small issue of needing actual places to put people, and Sakura practically vibrating with visible stress.

They just stood there, awkwardness pooling between them like someone had dropped a glass of water, and no one knew who was supposed to get the towel.

And then—

Before she could completely fall apart, a blur of red hair stepped forward, cutting off her view like someone had drawn a curtain right across the moment.

"You're taller than I thought," Kushina said, tipping her head as she gave Minato a look like she was inspecting a used car. Her grin was sharp, slightly chaotic—the kind of smile that promised either fun or danger, depending entirely on how you answered her next question. "That's good. We like tall."

Sakura swore under her breath. "Kushina—"

But her friend ignored her. "And you're cute, too. Sakura's gonna faint."

Minato—the only person who mattered in this stupid, spinning moment—looked like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or bolt. He tried a smile. "I—uh—I hope not?"

Kushina's grin sharpened. "Good answer."

Sakura could feel her whole face heating up. "I am right here," she muttered, before adding in a rush, "And this is Kushina, by the way. My—friend." She waved a hand vaguely, like she was introducing someone at a bus stop and not at the scene of her impending emotional breakdown. "She's just… like this."

“And you like this feature,” Kushina said, arching a brow before tipping her head toward Minato. “And he better appreciate it too.”

Effortless. Barefoot. The human embodiment of a linen catalog—if the catalog came with sharp wit and a minor degree in emotional hostage situations.

She stepped forward like a lifeguard showing up before anyone had officially started drowning.

"I've been showing myself around. Maybe I could show you a few things too?"

Sakura's stomach folded itself neatly into origami.

Kushina clocked it all—the buzz rolling off Minato, Sakura's full system meltdown, the slow-motion car crash of emotional logistics—and moved like she was diffusing a bomb with a perfect manicure.

Sakura liked her, honestly. In theory. Like you liked a chaotic older sister who borrowed your clothes without asking and left emotional clutter everywhere.

But today? Today she was one too many variables.

Especially when there wasn't enough room here for everyone.

"There's a trail behind the building," she added, casual enough to deserve an award as she slipped on her shoes—the ones she kept by the door like they belonged there. Like she belonged here now. "Goes up to a cliffside with a killer view of the town. You should come. Give Sakura a minute to breathe while she sorts things out here."

Sakura wanted to kiss her on the mouth. Build her a shrine. Name her future firstborn after her.

Minato glanced at her—hesitant, sweet, waiting for permission—but Kushina smiled again. One of those smiles. The kind that makes people agree to things before they've even processed the offer.

"Yeah," he said, running a hand through his mess of airport hair, still practically glowing. "That sounds great."

Kushina didn't give him time to take it back, already reaching for his arm and steering him away like she'd just remembered an urgent meeting on the other side of the property. Minato gave Sakura one last helpless smile and wave before being marched off like a bewildered tourist in a guided tour he hadn't signed up for.

Sakura stood there. Perfectly useless. Watching them disappear into the heat. His laugh trailing after her like a retriever off-leash. Sunlight catching in Kushina's fiery red hair like she's in a shampoo commercial.

That should've made things easier. It didn't. It made Sakura feel like she was watching something slip away before she'd even had the chance to hold it properly.

She wasn't the jealous type. Usually.

But maybe everyone was, when their worst fears showed up in linen pants and casual beauty, hiking their crush into scenic oblivion.

And the worst part—the part she tried very hard not to care about—they looked good together. Stupid good. The kind of good that makes you wonder why anyone would pick you when that is standing right next to them, practically sparkling in the sunlight.

Sakura shut the door behind her. And stood there in her living room alone.

Even Kage looked unimpressed, flicking his tail with the judgment of someone who’d seen it all and was still regally annoyed. Like, this is why we don’t open the door for strangers.

What had just happened?
Seriously—what?

Notes:

If you’re screaming, good. If you’re sweating, same.
Please leave a comment so I know I'm not emotionally spiraling alone 🐸✨💕

Chapter 3: Careful Girls Burn Hotter

Summary:

Enter Kushina: hurricane hair, motor mouth, and a grin you can’t quite trust. We don’t know yet if we love her, fear her, or hate her—but Minato’s about to find out.
He thinks it’s a nice bonding activity.
It is—if you count veiled threats, suggestive stories, and pajama discourse as bonding.
Spoiler: he was not ready.

Notes:

Hike, heat, and one slow emotional striptease (not that kind).
Enjoy! 💣

 

Kushina liked Sakura immediately. It was obvious the girl didn't know how beautiful she was, which somehow made her both intimidating and endearing at the same time. She moved carefully, like she was always trying not to take up too much space—and that made Kushina want to shove the whole universe aside just to give her more room.

She wasn't here to ruin anything. Least of all, whatever thing Sakura had going on with this guy—Minato, was it? Cute. Clearly smitten. The man was practically bouncing like an overexcited Labrador. Maybe it was jet lag, maybe just nerves. Poor guy was probably running on a mix of bad airplane coffee and pure panic. Sweet, in a flustered kind of way. Definitely the type who'd walk into traffic while staring at someone he liked.

So Kushina took him for a hike. Someone had to burn off some of that puppy energy before he accidentally knocked something over—or worse, before Sakura short-circuited in the middle of the living room. The poor girl had looked two seconds away from spontaneous combustion when she opened that door. And honestly? Kushina respected that. She'd been there.

Besides, it wasn't like she was going to interrogate the guy. This wasn't a setup for intimidation; it was crowd control. Give the man a task. Get the blood pumping somewhere other than his ears. Get him out of Sakura's orbit for a minute, let her breathe, regroup, maybe even exhale for the first time in the last twelve hours.

Kushina had told herself this was for the best—get the overexcited golden retriever out of Sakura’s blast radius, give the girl room to breathe, to sort through the sleeping arrangement chaos without catching fire from her own nervous system. Kushina had taken one look at the tension sparking between them on the doorstep—stiff smiles and Sakura practically radiating anxious static like a live wire—and decided to kidnap the man before either of them combusted.

She had said as much out loud, mostly. Kind of.

What she hadn’t done was explain it in a way Sakura would actually get. Not in full sentences, anyway. Just a wink. Hoping it had telepathically translated to, “I’ll bring him back in one piece, promise."

In hindsight, she probably should’ve used more words. Maybe even a diagram. Because judging by the look Sakura gave her, she’d just handed her online crush over to a redheaded storm cloud with questionable motives and hiking boots.

Not that she was wrong. But still.

Honestly? Kushina probably should've let the poor guy put his backpack down first, maybe even offered him a glass of water or something resembling a proper hello before dragging him uphill.

It might've been unbearably scorching for someone who wasn't used to this kind of heat yet—not like her. She'd been in Fire Country a while, after all—couchsurfing, pitching tents, hostel beds when she felt fancy. Heat didn't rattle her anymore. Sweat was just part of the scenery now.

But that wasn't the real issue here.

The real issue was that weird, restless tension that showed up when someone hadn't quite been given a place yet. Logistically. Emotionally. Whatever. Giving him something to do helped. It gave her something to do, too.

Besides, she liked walking. Showing people the cliffs, the trails—the wild beauty of this place always anchored her, made her feel steady. Useful.

They didn't talk much at first. Kushina let him get used to the heat, to the climb. He's probably travel-weary, but he didn't complain. Just kept adjusting his backpack like it was betraying him, glancing at his boots like maybe they'd start walking for him if he stared long enough. The guy was clearly still a few steps behind his own body—jet lagged, probably dehydrated, and running on fumes. But he kept going, as if sheer willpower could compensate for whatever hour his circadian rhythm thought it was.

Every so often, she caught him glancing back down the trail, toward the apartment below. Like he half-expected someone to suddenly appear there. Like if he wished hard enough, maybe she'd be standing there already.

When the silence stretched a little too thin, Kushina finally broke it. "So. You flew all this way for Sakura?"

"Yeah," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, after a pause—like he wanted to make sure she understood it wasn't some reckless impulse—he added, "She's… she's amazing, you know? And funny. And careful with her words, like every sentence she says, she's already thought about three times."

Kushina studied him for a beat. He had that polite professor energy, sure—earnest, apologetic, probably said "excuse me" to inanimate objects. The kind of guy who held elevator doors too long and overexplained his jokes. But under all that softness, there was a glint. A flicker of something deliberate. Like he wanted to be underestimated. Like there was a sharper edge tucked under the layers, waiting to be unsheathed.

Most people led with looks. With charm, with certainty. But not him. He'd zeroed in on something quieter. Thoughtfulness. Restraint. The kind of thing you had to pay attention to even notice.

"Careful with her words," she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "That's what got you?"

He smiled, embarrassed, but didn't back down. "Yeah. I don't know. She's not like other people. I'd send something dumb, and she'd take it seriously—but not in a mean way. Like she actually wanted to get what I meant, even when I didn't."

They reached a ledge with a view of the trees stretching out below, the heat shimmering off distant rooftops. Kushina handed him her water bottle. "So… not just flirting, then?"

Minato met her gaze, steady now. "No. She doesn't even realize she's flirting when she is. I like that about her."

Yeah. He was serious.

"What did she tell you about herself?" Kushina asked, curious now.

He grinned, soft around the edges. "Not enough. That's the other reason I'm here. I want the missing pieces."

"And what if the missing pieces aren't as shiny as the ones you've seen?" she asked, not unkindly.

He didn't even hesitate. "Then I'll hold them anyway."

Kushina let out a low whistle. "Damn. You are serious."

"Very," he said. "And honestly? I'm scared she won't believe it."

There it was—not just infatuation. Investment. The kind people could wreck each other with if they weren't careful. And Kushina liked him for it—not in a romantic way, not even close—but in that rare way where you could see someone might actually deserve the soft ones of the world.

Because Kushina had met too many people on the road who didn't. Travelers who only knew how to take—attention, kindness, places in beds that weren't really offered. Guys who chased wild girls just to tame them. Women who pretended friendship but looked at you like competition. She'd seen it, lived it, got the scar tissue to prove it.

But Sakura? Sakura deserved the opposite of all that. Deserved the kind of softness that didn't ask for anything back. Kushina didn't get protective over people often—not anymore—but Sakura was the exception. Smart and self-editing and so stupidly kind it made Kushina want to guard her like a bouncer outside a velvet rope.

"She's brilliant, you know?" Kushina finally said, voice softer now. "Makes you feel like the whole room leveled up just by having her in it. Thoughtful. Crazy sense of humor, too—but she keeps that part tucked close, like it's something you have to earn."

A beat. Then: "I'm not here to police her choices. If she wants to burn it all down, I'll hand her the lighter. But she deserves soft things. Steady things. The kind that doesn't make her question herself every five minutes."

She glanced at him then, steady. "I'm just here to sweep the floor if someone makes a mess."

Minato blinked. "So… you're the scout?"

A grin tugged at her mouth. "Exactly."

After a thoughtful pause, she glanced at him sideways, playful now. "She's a smartass, too. You noticed that yet?"

Minato laughed, quick and real. "Yeah. It's kind of endearing, actually."

Kushina squinted at him like she was testing for weaknesses. "Endearing, huh? Most guys don't like getting outsmarted."

He shrugged. "Then most guys are boring."

That got a short bark of laughter out of her. Alright—points to Labrador Boy.

But she wasn't done yet.

"She's also unhealthily obsessed with her cat," Kushina added with fake disgust, watching him closely.

"Don't I know it," Minato muttered, smiling despite himself.

"She could start a cult with that obsession."

"Somewhat begrudgingly, yes," Minato said, like someone accepting a ridiculous family tradition. "And I promised to be, like… first minister. Or whatever cults do. It was a whole oath. Blood pact. Cat treats involved. I don't make the rules."

Kushina looked entirely too pleased. "You are in deep."

Minato huffed a laugh. "You're not even mentioning the temper."

Kushina snorted. "As if I could forget."

"No, I figured," Minato grinned. "But it's different on video, you know? Calm, sweet Sakura one second—then the Wi-Fi lags, and she's full-on feral. Swore at her router like it owed her money."

That made Kushina burst out laughing, sharp and full. "God, that sounds exactly right."

"Right? Picture it: pajamas, wild hair, murderous glare—swearing at technology like an old fisherman yelling at the sea. I was in awe."

Kushina barked another laugh, unable to help it. Damn it—he had a comeback for everything.

"Alright," she said, shaking her head. "I'll give you that one."

But nice or not, Kushina couldn't help herself. Modesty was fine, whatever. Sakura dressed like an academic on casual Fridays—button-ups, sensible skirts, the whole please-respect-my-footnotes vibe. Cute, but unnecessarily humble. The shorts she wore today were at least something. Sakura knew she had great legs and wasn't afraid to use them. But honestly? She could stand to stop hiding the rest.

And if Sakura wasn't going to advertise, well, Kushina could do it for her. Just a little. Just enough to scramble loverboy's brain and see what he was really made of.

As they walked, she let the silence stretch. Let it simmer, sharp and sweet, right to the edge of uncomfortable.

Then she dropped the grenade. Casual. Breezy. Deadly.

"What you said just now… it's odd. Don't you know? She doesn't really believe in pajamas."

Minato missed his step on a loose patch of gravel, boots skidding slightly. "I'm—what? She doesn't—what does that even mean?"

Kushina tilted her head, innocent as sin. "I mean… what do you think it means?"

For a second, he looked genuinely alarmed, like she'd just told him Sakura didn't believe in gravity or washing machines.

And then it hit him. Right in the face like a low-hanging branch.

"Oh," he said, breath puffing out, a little winded. "Oh."

Kushina smiled slowly. Sharp. Bright. Dangerous, like a pretty snake sunning itself on a rock. "Careful, sweetheart. You're starting to look a little flushed."

He raked a hand through his hair like it was going to save him. Spoiler: it wasn't. "I'm not flustered."

God, the denial was adorable. She could almost respect it. Almost.

"Sure," she said, voice dripping honey over glass. "Not flustered. Totally calm. Definitely not imagining modest little Sakura all tangled up around you like a sleepy koala. Bare skin. Warm thighs. Nothing in the way."

Minato made a small, wounded sound. Like someone had stabbed him but politely.

"I'm—" He tried again, shaking his head, cheeks pink as dawn. "I'm literally begging you to stop."

Kushina just tilted her head, letting him suffer in technicolor. "But I'm having fun."

She walked a step ahead now, letting her voice trail back like cigarette smoke. Lazy. Lethal. "Yeah—hot nights, open windows. She sleeps light. Can't stand the feeling of clothes sticking to her skin. Drives her crazy."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it—the twitch of his jaw, the desperate, polite panic flickering behind his eyes. His ears were practically glowing. His mouth was doing that helpless thing men do when they don't know whether to smirk or pray.

"And since you're curious," she added sweetly, pure poison in a crystal glass, "she's a cuddler. Real limbs-everywhere, thigh-around-your-waist menace. I only know this because we've shared a bed before. Takahara Coast. Budget hostel, tiny room, no AC. You know how it is."

The words landed with a thud. Not quite a lie. But she let the implication hang in the air like silk on skin.

Minato opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Wait—you and Sakura…?"

Kushina didn't answer. Just let a sly, ambiguous smile curl at her lips. Let him sweat. Let his imagination do the heavy lifting.

He stared at her like she'd set his brain on fire and stolen the extinguisher.

"Relax," she said, finally taking pity. "You should've seen your face."

"But you didn't say no," he mumbled.

"And I'm not going to," she said sweetly. "Frankly? It's fun watching you melt."

She started walking again, satisfied, letting the silence drag like velvet over skin.

But then—then—he had to open his mouth.

"I mean," he muttered, like he was talking to himself, "I figured I'd be the one corrupting someone on this trip."

That stopped her mid-step.

Well, well, well. Labrador Boy had teeth after all.

Kushina turned her head slowly, eyeing him like he was suddenly a puzzle worth solving. "Corrupting, huh?"

"Figure of speech," he shot back quickly, but the way he avoided her gaze said otherwise.

God. Sakura was going to ruin this man. And he'd thank her for it.

Kushina tilted her head, smiling like a fox now. "Dangerous words for a nice boy."

"I never said I was nice," Minato muttered, cheeks burning, defiance blooming under all that polite awkwardness. "I just said I'm serious."

Oh, this was delicious. A mess, a wreck—but with backbone underneath. Interesting.

For a second, Kushina almost—almost—felt bad for messing with him. But this was protective, in her own wicked way. If Sakura was going to give him the soft, breakable parts of herself, Kushina wanted to make damn sure he could handle the weight of it.

She leaned in just slightly, letting him catch the sharp curve of her grin. "Well then, corruptor, I hope you packed more than sunscreen. Careful girls with dangerous smiles and complicated thoughts tend to burn hotter than the sun out here."

Minato met her gaze then. Really met it. Pink-cheeked, messy, slightly wrecked already—but steady beneath it all.

"Good," he said softly, surprising them both. "That's what I came for."

For one breath, Kushina didn't have a comeback. Just a slow, sharp grin spreading like wildfire behind her teeth.

"Well, hell," she murmured finally, turning back toward the trail with a laugh curling in her throat. She didn't say it, but she thought it:

I hope you can swim, little puppy. 'Cause Sakura's not gonna save you when you go under.

And honestly?

That was half the fun.

And if this whole thing blew up?

Well. She'd sweep the floor as promised.

"C'mon," she added, starting down the path again. "Sakura’s probably figured things out by now—and I'm guessing there's somewhere you should be instead."

Because some people were worth protecting, plain and simple.

And Sakura was one of them.

 

Notes:

Okay, maybe not a lot of actual sightseeing took place. 🤭
But Minato survived the hike, barely, and definitely sun-stung, scandalized, and spiritually shaken. Kushina brought him back in one piece, technically. (Depends on how you define "intact.")

If you laughed, winced, or wanted to slap someone lovingly, drop a comment. It keeps the chaos going 🫶🔥

Chapter 4: No Treats, Only War

Summary:

Kage had a perfect system—until the Rectangle Man appeared, vanished, returned in the flesh, and then was whisked away by a loud red stranger. Now there's chaos, betrayal, and absolutely no scritches. Told from an unreliable narrator’s POV (or… the most reliable one?), this is war—with whiskers 😾😾😾

Notes:

From the judgmental POV of Sakura’s cat, who has been through enough. Features emotional sabotage, feline war declarations, and strong opinions about shiny-haired interlopers. Reviews = treats 🐾🐈

I didn't like it. Not one bit.

We used to have a rhythm. Familiar. Safe. My human woke up when I did—because I made sure of it. Breakfast first, scritches second. She worked midmorning, came home smelling like antiseptic and other humans, cooked, ate dinner in front of the TV, gave me more scritches, did her boring paper things, then read in bed until we both drifted off.

Perfect system. Balanced. Us, together. Every night. Repeat.

Then… the phone thing started.

At first, it was just her smiling at that glowing rectangle. Smiling, for no reason, like it was some kind of clever cat. Then she started staying up late or waking up at ungodly hours, poking at it, typing fast like it was some secret mission. And then came the talking. The video calls. And worst of all—the giggling. The kind she only did when she thought no one was watching.

As if I'm no one.

I'm here. I've always been here. Silly girl.

Next thing I knew, she was watering the plants again. Voluntarily. Humming to those dreadful, sticky love songs humans pass around like fleas. Who is this “Sabrina Carpenter,” and why is she everywhere? I don’t even like carpenters. Sure, they fix things—but they’re noisy, smug about it, always sanding or hammering at something. Leave things broken, I say. More character that way.

But the worst part?

She started running. At sunrise. For what? There's nothing out there but old men in slippers, stray dogs, and shame. And she's not even talking into the glowing rectangle while doing it. No. She just circles the neighborhood like a confused pigeon until even the sun gets fed up. Cranks up the heat like, " Oh, you wanna be dramatic? Fine. Burn for it." The whole town’s probably logged her as a public safety concern by now.

Is this supposed to be human zoomies? Pathetic. Zoomies are supposed to be short. Explosive. Majestic. Efficient. Whatever this is—it's not zoomies. It's a crisis with sneakers on.

Now, the obsessive cleaning? That’s probably human zoomies. Or the giddy jumping, giggling, throwing herself on the couch with her feet in the air like some lovesick Victorian ghost. That makes sense.

But the running? At sunrise? Uncalled for. Maybe she's training for something. Like preparing to sprint for her life. Maybe he’s that much of a threat. Humans and their weird mating rituals. And the worst part? Half the time she's not even focused. Just jogging around in sloppy little circles, muttering to herself like a street prophet. There’s this tiny thing stuck in her ear, but I don’t trust it. Probably some government plot. Looks like she’s finally cracked. Talking to no one. Smiling at nothing. I don't deserve to be around this!

I’ve had enough. I demand my late-morning cuddles, and I will scream until they are delivered. I have done my part: yowling at ungodly hours, sitting on her keyboard like an unpaid intern, knocking over pens purely out of principle. All to remind her: that glowing rectangle will never love her like I do.

And then—
the calls stopped.

No more glowing faces. No late-night giggles. Just silence.

The glowing rectangle stayed dark, like it had forgotten how to love her back. And she kept staring at it, waiting—like it might explain itself. Sometimes she'd flip it face-down like that would make her stop caring. Other times she'd pick it up again three seconds later, pretending she hadn’t just checked.

I thought maybe he died. Or worse—got distracted by another glowing rectangle. But she never said a word. Just kept pretending everything was fine, like if she scrubbed the sink hard enough it would erase whatever happened between them. What even happened between them?

She kept cleaning. Scrubbing everything twice. Rearranging books she never reread. Even her little plant jars went untouched. No more slug potions. No muttering to herself about enzymes and regeneration and whatever weird human witchcraft kept her sane. The strange leaf-vine obsession? Gone. Not a single whispered “chloro-stupid” under her breath for days.

I tried to help. Sat next to her. Gave her The Paw . Sometimes she’d scratch behind my ear, but all absent-minded, like she forgot I was even there.

Other times, she'd give me food I didn’t even ask for—like, actual food. Hello? I wasn’t hungry, I was offering emotional support. Tsume already called me obese at the last vet visit. I’m watching my figure.

And at night, silently screaming into her pillow.

Humans are weird. Just meow about it, I say.

But at least she stopped those ridiculous morning runs. Good. More bed cuddles for me.

And then she showed up. The Red Woman.

Loud. Scented like ocean air, foreign shampoo, and reckless decisions. Definitely not from here.

She talks like punctuation offends her. Pets me all wrong—too enthusiastic, like I'm a stuffed toy, not a regal being. And worst of all—she barges into our space like she owns it. No warning. No reverence. No slippers.

As if I haven’t lost enough time with my human already, now this whirlwind keeps barging into our space, waking the furniture and disturbing the very important sunbeams.

But... she makes my human laugh. A lot.

And my human’s been keeping up. I’ll admit, it’s impressive. I thought she’d crash by now, but no. She’s been buzzing around with that loud one, matching her chaos with her own shy kind of mischief. Not that I approve. I’m just observing. Like an omniscient deity.

Still, I was waiting for the crash. Crashes mean more naps. More scritches. More soft blankets and her curling into a sad lump that I can warm with my magnificent presence.

But instead… something worse happened.

Last night, something finally broke.

We were about to go to bed. Same routine: stare, sigh, stare, sigh. Then boom—a scream. Then pacing. Endless pacing. The Loud One was in the living room, watching some terrible human mating ritual on TV. Honestly, she should’ve been helping.

So I did what any self-respecting cat would do. I scratched the door. Loud. Annoying. Insistent. Let me out, let her in. Solve it, or I will. And trust me—I’ve been saving a particularly moist hairball just for these types of emotional emergencies.

Finally—

“Kushina! I’m in big trouble!” my human called.

Good. The carpet stays safe another night.

I leapt onto my throne—the armrest of the couch—and watched the drama unfold. Humans scrambling. Honestly, better than Love Island: Season do I look like I give a rat's tail?? It's annoying.

But maybe finally—finally—I thought I might just get my bedtime cuddles back.

Foolish. Wrong. Deeply wrong.

After the pacing came another wave of cleaning, or reorganizing of things that didn’t need reorganizing. Unhelpful conversation with the loud one. Then the endless staring at the rectangular thing as if willing it to spirit her away from this place. Then me getting nearly flung off the windowsill like unpaid circus talent.

Then he showed up.

Tall. Smelling like trouble, though he tried to cover it up with that too-clean, soapy man-cologne. I don’t trust it. Or him. Tall people always mess with shelves they have no business touching. And he was looking at mine.

So this is what all the pacing was for. The manic cleaning. The book-flinging. Me, almost dying tragically (and beautifully) among the succulents.

All for him?

And then—I recognized the voice.

That voice. Deep. Warm. Happy. The same one that used to come out of the glowing rectangle. So this is what he looks like when he steps out of that thing.

Honestly? I don’t like it one bit. It was bad enough when she stayed up giggling at the glowing box because of him. Distracted. Forgetting scritch time. Running like a fool around the neighborhood. But this? This is worse.

Now the distraction has legs. And really long ones at that. Worn shoes and shelf-meddling potential.

Does he notice me yet?

Of course not. Good. Stay that way.

As if I’m going to let him get cozy on my bed. I’d pee on him first. Then scratch his eyes out for good measure.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve dealt with male humans before. None of them were worthy. One used to leave socks everywhere. Another kept calling me “little guy.” Insulting. I am not little. I am dense with divinity!

The last one? Tolerable, I’ll admit. Quiet. Too quiet. Communicated in grunts and nods like some kind of wounded forest spirit. Pretty, but cold. No laughter, no chaos. He took up less air, but more space. Always sleeping where I sleep. My spot. My human. And she let him.

Hopefully this one doesn’t try the same stunt.

And my human? Practically vibrating out of her skin. Heart hammering like a trapped bird. His too—but all wrong. Jumpy. Golden retriever energy stuffed into a man’s body.

I hate dogs. And apparently, human males now, too. They’re reckless with soft things. They don’t know how to handle anything gently.

And that’s my job. To guard the gentle things. The soft things. Her.

I don’t trust him. Not for a second.

I watched them, carefully, the way I do with moths that I haven’t decided whether to hunt yet. And honestly? They didn’t even seem to know what to do with each other. Fumbling. Hesitating. Like they forgot how arms work. I’ve seen my human hug the red one a hundred times like it’s nothing—but this guy? If he even thinks about it, we’re going to have a problem. Claws out. Full glare. Immediate consequences.

And God—I really hope they don’t jump into mating right away like those ridiculous dogs do when the mood hits. No rooftop serenades, no elegant pawwork, just—chaos. No dignity. Cats have standards. Songs first. Mystery. Suspense. Build the tension properly. This? This is just uncomfortable to witness.

If they do go there, I’m leaving. No way I’m sticking around for that. Sayonara, idiots. And with the redhead in the mix? More feet. More noise.

This house is already too small for this much human nonsense and my very important tail.

Honestly. No shame at all.

And yet—for a fleeting, dangerous moment—I thought: good. He’s finally stepped out of the glowing rectangle, ready to account for his silence. To explain himself. Apologize. Submit.

But just as something almost-recognizable began to pass between them—my human and the tall, yellow-haired man—she interrupted.

The Red One. Too loud. Too tall. Too shiny. Her hair caught the sun like a weapon. Her smile? Weaponized.

And somehow, despite never having met him before, she just—pounced. Not literally, but close. She strode up to him like punctuation was a personal offense, shoved all her noise in his direction, and barked something about sightseeing and spontaneous combustion. Like a real chaos goblin acting with pure impunity.

And him? He blinked. Smiled. Said, “Yeah, that sounds great.” Just like that. Like he wasn’t supposed to be here to grovel.

No, it doesn’t, you traitorous giraffe!

She grabbed him by the arm like they’d rehearsed it. And off they went. Into the sun. It was like a crime scene was being cleaned up in real time.

I stood there. Watching from behind my human's legs. Regal. And indignant.

Is this happening? Am I watching a live kidnapping? Of my human’s mate? Right in front of me?

My ears twitched. My tail lashed.

I turned to look at the empty space where he’d stood like it had personally insulted me.

Oh. So we’re just giving him to the Shampoo Witch now. That’s the plan. No protest. No claw marks. Just handing over the rectangle man like he’s community property.

Unacceptable.

She thinks she can take him? Like I didn’t spend nine lifetimes tolerating his voice from that glowing box? Like I didn’t lose sleep and scritches and floor space over that soft-talking, emotionally confusing string bean? He’s mine. Mine to approve. Mine to destroy.

Besides, they looked absolutely ridiculous together.

You want him? Fine. You’ll have to fight me first. Trial by paw. I will summon the wind. I will claw your luggage. I will pee in your shoes so thoroughly that your ancestors feel it.

This is war now.

You don’t steal from a cat and expect silence.

I will knock your belongings off every surface. I will appear in mirrors at night. I will sit on your chest while you sleep and whisper ancient curses through my whiskers.

Mark my words: Shampoo Witch has no idea what she’s invited.

This is not over.

Notes:

Originally, I had another filler chapter planned for context after this one—but now I’m rethinking the order. Hmm. Should we press on with Sakura or Rectangle Man next? Decisions...💭💭💭

Chapter 5: Of Subtle Surveillance and Seasonal Sweets

Summary:

This quiet town tucked in a coastal valley between the hills and the sea—where whispers travel faster than the breeze—has excellent views, especially behind lace curtains. So when a sunny blond man shows up at Sakura’s door (and is promptly dragged off by a fiery-haired whirlwind), the Auntie Alliance™ gets activated. Because around here, someone’s always watching. 👀👀👀

Notes:

Full disclosure: I’m geographically challenged. Like, “where is north again?” challenged. So if the apartment layout makes no sense, please blame topography, or the sun.
To help you visualize the chaos, I’ve included an AI-generated image of the famous Coral Apartment and the possible sniper-nest vantage point of Sakura’s gossiping neighbors. I edited it (badly) on my phone with the enthusiasm of a raccoon with a touchscreen, and frankly, I can’t be bothered with real editing anymore because I’m sleep-deprived and hanging on for dear life.
But hey, it should give you some idea! Anyway, here's the chapter! 🤖

It started the way it always did: someone spotted something unusual, and within minutes, the whole neighborhood intelligence network was activated. The speed of their coordination was predictable and efficient—it was almost impressive.

This time, it was Mrs. Morino who spotted him first—the tall blond man, practically gleaming in the sharp summer light, awkward with his hands like he didn't know what to do with himself. Definitely not local. And not the usual kind of tourist that sometimes wandered up here from downtown, sweaty and lost with city accents.

No, this one was personal.

"Another one," Mrs. Morino muttered into her tea, squinting through her veranda's faded curtains. "She's got another one."

By the time Mrs. Morino wandered past the flowerbeds for a "casual walk" into another's yard, Mrs. Arai was already stationed by the bend, pretending to inspect her creeping vines but really watching the street like a hawk. Mrs. Morino wasn't even pretending anymore, halfway to the sidewalk, tea in hand, squinting like she was identifying mushrooms in someone's lawn.

They weren't exactly subtle. Before the man could even cross the threshold of Sakura's apartment, Sakura and her guest had already spotted them. Her and Arai. Caught red-handed, if watching people from a distance with garden shears in one hand and a tea cup in the other could be considered a crime. He—whoever he was—mumbled something about "crashing everywhere," a little too loud and a little too embarrassed, like a teenager fumbling through his first confession.

It should’ve ended there.

But just as the man leaned in, maybe to speak again, a redhead emerged from inside the house.

Too pretty. Too loud. Too bold.

And she dragged him off.

Not inside. Not for tea. Just—down the lane. Like she had dibs—chin high, wrist firm, striding like she knew the ending of a story no one else had started reading.

Morino blinked, nearly sloshing her now cold tea down her blouse.

"Now what in genjutsu is going on here?"

"She didn’t even let him put down his things," Arai murmured, crouched near her vines but no longer pretending to tend them. Her eyes were sharp, almost eager. "Just came out and claimed him like she’d paid advance."

"Claimed? That was poaching," Morino snapped, fully upright now, tea forgotten. "Did you see his face? Startled like a puppy."

"Maybe he likes being dragged around," Arai offered dryly. "Some men are like that."

Arai snipped at her vines, once, twice, then abandoned the pretense entirely. By the time she caught up to Morino on the other side of the road, they were both peering openly up the trail, tea cup forgotten somewhere in the dust.

Mrs. Tanabe joined them moments later, as though summoned by divine timing. No tea. No drama. Just a serene, unreadable expression. She’d seen everything, of course. Her movements were crisp and practiced, just another old woman adjusting laundry clips in the heat. The art wasn't in hiding—it was in making watching look like something else entirely.

The three of them were practiced, at least. And when they failed, they failed with dignity. Besides, in a town like this, getting caught wasn't a deterrent—it was part of the sport.

"Thoughts?" Morino asked, never one for subtlety.

Tanabe simply adjusted a clothespin on the line. "That was not a casual visit."

They stood in silence, the three of them, eyes locked on the curve of the road where the redhead and the tall man had disappeared. The cicadas buzzed louder. A dog barked from three houses down. Somewhere, a screen door slammed.

"So," Arai began delicately, "the Uchiha boy—that’s over, yes?"

"Since last summer," Morino confirmed. "Didn’t even make it to Obon."

"Good riddance," Arai muttered. "All that hair and no manners."

"Brooding," Morino added. "Always looked like he was about to deliver tragic news. Never once said good morning."

"Beautiful, though," Arai sighed. "Like a statue you’d see at an old shrine—the kind you can definitely tell is quite cursed."

"He didn't even need to work," Morino grumbled. "His family practically owns half the port. Never lifted a finger but still walked around like the world owed him something."

"He liked her, though," Arai admitted, reluctant but fair. "The new girl from the city, smart, sharp edges, didn't treat him like the second coming of rice harvest. That was new for him. He probably thought it was exciting. Until it wasn't."

"She said it was different priorities," Morino sniffed. "What she meant was, he didn't know what to do with a girl who could stand on her own."

Tanabe said nothing.

"Anyway," Morino said briskly, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. "I tried setting her up with my nephew after that, Idate. You remember, the one with the fishing boat."

Arai made a face. "The one who talks about tuna like they owe him child support?"

"He’s dependable. Fishing's not glamorous, but he's steady. He does honest work."

"And very allergic to any meaningful conversation," Arai countered. "Sakura’s too sharp for that kind of man."

She gestured vaguely at the street, like it was obvious. "Not that there’s much to choose from around here. Half this town's old enough to collect pension, the other half's still losing baby teeth. Anyone her age’s already moved to Konoha—or thinking about it. Even the decent ones are either married or insufferably into that cryptocurrency nonsense."

Morino snorted. "She deserves someone who knows how to talk to her. Or at least knows when to shut up and listen."

“Well, what kind of man is visiting her now?” Morino asked. “That one didn’t look local.”

“Definitely not from Konoha,” Arai murmured. “Or even Hi no Toshi.”

“He looked like heartbreak,” Morino whispered, delighted. “The kind that doesn't even know it yet.”

“And the redhead?”

“Trouble. You can see it in her stride.”

Tanabe tilted her head. "If this is a triangle, it’s not equilateral."

Morino blinked. "Are you saying one of them doesn’t know they’re in it?"

“I’m saying,” Tanabe said calmly, “that one of them wants something, one of them has something, and one of them is trying not to look like they care either way.”

They all turned back toward Sakura’s house, the quiet, immaculate unit on the first floor of the coral apartment.

Arai squinted. "She eats lunch at Akimichi's alone, you know, on Sundays. Same meal, same tea, like she's resigned to it."

"Still, she always looks so... content?" Morino added.

"Really?"

"Maybe."

Tanabe had been watching that house—Sakura Haruno's—with professional interest since the girl moved in. Not in an unkind way. The girl was polite, respectful to elders, and doesn’t host wild parties—not that anyone partied here. Most people were asleep by nine-thirty, and those who weren't were usually fishing or fixing something broken by the salt air. Sakura helped with the school sometimes too, doing first-aid lessons for the little ones, teaching them about wild plants growing on the town’s edges.

But still. Single.

And in a small, coastal town like this—tucked into the southern bends of the Fire Country's peninsula, humid and stubborn and a little too green in the summer—that was all anyone ever needed to justify gentle, well-meaning interference.

They’d talked about it before, over an impromptu meeting, just like this.

Tanabe had said nothing then, just as she said nothing now. She didn't need to. Back then, she was already thinking through the logistics—the gentle kind of interference older women perfected. Introductions. Opportunities. Helpful nudges in the right direction. The slow, careful art of matchmaking without anyone realizing they were being matched.

Tanabe hummed. "Time to pay a visit."

 

Ten minutes later—long enough for drama to steep but not cool—Mrs. Tanabe appeared at Sakura’s door with a tin of sweet bean crackers in hand. Not fruit. Not in this weather. No, what she carried was smarter—homemade, something that would still be good by the time guests returned. Something that made a statement: I am a thoughtful neighbor, not just a bored gossip. Practical, polite, impossible to refuse.

She didn’t knock immediately, of course. The silence was intentional, like letting tea brew strong before pouring. And then: knock, knock, knock .

The door opened—and she saw it instantly.

Disappointment.

Sakura's expression barely flickered, but it was there, clear as a fingerprint: the soft let-down sag of her shoulders, the faint inhale, the too-careful arrangement of her mouth into a polite smile. Not rude. Not cold. Just… caught off guard.

Expecting someone else, were you?

Tanabe filed it neatly into her growing ledger of neighborly observations.

"Ah—Mrs. Tanabe," Sakura greeted after that half-second of recalculation, her voice pitched into that sunny, tired politeness reserved for patients' families and stubborn uncles. Like a hospital bed that didn't quite fit its occupant.

“Seasonal treat,” Tanabe said mildly, holding up the tin. “I made an extra batch. I thought you might need something sweet.”

There it was—that slight pause, the moment of calculation. Politeness versus honesty. Numbers being run, conclusions weighed. Sakura could probably draft a whole clinical report in the time it took her to accept snacks she didn’t want.

Finally, she stepped aside. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Mrs. Tanabe noted everything, of course—the flushed cheeks, the stress, the faint dampness at her temples, but also the effort. The blouse was light and soft, modest but flattering—the kind of thing that didn't shout for attention but suited her well. Simple, but it worked. Cute, really. The sort of outfit that made sense for this kind of heat. Paired with neat shorts and hair half up, half down—like she couldn't quite decide on tidy or loose, so she'd gone with both—she looked good. And a nice touch of lipgloss. Not the flashy kind—just tidy, fresh, like someone who knew how to keep herself comfortable and presentable without showing off.

"Rough day?" she offered gently, just enough warmth to make it sound like neighborly concern, nothing more.

Sakura gave a quiet, almost self-conscious laugh. "I was this close to borrowing a futon from Anko," she admitted, tone dry, like she was letting Tanabe in on a small, harmless secret. “I’ve got guests over,” she added, careful and polite, like she wasn't about to assume Mrs. Tanabe— or anyone else —had noticed, even though of course they had. “You know how Anko is. The futon would probably come with a story about venomous caterpillars or I would have to trade one for it. Maybe both.”

Mrs. Tanabe's nose twitched slightly. Of course, they knew Anko. Everyone here knew Anko. She lived next door, worked with Sakura at the hospital, and had a well-documented fondness for poisonous things, strange pets, and hobbies that made perfectly reasonable elderly women shift uncomfortably in their seats. Good woman, but mildly terrifying. Always had been.

"Don't be ridiculous," Tanabe said briskly, waving it away like bad steam. "We've got futons. Clean. Fresh. And plenty of rooms—obviously. No snakes, no jellyfish, just peace and quiet. Why not send your guests to us?"

She let that hang, casual as laundry flapping in the breeze. Not too sharp, not too pointed—but just enough weight on it to feel like more than neighborly hospitality.

And there it was—the pause. Sakura's shoulders didn't tense, not exactly. But her fingers shifted slightly on the tin, adjusting the weight unnecessarily. Polite smile still in place, but just slightly too careful

Sakura shifted the tin slightly. "Ah… they’re not exactly traveling together. Old friends from different parts of my life, that's all. Just… visiting, separately."

Not a lie. Not really the truth either. And certainly not what Tanabe had asked.

Lovely. Nothing sharpened a lazy summer afternoon like this kind of careful fencing.

Tanabe hummed, neither agreement nor disagreement, like she'd just tasted a mildly interesting tea blend. Let it sit. Let it steep. The good parts always came later.

"Interesting timing," Tanabe said pleasantly.

Sakura’s smile never faltered. "Coincidence."

"Of course."

They sipped silence.

But she softened it again, folding the question neatly back into the original offer, as if she hadn't been testing for weaknesses just moments before.

"Well, the offer's the same either way," she said mildly, straightening a crease on her sleeve. "Guests should be comfortable. And it's no trouble—not with all our empty space rattling around."

It was a good offer, and she knew it. It was reasonable, generous, and well, thoughtful. The kind that is hard to refuse without seeming ungrateful.

But Sakura just blinked, then frowned—not insulted, just protective maybe. Or habit. Tanabe didn't press.

"Thank you," Sakura added. "I’ll think about it."

Tanabe smiled kindly. One doesn't need to win everything in an afternoon. Victory was steeped slowly, like tea leaves—bitter first, sweet later.

"Neighbors are for helping," Tanabe said. "Don’t overthink it."

When she returned, the others were waiting like cats on a porch.

"Well?"

"Triangle confirmed?" Morino demanded, narrowing her eyes like she was studying a storm cloud. "Three's never just a coincidence. And that redhead—too pretty, too friendly. You know the type."

"Could be one-sided," Arai argued, but softer now, sympathy sneaking into her voice. "Did you see her face when they left? I know longing when I see it—and that girl's in it deep.

Morino sniffed, "Mutual pining at least. Sightseeing? Please. Proper tourists have itineraries. That one looked like he took a wrong turn out of love and just kept walking."

"But you don’t get dragged off like that unless you forgot who you were in love with," Arai argued.
Tanabe said nothing—then gave a quiet chuckle, low and knowing, like someone handed the winning hand in a game no one else realized they were playing.

"Unconfirmed," Tanabe answered at last. "But... potential for misunderstanding? High."

Tanabe smiled. "This is going to be good."

The others glanced at her—and then, like a match catching, they laughed too. Not loud, but warm, sharp, brimming with the delight of real, unfolding drama.

It was, after all, the most interesting thing to happen here in months.

 

Notes:

I couldn’t help myself. This POV demanded to be written. I promise Sakura’s or Minato’s POV is definitely coming next, but this chapter will be essential to the chapters ahead. Please stay with me! 🌸🌸🌸

Chapter 6: The Exit Plan

Summary:

Wherein Sakura tries to solve the accommodation situation... finally. Or maybe not.

Notes:

Like I said in one of the comments, I’m going to make it just a bit convoluted. Things are spiraling, but that’s the fun of it (for us, not for Sakura). Slow unraveling ahead. 🫣🫣🫣

The quiet should have felt like relief.

Instead, it pressed in—too tightly, too suddenly, like a held breath that refused to release.

Sakura stood in the center of the apartment, hands on her hips, surrounded by the hollow echo of Kushina’s absence. The door had barely clicked shut behind the whirlwind redhead and her sightseeing companion when the silence began to creep in, awkward and loud in its stillness.

She exhaled slowly.

She paced once across the kitchen, pivoted, then back again, pretending to check the fridge for no reason. Too quiet. Too still. Every object in the apartment felt charged, as if holding its breath along with her.

Even Kage seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere. The cat—fluffy, judgmental, and entirely uninterested in human emotional spirals—lifted his head, blinked once in bored disapproval, and, without a sound, padded off toward the hallway with the slow dignity of someone excusing himself from a conversation he found beneath him.

Alone time. Right. Good. This was good. She liked being alone. She needed it.

It wasn’t like she’d been bothered watching the two of them get along like old friends who’d met in another life—laughing too easily, walking too close. No, of course not. Because Kushina was her friend. And Minato was... also her friend. The kind who sent her frog articles and corrected her Latin taxonomy with far too much politeness.

He was kind. Gentle. Steady in a way that made her feel like she didn’t have to explain herself all the time. That’s all.

And that was terrifying.

Because she’d just spent over a year clawing herself out of a situation where she had lost the words for herself. Where her presence had become something small and manageable, something dimmed for someone else’s comfort.

And now he was here—with his soft voice and his stupid good posture, like some polite academic angel who didn’t even realize what he was doing to her nervous system.

She blinked hard, exhaled again.

Spiraling, Sakura. Get a grip.

Right. Forget for a minute there’s a crush somewhere on someone. Just… forget.

She had a more immediate, practical problem: accommodations.

With Kushina and Minato getting along so well— too well—maybe it wouldn’t be that awkward to keep them under the same roof. Just three adults sharing space, like having a slumber party. Nothing weird about that.

Except... except Kushina would absolutely run her mouth. She’d say something mortifying—like how Sakura kept Minato’s voice notes saved in a special folder. Or how she had a completely innocent, definitely not obsessive backup copy of his lecture slides and scientific notes organized by topic. Or the part where—

“Okay, okay,” Sakura muttered aloud. “Spiral over.”

She clapped her hands lightly against her cheeks and nodded, as if to reset herself.

Right. Action. Borrow futon. Anko was next door. She always had extras, even if you sometimes had to trade for one.

Sakura was halfway to grabbing her phone when a knock at the door made her jump.

Her heart—traitorous, hopeful thing—stuttered.

For one full second, she imagined it was Minato again. Breathless from jogging back, saying something like a scenic walk won’t mean anything without you . Or worse. I wasn’t here for anything else, really —

A confession? Already?

She was not ready. She would never be ready.

Sakura opened the door with what she hoped was a neutral expression—and found, of course, Mrs. Tanabe standing there. Not Minato.

The elderly woman looked tidy and composed, dressed in a crisp blouse and a patterned apron, a small container wrapped in delicate furoshiki cradled in both hands. Her expression held the perfect blend of pleasant neighborliness and quiet, expert assessment.

"Ah—Mrs. Tanabe," Sakura greeted, trying to sound normal, like her heart hadn’t just done a somersault.

“Seasonal treat,” Tanabe said warmly, lifting the bundle ever so slightly. “I made an extra batch. I thought you might need something sweet.”

Sakura accepted it with both hands, bowing slightly. “Thank you,” she said, the words sincere despite the mental wreckage still smoldering inside her. “That’s very kind.”

The aunties had been doting on her since she moved in. Homemade pickles. Extra rice. Whole fish “they couldn’t finish.” Fruits from their yards— suspiciously frequent fruits. They said it was just country hospitality, but Sakura suspected it was more than that.

Their own children had all moved to the cities—Hi no Toshi, Konoha, maybe even farther. Busy lives, distant visits, infrequent calls. So now they spoiled her instead. And Sakura, who understood the ache of distance better than she cared to admit, let them.

Still... this visit was too perfectly timed.

"Rough day?" Mrs. Tanabe asked, tone light and neighborly, just enough warmth to make it sound like concern—and nothing more.

Sakura let out a soft, self-conscious laugh. “I was this close to borrowing a futon from Anko,” she admitted, tone dry, like she was letting Tanabe in on a harmless secret. “I’ve got guests over,” she added, carefully neutral, as though she didn’t know perfectly well that everyone had seen. “You know how Anko is. The futon would probably come with a story about venomous caterpillars. Or I’d have to trade one for it. Maybe both.”

Tanabe’s nose twitched, ever so slightly.

Of course she knew Anko. Everyone knew Anko. She lived next door, worked with Sakura at the hospital, and had a well-documented fondness for poisonous things, strange pets, and hobbies that made perfectly reasonable elderly women shift in their seats.

Good woman. But mildly terrifying. Always had been.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tanabe said briskly, waving the idea away like bad steam. “We’ve got futons. Clean. Fresh. And plenty of rooms—obviously. No snakes, no jellyfish, just peace and quiet. Why not send your guests to us?”

Sakura blinked, startled at how fast her chest tightened.

Her instinct—sharp and sudden—was protective . She didn’t want to send them anywhere.
Not because she didn’t trust Tanabe but because something about the idea made her feel like she was losing control of something fragile and not yet named.

Still, she had to explain.

“Ah… they’re not exactly traveling together,” she said, keeping her tone even. “Old friends. From different parts of my life, that’s all. Just… visiting. Separately.”

Tanabe raised an eyebrow, pleasant as ever. “Interesting timing.”

Sakura’s smile didn’t falter. “Coincidence.”

“Of course.”

“Well, the offer’s the same either way,” Tanabe said mildly, adjusting an invisible crease on her sleeve. “Guests should be comfortable. And it’s no trouble—not with all our empty space rattling around.”

Sakura hesitated. So tempted.

It would be easier. Cleaner. Less chance of awkward confessions or Kushina gleefully exposing the existence of the “Minato” folder on her phone.

But why should she? Why should she hand them over just because she was panicking like a coward?

“Thank you,” Sakura said finally. “I’ll think about it.” She tried to sound grateful.

“Neighbors are for helping,” Tanabe said with a smile. “Don’t overthink it.”

Tanabe finally took her leave, the soft click of the door landing like a verdict, sealing Sakura once more in the humming stillness of the apartment.

She resumed pacing. One lap. Two. Fridge. Pivot. Repeat.

If she went to borrow a mattress now, she’d seem rude for not just accepting Mrs. Tanabe’s earlier offer. And really, that wasn’t even the core of it. She had a life. Work. Routines. Patients. Research trials to track and samples to process before Tsunade yelled at her for contaminating the enzyme fridge again.

What would her guests even do while she was away at the hospital or holed up in the lab with a mountain of data?

Her head throbbed.

Then—lightning strike.

“Tsunade,” she whispered, snapping her fingers. Of course. She’d stayed at the manor before. It wouldn’t be strange.

And it wasn’t just Tsunade—her uncle lived there too. The town mayor. Steady, principled, with a quiet sense of duty. The kind of man who once banned loud karaoke after 9 p.m. and still personally watered the municipal bonsai collection.

There was no way he’d let a local—his own niece—feel displaced under his watch.

It was perfect. Logically perfect.

She could leave the apartment to Minato. Temporarily. It would solve the space issue. Keep the peace. Maintain her work schedule. Kage would adapt. She’d bring him with her, obviously.

Everyone would be happy.

…Right?

She grabbed her phone before she could overthink it and hit the contact labeled “Ojichan and Shishou🌲🥃🧬.”

It rang twice before a small voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Shizune-chan?” Sakura smiled into the receiver, instantly softened. “Is your mom home?”

“Hmm… Mama said she’s not home,” the child declared dramatically, “unless the person calling plans to bring her favorite bev—bee—bee… ugh, it’s so hard! Bev—eeee—rej?”

Sakura bit back a laugh. “You mean beverage?”

“Yes! That! But I know what it really means. She should’ve just said sake. That word is easier. Mama is so weird.”

Sakura chuckled. “She really is.”

“Are you coming to the festival, Sakura-neechan? Are you? Because I’m going! And my friends are going! And Papa got me a new yukata with rabbits ! Wanna see it? I’ll send you a picture, wait—oh, wait, Papa’s talking.”

There was a muffled voice in the background: “Shizune, who are you chatting with?”

“It’s Neechan!” she yelled back. “The medicine lady!”

Sakura winced. “Could I talk to him, sweetheart?”

A brief rustle. Then the line cleared, and her uncle’s warm baritone came through. “Is this who I think it is?”

“Hi, Uncle,” Sakura said sheepishly.

“Well, well, look who’s still alive,” he teased. “Your last miracle pill worked wonders. You should see your aunt these days—like a woman reborn. ”

“Oh my god,” Sakura muttered. “Please don’t give me details.”

“I’m just saying, I haven’t danced like that in a decade—”

“Uncle.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughed. “How can I help you?”

Sakura cleared her throat. “I was wondering… Would it be alright if I stayed at the manor for a few days?”

A pause. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah! No, really, everything’s fine. It’s just… a couple of friends are visiting unexpectedly, and accommodations are tight. I thought I’d let them use the apartment while I bunk at the manor with Kage. Just temporarily.”

She hesitated. Then, as if to legitimize the plan further, she added, “That way, I can also work on another batch of the new compound. You know, the one I gave you. I still haven’t officially added it to Tsunade’s documentation yet—it’s sort of still in the frog-inspiration stage.”

“Frog-inspiration?”

She winced. “Uh… it’s based on some recent research about amphibian peptide secretions. Did you know male Lithobates catesbeianus —American bullfrogs—release hormonal pheromones that stimulate mating readiness in rival males during competition season?”

“…You lost me at ‘bull.’”

“Basically, it’s a natural chemical stimulator,” she muttered, suddenly hot in the face. “Derived from frog slime proteins, enhanced with a local herb blend—ginseng, maca root, a dash of Clerodendrum, stuff like that. I was testing its effect on vascular dilation and energy uptake in aging subjects.”

“Sounds like a polite way to say you made me frog Viagra.”

She groaned. “Uncle!”

“I’m thrilled. You’re brilliant. And of course, you can stay.” His voice turned gentle. “You know our door is always open. Bring the cat. I’ll even tell the staff to keep the fridge stocked with that fancy yogurt you like.”

Sakura sighed, genuine relief washing over her.

“Thanks,” she said. “Really.”

“Looking forward to it. I’ll even make your favorite breakfast if you promise not to ask your aunt what happened last Tuesday.”

“Uncle,” she groaned.

“We’ll clear the guest room. Tsunade won’t mind—she’s been saying you should drop by more often anyway. Come over anytime, alright?”

His voice was warm, easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Bye, kiddo.”

Sakura hung up, the comfort of his tone still lingering like the aftertaste of tea.

With that settled, she turned to the pantry. She opened the cupboard door and surveyed the contents like a field medic assessing a triage situation. Miso packets, a lonely can of tuna, dried kelp she didn’t remember buying, and one crumpled bag of rice that looked vaguely judgmental.

Not great.

She had guests now—two guests, technically. Which meant extra mouths to feed and no time to spiral. The least she could do was make sure the kitchen didn’t scream unprepared bachelorette with dietary chaos issues.

A quick trip to the market, she decided. Fresh produce. A protein or two. Maybe something sweet, so she didn’t seem emotionally unavailable via her grocery cart. If she couldn’t make everything make sense, then at the very least, she could serve up something that looked like domestic normalcy. A perfect basket of local greens might not solve the spatial logistics of her personal life, but it could certainly distract everyone—herself included—from the mess her brain had become.

She slipped on her sandals and stepped out into the humid Fire Country air, pretending the breeze wasn’t already tugging loose strands of hair out of her ponytail.

---

The market was bustling but familiar, smells of grilled squid and yuzu vinegar wafting through the air like a second heartbeat. She took her time, running her fingers over glossy eggplants and carefully stacking tomatoes like they were glass. It felt good—tactile, grounding. People waved, she waved back, and for a moment she almost believed she was functioning like a normal person.

Then she passed the section with the slippers.

She paused.

Turned back.

Stared.

Rows of house slippers lined the shelf, varying in size and padding, all soft-soled and nondescript. Nothing romantic. Just practical. Thoughtful. Hospitable.

She frowned, trying to remember what Minato’s build was like. Broad shoulders, long legs, sure—but feet? She hadn’t gotten a good look earlier. Not with her brain short-circuiting and her heartbeat making executive decisions without her consent.

Eyes closed, she let her forehead hover a little too close to the display shelf. All she could remember was the panic. The blush. Her back against the doorframe and her mouth blurting what happened like it was someone else’s voice.

Her cheeks burned. She pressed her fingers against them and exhaled, hoping to will away the heat.

And then—
A throat cleared behind her. Low. Male.

“…Sakura?”

Oh, great. Exactly how she hadn’t imagined running into her ex.

She turned slowly, already cringing.

Sasuke stood there in his usual dark clothes—summer-appropriate, but still him. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, a reusable shopping bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes dropped to the slippers in her hand, picking up on her hesitation.

“You’re a size eight,” he said, flat as ever. Then, with the same deadpan tone: “Get the red one.”

Sakura blinked. “I—what?”

He gestured vaguely at the display. “You always get the red one. After ten minutes of pretending you’re thinking about it.”

Her cheeks burned. “Well, it’s… it’s not for me.”

That got her a slight raise of his brow. Nothing else.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve got a guest. He’s—uh, visiting. From overseas.” She tried to make it sound normal, as if she wasn’t tripping over every word. “I just figured, he probably doesn’t have a pair with him. He only brought a backpack, so—” She winced. “I mean. They. Guest. A guest. Who may or may not be a he. Whatever.”

Sasuke didn’t flinch, but his jaw twitched. Just for a second. A quiet clench before he exhaled and made a show of looking unbothered.

“Well,” he said, cool as ever. “About how tall?”

Sakura blinked. “Um. About the same as you. Maybe just a little taller? Barely.”

He made a soft, dismissive hum, then reached for a box. “Get this one.”

He handed her a pair—neutral enough, good quality. She took it, surprised. “Thanks.”

His eyes skimmed the rest of her basket. “You’ve got too much to carry.”

She looked down at the bag, arms already aching a little from the weight. “Yeah. I didn’t think this through.”

“Are you driving?”

“No,” she admitted, shifting her grip on the basket. “I took the bus. I mean, I saw one coming around the bend and just… hopped on. Didn’t think I should take the scooter, not with my head all scrambled.”

Sasuke’s expression didn’t change, but his silence stretched long enough to imply some kind of judgment. Then again, this was Sasuke. He always looked like that.

He nodded toward the parking lot. “I’ll give you a ride.”

Sakura hesitated. She searched his face for some sarcastic punchline, but there wasn’t one. Just Sasuke—blunt, unreadable, and weirdly… chill.

Not like he didn’t use to help carry her groceries. Not like he didn’t use to drive her home.

She exhaled. “Okay. Thanks.”

For once, he didn’t say something snarky. For once, he wasn’t being a prick.

And that, somehow, made everything more confusing.

Notes:

So Sasuke just imposes his help like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Is this becoming a pattern in this story? …Probably.

Okay, you may hate me a bit, but I'd still like to hear your thoughts 🤡

Chapter 7: Golden Hours and Ghosts in Jeeps

Summary:

Let's see who finally decides to self-exile 👋👋👋

Notes:

Longest chapter so far ft. Minato's POV 🐸

The trail curved gently upward, sun-dappled and quiet, but Minato’s thoughts climbed in different directions entirely.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not in that flustered, teenage way he thought he’d grown out of—but in the startled, spellbound way that comes when someone walks out of the screen and into the golden haze of your actual life.

Sakura.

She had looked so different in person—and yet not. The same eyes. The same voice. But something about seeing her in motion, in sunlight, in reach—it undid something in him.

The blouse she wore was light and airy, the soft fabric catching the summer breeze like it was made to. It floated around her gently, pale against her skin, which he now knew—firsthand—was the brightest he’d ever seen. Not in a polished way, but something fresh and clear and... alive. She had her hair pulled half-up today, a change from the messy bun he’d grown used to during their late-night video calls. In those moments, she was always in her lab coat, glasses perched on her nose, distracted by data sheets or an overactive plant specimen blooming too fast under some experimental serum.

He used to watch her explain things with her hands—elegant, sure hands that barely needed notes. Most of the time, she wasn’t even looking at the screen, just trusting he was listening. And he always was. Even when he was bone-tired, with night sprawling across his side of the world and fluorescent lights humming above his lab bench—he listened. Because somehow, just hearing her voice steady and certain made his own day feel less adrift.

Other times, she’d be the one drifting toward sleep. Hair down. Pajamas on. Her voice softer than usual. Those were his favorites—when the science gave way to something quieter. Sometimes she’d ask about frogs. Or whether he really liked slugs that much. Other times, she’d simply lean into the silence, and they’d stay like that until one of them dropped the call by accident or necessity.

But seeing her now—in daylight, in casual clothes, with the sea air tousling her impossibly soft-looking pastel hair—did something to him. Something quietly irreversible.

And her eyes—God. He hadn’t known green could look like that. Not through a screen. Not in the rare photos she posted. Not even in the videos he’d dug up from her medical conferences, where she spoke with steady confidence in front of crowded halls.

Up close, they were more than vivid. They were alive. Not just in color, but in light—animated by thought, by hesitation, by everything she wasn’t saying.

She had looked at him that first time like she wasn’t quite sure he was real. Her breath had caught—he was sure of it—and she’d tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a shy, automatic motion that made his heart thud like a drum in his chest. Her cheeks had gone pink. Not from embarrassment, he thought, but from the weight of the moment. From him. And maybe, hopefully, from the same breathless disbelief he’d felt too.

He remembered standing there, rooted. He’d had a whole introduction in mind—something simple, sincere. “Hi, I’m Minato. It’s really good to see you.” Maybe even offer a handshake, something grounding. He’d rehearsed it on the plane. He might’ve even written it in a notes app draft.

But when she opened the door, every script vanished. All he could think was she’s here.

He hadn’t meant to touch her. Not right away. But he needed something to steady himself, and that something had been her—her shoulders, just briefly. A light touch. Not a hug. He didn’t know yet if he was entitled to a hug. He barely knew if he was entitled to stand in front of her door.

Still, she hadn’t flinched. That counted for something.

He’d told himself not to be too forward. Not to overwhelm her. He knew how much she prized her boundaries, how carefully she kept herself contained. So he chose restraint. Patience. Grace. Those were the values he believed in.

At least, that’s what he told himself. But when he examined his actions—flying halfway across the world, without warning, without even a clear return ticket—he wasn’t sure that patience was the right word for it anymore.

Desperation, maybe. Or hope. Or something riskier, sharper, with more to lose.

Because if he hadn’t come now, if he’d let this timing slip past him, he wasn’t sure there’d be another one. He had this ache in his chest, this gnawing certainty, that whatever was between them—whatever it could become—was something rare. And if he didn’t reach for it, he might spend the rest of his life wondering why he hadn’t.

So no. Maybe he wasn’t patient. Maybe he was just scared of missing her.

Still, none of that mattered now, not as the trail wound upward and he felt Kushina’s eyes on him, narrowing with suspicion or amusement—or both. There was a conversation coming. An inquisition, probably. She hadn’t missed the way he looked at Sakura. He was sure of it. And Kushina didn’t seem like the type to leave things unsaid.

But for now, in this brief quiet, he let himself remember the way Sakura laughed. Really laughed, from her chest, not the filtered version from laggy calls or muted audio. In person, her laughter was musical. Clear. Wildly contagious.

And just for a second, standing in front of her, watching sunlight catch in her hair, Minato let himself want something impossible.

To be the reason she laughed like that every day.

The silence stretched between them as they made their way uphill—Kushina a few steps ahead, the heat wrapping around them like a thick curtain. Minato’s shirt clung to his back, his pack already heavier than it should’ve been for this short of a trail. But he didn’t complain. Truth was, he was grateful for the exertion. It gave him something to do with his restless energy, with the simmering heat rising in his chest that had nothing to do with the weather.

Every few steps, he found himself glancing back over his shoulder. Back toward the house. Back toward her.

He couldn’t help it. He didn’t even try.

When Kushina finally spoke, it startled him—not because he hadn’t expected it, but because it broke the near-sacred quiet he’d been using to keep himself from unraveling.

“So. You flew all this way for Sakura?”

“Yeah,” he said, the word landing more solidly than he expected. Like it had weight, spine. Like it could hold up under scrutiny. He paused, then added, “She’s… she’s amazing, you know? And funny. And careful with her words, like every sentence she says, she’s already thought about three times.”

He hadn’t meant to say so much. But it was true. The first thing that drew him to her wasn’t her looks—not at first. It was the way she read things so precisely, how she listened like it mattered. Even his awkward jokes. Even the messy thoughts he barely managed to put into sentences. She always tried to meet him where he was.

Kushina didn’t respond immediately. He could feel her assessing him, not unkindly. She had the look of someone used to sizing people up, used to wielding that kind of insight like a weapon. There was something wild in her. He had clocked that the moment she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from the door.

He wondered if she saw right through him—how hard he was trying not to hope too loudly.

“Careful with her words,” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “That’s what got you?”

He nodded, sheepish, but firm. “Yeah. I don’t know. She’s not like other people. I’d send something dumb, and she’d take it seriously—but not in a mean way. Like she actually wanted to get what I meant, even when I didn’t.”

God. Was he rambling?

But he meant it. It had never been about how Sakura looked—though now that he’d seen her in person, it was taking everything in him not to stare. It was the way she thought. The space between her sentences. The weight she gave even his offhand comments.

Kushina handed him her water bottle as they paused at a ridge. The view stretched wide below them—trees, rooftops, the pale blue shimmer of sea on the horizon.

“So… not just flirting, then?”

“No,” he said immediately, then hesitated. “She doesn’t even realize she’s flirting when she is. I like that about her.”

It was reckless, maybe, to say it like this. To offer it up without protection. But he wasn’t here to play it safe.

“What did she tell you about herself?”

He smiled, a little wistful. “Not enough. That’s the other reason I’m here. I want the missing pieces.”

“And what if the missing pieces aren’t as shiny as the ones you’ve seen?”

“Then I’ll hold them anyway.”

He didn’t even need to think about that one. The truth of it had been settled long before his plane landed.

Kushina let out a low whistle.

“Damn. You are serious.”

“Very,” he admitted, swallowing thickly. “And honestly? I’m scared she won’t believe it.”

There, he said it.

That was the core of it, wasn’t it? That she’d look at him and see a guest, a tourist, a sweet-but-temporary story. That he’d flown across the world just to be met with polite distance and a soft, “Thank you for coming,” before she ushered him back to the airport. That she wouldn’t let him close. Not really.

“She’s brilliant, you know?” Kushina said then, tone softer. “Makes you feel like the whole room leveled up just by having her in it. Thoughtful. Crazy sense of humor, too—but she keeps that part tucked close, like it’s something you have to earn.”

Minato nodded, listening hard.

“I’m not here to police her choices. If she wants to burn it all down, I’ll hand her the lighter. But she deserves soft things. Steady things. The kind that doesn’t make her question herself every five minutes.”

He felt the weight of that. The responsibility of it. The unspoken warning.

“I’m just here to sweep the floor if someone makes a mess.”

Minato blinked. “So… you’re the scout?”

Kushina grinned. “Exactly.”

It made him smile despite himself and despite the pressure. She wasn’t wrong.

“She’s a smartass, too. You noticed that yet?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of endearing, actually.”

“Endearing, huh? Most guys don’t like getting outsmarted.”

“Then most guys are boring.”

He wasn’t trying to impress Kushina—not really. But part of him hoped she’d believe him. That she’d see the intention under all his fumbles. That he could be someone who stayed.

“She’s also unhealthily obsessed with her cat.”

“Don’t I know it.”

He knew every name she calls her cat, every anecdote. Had seen more photos of that damn cat than most people saw of their nieces and nephews.

“She could start a cult with that obsession.”

“Somewhat begrudgingly, yes,” he said. “And I promised to be, like… first minister. Or whatever cults do. It was a whole oath. Blood pact. Cat treats involved. I don’t make the rules.”

God, she was teasing him now. Laying traps like breadcrumbs. And he was following them like the fool he was.

“You are in deep.”

I’m not even denying it, he inwardly admitted.

“You’re not even mentioning the temper.”

“As if I could forget.”

“But it’s different on video, you know? Calm, sweet Sakura one second—then the Wi-Fi lags, and she’s full-on feral. Swore at her router like it owed her money.”

He laughed, the image as clear as if it had just happened. “Right? Picture it: pajamas, wild hair, murderous glare—swearing at technology like an old fisherman yelling at the sea. I was in awe.”

And then—then—it happened.

“What you said just now… it’s odd. Don’t you know? She doesn’t really believe in pajamas.”

He stumbled. Literally stumbled.

“I’m—what? She doesn’t—what does that even mean?”

“I mean… what do you think it means?”

“Oh.”

Oh no.

“Oh,” he managed.

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re starting to look a little flushed.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“Sure. Not flustered. Totally calm. Definitely not imagining modest little Sakura all tangled up around you like a sleepy koala. Bare skin. Warm thighs. Nothing in the way.”

“I’m literally begging you to stop.”

He tried. He really did. But his brain was melting. She was doing this on purpose.

And worst of all, he had imagined it now.

“But I’m having fun.”

Kushina kept going, relentless.

“Yeah—hot nights, open windows. She sleeps light. Can’t stand the feeling of clothes sticking to her skin. Drives her crazy.”

His ears were glowing. His entire face was on fire. He could feel it.

“And since you’re curious… she’s a cuddler. Real limbs-everywhere, thigh-around-your-waist menace. I only know this because we’ve shared a bed before.”

Wait—what?

“Wait—you and Sakura…?”

No answer. Just a smile that might have been carved from sin itself.

“Relax,” she said finally. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

“And I’m not going to.”

This woman was a menace. An artist. A nightmare in trainers.

“I mean… I figured I’d be the one corrupting someone on this trip.”

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. And yet—they were true.

Kushina’s head turned. Slowly. “Corrupting, huh?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Dangerous words for a nice boy.”

“I never said I was nice,” he muttered. “I just said I’m serious.”

And maybe—maybe that was enough to earn her pause. Because for the first time, she looked almost satisfied. Like she’d peeled back enough layers to see what was underneath and found it acceptable.

Still, he wasn’t done.
When they started descending back toward the house, the teasing finally quieted, replaced by the sound of their shoes crunching the trail. His shirt was soaked. His pack chafed at his shoulder. And yet—

He glanced at Kushina, still wary but warmed by her grudging approval.

“…Do you think she could like me?” he asked, quietly, like it hurt to say.

Kushina turned, one eyebrow raised, as if to say seriously? after all that?

He scratched the back of his neck. “I know she… doesn’t always know what she’s showing. She’s careful. And I’m not expecting anything. But…”

The silence that followed was a beat too long.

Kushina exhaled slowly. “That’s not something I get to answer.”

And Minato—flushed, exhausted, and stupidly hopeful—didn’t dare believe anything more than that. Not yet. But he tucked the words away anyway.

Because she hadn’t said no.

They took the winding trail back down in mostly comfortable silence—Minato still flushed from the earlier conversation, Kushina pretending not to notice. The breeze had picked up, rustling through the trees as they neared the residential edge of town.

By the time the coral apartment building came into view, the sun had dipped low enough to tint the sky with amber. A few neighbors were out and about—watering plants, chatting over fences. One of the older women waved vaguely in their direction, a glint of speculation already in her eyes.

They even ran into a woman jogging up the path, her wolfish partner trotting alongside. The dog barked once in greeting before veering off to sniff around the base of a nearby tree.

The woman smirked as she jogged in place. “You two look sweaty. Hike or honeymoon?”

“None of your business,” Kushina shot back without missing a beat, tossing the woman a lazy wave as she steered Minato toward the front steps.

Then she paused, glancing back. “Wait—Tsume, that offer about volunteering at the shelter still open?”

Minato filed the name away, Tsume, while the woman snorted.

“Yeah, sure. Bummer, though. Only a couple turned up, and they left this morning. Kids these days flake faster than ticks in vinegar.”

The dog gave a low, rumbling grumble of agreement, circling once before flopping into the shade.

“See? Even Kuromaru agrees,” she added, jerking her chin toward the dog.

“Great,” Kushina said, flashing a thumbs-up. “I’ve got time and rage to spare. Sign me up.”

“You’ll fit right in,” Tsume muttered, half-laughing as she jogged off again, Kuromaru trotting behind.

The door clicked open with a clatter—though it was hard to say if it had ever been properly locked in the first place.

“I’m home!” Kushina called, loud and unapologetic as ever, kicking off her shoes at the genkan with practiced ease. “Hope you didn’t burn the kitchen down without me, Sakura.”

No answer.

She blinked. Paused. Then shouted again. “Oi, Forehead! Where’s my welcome parade?”

Still nothing.

Only the sound of their footsteps against the wooden floor, and the slight whoosh of air conditioning kicking in—left running in her absence.

“Well, that’s not a good sign,” she muttered, stepping into the living room.

Kage, the cat, looked up from his throne on the couch. Tail flicking once. Judging.

Minato lingered in the doorway, his travel bag still slung over one shoulder, unsure if he should remove his shoes or retreat.

Kushina turned sharply. “Well, don’t just awkwardly stand there like you’re not supposed to be here.”

He scratched the back of his head, sweat beading along his temple. “Technically…”

“Technically shmechnically,” she huffed, waving him in. “You crossed continents. You’ve earned couch rights.”

She was already halfway down the hall before he’d even managed to close the door behind him. A second later: bang . Sakura’s bedroom door swung open.

“She’s not here,” Kushina called, voice echoing.

“Bathroom?”

“Nope. Empty.”

Minato stepped further in, unease crawling up his spine. The place felt… recently vacated. Slippers by the door, a mug and a charger on the coffee table—but no Sakura. As if she’d stepped out for something quick and just hadn’t come back.

He slipped off his boots with a quiet exhale, the soles of his feet aching with relief after nearly twenty-four hours of travel and tension. The floor was cool beneath his socks. He let his backpack slide from his shoulder with a heavy thud, finally unburdened, and straightened slowly as the silence pressed in.

Kushina re-emerged, frowning. “Her bag’s gone. Her keys are not on the hook either.”

She turned to Kage, who blinked slowly, unimpressed.

“Well? Where’s your owner, you little gremlin?”

The cat stretched luxuriously, rolled over, and went right back to ignoring them.

Minato glanced at the clock. Afternoon. Not yet evening.

“Maybe she ran an errand?”

“With what energy? She barely slept.” Kushina made a frustrated noise, raking her fingers through her hair. “If she went to get a futon from next door, that’d be hours ago. And she would’ve come back by now, right? Unless…”

She trailed off, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the ceiling—as if some divine answer might appear in the light fixture.

Minato sat down stiffly on the edge of the couch, just beside the cat, who gave him a disdainful look and shuffled over two inches, as if offended by proximity.

Kushina was still pacing between the living room and the open kitchen.

“She wouldn’t just leave us here to fend for ourselves,” she said. “Would she?”

Minato opened his mouth to say no, then promptly closed it. Because honestly? He wasn’t sure.

Kushina turned and headed into the kitchen, spinning toward the fridge. “Have you eaten? No? Didn’t think so. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’ve-been-living-off-airplane-nuts-and-stress’ look,” she said. “I would offer you food but all I’ve got is limited edition miso tonkotsu cup ramen, and those are mine.”

Minato tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway, low and tired. “Fair.”

She leaned against the fridge door. “Alright, Plan B. If she left, she left for a reason. Let’s find out what it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It buzzed with unanswered questions—the kind that didn’t belong in a quiet seaside kitchen filled with mismatched mugs and an emotionally unavailable cat.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Minato realized something strange: he wasn’t worried just because she was gone.

He was worried because it felt like she’d left for them.

Just as Kushina’s fingers began flying across her screen, thumbs jabbing furiously at the keys, Minato hovered in the kitchen, watching her pace like a caged lioness.

“What are you doing?” he asked, even though he already knew.

“Texting your online girlfriend,” Kushina snapped. “She’s doing a disservice, that’s what she’s doing. A terrible, cowardly disservice. Honestly, doesn’t she care you’ll lose your mind if you spend even one more awkward hour here alone with me? I’m insufferable. You’ll wither from emotional neglect and chronic secondhand embarrassment.”

Minato blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Kushina didn’t look up from her phone. “It’s a threat.”

He didn’t ask who it was directed at.

She was just about to hit send when a low rumble drifted up from the main road.

Kushina’s head snapped up. “Is that—?”

Minato was already at the front window, parting the curtain with two fingers. Kushina hurried over to peer beside him.

A dark-colored jeep turned into the drive, tires crunching with the kind of authority that said this vehicle knew this house.

“That’s not her scooter,” Kushina muttered.

“No,” Minato said quietly.

The driver’s door opened first.

And there he was.
Dark-haired, composed, moving with that smooth, unhurried confidence that made him look like he had nowhere to be except exactly where he was.

He stepped out holding a canvas bag of what looked like groceries.

Sakura climbed out from the passenger side, clutching another bag to her chest. She looked flushed from the heat, wind-tousled, her eyes darting quickly toward the house.

She spotted them through the window.

Her steps faltered. Then she offered a sheepish, too-small wave.

The man followed her line of sight but didn’t react. He moved to the back of the jeep, pulled the hatch closed with one hand, then slung the bag over his shoulder with the other casually. At home.

Kushina let out a strangled sound. “She didn’t even text me. I thought she was self-exiling. I was drafting a threat text!”

Minato didn’t respond. He hadn’t moved since the car stopped.

“They went shopping together,” Kushina hissed, like it was a federal crime. “Ran errands like it's some domestic cosplay. Is she kidding me?!”

Sakura was already climbing the steps now, the man just behind her. Their steps were synchronized in that maddening way people move when they’ve spent too many years side by side.

Kushina threw her hands up and spun toward the kitchen. “No. Nope. What in fresh, small-town madness is this?”

Minato stayed by the window.

Still quiet.

Still watching.

The curtain swayed slightly behind him as he let it fall shut.

Then he turned to face the door.

Waiting.

The door had barely clicked shut behind her when Sakura chirped, “Oh hey, you’re back! How was the hike?”

Kushina didn’t miss a beat. “Enlightening,” she said, with a smile just a touch too bright. “Really opened the mind, cleared the senses… you know, one of those hikes.”

Her gaze slid meaningfully from Sakura to the bags now clutched in Sasuke’s hands—who had already stepped inside ahead of her, like he still had a spare key in his pocket and no concept of boundaries.

“And we see you’re back too. With him.”

Sakura hesitated just a second too long. “Right—uh, I just ran out to grab a few things and ran into him at the market. This is Sasuke. Sasuke, you’ve met Kushina. And this is Minato.”

Minato gave a polite nod. He would’ve offered a handshake—really—but Sasuke’s hands were clearly occupied, bags swinging as he shifted them with practiced ease. He toed off his shoes at the genkan like he’d done it a hundred times and stepped inside like he still lived here.

Sasuke gave nothing but a low “hn” in acknowledgment and headed straight for the kitchen.

Minato blinked, caught off guard.

Kushina crossed her arms and raised both brows at Sakura, clearly waiting.

Minato, meanwhile, was still trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. There was something surreal about the whole scene. Like watching someone else’s memory unfold in real time. Sasuke had barely looked at anyone. He hadn’t needed to. He already knew the layout, the weight of the steps, the creak of the pantry door.

Minato didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was still untangling the creeping realization that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t know as much about Sakura’s present as he thought.

Sure, she may have mentioned an ex before. Offhand. Something about tomatoes. They were discussing plants—he remembered because she’d said it without thinking, that it was someone’s favorite. It had felt like a strange aside at the time. Now it felt like a breadcrumb he hadn’t followed.

Sakura glanced back at them with a nervous smile, cheeks flushed. “He just offered a lift. And helped carry the bags.”

Minato tried to smile back, but it came out a little off-center. Because what could he say?

Nice of him?

Cool, I love how familiar he is with your life?

Totally chill that your ex probably remembers where you keep the strainer?

Kushina let the silence stretch just long enough before clearing her throat. “Well. Good thing no one stumbled and fell off a cliff today. That would’ve been a real shame, huh?”

Sakura blinked. “What?”

Kushina smiled, all teeth. “Metaphorical.”

Minato did his best not to die a second time.

Kushina stood with arms crossed, weighing the mood like a chef staring down a spoiled stew. She clocked it instantly—the stiff way Minato tried to look casual, Sakura hovering near the doorway like she might bolt again, and Sasuke at the counter, calmly drying his hands with a kitchen towel like he knew exactly where everything was. Too familiar. Too calm.

Something shifted—sharp and decisive. Minato felt it, like the snap of a taut string.

“Well,” Kushina said, her voice loud and pointed, “I’ve had it.”

Three heads turned.

She tossed her hair over one shoulder and let out a dramatic sigh. “I’ve decided I want to sleep soundly tonight—without tripping over tension or, God forbid, walking in on something.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward the hallway. “So I’m moving out. Effective immediately.”

“Wait—” Sakura blinked, stepping forward. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Kushina cut in cheerfully. “Actually, turns out Tsume still needs help at the shelter. Free lodging in exchange for wrangling some dogs? Total win. We ran into her earlier, and I’m taking it.”

From the kitchen, Sasuke reappeared just in time to catch her declaration.

Minato, still by the window, looked like he was trying to shrink two inches shorter.

Sakura tried again, “Kushina, really, I figured out the accommodation thing—”

Sasuke raised a brow. “Oh?” His tone wasn’t cutting, but it had weight. Explain to the class, it seemed to say.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller. The ceiling lower. The tension higher.

“Yeah,” Sakura said quickly. “I’ll be staying with relatives for a while. So, um, you two can have the apartment.”

Kushina almost choked. “Absolutely not,” she barked. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sasuke nodded automatically and then frowned, clearly unsure why.

Minato looked like he might apologize for existing. Which, honestly, is fair.

Kushina groaned, grabbed her backpack, and pointedly zipped it up. “Okay. Nope. I’m putting a stop to this soap opera now. You—” she jabbed a finger at Sasuke, “—come with me.”

He blinked. “What—?”

She didn’t wait. Just grabbed him by the arm—the same way she always did when dragging someone into or out of trouble—and marched straight for the door.

“My ride’s here,” she called over her shoulder with a wicked grin. “I was this close to throwing myself off a metaphorical cliff from secondhand tension— and not the romantic kind.” She snatched up her bag. “I planned to leave the moment I saw you two circling each other like awkward teenagers. I packed ahead. You’re welcome.”

Sakura looked half-shocked, half-relieved. Minato offered a weak, corner-of-the-mouth smile.

Kushina flung the door open. “Farewell, lovebirds. Try not to do anything too wild that’ll have the neighbors gossiping more than they already do.”

Sasuke, still being dragged out, gave a resigned wave. “Fantastic. I always knew I’d end up as someone’s Uber.”

The door slammed shut behind them.

And just like that, the whirlwind was gone.

“Goodnight,” Sakura said faintly, like she wasn’t sure if she meant it for Kushina, Sasuke, or the silence left in their wake.

Minato echoed it, just as stunned.

Then nothing.

The house felt too quiet.

Not calm—just suspended, like it didn’t know what to do next.

This was the first time they’d been alone, really alone.

No snark from Kushina to fill the gaps. No couch-crashing logistics.

Just two people standing in the middle of a house that suddenly felt too big, too quiet, and too full of the weight of not knowing what to say.

All their messages, all those hours talking across time zones… and now they were here.

In the same room.

Still figuring out how to close the distance.

Notes:

I’ve been hurrying to post these chapters because I know I won’t be able to be as active in the days/weeks to come, so apologies in advance! Let me know what you think about this direction—or are you telling me you’re already sick of the shifting POVs?
👁️👄👁️

(The chapter's for OnceUponABlueMoonDream, who’s wanted to evict Kushina since day one 🫡)

Chapter 8: Something Almost Like Normal

Summary:

What now?

Notes:

it's me. hi. i'm the problem, it's me.
found some inconsistencies in the earlier upload (rip continuity💀):
— it's an open kitchen, so there's no doorway for them to have their awkward conversation in 🙃
— Sakura says Sasuke "stashed the bags," and then she's the one rummaging through them later. so.
let's all just collectively agree that sasuke did the bare minimum: dumped the bags where bags go, maybe pulled out the perishables so the tomatoes don't die on the counter, and left the rest like a man who has done "his part." thanks for your suspension of disbelief 🙏🙏🙏
Also! While there may be teasing, tension, and maybe even a lot of insinuation in the future, this fic will stay firmly T-rated. If our heroes decide to make things... steamier, I won’t stop them—but I will keep things tasteful. Nothing explicit planned, though if inspiration strikes, I might upload a totally separate M-coded side chapter. No promises. 😏

Without further ado, here's the edited chapter. Enjoy!

The silence Kushina and Sasuke left behind wasn’t peaceful.
It was dense. A pressurized kind of quiet that settled into the corners of the room like fog, clinging to her shoulders and coiling somewhere behind her ribs.

Sakura swore she could hear her own breathing. Or maybe it was the absence of it—like her body had forgotten how to move now that no one else was moving for her. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the shape of her hands, the positioning of her feet, and how close Minato was standing to her. Not close enough to be inappropriate. Just close enough to matter.

She should say something. Something light.
Maybe a comment about the chaos. A joke. Anything.

Before she could fish a sentence out of her fogged-up brain, Minato beat her to it.

“Well,” he said, voice a little hoarse, a little too casual. “That was unexpected.”

Sakura let out a breath—somewhere between a snort and a laugh. But before she could answer, the universe chimed in on Minato’s behalf.

His stomach growled. Loudly.

It was so comically ill-timed that Sakura froze, then blinked—before laughing, full and loud and grateful.

Minato groaned. “That wasn’t me. That was… ambient earthquake noise.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” she teased, already walking toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll whip something up.”

She called over her shoulder as she moved toward the stove, “Good thing Sasuke stashed the bags—barely. Otherwise I’d be making you instant noodles and calling it a culinary experience.”

Minato followed her with a sheepish sort of smile, the weight of travel finally showing in the lines around his mouth. His shoulders drooped a little. There were faint smudges under his eyes she hadn’t noticed earlier.

He looked tired, really tired.

And maybe a little unsure. He scratched the back of his neck like he was holding something back. Or maybe deciding how much space he was allowed to take up here.

That’s when the hostess instincts kicked in—and maybe a bit of guilt too.

“You must be sore,” she said suddenly, turning on her heel. “From the hike. And the ride. I mean, you hiked in the afternoon heat—humid, sticky, basically the worst weather for anything remotely athletic. You could’ve had a heatstroke or fainted from all that. I mean, not that you look bad physically or anything.”

Her face flushed. Great. She was babbling now.

Minato only grinned at her. She was sure he found her stumbling on words stupid. She looked away, heat prickling up to the bridge of her nose, nose twitching.

“Seriously though,” she barreled on, a little breathless, “You should shower. Or soak. I have a tub-shower combo. I could run you a bath if you want. Yeah, hot water and epsom salt sounds right. I think I still have eucalyptus-scented whatever from that time I threw my back out reorganizing the hallway closet.”

She finally stopped. She realized what she just said, just how fast she said it.
“Oh my god,” she muttered, pressing a palm to her forehead. “I’m sorry. That was—That sounded like I’m trying to—”

Seduce you via self-care and middle-aged muscle balm was what she left unsaid, to save herself further embarrassment.

Minato chuckled. “Relax. I’ll just take a quick shower then. To get rid of the flight residue and all the grime from the hike and everything else. A bath sounds like a one-way ticket to falling asleep in a drowning hazard.”

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

But both remained rooted where they stood in front of each other until Sakura sighed and said, “I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through today. I’ve clearly forgotten how to be a functional human host. You come all this way, and I launch you straight into neighborhood sitcom hell and forget to offer basic decency like hygiene and food.”

He stepped forward, gently, palms up. “Sakura. You’ve done more than enough. I’m the one who showed up unannounced. If anything, I’m the problem guest. The crashing visitor who kills the vibe.” Minato finished, scratching the back of his head.

Sakura sighed. “You don’t kill the vibe. The vibe’s just confused.”
And maybe she was too.

“But I insist on the shower,” she added, softer now. “You’ll feel better. And the sooner you’re clean, the sooner you eat. Then we both survive the night without one of us passing out on the kitchen floor.”

Minato let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re really committing to the caretaker bit, huh?”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she said, already digging through one of the grocery bags by the counter. “Where is it—ah!” She held up a pair of foam house slippers. “For your feet. Don’t judge them. They’re practical.”

He took them with a grateful smile, but she was already moving again.

“I’ll get you a towel,” she called out over her shoulder. “And a change of clothes. Wait here.”

That earned her another quizzical look.

“Clothes?” he echoed.

Sakura froze. Then spun around, slightly too fast. “Oh—uh, not mine. I mean, obviously. That’d be weird. They’re from when my parents visited. My dad left a set here. They might be a little short, but they’re clean.”

She didn’t mention the other options: Sasuke’s old T-shirts, his hoodie, those ridiculously warm socks she sometimes stole from the bottom drawer. Minato did not need that mental image right now. She didn’t need that mental image right now.

Minato nodded slowly, like he wasn’t quite sure if she was telling the truth but was too polite to question it. “Sounds perfect.”

Sakura handed him the towel and clothes when she returned, watching as he padded quietly down the hall toward the bathroom, slippers faint against the wooden floor.

The door clicked shut.

She exhaled.

And slumped onto a stool.

Alone again.
Only this time, it wasn’t as suffocating. Just weird.
Manageable-weird.

Kage hadn’t made an appearance since the front door closed, but that wasn’t too unusual. He had a habit of disappearing whenever there were unfamiliar scents or voices around. Probably sulking under the bed or in the laundry basket again.

She stood after a minute and busied herself at the stove. Rice. Something stir-fried. Steamed fish. She didn’t really think it through—just moved through the motions, hands on autopilot. From her grocery run earlier, she pulled out bok choy, carrots, and a bell pepper, slicing them quickly before tossing everything into the wok with garlic and soy. The water hissed, the oil crackled, and the room filled with the first comforting smells of home since the chaos descended.

When Minato finally reappeared—towel-dried hair, her dad’s old T-shirt hanging loose around the shoulders but riding a little short at the sleeves and hem, paired with linen sleeping trousers that sat low on his waist and barely reached his ankles—they sat at the table like two people pretending to be normal.

Dinner was…
Well. A disaster.

They kept interrupting each other by apologizing.
Then overcorrecting by saying nothing.
Then reaching for the same soy sauce bottle and drawing back so fast they almost knocked over the rice bowl.

Sakura caught herself watching the way his fingers curled around his chopsticks. The line of his jaw as he chewed.

Minato caught her, catching him.

How could he not? He’d been staring. She was the one who kept looking away. Just full of unsaid things. Almost-touches.

Still. It wasn’t unbearable.

And when Minato said, “This dish is perfect,” she smiled like it meant more than it should.

Because maybe it did.

“Thanks. I'm getting good at it,” she said proudly. “I mean, I used to not know how to cook to save myself before moving here. It was always convenience store food or fast food because of those hospital shifts and then weekend research. I really sucked at stocking my fridge or learning to cook anything. I mean, during residency, my dad would still prepare my lunch or bring it to me at work. It wasn’t until I moved here that I was really, really, forced to do the cooking myself because there aren’t a lot of convenience stores around the corner or fast—”

She cut herself off, realizing Minato was staring at her, amused.

“God, I’m so sorry,” she deflated, head dipping. “I’ve been blabbering.”

Minato laughed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “No, no. I like it when you talk about stuff like that, about you.”

He hesitated for a beat, then chuckled again, more to himself.

“I used to imagine us doing this. Just eating, talking. Normal stuff. Thought maybe I’d romanticized it, but—” He gave a small laugh. “Turns out it’s even better.”

He lifted his bowl. “Also—this fish is really good. And the stir-fry. And the rice. I forgot what flavor tasted like.”

His grin was infectious.

For a second, it caught her off guard, warmth blooming too easily in the space between them.
She’d thought about this before, too. What it might be like to actually sit and eat with him, after all those conversations they’d had—some while mid-meal, others just swapping notes about dishes from home, or wherever they happened to be.

And now here they were.

But she recovered quickly, huffing in mock offense. “Hey, careful with the flattery. Just because you’re getting this meal for free doesn’t mean I’ll fall for it.”

Minato laughed, and she laughed. And dinner felt lighter from there.

He asked about the ingredients. She told him about the fish—said it was a fresh catch when she passed by the market. Everything there was fresh, every day. He really ought to see the place at some point during his visit. It was lively, just like its people and everything else around here.

The conversation flowed easily after that.

When it was time to put things away, Minato insisted on helping, claiming he was a very good dishwasher—said he even worked part-time as one in high school. Sakura agreed, reluctantly, and offered to dry. As they got into rhythm, he suddenly chuckled.

“My roommates are going to suffer without me,” he said. “I’m the only one who washes and puts dishes away.”

Sakura laughed, imagining it. But then his tone shifted.

“I’m sorry about the radio silence,” he said, quieter now. “I was just—”

“It’s fine,” she cut in quickly. “No need to explain anything.”

But Minato didn’t stop. “Still, I should apologize. You probably wondered why I suddenly stopped calling…”

He paused, watching her. She didn’t say anything—but she was listening now. He could tell.

“I mean, the easy excuse was that I was busy—and I was. Swamped with grading, drafts, department deadlines...” He gave a soft laugh, almost embarrassed. “But I was also hurrying. Trying to finish early. So I could get here.”

Sakura blinked, the words brushing against something tender and unprepared.

A beat. Then, quietly, she asks, “Why?”

Minato didn’t answer right away. His thumb brushed the edge of a bowl. “I… I can’t really say.”

“Oh.” Sakura tried not to sound disappointed. “Well, at least you weren’t eaten by crocodiles or lost in some jungle.”

“What?!”

“You said you did fieldwork, remember? Sometimes for weeks. No signal. Chasing frogs in the middle of nowhere. When you stopped replying, I thought—well—I imagined the worst.”

Minato just looked at her. A little stunned. A little in awe.

“You really have a response for everything,” he said.

“Shut up,” she muttered, cheeks warm.

Then, before the moment could linger too long, she held up a bowl. “You missed a spot right here, Mr. Dishwasher,” she added with a mock glare.

Minato chuckled, taking it from her hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

They moved around each other easily after that, rinsing and drying, stacking plates in quiet tandem. It was strangely domestic, the kind of quiet choreography that made her feel like they’d done this before—even though they hadn’t. Not like this. Not in this space. Not after all this time.

Eventually, the dishes were done. Counters wiped. Lights dimmed. The kitchen clock ticked softly into the stillness.

And then came the part she’d been pretending not to think about.

Sleeping arrangements.

Sakura glanced at the couch, then at him. While it wasn’t a small couch, it didn’t exactly scream comfort either—especially not for someone with Minato’s height and shoulders. He’d probably wake up with a stiff neck and a permanent back spasm. Kushina had no complaints the last time she stayed, but Kushina also once fell asleep half on the rug with a blanket and called it the best nap of her life.

Still. She had to offer.

“You can take the bed,” Sakura said, trying to sound casual. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve slept on the couch plenty of times.”

Minato looked at her, one brow lifting, almost amused. “Absolutely not. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“I’m not getting kicked out, I’m offering,” she said, arms folding in front of her. “It’s called being a decent host.”

“And I’m being a decent guest by refusing,” he countered, gently. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”

“But—”

“Sakura,” he said, tone firmer now, but still warm. “Really. It’s okay.”

She sighed. He was impossible. Stubborn in that quiet, polite way that didn’t leave room for arguing.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if you wake up half-paralyzed, I’m not treating you. You’re crawling to the clinic on your own.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

Still, before heading off, she pulled a spare pillow from the closet and tossed him the fluffier blanket. A silent truce. A concession. Maybe a compromise between the two halves of her brain—one that said be a good host, and the other that said stop fussing over the man who ghosted you for weeks.

As she turned away, she heard him say softly, “Thanks for letting me stay, Sakura.”

She didn’t look back. Just said, “Don’t make me regret it,” over her shoulder.

But her chest was warm.

And her smile lingered long after the lights went out.

 

---

The bathroom light buzzed softly as she stood in front of the mirror, toweling off her damp hair. Her skin felt warm—maybe from the hot shower, maybe from the residual heat of navigating a house suddenly too small for two people and all the unspoken things between them.

She cracked the door open and turned off the bathroom light.

The hallway was dark.

Just ahead, the living room glowed faintly in the ambient spill of moonlight through the curtains. She paused at the threshold, blinking as her eyes adjusted.

Minato was already settled on the couch, back turned toward her. One arm curled under his head, the blanket pulled up haphazardly, exposing one bare ankle and the hem of the shirt that still didn't quite fit him. He looked folded in on himself, like he’d tried to take up less space than he needed.

She held her breath as she passed, careful not to let her steps creak on the floorboards.

Still, her gaze lingered—just for a beat longer than necessary.

The soft rise and fall of his breathing. The steady quiet. The ridiculous tuft of his still-damp hair sticking up slightly from the pillow.

He didn’t stir.

She padded to her room, pulling on a tank top and cotton shorts. The overhead light stayed off. Only her desk lamp was on, casting a dim, amber halo over the small workspace in the corner. It felt easier that way—like if she didn’t fully light the room, she wouldn’t have to fully face anything.

Sakura sat down with her laptop, opened a blank email, and stared at it.

Subject: Thank you for visiting.

That’s as far as she got.

Her fingers hovered above the keys.

What exactly was she thanking him for? Showing up unannounced? Throwing her entire emotional compass into a spiral? Stirring up every leftover feeling she’d managed to pack away neatly over the months like winter clothes in a box marked Do Not Open ?

She leaned back and exhaled sharply through her nose.

God. She was tired. And still wound up.

Her tabs were a chaotic mix of clinic schedules, an unfinished draft of a report she was supposed to submit last Monday, and a playlist she’d started building the week she thought she’d never hear from him again.

Sakura closed the email tab without saving. What was the point, anyway?

Minato was in the next room. Probably already asleep on her too-short couch, curled up like some polite inconvenience. And here she was, drafting thank-you notes like he’d just dropped by for lunch and not detonated a live wire in her carefully reconstructed peace.

She should sleep. She wanted to sleep.

Instead, she clicked open their old message thread.

The chat window lit up with familiar timestamps, green bubbles, late-night observations and links to obscure research articles he thought she’d like. One of them was about a rare species of orchid that only bloomed once every seven years. He’d said it reminded him of her.

She didn’t even know what that meant anymore.

Her eyes burned as she scrolled upward, thumb hovering over a photo he’d sent months ago—him, sunburnt and laughing beside a frog the size of his fist. He’d written, This guy looks like how I feel grading papers at 2 a.m.

She stared at it longer than she meant to.

Flushed. Frustrated.

And still, her finger tapped the keyboard, slowly typing out the words:
"Hey. Can't sleep. Weird having you here."

She stopped.
Backspaced all of it.

She shut the laptop with a soft snap.

Her mind still buzzed, stubbornly alert—but the moment her body met the bed, cool sheets and the familiar give of the mattress, the day’s exhaustion came crashing in. It sank deep, settling into her limbs and bones, and drew a long, involuntary sigh from her chest. Muscles she hadn’t even realized were tight slowly began to unclench, one by one.

She hadn’t felt this kind of quiet in over twenty-four hours. Not the empty kind. The honest, earned kind. The kind that came after surviving something mildly chaotic and entirely human.

She climbed under the covers.
Faced the ceiling.

And for a moment, she just lay there, waiting for the flood of overthinking to start—replays, regrets, what-ifs. But it didn’t come.

Instead, there was just… quiet.

Maybe all her panic was premature. Maybe she’d worked herself up for nothing. 

Typical. Classic her.

She let out a breath—half sigh, half laugh—and finally closed her eyes.

And for the first time in days, sleep didn’t have to be chased. It came for her gently, steadily—like a tide rolling in.

Except just before it took her fully, a strange sensation tugged at the edge of her awareness. That she was forgetting something. Something small, but important. Like a thread left dangling.

But sleep was stronger.

It folded over her before she could chase it down.

 

---

The vibrating came first, sharp and insistent.

Sakura groaned and flailed an arm across the bed, fingers splaying in a blind search for the noise. Her mind, thick with sleep, barely scraped together a coherent thought: Alarm? Already?

She found the phone face-down beside her pillow and smacked it. Nothing stopped. She cracked one eye open.

Incoming FaceTime Call – Kushina.

Sakura blinked at the screen like it was a trick mirror. “Why is she calling? Isn’t she just—”

And then the memory hit her like a rogue Roomba to the shin.

Kushina had left.
Minato had stayed.
Minato was still here.

Her stomach dropped.

A dizzying flash-sequence hit her: the awkward dinner, ghost of a conversation hanging between bites; his quiet acceptance of the couch-bed offer, like she’d handed him a sacrificial altar instead of old sheets; her creeping past him in the night, tiptoeing to the bathroom, then lingering in the hallway just to watch him breathe like a complete weirdo.

And now here she was—rumpled, groggy, probably drooling—and Kushina was FaceTiming her from wherever she’d fled after throwing a human wrench into her life.

Sakura groaned again and hit Accept.

“What?” she whispered into the screen, voice gravelly, barely holding back the chaos in her brain.

Kushina’s face popped up instantly—grinning with caffeinated evil, one hand half-covering her eyes like a flimsy censor bar.

“Oh good! You’re awake. Tell me first—are you decent? Is everyone decent?”

Sakura stared, deadpan. “You’re looking.”

“Not directly,” Kushina chirped. “I’m being respectful.”

Sakura flopped back into her pillow and glared at the screen. “Shut up. What do you want?”

“Just checking if you and Loverboy survived the night,” Kushina said, eyes twinkling with mock innocence. “Didn’t traumatize the cat too badly?”

It took Sakura a second too long to register.

“…Wait. Kage?”

The silence that followed was thunderous. And then—

“Shit.”

She yeeted the phone onto the bed and bolted upright, adrenaline finally outrunning sleep. Still in her tank top and shorts. No bra. No dignity.

She scrambled for the door and flung it open like it had personally offended her.

“KAGE?!” she called, already halfway to panic.

The living room loomed—sunlight streaming in too cheerily for the madness she now felt—and there he was.

Not the cat.

Minato.

On the couch. Still dressed in her dad’s old clothes. Calmly scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t spent the night awkwardly folded onto her too-small couch.

Though now that she looked closer, he did keep subtly rolling his shoulder, like something had kinked overnight. His hair was sticking up in odd directions too—sleep-flattened on one side and a tuft at the back that had clearly lost a fight with the pillow.

He looked up. Blinked.

The phone slipped from his hand and hit the table with a soft thunk.

They stared at each other.

She remembered again what she was wearing or what she wasn’t for that matter.

He looked like he was trying very hard not to look.

“Are you—are you okay?” he asked, voice aiming for concern, though the tips of his ears had gone visibly red.

She ignored him, spinning toward the kitchen. “Have you seen my cat!?”

He scrambled up after her. “Uh—no? Not since… yesterday afternoon?”

They tore through the house like deranged burglars. Couch cushions flew. Closet doors banged. Sakura yanked open the cabinet under the sink with the wild hope of finding her fur child tucked beside the rice cooker.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, pushing aside spare tote bags. “What kind of mother forgets her own cat?!”

“He might be hiding!” Minato called, crouching to peer under the couch. “Cats do that!”

“I KNOW that, I just—Kage never hides this long unless he’s mad at me—”

“Maybe he slipped out early or something?” Minato offered, trying to keep up.

“He doesn’t go out before breakfast!” Sakura snapped, crawling into the hallway closet like it had personally betrayed her.

They moved through the apartment in chaotic sync—Sakura flinging open doors, checking under furniture, muttering under her breath. Minato trailed close behind, checking corners she missed, trying to be helpful.

They bumped into each other more than once—her spinning too fast, him crouching just as she turned, elbows and knees colliding as they both reached for the same closet door.

“Sorry—”

“Move—”

It was messy. Frantic. Awkward.

And then, just as she was halfway to flipping the couch, Sakura froze.

“Shit. Kushina.”

She darted back to her room, grabbed the phone from where it had landed face-down on the bed, and tapped the screen.

Still connected.
Still FaceTime.
Still broadcasting.

Of course it was. Kushina was probably cackling on the other end, eating up the chaos like it was her favorite reality show.

Kushina’s voice exploded out of the speaker at full volume:

“Are you done running around like lunatics? God, you two must’ve been so busy not to notice your child’s been missing for hours.”

The camera swiveled.

There, perched beside Kushina like a furry omen of betrayal, was Kage—safe, smug, and very pissed off.

Ears back. Tail lashing.

Kushina leaned in. “Hear that, buddy? Your owner forgot all about you. Moved on. Replaced you with a man.”

Sakura groaned and dropped her forehead to the bed.

Minato, still lingering in the doorway, asked from the hall, “…Is everything alright?”

Kage hissed through the screen.

Sakura didn’t answer. She just reached back blindly for a pillow and screamed into it.

Then she stared at the screen in disbelief. “Why do you have my cat?!”

Kushina sighed like she’d been asked to relive a war crime. “Apparently,” she began, “He jumped into Sasuke’s backseat while we were loading the jeep.”

Sakura blinked. “What?”

Kushina, still fuming, threw in a dramatic eye roll. “When we got to Tsume’s and found him in the backseat, Sasuke just looked at me and went—” she dropped her voice into a flat, deadpan imitation, “‘He made his choice.’”

Sakura’s mouth fell open. “He what??”

Kushina nodded solemnly. “Didn’t even blink. Just shut the door and left him.”

She scoffed. “And guess who got stuck with him? Me.”

Then she launched into a list of war crimes like she’d been keeping receipts all night:

1. Vomited in her shoe.
2. Left hairballs on her silk robe.
3. Peed in her gym bag.
4. Sat on her chest at 3 a.m. and stared into her soul like a ghost with a grudge.

“Your demon spawn has it out for me, and I don’t even know why,” Kushina said, genuinely wounded. “I fed him! I complimented his weird tail!”

Sakura could only stare. Mortified. Wordless.

She groaned into her hands. Her entire face burned.

Minato, still a few feet away, was watching it all unfold, blinking slowly like maybe if he didn’t move, no one would notice him.

Kushina, naturally, had no chill. She pointed accusingly. “Maybe he’s just mad you replaced him with a certain someone. Now he’s channeling all that betrayal at me. ”

Right on cue, Kage hissed—loud and dramatic, like he understood every word and agreed wholeheartedly.

Sakura flailed. “Are you returning him or not?!”

Kushina shrugged. “Hmm. Not yet. I might train him with Tsume’s dogs. Tough love. They’re the size of small horses and still have better manners than your furry little menace.”

Sakura’s eyes widened. “ARE YOU HOLDING MY CAT HOSTAGE?”

“Maybe.”

And then Kushina went for the kill, smiling way too brightly as she added, louder:

“ANYWAY, hope you two used protection! Byeeeeeee!”

Minato made a choking sound—barely stifled. Sakura didn’t dare look at him.

The call ended. Just like that.

Silence.

Sakura stood in her room, door still open behind her, phone slack in her hand like it might bite. Her heart was racing. Kage was safe.

She? Absolutely, catastrophically wasn’t.

She turned slowly toward the hallway.

And there he was.

Minato.

Still standing just beyond the doorway—polite enough not to step inside, unfortunate enough to have heard everything.

Her brain scrambled through the last ten minutes like a bad security tape.

She’d sprinted through the apartment in a tank top and sleep shorts. Braless. Hair wild. Voice raised. Entire soul exposed. She’d yelled. She’d panicked. She’d practically faceplanted into every piece of furniture trying to find a cat who wasn’t even missing.

And he’d seen all of it.

Her brain screamed:

Oh my god.
He definitely saw everything.
Did I seriously run out the door like that??
Have I no shame??

Minato looked away—graciously, gently—as if that could undo the morning. But the flush climbing his ears betrayed him. Somehow, that made it worse.

He cleared his throat. Tried for casual.

“Um… good to know Kage’s okay.”

Sakura dragged a hand down her face. “God, I really did forget about him. What kind of person does that?”

Minato’s voice softened, the awkwardness easing a little.

“The kind of person who’s had a really chaotic 24 hours.”

He shrugged, almost sheepish. “Kage’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not a bad person, Sakura.”

She looked at him.

And that hit deeper than it should have. A little too kind. A little too close to something she wasn’t ready to name.

Realizing just how exposed she still was—clothes, nerves, everything—Sakura folded her arms tightly across her chest like that might somehow reset the entire day.

Her voice shot up. “I—I’m gonna go get changed. And make breakfast after… Okay. Yep.”

Minato nodded too fast. “Yeah. Totally. Take your time. I’ll just stay here.”

She backed away, aiming for dignity, and failed spectacularly.

Stumbled on the mat, arms still crossed tightly over her chest. Her balance tipped, and she nearly reached for the handle—or maybe for him.

But Minato was faster.

He caught her by the elbow—warm, firm, his fingers wrapping around her with a steadiness that belied the chaos of the morning.

It wasn’t even a full second, but the contact zinged through her like static, sharp and electric.

A zap—lightning-fast and wildly inconvenient.

Her breath hitched, and her skin prickled.

And of course, that was the exact moment her nipples had the gall to pebble.

Mortification bloomed hot and furious, rising to her ears like a siren.

Sakura blinked, flailed—then muttered, “Thanks,” without meeting his eyes, already retreating behind crossed arms she wished she’d raised five minutes earlier. She cleared her throat and, with all the grace of a cornered cat, tried to close the door with her foot.

Minato didn’t say a word, but she felt it—that faint, traitorous twitch of a smile he was absolutely failing to hide.

She groaned and kicked the door shut. Murder wasn’t off the table. Neither was exile. Or fire. Or burning this entire morning to the ground.

She’d almost succeeded in her graceless escape when—
Knock knock knock.

Sakura froze just inside her room, eyes sliding shut in exhausted disbelief. “Oh, for the love of—”

Minato was already moving, like some kind of sleep-deprived tribute volunteering himself to the gods of chaos.

“I’ll get it,” he said, with the upbeat finality of a man who’d simply given up trying to make sense of things.

Notes:

Hey, thanks for reading! 👀 This story just passed 500 views (!!), but it's still a bit quiet in the comments. If you liked it, loved it, hated it, or just have feelings—drop a line? Reviews (even unhinged or nitpicky ones) fuel my writer brain and help me figure out what's working (or what's totally off the rails). 💬

Chapter 9: Field Notes on a Soft Apocalypse

Summary:

Jackass roommates, nosy neighbors, eccentric relatives, and somewhere between the chaos, the quiet magic of a place that feels suspiciously like home 🐈🏠☺️

Notes:

Another Minato POV 🐸

He woke to the stiff protest of his neck and the unmistakable ache of bad decisions well-earned.

The couch had not been kind, but he regretted nothing.

A slow breath in—he could still catch the faint scent of her in the air, something powdery and floral. It clung to the pillow beneath his cheek, to the fibers of the blanket she’d wordlessly handed him sometime before midnight.

The house was quiet now, but it wasn't empty. It felt lived in.

Slippers kicked off at odd angles. A modest bookshelf by the wall, sagging under the weight of paperbacks and journals. Hanging plants by the window, gently swaying in the draft. The hum of appliances, the way morning light spilled through the gap in the curtain and warmed the hardwood—these were the details of her world, and for once, he was seeing them unfiltered, not through memory or metaphor or any of the clumsy guesses he'd held onto for more than a year.

He was here.

The phone buzzed against his chest, startling him. He groaned, fumbled for it, and blinked at the screen.

23 missed messages. 7 missed calls.

He squinted—then winced.

Inoichi:

and he LIVES

thought you got sacrificed to some mountain deity

tell us NOW before we tell oro you went rogue

Shikaku:

I started drafting your memorial. You're welcome.

Minato sighed. His thumb hovered for half a second before he hit call.

Inoichi picked up on the first ring. "FINALLY. We were going to send a drone or a search party, possibly armed.”

Onscreen, his best friend looked like he hadn't slept, shirtless and half-wrapped in a towel. Shikaku appeared behind him in the frame, holding coffee, his eyes blank as ever.

Shikaku added, dry as dust, “I already made peace with losing a kidney. I chose the left one.”

Minato rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry. Things got… chaotic.”

“Chaotic??” Inoichi leaned in like a vulture spotting roadkill. “Dude, it’s been more than 24 hours. You said you’d ping us once you landed. We were two inches away from contacting the embassy.”

Shikaku: “Still not convinced he didn’t get indoctrinated into some local love cult.”

“We were this close to filing a missing persons report with Orochimaru,” Inoichi went on. “Imagine telling him his golden boy vanished in a mountain village chasing a girl. We'd be first in line for human experimentation.”

Minato gave them a thin, tight-lipped smile. He appreciated their concern. He really did.

But they were insufferable jackasses.

“So?” Inoichi pressed. “Was she worth the jet lag? The international roaming fees? Because you’re glowing like someone’s been blessed.”

Minato sidestepped. “We haven’t exactly had time to catch up properly.”

“Woah.” Inoichi’s grin widened. “That sounds incredibly suggestive. Where are you right now?”

Minato shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “At her place.”

(A beat)

“OHO?!” Inoichi’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline.

Shikaku blinked. “Didn’t see that coming. Wait—are you still dressed? ”

Minato stared blankly. Then exhaled. “I slept on the couch.”

Inoichi howled. “Bro flew 16 hours for platonic upholstery. That’s biblical.”

Shikaku, sipping his coffee like it was poison: “She probably gave him her dad’s clothes too.”

Minato didn’t reply fast enough.

Inoichi squawked. “OH MY GOD SHE DID?! That was a JOKE. You’re WEARING THEM RIGHT NOW, AREN’T YOU?”

Minato pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate both of you.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” Inoichi crooned. “So honorable. So noble. So criminally untouched. At this rate, the only action you’ll get is if she brushes your hand passing the salt.”

He grinned wider, sensing blood. “Face it—she’s a vixen in disguise. Luring innocent men into remote mountain villages, never to be heard from again.”

Minato didn’t even blink. “That’s enough.”

His voice dropped, calm but edged. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

The silence on the call prickled, sudden and weighted.

Shikaku raised an eyebrow. “We’re joking, you know.”

“I know,” Minato said evenly. “She hasn’t even met you. So maybe save the commentary until you’ve earned the right.”

Inoichi held up both hands, towel slipping a bit too low. “Hey— hey. Point taken. We’ll behave.”

Minato muttered, “You won’t.”

Inoichi beamed. “Nope. But I’ll pretend real hard.”

Shikaku, as if he hadn’t just been scolded, raised his mug again. “So? Did you at least hold hands?”

Minato ended the call.

Almost immediately, new messages flooded in:

[inoichi]: couch update pls
[inoichi]: tell her we miss you too
[shikaku]: check if your kidneys are still there
[inoichi]: ask her if she likes you. 1 for yes, 2 for yes

He was typing a halfhearted “go to hell” when motion flickered at the edge of his vision.

He looked up—

And his whole body went still.

Sakura stormed into the living room barefoot, hair tousled, legs flashing pale and bare as she moved fast and sharp into the space.

“KAGE?!” she called, voice tinged with urgency.

It was a blitz of sensory overload: the slap of her feet on hardwood, the way her sleep-warm tank top hung loose at the shoulders and chest—thin fabric clinging just enough to reveal the soft, unmistakable outline beneath before dipping above shorts so minimal they barely qualified. Her skin was flushed with sleep, cheeks pink, one strap sliding halfway off her shoulder.

And the morning sun—traitorous, golden—lit her from behind, wrapping her in a halo that did absolutely nothing to help his already-scrambling brain.

Minato blinked. Once. Twice.

Kushina’s voice returned with grim clarity:

“Bare thighs. Nothing in the way.”

The phone slipped from his hand and hit the table with a soft thunk.

They locked eyes.

For a second, nothing moved. And then something very, very dangerous occurred: she probably remembered what she was wearing. Or, more accurately—what she wasn’t.

Minato made a valiant effort not to look. He failed.

“Are you—are you okay?” he managed, aiming for concern, but the words came out strangled. His ears were on fire.

She didn’t answer, just spun on her heel like a woman possessed. “Have you seen my cat!?”

Minato scrambled to follow. “Uh—not since yesterday afternoon?”

And then came the chaos, full tilt.

They tore through the house like their life depended on it. Couch cushions launched into the void. Cabinets flung open with righteous fury. Sakura practically crawled into the under-sink darkness, cursing like the rice cooker had personally betrayed her.

Minato followed her trail, trying to be useful, but it was like keeping pace with a localized typhoon. He checked beneath furniture, opened closet doors, lifted curtains with the energy of someone trying not to die in the process.

“He might be hiding. Cats do that!” he called out as he peered under the couch.

“I KNOW THAT, I just—Kage never hides this long unless he’s mad at me—” she barked.

“Maybe he slipped out early or something?” Minato offered, doing his best to keep up.

It wasn’t easy.

Sakura was a force—sharp with worry, limbs in constant motion—and deeply, unfairly distracting. Especially when she bent like that: all legs and hips, tank top riding dangerously high over skin he had no business noticing.

But god, he noticed.

He looked away. Fast. Focused on the wall. On the floor. On anything that wasn’t the curve of her back or the way her shorts clung when she shifted on her knees.

He was a gentleman. He was.

But he was also a man—tired, human, and harboring a liking that had lived quietly and unchallenged in his chest for far too long.

And right now? It was losing.

“He doesn’t go out before breakfast!” she snapped, halfway into the hallway closet like it had personally betrayed her.

The search continued in bursts and collisions. They bumped shoulders, knees, grazed hands reaching for the same drawer like slapstick actors in a domestic disaster film.

It was frenzied, loud, and ridiculous.

And yet, even in the mess and the weird sleep-deprived haze of it all, he felt something crack open.

This wasn’t the version of her he remembered—not the composed professional from fleeting voice notes and video calls and certainly not the idealized ghost he’d carried for more than a year.

This version was barefoot, bleary-eyed, and borderline unhinged—and somehow, god, he wanted to be part of this one. This life. This noise. This lived-in apartment where pillows held the scent of her shampoo and cats held grudges from afar.

Then she froze mid-frantic couch flip.

“Shit. Kushina.”

She bolted for the bedroom.

Minato lingered in the hallway, just close enough to hear the horror unfold. The FaceTime call was still live, of course. Kushina’s voice exploded from the speaker with all the subtlety of a war drum.

There, onscreen, sat Kage, alive, smug, and smiteful.

Kushina had him, along with a vengeance list.

Minato listened in stunned, helpless silence as she detailed the cat’s nightly war crimes. 

He blinked slowly. Tried to disappear into the floor. Failed again.

When Kushina delivered her final blow—"ANYWAY, hope you two used protection!"—Minato made a sound that was half-choke, half-denial. He didn’t dare look directly at Sakura. If he did, his entire nervous system might combust.

And then the call ended, mercifully and horrifyingly.

Silence ballooned, thick and weighted.

Sakura stood motionless, phone slack in her hand. Her expression was blank with disbelief, just shell-shocked.

She turned. Met his eyes.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. He just offered the kind of dumb, useless olive branch a man gives when there’s absolutely no salvaging the moment but still wants to try.

“Um… good to know Kage’s okay.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

“What kind of person forgets their own cat?”

He saw the self-loathing in her posture and, of course, the regret.

So he softened, “The kind of person who’s had a really chaotic 24 hours.” His voice was gentler now, trying to thread a little warmth back into the moment. “Kage’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not a bad person, Sakura.”

And it landed.

Deeper than expected.

She looked at him, really looked, and for a split second, he felt it. The air shifted. Something unspoken stretched taut between them.

And then, panic reasserted itself.

“I—I’m gonna go get changed. And make breakfast after… Okay. Yep.”

He nodded too fast. “Yeah. Totally. Take your time. I’ll just stay here.”

She turned.

And stumbled.

He moved before he could think, catching her elbow with a steadiness that surprised even him. His fingers wrapped around her instinctively, anchoring her before she could fall.

It should’ve been nothing.

But it landed like a spark in dry grass.

Her breath hitched. His spine went rigid. And despite every effort to be respectful, his gaze dipped—just for a heartbeat—before he dragged it back up with sheer force of will.

Face. Eyes. Only her face.

Still, the damage was done.

She was warm. Soft. Embarrassed. So was he. Every nerve ending in his arm buzzed with awareness—skin, tension, proximity. 

And then she jerked away, arms crossing over her chest like a shield she was furious she hadn’t raised earlier.

"Thanks," she muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.

Minato said nothing. Just stood there, pulse racing, trying very hard to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything at all.

But a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth anyway—stubborn and stupid.

She saw it.

Kicked the door shut in his face.

He deserved that.

He was still trying to recover, to breathe normally, when a knock rattled through the apartment.

Minato sighed. Already moving.

“I’ll get it,” he said, surrendering to whatever gods ran this bizarre sitcom of a morning.

Because there was no way to recover from any of this.

And honestly?

He wasn't sure he wanted to.

---

He was still wearing her dad’s shirt—soft and smelled of laundry detergent. The sleeves were loose and a bit short, and the hem sat awkwardly high over borrowed pants that barely reached his ankles.

He sincerely hoped that wasn’t obvious.

The morning air met him first, cool and sharp with the scent of pine and river stone. And then—

“Oh-ho!” came a delighted voice. “You’re not Sakura.”

The speaker was barely half his height, silver hair pinned up haphazardly—possibly with a pen—and eyes far too sharp for someone so cheerfully wrinkled.

Beaming up at him, she held a lidded plate like a ceremonial offering.

Small, sun-browned, and bright-eyed, she wore a patterned vest over a loud blouse—the kind of neighbor who didn’t knock so much as arrive.

“Good morning,” Minato said, straightening instinctively. “Sorry, Sakura’s not—”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s around somewhere,” the woman said, breezing past the apology. “I just came to drop this off.” She held the plate forward. “Freshly caught ayu. I grilled them this morning. We had a few extra and thought she might want some.”

Minato accepted the dish with both hands, bowing slightly. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed—not unfriendly, but curious. “Are you her cousin?”

He gave a polite smile. “Just a friend, visiting from overseas.”

Not a lie. But anything else, and the village gossip machine would explode. He could already imagine the whispered headlines:

Mystery Foreigner Answering Sakura’s Door. Just a Friend? Stay Tuned.

The woman gave him a look that suggested she already had her theories but wasn’t planning to share them yet. Then her face brightened again.

“I’m Arai,” she said. “I live two doors down. We all try to look after that girl, you know. We make sure she eats.”

A beat passed—and then Minato remembered. Sakura had mentioned something like this once in passing: how her neighbors liked to feed her, and how she let them. Not out of need, exactly, but because it made them happy. Because it was easier.

He relaxed, just a little. “She did say something about that. Thank you again—for the fish.”

She didn’t leave right away.

Instead, she lingered on the doorstep like she’d just remembered ten more errands that happened to involve standing exactly there. Her gaze drifted—past him, into the house, toward the hall.

“You know,” she said casually, “it’s been a while since anyone’s seen Sakura with company. Not that we’re watching, of course. But we notice things.”

Minato gave a helpless, too-wide smile. “Ah. Right.”

A brief, loaded silence followed—then she perked up as if just remembering something.

“Oh! Right, I didn’t just come to feed you,” she said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “There’s a little gathering tonight, down by the river. Tell her to come. It’s the festival kickoff, the proper one, not the soft opening they tried to do last week.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Tonight’s when people actually show up. There’s food, dancing, the whole bit. Starts just before sunset by the old shrine. Everyone from this side of the river’s expected to go.” She tilted her head. “You should come too. It’s a good way to meet folks.” 

He nodded, caught off-guard by how casually she’d included him—like he already belonged here, like he was just another neighbor. 

“I’ll let her know,” he said. 

“Good, good.” She patted his arm, then her expression turned sly. “And tell her not to leave you behind.” 

Minato blinked. “Pardon?” 

But Arai was already retreating down the path, humming a festival tune under her breath. 

He stood there a moment longer, warm plate in his hands, faintly stunned. 

The whole exchange had lasted three minutes. Maybe four. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how natural it felt—how easy it was to accept a plate of grilled fish from a stranger and be told to join a community festival like he wasn’t just some outsider in a borrowed shirt.

He made a mental note to tell Sakura about the event. But mostly? He’d remember the way Arai had smiled at him, like he was already part of the story.

---

Sakura emerged from her room in a fresh white shirt and soft trousers.

Minato, still standing where the door had closed behind Arai, lifted the lidded plate slightly. “Your neighbor brought grilled ayu. She said you love it.”

“Oh, that’s probably Arai-san,” Sakura chuckled. “If it’s fish or dried meat at the doorstep, it’s Arai-san. If it’s fresh produce, definitely Morino-san, and anything pickled or candied, Tanabe-san,” she added, opening the fridge and grabbing last night’s leftover rice. “I’ll just reheat this then and make some miso soup.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you like miso?”

“I do,” he said, watching her move with that particular kind of morning efficiency—quiet, purposeful, already slipping back into the flow of her routine.

Over breakfast, the house settled again.

He was still reeling from the morning—from the chaos, the quiet, and from how Sakura was trying. Not just to be a host, but to act normal. And he knew it cost her.

She apologized for not being able to take time off in the coming week.

He waved it off with a small shake of his head.
(I’d take five minutes with you over five days without.)

Then, slowly, she began to light up—talking about the town, the upcoming festival, the heritage museum, the old shipyard, and the crafts shop run by women who claimed to be descendants of ninja.

Minato listened, enthralled, not by the facts but by her. The way her eyes sparkled when she spoke about obscure history. The way her hands moved when she described the way river lanterns used to drift during summer festivals. How she kept looking at the window like the memory lived just outside it.

Of course she would stay here. Of course she would build something here.

Look at you, he thought.

She caught him staring.

“What?”

He didn’t flinch. Just offered a small, almost sheepish wave of his hand. “Don’t mind me.”

Then, after a pause—quieter, like it slipped past his guard, “It’s just hard not to.”

It wasn’t some pickup line. There was no smirk and no follow-up, just the truth.

A beat of silence stretched between them, warm and a little stunned.

Then Sakura huffed, barely fighting a smile, and swatted at him with a dish towel. “Weirdo.”

And for a second, the heaviness from earlier felt miles away.

---

After breakfast, Sakura rinsed the dishes with an easy rhythm, like she was trying to get back to solid ground. Minato dried them beside her, watching her more than the plates.

She cleared her throat casually. “So… did you pack enough for your stay?”

A simple question. Almost.

Minato hesitated, sensing the weight beneath it—like she wasn’t just asking about luggage. Maybe trying to find out how long he planned to stay. Maybe unsure how to ask. Or how to not ask.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Honestly? I didn’t really think that far ahead. Brought a pair of jeans. Two shirts. That’s about it.”

Sakura snorted. “So basically a toothbrush and vibes.”

He grinned. “More or less. Though your dad’s clothes are surprisingly comfortable.”

“I’ll tell him you said so,” she said, smiling despite herself. “C’mon. There’s a local store not far. You’ll find everything you need there.”

“You don’t mind coming with me?”

“I offered, didn’t I?”

They took turns freshening up—him first, then her—trading the bathroom with barely brushed arms and mumbled apologies. When she stepped out, she had changed into a pale green shirt tucked loosely into crisp cotton trousers, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Effortlessly pulled together.

He got changed into his only other clean pair of jeans and a white tee.

“You ready?” she asked, keys already in hand.

They took her scooter.

Minato blinked. “You’re driving?”

“Yes.”

“Do I need a helmet?”

She handed him one. “Obviously. Safety first.”

They both clipped on their helmets as Sakura kicked the stand up.

“We’ll stop by the store,” she said. “Then maybe take the long way back. I’ll show you the lookout point. And maybe the temple, if it’s not too crowded.”

He nodded, trying not to grin. A date. This is almost a date.

It wasn’t until he got on behind her that he realized he didn’t quite know where to put his hands.

“Uh—where do I…?”

Sakura reached back, grabbed his wrists lightly, and guided them around her waist. “Here. Try not to fall off.”

He flushed, grateful she couldn’t see his face. “Right. Yes. Falling off would be bad.”

She laughed, soft and low. “Relax, I’m a pretty good driver.”

By the time they turned out of the driveway, the town was already buzzing. It was just past nine, but shopfronts were open, stalls setting up along the sidewalks, and neighbors walked in small groups with sun hats and hand fans. Streamers in red and gold twisted from lamppost to tree, and somewhere off in the distance, drums beat out a lazy, anticipatory rhythm.

Minato blinked. “Ah—right. The festival. Arai-san invited us to a neighborhood thing this evening.”

Sakura glanced over her shoulder. “Figures. She never misses a chance to nudge us into socializing.”

“Kickoff’s tonight,” he added. “The real one. Not the soft launch from last week.”

Sakura sighed through a smile. “Of course she said that.”

He grinned. “Our friendly neighborhood fish dealer-slash-social coordinator.”

They passed a bakery, and the scent of freshly baked melonpan hit him like a warm breeze. On the corner, an elderly woman paused as they rolled past, clearly recognizing Sakura—and then eyeing Minato with shameless curiosity.

He caught the look. So did Sakura.

“Don’t mind her,” she muttered.

“I think we’re a trending topic,” he said, grinning into her shoulder.

“Shut up and hold on tighter.”

He did.

And as the wind picked up and the town unfolded before them—sun-dappled roads, centuries-old houses, streamers snapping overhead—Minato couldn’t help but think: I could stay.

Just a little longer.

---

They bought his clothes first—nothing fancy. Just a couple of shirts, new sleepwear, and a pair of hiking trousers with more pockets than any man really needed.

Minato stepped out of the narrow fitting stall with a sheepish look, holding up a soft blue tee and the pocket-laden pants. “I think I’m finally moving on from your dad’s floral legacy.”

Sakura leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself. “Shame. You were really pulling off the mid-century botanical uncle vibe.”

He laughed. “Don’t knock it. I’ve grown attached to that shirt. It smells like wisdom and quiet mornings.”

“Don’t get sentimental. He has a whole closet full of them back home.”

“Well then,” Minato said, mock serious, “I’ll consider applying for a subscription.”

Sakura gave the items a once-over and raised a brow. “What are you planning, a trek through the mountains or a treasure hunt?”

“They’re practical,” he said. “And these pockets are—look at this, there’s one inside the pocket.”

She snorted. “Great. You can store your secrets and your snacks.”

“I’ll have you know,” he replied with mock dignity, “these are the height of functional fashion.”

“They’re something, alright.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for the tag before he could. “Come on, Pocket Man. You’re not paying.”

“Sakura—”

“Consider it local hospitality. Or restitution for making you wear clothes that shrank in all the wrong places.”

He gave up protesting, but when she handed the items to the clerk, he was still smiling.

---

With their little shopping bag tucked under his arm, they meandered down the main road—if it could be called that—where old wooden shopfronts stood shoulder to shoulder like gossiping aunties.

They passed stores selling hand-carved boats and kunai-shaped letter openers, stalls with glass jars of pickled plums and wrapped rice crackers, and racks of woven textiles that fluttered in the breeze like festival flags. A banner overhead read “Tanabata Season – Valley’s Light Still Shines.”

Minato slowed to read it. “What does that mean?”

Sakura followed his gaze, then stepped a little closer. “It’s a local story. Old as the valley. They say there were two ninja lovers—real prodigies—who could never be together in life because of their clans. So they made a vow: once a year, when the stars aligned, they’d meet again in this valley. Right where the river bends near the shrine.”

“A celestial rendezvous,” he murmured.

She nodded. “The lookout point I told you about? That’s where people say it happened. Or still happens, depending on how much sake you’ve had.”

He looked at her then, the slope of her smile, the far-off flicker in her eyes. “Do you believe it?”

“I like that it’s ours,” she said simply. “No one else tells it the same way.”

They walked on a little further, quietly.

---

At the next street corner, Sakura paused at a stall that smelled like fried heaven. “Hungry?”

Minato didn’t answer right away. He was too busy watching the vendor press sticky rice into a griddle pan with deft fingers, then flip skewers of fish cake over a charcoal grill.

She handed him a wrapped cone with two skewers poking out. “Ankimo and sweet soy yaki-onigiri. You’ll live.”

He took it gratefully. “I’m starting to think you’re trying to feed me into staying.”

“Not the worst plan,” she said, walking ahead.

And Minato, chewing thoughtfully on grilled fish liver and caramelized rice, decided maybe it was working.

---

The path curved gently uphill, the gravel crunching softly underfoot as they walked beneath a canopy of trees that filtered the sunlight into dappled gold.

A breeze rolled through the leaves, lifting strands of Sakura’s hair and carrying the scent of pine, river rock, and sun-warmed bark. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t demand conversation anymore.

Sakura glanced at him. “I wasn’t supposed to be here long, you know.”

Minato turned to her, one brow raised.

“Two summers ago, my uncle invited me to visit during the Tanabata season. I’d just finished my postgrad work and wanted a break before deciding between hospital tracks or corporate research. I thought, maybe a few weeks.”

He smiled. “So naturally you stayed for two years.”

She laughed. “Naturally. The valley got to me. Or maybe it was the people. Or the quiet. I thought I’d go crazy at first, but then I realized how much I needed the silence.”

He nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

She continued, voice softer now. “I got offered a spot at a private bio-lab just at the outskirts of town—my aunt’s. Small but well-equipped. I get to do actual fieldwork and long-term studies instead of chasing patents. I’m not sure it’s a breakthrough yet, but there’s… something.”

She glanced at him, mischief flickering. “You might even have a hand in it.”

Minato blinked. “Me?”

“I’ll show you later,” she said, shrugging. “I just had a hunch today. You’ll see.”

He couldn’t pass that up—not the science, not the mystery, and definitely not the way she looked at him when she said it.

They reached the edge of the trail where the trees opened up into view of a sloping field, just past noon now, the sun warming the stone path that led to the Senju estate. Cream-colored walls, deep green tiles, and the crest of a chrysanthemum carved over the gate.

Sakura led the way. “We don’t have to go into the manor to get to the lab. It’s in the back building. But we should at least say hi—my uncle’s probably still expecting me to stay over.”

The moment they stepped inside the gate, a small blur of excitement sprinted toward them.

“SAKURA-NEE!!”

Sakura barely had time to brace before the little girl flung herself at her legs.

Minato froze. The child was all bright eyes, short pigtails, and breathless chatter.

“I got a kimono for the festival! It has bunnies! Mama says it’s for dancing, and she got me a new hairclip to match!”

Sakura ruffled her hair. “Slow down, Shizune-chan. Breathe.”

The little girl looked up at Minato then, blinking. “Who’s that?”

Sakura smiled. “This is Minato. He’s a scientist. Like me.”

Minato crouched a little to her eye level. “Hi, I’m Minato. Nice to meet you.”

Shizune beamed. “Hi, I’m Shizune. I’m five. I’m adopted.”

Sakura sweatdropped. “She likes to say that.”

Minato nodded solemnly. “That’s a very important detail. Thank you for telling me.”

Before Shizune could launch into her life story, a familiar voice called from the hall. “Shizune? Who’s out there?”

Dan appeared a moment later, face softening as he saw Sakura but narrowing when he spotted Minato.

Sakura sighed. “Uncle. This is Minato Namikaze. He’s a friend. I’m not staying over tonight, by the way.”

Dan’s gaze flicked from her to Minato with the suspicion of a protective uncle. “Is that so.”

Sakura cleared her throat. “Also… he’s the guy behind that compound. You know, the one you’ve been calling a wonder drug?”

Dan blinked. “Wait—the ‘FV variant’? You’re that Namikaze?”

Minato shifted, brow furrowing. “I mean. I wasn’t going to bring it up.”

Dan’s whole demeanor flipped like a switch. “Son, why didn’t you say so? You’ve basically given my entire age bracket a second wind. I’ve been calling it frog viagra, but the official name’s less fun.”

Sakura groaned audibly. “Uncle, please.”

Minato blinked. “I thought it was an experimental enzyme blend for muscle fatigue recovery?”

“Well, technically, yes,” Sakura muttered through gritted teeth. “Derived from local herbs and amphibian peptide extracts. The primary outcome wasn’t supposed to be that.”

“But it works,” Dan said proudly, clapping Minato on the back. “Tsunade swears by it. Not that you needed to know that.”

Sakura looked like she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her.

Minato blinked again, piecing it together. “…Oh. Oh.”

“Come on,” Dan said, already turning toward the estate with little Shizune. “Tsunade’s probably at the lab. She’s been dying to pick your brain about the data. The whole damn thing is revolutionary.”

Sakura muttered under her breath, “It’s an abomination.”

Minato leaned close as they walked. “So… not for muscle recovery?”

“Shut up,” she hissed, face pink.

---

The lab was a single-storey structure built just beyond the estate’s vegetable garden. From the outside, it looked like a reworked storehouse—shaded windows, humming generator out back. Inside, though, it was tidy and state-of-the-art, with glass specimen cabinets, microscopes, and a long workspace cluttered with sealed sample trays and hydroponic units.

They found Tsunade hunched over a microscope in the back room, utterly absorbed.

She didn’t even glance up. “Took you long enough, brat. You said you’d be here two days ago. Where’s the progress report?”

“Uh,” Sakura began, “right. Sorry. Also—this is my friend Minato Namikaze.”

Tsunade finally looked up. “Senju,” she said, holding out her hand. “Tsunade Senju.”

Minato’s eyes widened. “As in the Tsunade Senju? Your work on cell reprogramming and regenerative protein scaffolding in cardiac tissues—it’s foundational. I cited you in my thesis.”

She arched a brow. “About time someone had good taste.”

Sakura watched the two of them, something fond in her expression. Minato, meanwhile, looked between the two women and frowned.

“…Wait. Aunt? ”

Sakura rubbed the back of her neck. “Right. I didn’t really think that was important. I mean—not blood relatives. Tsunade’s married to my uncle Dan.”

“Oh.” Minato exhaled, visibly relieved. “Good.”

Inwardly, though, a chill of dread had briefly tapped him on the shoulder. Senju. Namikaze. Both were old names, rooted in the same long-forgotten soil. The kind whispered in history lectures and clan records with a footnote about distant ties and shared wars. Konoha’s branches ran wide and tangled. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they had been cousins—just slightly horrified at the same time.

Tsunade gave him a long, knowing look. “Relax, kid. Even if the Senjus and Namikazes are related, it’s so far out on the family tree you'd need a telescope to find it.”

Minato tried to school his face into something neutral. “I wasn’t—uh. I mean. That’s not what I—”

She gave a short laugh. “Relax. We already ran the clan records when Shizune joined the household.”

Minato blinked. “Hm?”

“Yeah. Shizune’s a Katō—same as Dan, same as Sakura on her mother’s side. No blood ties to the Senju. Whatever you’re worried about, you’re in the clear.”

Minato tried not to look too visibly relieved. “That’s… oddly reassuring.”

Sakura tilted her head. “Why would that even matter?”

Minato coughed lightly. “Just… hypothetical.”

Tsunade’s smirk was subtle but sharp. “Uh-huh.”

Sakura rolled her eyes. “Whatever that is, I’m ignoring it.”

Tsunade squinted at Sakura with far too much delight. “So this is the guy behind the compound you were so mortified to talk about.”

Sakura’s expression darkened. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, come on. You’re the one who helped formulate it. The great Dr. Haruno, co-creator of Frog Viagra.”

Minato turned, puzzled. “Wait, it’s actually called that?”

“It’s not,” Sakura hissed, cheeks flushing. “That’s just what Dan keeps calling it because he thinks he’s funny.”

Tsunade leaned back, smirking. “Funny or not, it works. He hasn’t stopped smiling in weeks.”

She was peeling off her gloves and setting her goggles aside when she added dryly, “He wasn’t even supposed to be using it yet. It was still in testing. Confidential. But then he ran out and begged for a refill yesterday. That’s when he finally confessed.”

Minato blinked, slow and visibly horrified. “I have so many questions.”

Sakura muttered, mortified, “Don’t ask them.”

Minato opened his mouth. Closed it again. Slowly looked away.

“Great,” Sakura muttered. “Now both of you are ruined.”

“Come on, then,” Tsunade said, already turning toward the path. “Might as well show him where the real magic happens.”

Tsunade eventually disappeared deeper into the lab’s side annex with a muttered “Don’t break anything,” leaving them alone in the main workspace.

Sakura stood near the central bench, twisting a capped pen between her fingers, expression thoughtful. It was quiet now—only the faint hum of old cooling units and the chirp of insects from the garden beyond.

Minato turned a petri dish gently in his hand, then glanced up at her. “So… FV jokes aside—what are you really working on?”

She smiled, a little tired, a little fond. “That? That was an accident. A misdirection in one of the earlier enzyme trials. Uncle Dan thought it was hilarious. Aunt Tsunade… saw it as marketable.”

“Of course she did.”

“But this—” she set the pen down and gestured to the nearby tray of microscope slides and field notes “—this is the actual work.”

He stepped closer, curiosity softening into something quieter.

“I’m a doctor,” she said, more to herself than him. “I still see patients at the local clinic. Mostly kids, a few old folks. Nothing too dramatic—scrapes, flu, check-ups. Which is perfect, honestly. It leaves me time for this.”

Minato followed her gaze to a collection of data logs and comparative photos—amphibians, mollusks, plant cells regenerating under slow progression.

“Regenerative properties?”

“Mostly in slugs and amphibians. Some of the species here are old—genetically unique. You wouldn’t find them outside this valley anymore. Perfect for exploring cross-species tissue regeneration, especially if you're aiming for something gentle, stable.”

She glanced at him, eyes shaded but steady. “The goal is to slow degeneration in aging patients. Bones. Muscles. Nervous tissue. We’ve had a sharp rise in cognitive and mobility issues over the past decade. The Fire Country population’s shrinking and aging faster than most regions. If something doesn’t change soon…”

“You’re building a buffer,” he said quietly.

“I’m trying.” She exhaled. “It’s early, and there’s no miracle yet. But the slugs show promise. One of them regenerated part of its neural pathways after we tweaked a local growth compound—naturally derived. No modification.”

Minato’s brow lifted. “That’s huge.”

She shrugged, deflecting. “Maybe. Still replicating results. But if it works, it could help with early degenerative issues—maybe even assist with certain types of age-linked infertility. That's… the other side of it. I don’t talk about it much.”

He didn’t rush to fill the silence, only waited, watching her without pressure.

Sakura smiled faintly. “People in cities like Konoha think everyone out here’s stuck in the past. But we’ve got a rare advantage—plants that haven't been hybridized out of existence. Microbial ecosystems that haven’t been stripped by agriculture or pollution. A place like this?” She looked up. “It might be the last quiet place left. That’s worth something.”

Minato nodded slowly. “You’re trying to preserve more than just people.”

Her shoulders dropped, like he’d said something she hadn’t fully let herself believe.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess I am.”

They stood in the stillness of the lab, surrounded by shelves of moss samples and trays of seedlings under soft grow lights, and for a moment, Minato felt like he’d been let into a part of her he hadn’t even known to ask for.

“…So,” he said, trying not to sound too charmed, “when do I get to help?”

She laughed. “Oh, I’ve already got a list. And a microscope with your name on it.”

It had started with a quick glance at Sakura’s compiled data logs.

Just a quick review—maybe thirty minutes, they promised themselves. Maybe less.

But one slide led to another, and then to a microscope, and then to a printout Minato insisted needed re-labeling because the control variables were misaligned. Sakura challenged him, naturally. A debate ensued. A second set of trials were pulled up. Somehow she ended up on the floor sorting samples, and he was at the whiteboard sketching cellular regeneration pathways, eyes bright with sharp, delighted focus.

By the time Sakura looked at the wall clock again, the sky outside had gone golden.

Her eyes widened. “Oh no. No, no, no—what time is it?”

Minato blinked out of his note-taking haze, followed her gaze, and winced. “That late already?”

“We were supposed to—damn, the dinner! The neighbors!”

He was already moving, helping her clean up the most sensitive trays. “Should we call? Cancel?”

She shook her head, quickly covering their experiments. “No, Arai-san would never let me live it down. Let’s just go back to the manor, grab our stuff, and hope we don’t smell like slugs and plant extract.”

They slipped into the tea room as quietly as possible, shoes off and steps muted on the polished wooden floor.

Dan was seated cross-legged at the low table, a ceramic cup of tea balanced in one hand, his expression unreadable but unmistakably amused. Tsunade sat beside him, sleeves rolled up, sipping lazily. Between them lay a sleeping Shizune, curled into a floral cushion with one fist still loosely holding onto a rabbit-eared hair clip.

Sakura winced, bowed her head slightly. “Sorry. We got carried away.”

Dan quirked an eyebrow. “Let me guess—regenerative enzymes. Slug neurons. That whole mess?”

“Something like that.”

“We have a dinner to get to,” Minato added sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We didn’t mean to just vanish on you.”

Dan waved a hand, unconcerned. “Happens to the best of us. But—” his tone shifted, light but firm, “—don’t think this gets you out of the rest of the week.”

Sakura groaned. “Uncle…”

“As town mayor, it is my solemn and bureaucratic duty to inform you that you, Sakura Haruno, are expected at the opening rituals, the sunrise procession, and the lantern ceremony.”

Tsunade gave a little snort. “He’s been rehearsing that line all day.”

Dan straightened proudly. “I am the face of tradition. And I’ll be leading the rites personally. I expect my favorite niece to be there to carry the family banner.”

“Does Shizune count as a buffer?” Sakura muttered.

“Nope,” Dan said brightly. “You’ll be holding it. Preferably wearing something festive.”

Sakura sighed. “Fine. But if I’m doing this, you’re not dragging me into that frog chant thing again.”

Dan raised his hands innocently. “No promises.”

Minato looked back and forth between them, smiling despite himself. This whole village—odd rituals, eccentric uncles, sleepy children, and all—was beginning to grow on him.

Sakura nudged him gently. “Come on. If we run and drive like a maniac, we might still beat the sun down.”

They bowed again in parting, and Minato threw one last glance back at Shizune, fast asleep in the warm quiet, before stepping outside with Sakura into the cooling hues of twilight.

---

Minato didn’t say much on the ride back.

There wasn’t really room for conversation—not with the wind in their ears and the sky burning low behind the hills. Sakura didn’t drive particularly fast, but she was smooth, confident. He trusted her, even around the bends, even as the shadows lengthened across the road.

Her ponytail had come loose somewhere during their rush to leave. Strands lifted with the breeze, brushing against his cheek—soft, floral, familiar. He could smell her—jasmine and sun-warmed skin and whatever lingered from the lab—and he could still see her smile when she showed him the slug tank and said, “I know they’re gross, but they’re mine.”

And he’d understood. God help him, he understood.

He told himself he came here to satisfy a curiosity, to finally put to rest an irrational feeling that had bordered on obsession.

But that wasn’t the truth either.

The truth was—he’d been looking for an excuse to see her, to hear her voice without static, and to feel what it was like when she laughed near him instead of through a screen.

He’d been dying to close that distance for a while now—since the messages turned into late-night calls, and the calls turned into thoughts he couldn’t shake. For more than a year, she’d lived in the background of everything, quiet and constant, a pull he couldn’t explain and didn’t try to resist.

And now, in less than twenty-four hours, he’d fallen even deeper.

He has known before this wasn’t just a crush. But he has accepted now it was teetering into something far more dangerous, something with weight and consequence and no guarantee of safety. And frankly, he didn’t want to escape it, even if it meant his ruin.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against her back, just for a breath. Just to remember what it felt like—moving toward something, finally, instead of standing still.
 

And how terrifying it is to want something you’re not sure you’re allowed to reach for yet.

Notes:

No updates for the next two weeks! Life's a little busy right now, but I'll be back soon. Thanks so much for reading and sticking around 💛

Chapter 10: Dinner, Dessert, and Destiny?

Summary:

Tanabe: Siri, play "Mastermind" by Taylor Swift.

Notes:

Prepare for some narrative whiplash. This chapter bounces between perspectives, schemes, and simmering tensions.

The festivals and traditions featured here are inspired by Japanese customs I researched online; I can't guarantee perfect accuracy, and some details have been edited or adapted to fit the story's narrative. Apologies in advance. 😬

Tanabe 

By the time the sun slipped behind the hills, the long tables by the river were already filling with neighbors, the air rich with the smoky tang of grilled fish and the sharp brightness of chopped herbs. Cicadas hummed in the trees above, their steady chorus blending with the rise and fall of conversation and the soft rush of water over stones downstream.

From her post near the serving tables, Tanabe kept one sharp, hawk-trained eye on the crowd. Most of the regulars were here—Morino’s teenage nephews squabbling over who deserved the end spot, the Takahashi twins snatching skewers in what they clearly thought was stealth, and old man Yoshida cradling a bottle that was absolutely, without question, not water. But the pair she was waiting for? Not yet.

She shifted a stack of dessert plates, not because they needed shifting, but because it gave her a clear view of the path leading into the clearing. And there—two silhouettes at last. Haruno Sakura, pink hair catching the lamplight, and the tall blond beside her, both moving quickly, just a little breathless.

Tanabe swept forward before anyone else could intercept them, her steps brisk with purpose.

“Over here, over here,” she called, waving as though rescuing tourists on the verge of getting lost.

The pair currently occupying the target bench space—two oblivious youngsters more interested in their rice bowls than their surroundings—looked up when Tanabe loomed over them.

“Sorry, dears, you’re needed over there,” she said, her tone polite but immovable, the sort of tone that left no cracks for argument. One of them opened his mouth, but she was already herding them toward the opposite end of the table.

“Go on, shoo,” she added, and in the same breath deposited Sakura and her companion exactly where she wanted them: facing each other across the table’s corner, shoulders angled just close enough for easy conversation. She shifted the bench by an inch for symmetry’s sake, then caught Morino’s eye across the way. The older woman tipped her chin in approval, a conspirator’s signal between two generals who knew their battlefield.

Still no sign of Arai. Tanabe craned her neck toward the storage tent. That scatterbrained woman. She should’ve roped in a few of the younger ones to help her. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the first act entirely.

Returning to the dessert plates, Tanabe carefully set aside exactly one, ensuring there was a single, deliberate portion reserved precisely for Sakura and the blond man at the table’s end.

Perfect.

She dusted her hands and stepped back, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Now, all that remained was to let fate—and perhaps a little well-placed meddling—take its seat.

---

Sakura 

She should have known the moment Tanabe materialized at the edge of the crowd, waving them over like a lighthouse beacon, that this was a trap.

They’d barely set foot in the clearing before being swept into the current of benches and bodies, the path winding like a net tightening around its catch. The sharp, mouthwatering scent of grilled fish hung in the air, chased by a ribbon of sweetness from the dessert table. Lantern light pooled in warm gold across the worn planks, throwing soft halos over curious faces that turned to watch them pass, the low murmur of the river and the shifting tumble of water over rocks threading beneath it all.

“Here, sit,” Tanabe chirped, the kind of cheer that left no room for refusal. A guiding hand, gentle but immovable, steered her to the very end of a long bench.

Across from her, of course, Minato was already sliding onto the opposite side. He looked quietly pleased to be included, the faint lift at the corner of his mouth tinged with a kind of bright curiosity, though there was still a thread of uncertainty in the way his gaze swept the table.

Sakura shifted on the bench, adjusting her trousers and finding the crossbeam under the table inconveniently close to her knees. No quick escape, then. Bolting would mean explaining herself, and explanations fed gossip like kindling to fire.

So she pasted on her best “not at all flustered” smile. “Sorry, we’re late.”

“Nonsense, dear. You’re right on time,” Mrs. Morino replied easily, her voice warm enough to soften stone.

“R-right,” Sakura echoed, then gestured toward him with a careful brightness. “Everyone, this is Minato. He’s… a friend visiting from overseas.”

“Just visiting?” someone asked from farther down.

“Y-yeah,” Minato said, mild as anything.

“He’s also helping me out with my research,” Sakura cut in quickly, her voice carrying a touch more confidence—pointed enough that the words landed squarely between them. It wasn’t just an introduction; it was a lock on the door. No polite retreat for him now.

The elders welcomed him with the same ease they’d offer anyone willing to sit and share a meal. Minato settled into the rhythm of the table with a kind of respectful attentiveness, answering questions without arrogance, listening as much as he spoke. No one asked if they were together, but the assumption hummed in the air like a low, steady note—present and undeniable. Curiosity sharpened when he mentioned he was a professor and again when they learned he was also a scientist. The questions came in that friendly, roundabout way that elders had when they wanted to measure someone without appearing to.

He met them all with the sort of open, good-humored replies that smoothed conversation like a well-worn river stone. It was impressive.

The talk meandered, soon spilling into old stories—myths about the river, the clearing, and why the moon looked brighter here than anywhere else. Some swore every word was true, while others laughed and shook their heads. A few younger men scoffed good-naturedly, but the teasing only fed the warmth of the evening. Then came talk of the rhythms of tradition: how the summer harvest dinner marked both celebration and duty, the unofficial start of the festival season, when the year’s plans often took shape right there at the table.

“This spot,” one man said, gesturing toward the dark sweep of river beyond the lantern light, “was chosen generations ago because it was close to the water and close to the shrine. The breeze off the river keeps you from leaving too soon.”

“Numbers aren’t what they used to be,” another lamented. “Young folks run to the city, and the rest of us just keep getting older.”

“Back in my day,” someone else called down the table, “festivals were for courting. Matsuri meant going home with someone’s fan or hair ribbon, if you were lucky.”

“Or unlucky,” old man Yoshida said, not so much joking as delivering a jab, his eyes glinting over the rim of his cup.

A woman’s voice, warm with mischief, slipped in, “And Tanabata is for soulmates to make their wishes, like the lovers in the legends—meeting only once a year. Romantic, isn’t it?”

Sakura bent her head over her bowl, the lamplight suddenly hot on her cheeks. She could feel the weight of Minato’s attention—not intrusive, not demanding, but steady and unshakably there, like he was studying a rare and delicate custom.

“Depends,” one of the younger men said with a skeptical grin. “Do the soulmates even get along the other three-hundred-sixty-four days of the year?”

That drew more chuckles.

---

Tanabe 

From her post at the dessert table, Tanabe didn’t need to hear every word to know her seating plan was working. She could read it in body language—the way Sakura sat too straight, pretending Minato wasn’t there, and the way Minato, all calm shoulders and lazy posture, seemed perfectly content to watch her squirm.

She slid the last plate onto the serving tray, pretending to fuss with the stack so she could glance toward Morino. The older woman caught her eye, lips twitching in that “I see what you’re doing” way that made Tanabe stifle a grin.

“Married within the year,” old Yoshida declared, his voice carrying far too easily for polite company. He leaned in over Minato’s shoulder as if confiding a sacred truth—but the entire table could hear. “Mark my words, boy. I’ve seen that look before.”

Sakura nearly choked, pivoting hard into asking about what activities Minato could look forward to during the festival season. Her tone was just a little too bright, a lifeline tossed in the hope of redirecting the current. Old Yoshida only chuckled, and two wives nearby hid their laughter behind the polite screen of their hands.

From her station with the dessert tray, Tanabe masked her satisfaction with the mild expression of someone counting plates. This was only the first push. By the time the last dish came out, she intended to have them both exactly where she wanted them—full stomachs, relaxed smiles, and just enough loosened defenses for the real work to begin.

---

Sakura

She hadn’t even made it halfway through her soup when a familiar voice broke through the hum of conversation.

“Sakura.”

Her head snapped up. “Sasuke?”

He stepped into the lamplight, a single crate balanced easily in his arms. The dark wood glinted faintly where the lacquer caught the light, the bottles inside clinking softly with each step.

He set the load down near the serving area and straightened, the faintest scowl tugging at his mouth. “I dropped by your place earlier, but you weren’t home.”

“Then he ran into me,” Arai’s pitched voice cut in from just behind him. “This gentleman offered to help me carry a crate of sake to the clearing, so naturally, I invited him to join the festivities.”

Sakura blinked. “Sake?”

Arai chuckled, clearly enjoying herself. “He probably took pity on my poor back and figured even carrying one crate a few feet was an impossible task. Still, I couldn’t not bring some alcohol. It makes things livelier, doesn’t it? Sakura-chan would agree.”

The table broke into knowing laughter, sly glances bouncing around the firelight until they landed on her.

Sakura groaned, heat creeping up her neck. They definitely remembered. One too many cups of plum wine at last year’s summer festival, a misplaced step near the koi pond… and the undignified sight of her shoe bobbing among the lilies. She shoved the memory away before it could sharpen into greater humiliation.

“Here,” Sasuke cut in, his voice smooth enough to steer the moment elsewhere. From the tote slung over his shoulder, he produced a jar of fragrant pickled ume, the glass cool and glinting in the lamplight. The tangy, familiar aroma hit her instantly—sharp and sweet, a taste she’d known long enough to recognize without thinking.

Her embarrassment softened into something else entirely. “Your mom made this?”

“She said it’s for you,” he replied simply.

Warmth curled in her chest, pushing past the awkwardness. “Tell her I said thank you,” she murmured, her fingers tightening briefly around the smooth glass.

It wasn’t much—just a small jar resting in her hands—but it felt heavier under the quiet, steady weight of Minato’s gaze. Around them, the air seemed to thicken; conversations nearby slowed, eyes shifting with the subtle precision of seasoned gossips. A few faces tilted toward their end of the table, glances darting between her, Sasuke, and Minato with the kind of speculation that was both inevitable and inescapable.

---

Tanabe 

From her post near the serving tables, Tanabe didn’t miss a thing. The jar in Sakura’s hands, the way Minato’s gaze lingered—oh, the threads were weaving themselves now. It was like watching a fisherman slowly draw in the net: not too fast, not too slow, just enough to let the catch settle before pulling tight.

“Alright, everyone, make some room!” she called, striding in with the dessert trays balanced like trophies. The chatter quieted just enough for the scent of fresh yatsuhashi and citrus syrup to roll across the clearing.

Across the firelight, she caught Morino’s and Arai’s eyes and tipped her head ever so slightly. Morino, ever the co-conspirator, returned the nod with the faintest grin before turning back to her tea. Arai couldn’t suppress a giggle.

With practiced precision, Tanabe began stacking the dessert plates—neat, symmetrical rows—until she reached the final one. She left a deliberate gap in the line, right at the head of the table where Sakura and Minato would be.

Sure enough, the moment someone noticed the lone plate, the old chatter started up again.

“You know what they say,” someone piped up, voice lilting with mischief. “If a couple shares a dessert, they’re bound to get married.”

Another voice—louder, bolder—cut in. “Pfft, forget married, the last time it happened someone ended up pregnant.”

That earned a round of laughter.

But that wasn’t exactly the truth. While indeed someone ended up pregnant, it was not the actual people who’d shared the dessert. That had been last summer—when the second-to-last plate got dropped, forcing Sakura and Sasuke to split one. Everyone had held their breath like it was destiny.

Two months later, they’d broken up. It was more comedy than romance, really. 

The so-called legend was utter bullshit in her book—and judging by the faint, flat curl of Sakura’s mouth, the younger woman shared the sentiment. Sakura didn’t scoff or roll her eyes; no, she just gave the sort of polite, noncommittal smile of someone willing to humor a ridiculous tradition while silently filing it away as nonsense. There was something almost sweet about that restraint—like watching someone hold their tongue for the sake of the room.

She could practically feel Sasuke’s irritation radiating from beside Sakura, though he was trying too hard to be polite to let it show.

Still, the memory made the single remaining plate in front of Sakura and Minato probably feel far heavier than any dessert had the right to be.

“Here,” Sasuke said at last, tone flat but decisive. “Have mine. I'm not much for sweets anyway.”

Well, so much for Tanabe’s plans—thwarted by this unexpected turn. No matter. She’d find plenty more opportunities.

---

Sakura 

The laughter swelled when Arai started pouring drinks, with Sasuke as her reluctant helper, or more accurately, like someone forced into coerced labor. She began pouring with brisk efficiency, pausing only to greet each recipient as though they were the most important person in the world.

Sasuke slid into the seat beside Sakura again, already shaking his head before she could say anything. “Don’t start. I’m not staying long.”

She arched a brow. “Mm-hm. And yet here you are, enjoying yourself.”

“I’m not.”

She grinned, leaning closer just enough for him to catch the challenge in her eyes. “Your glass says otherwise.”

His mouth twitched, which for Sasuke was practically a belly laugh.

Somewhere across the table, Minato was watching.

She laughed, and Minato didn’t. 

---

Tanabe, Arai, and Morino 

The night had slipped into that golden stage where conversation softened, sake cups refilled themselves, and the air was thick with the contentment of a meal well-earned. Some had already drifted off, their goodnights dissolving into the quiet streets, while others lingered out of habit, unwilling to break the spell. Dinner was mostly finished—the platters picked over, the last bowls of miso cooling on the low tables—but the warmth of company remained.

The river murmured in the background, water slipping over stones, crickets sawing their steady chorus in the grass. Now and then, the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and night-blooming flowers across the gathering.

Morino sat like a monarch among her people, cheeks pleasantly warm, her voice carrying over the tables with the same authority it had held in markets, councils, and kitchens for decades. Tanabe, comfortably perched at her side, nursed her cup with the smug satisfaction of someone who had steered the evening’s course without anyone realizing—except, perhaps, Arai.

Arai, cheeks flushed but eyes sharp as a fisherman’s hook, was watching the endgame unfold from her post two seats down. Sasuke was planted beside Sakura, who sat opposite Minato—an arrangement that now seemed ripe for trouble. Sakura, sake-flushed and heavy-lidded, slouched in her seat as though the lacquered table might make a decent pillow. Her laugh had dwindled to a quiet hum, her head swaying gently in time with the conversation she was no longer tracking.

Perfect timing.

“Now,” Arai said, her voice deceptively casual, “how’s she getting home?” She tipped her chin toward Sakura, whose fingers still curled loosely around her cup, though she hadn’t lifted it in minutes. Her head was tilted just slightly, eyes half-lidded, the picture of a woman who could fall asleep sitting up if no one intervened. “Too dark to send her off alone.”

“Certainly, driving her scooter is out of the question,” Morino added.

That was all the opening the table needed.

“I can take her,” Sasuke said at once, already bracing her against his side with one arm, as if his decision had been made long before Arai’s question. The words were clipped, deliberate—less an offer than a pronouncement.

“I’ll do it,” Minato countered calmly. “I’m staying with her anyway.”

Tanabe hid her grin behind her cup. Oh, this was good.

Sasuke’s eyes cut toward Minato, weighing him in silence, mistrust coiled tight in the narrowing of his gaze. “Hn.” It was not agreement or refusal, just that terse, unsatisfying middle ground men used when logic cornered them.

“I got it,” Minato said, the words calm as a breeze across still water.

Morino’s eyes darted between them, savoring the quiet tension like the last sweet on the plate.

Somewhere beyond the glow of the table lamps, the river kept up its restless song, frogs calling in low, throaty notes.

Just then, Old Man Yoshida pushed himself up from his seat, cane in one hand, the other waving as he shuffled toward the path. “I’ll leave you young folks to it,” he said, voice warm but laced with a knowing drawl. “Best not waste a good night... or good company.” His chuckle lingered long after his footsteps faded into the dark.

“Well then,” Arai leaned in, her voice dropping into the register of someone about to end a matter with finality. “No point in fussing—”

“Fine,” Morino declared, slicing clean through the moment. “Sasuke takes the scooter. Minato walks her home. Settled.”

Sasuke didn’t bother announcing his intent. He was already shifting to her side, one arm looping with practiced ease around her waist as though they’d done this a hundred times before. “Keys,” he said, palm out.

Sakura blinked up at him, lashes heavy, her smile slow to bloom. “Keys…?” she echoed, as if the concept needed marinating. She leaned instinctively into the solid line of his side, fingers fumbling in her pocket until the little chime of metal announced success. The cat-shaped keychain holding the scooter and house keys dangled between them, swaying gently before she dropped it into his hand.

She tipped her head, her hair brushing his shoulder. “Are we going for a drive?” The words were soft, conspiratorial, as though she’d just been let in on the best idea of the night. A beat later, she wrinkled her nose, mumbling, “Mm… don’t like it when you drive. Too fast.” Her smile curved again, tipsy and fond. “But fun.”

Sasuke’s mouth barely twitched, the faintest shadow of amusement in his eyes. His arm adjusted around her waist, steadying her when she swayed.

Minato didn’t say a word. He watched, the muscle in his jaw tightening just once before his expression smoothed over into something unreadable.

Across the table, Arai leaned back with the slow satisfaction of a cat in the sun. Tanabe caught her gaze, the two sharing the smallest of nods—co-conspirators who’d maneuvered the board exactly as they’d wanted.

And as Minato rose, stepping toward the girl who blinked up at him with sleep-heavy eyes, all three women knew: the night was far from over.

---

Minato 

She wasn’t nearly as steady on her feet as she’d been at the table. At first, he thought a light touch at her elbow would be enough—let her walk off the sake in the cool night air. But three steps into the gravel path, it became obvious her legs and the road had negotiated an early ceasefire, one that didn’t involve forward progress.

He still had the jar in one hand, its weight pulling at his arm, and for a moment, he considered setting it down just to free the other.

“It’s fine,” she insisted, swaying with all the grace of a bookshelf mid-collapse.

“It’s not,” he countered, crouching in front of her. “Get on.”

“No,” she huffed, with a petulance that was more adorable than she’d probably like to know. “I can walk.”

He stayed there, still as stone. She wobbled forward two more steps, knees tilting like a pair of stubborn gates in the wind. Then came the soft, weary sigh of someone conceding defeat.

“Fine,” she muttered, and climbed onto his back.

His arms hooked securely beneath her knees, keeping his hands free of her entirely, just the steady press of his forearms under the curve of her legs to hold her in place. Her arms draped loosely over his shoulders, her cheek coming to rest against him. She wasn’t heavy, just present in a way that made every inch of him in contact with her very much aware of her.

“You smell nice,” she murmured, the words soft but casual, like noting the weather or the time of day. No shyness in it, no lingering pause, just a simple fact stated as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

The remark caught him off guard, not because it was bold, but because it was so effortless, spoken as though they’d done this before, as though her noticing him in such a way was familiar. The thought slid under his skin, warm and disarming, and for a moment, all he felt was her, close enough to eclipse the bite of the night air.

Her breath spilled in slow, lazy curls against the side of his neck, carrying that faint powdery scent he’d been catching all evening, now impossibly close, threaded with something softer—something that made his chest tighten.

And then, unbidden, came the image of her at the table earlier—her lips curving at Sasuke’s offer to take the dessert, the faint warmth in her eyes when she’d taken that jar from him. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. More like the sting of realizing someone else could step between them so easily.

The thought lingered longer than he liked, tugging at the edges of his focus, until the reality of her against him pulled it taut again. No big deal, he told himself. Just walking her home. Except his body didn’t quite buy it; his pulse was keeping its own impatient beat, and every subtle shift of her weight sent a ripple of awareness down his spine.

They moved through the dark like that, the night close and thick except for the hum of crickets and the rustle of the river nearby. Every now and then, she murmured something against his ear, her voice a warm blur in the cool air.

“Today was fun,” she slurred. “Wasn’t it?”

“It was,” he said and meant it.

“You having fun? Your visit good so far?”

“I’m having fun because I’m with you,” he told her without hesitation. “The village is nice. You have nice neighbors. I’m even looking forward to the festival.”

She made a small sound, half-laugh and half-scoff. “Of course you’d say that. Everything to you looks fun. Fine. Everything’s fine.”

A pause, her head shifting slightly against his shoulder as if she were debating whether to keep going.

Then, quieter, almost lost in the night:
“And none of this will matter when you leave.”

The words slid in under his guard, colder than they had any right to be. He could have said she was wrong, that he’d remember this, and remember her, but the answer snagged in his chest, tangled in everything he wasn’t sure he should admit.

The rest of the walk passed in silence, her cheek warm against his shoulder. Her breathing slowed, steady and deep, though he suspected she wasn’t fully asleep. He let her be, partly to keep from waking her, partly because if she opened her eyes now, he wasn’t sure what she might see in his.

The Coral Apartment building appeared ahead, its porch light spilling a golden halo onto the gravel. Sasuke was already there, leaning against the railing like he’d been waiting long enough to get comfortable, arms folded. The scooter sat neatly off to the side.

“Just making sure she got home safe,” Sasuke said, eyes narrowing as they flicked from Sakura’s sleeping face to Minato’s. “Don’t try anything funny.”

Minato adjusted his stance, the weight on his back grounding him. “I wouldn’t.”
And I care about her too much to do anything that would harm her.

Sasuke didn’t say anything right away. He held Minato’s gaze for several long seconds, measuring him or daring him to blink first. Something passed between them, sharp and wordless, and just as quickly, it was gone.

Then Sasuke’s attention shifted to Sakura. Her hair spilled over Minato’s shoulder, lips parted in sleep, the faintest crease between her brows as if she dreamed of something she wasn’t ready to share. The hard line of his expression softened.

With a quiet exhale, Sasuke reached into his pocket and pulled out Sakura’s keys. The metal glinted briefly under the streetlight as he weighed them in his palm—one last hesitation—before pressing them into Minato’s open hand.

Minato’s arms were secured beneath Sakura’s knees, her weight an easy, familiar anchor. Without shifting his gaze from Sasuke, he adjusted her higher on his back, a slow, deliberate motion that settled her more firmly against him. Her hair brushed his jaw, her arms slid more snugly around his shoulders.

That motion was for her comfort, but it also sent a message.

Sasuke’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough to taunt. “If anything’s the matter,” he said finally, “you can reach me. My number should still be an emergency dial on her phone.” His tone was casual, but the amused glint in his eyes was bait, and the smug undercurrent wasn’t subtle.

Minato smiled thinly. Whatever good impression he’d been building of Sasuke dissolved like salt in water. Beneath that smile, there was something else—an edge of protectiveness sharp enough to cut.

He turned away without answering, adjusting Sakura more securely on his back. The apartment door was only a few steps away, but each one carried the heat of competition.

Sasuke’s voice followed him—low, amused, and entirely too satisfied—until the door closed behind them.

Notes:

So… this story is officially getting extended. I wasn't happy with how the ending felt a bit rushed after chapters 10–13 in my drafts, so I'm giving it more room to breathe. There will be tension and misunderstandings, but hear me out, I have zero intention of letting these two crash and burn. This is a healthy slow burn, and I want to resolve all their issues and insecurities smoothly, so we're probably looking at around 19 chapters max. I really hope you stick around for the ride. And if something’s not working, please tell me! Reviews mean the world to me, especially if you're enjoying the direction so far. 🥺💛

Chapter 11: Boyfriend Material, Apparently

Summary:

No summary. I am not Kage.

Notes:

Serving you some second-hand cringe, courtesy of Sakura 🍻🍻🍻

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the uneven rhythm of Sakura’s breathing against his shoulder. Minato nudged her door open with his foot, grateful to find it unlocked. One less hurdle.

Her room was neat—surprisingly so, given the chaos of her schedule. The bed was already made, a crisp line down the center of the blanket, pillows stacked with clinical precision. The desk by the window was equally tidy, though less forgiving: her laptop sat closed on one side, beside stacks of papers that leaned precariously but not disastrously. He allowed himself a small nod. At least she wouldn’t be collapsing into chaos on top of chaos.

He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, crouching to untangle her shoes. One came off without protest. The second required more coaxing. By the time he set them neatly by the wall, she stirred, blinking against the dim light.

“Oh,” she mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep. Her gaze slid down to her socks, then back up to him, foggy but intent. “Are we…removing clothes now?”

His brain short-circuited.
“No—”

But her hands were already fumbling at the hem of her shirt, knuckles catching clumsily in the fabric as she sat up with the drunken determination of someone hell-bent on comfort at all costs.

“Wait—hold on—” He reached to stop her, but not too much, because touching her was its own problem.

She managed to get the shirt halfway over her head before it tangled at her elbows. A muffled huff came from inside the cotton. “Too hot,” she grumbled, thrashing weakly like a butterfly caught in a net.

Minato panicked. Not the fieldwork kind, where adrenaline kept him calm while tagging a wild boar. No, this was the domestic ambush kind, where every option spelled disaster. Pull the shirt off for her? Too intimate. Leave her trapped in it? Too cruel. Walk away? Absolutely impossible.

By some miracle—or divine punishment—the shirt came loose. Sakura flopped backward with a triumphant sigh, victorious in her quest for freedom. Except now she was victorious in nothing but a bra.

Minato’s soul nearly left his body.

And then her fingers went for the waistband of her trousers.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, lunging for the closet in blind desperation. The first hanger he grabbed held a black oversized shirt, one that definitely did not look like her size. Men’s, unmistakably. He tried not to think about it. This wasn’t the time.

This was triage.

He turned back to the bed, gripping the shirt like a shield. Sakura was already half-curled into the blankets, trousers tugged halfway down her hips, muttering something about heat and unfair clothing.

He’d handled venomous snakes with steadier hands than the ones now holding that shirt. Somehow, he had to get her into it without incident. Without touching too much. Without looking too long. Without dying on the spot.

He approached the bed like a man defusing a bomb, oversized shirt dangling from his hands.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, crouching again. “Just slip this on. Easy.”

“Mm?” Sakura cracked one bleary eye, took in the black fabric, and gave a sleepy little smile. “You’re changing too?”

“I—no,” he stammered, ears burning. “This is for you.”

She hummed, unimpressed, and made no move to sit up. Instead, she flopped onto her back like an uncooperative patient waiting for a doctor to figure it out.

Minato drew in a slow breath. Fine. He could do this. He just had to—

Her arm shot up, fingers wiggling through the air. “Go on, sensei. Help.”

“Sensei—?” He almost choked, but she was already wriggling, shoving one arm vaguely in his direction.

There was no dignified way out. He slid the sleeve over her hand, then her arm, working gingerly as though she were made of glass—or dynamite. One down.

The second arm was worse. She twisted the wrong way, got tangled in the collar, and suddenly her face was pressed against his chest, muffled grumbling vibrating against him.

“Too tight.”

“It’s not even on yet,” he said through clenched teeth, trying not to look at the expanse of bare skin where her bra strap had slipped askew.

Somehow, finally, after more fumbling than a lab experiment gone wrong ever warranted, the oversized shirt went over her head. She emerged from the cotton cave triumphant, hair wild, eyes already drooping shut again. The hem fell loose and long, almost to her knees.

Then, with the same sleepy determination that had gotten her this far, Sakura hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her cotton trousers and shimmied them down with surprising efficiency. In one smooth, graceless move, she was free of them, leaving her in nothing but the oversized shirt.

Minato’s soul just then definitely evacuated from his body.

Before anything else could follow, he seized the blanket and tugged it up over her in a rush, cocooning her to the chin like she might attempt another escape if given the chance.

She sighed contentedly, already curling deeper into the pillow. “Comfy.”

Minato stayed crouched beside the bed, heart still hammering. He’d handled sharp-toothed specimens with smaller margins for error using stabler hands than he had now. But at least she was dressed. At least she was still asleep. At least there would be no more incidents.

He exhaled, finally, and sat back on his heels. Crisis averted.
Or as averted as it was ever going to get.

Her trousers and shirt were a heap by the side of the bed, one sleeve dangling like an accusation. With a sigh, he stooped, gathered them up, and folded them into something resembling order before setting them neatly on her chair. It felt better this way—less careless, less like she’d wake to find a battlefield in her own room.

For a moment he just stayed there, staring at her cocooned form. The blanket rose and fell with her breathing, steady now, her face slack in sleep. Strands of pink hair fanned across the pillow, catching the dim light. She looked peaceful. Oblivious. Entirely unaware of the small-scale war he’d just fought with fabric and self-control.

A wry sound escaped him—half sigh, half laugh. “You have no idea,” he murmured, quiet enough not to disturb her.

The ache in his chest softened as he leaned a little closer, taking in her face one more time. Against his better judgment, the corner of his mouth tugged upward. She’d win every time, wouldn’t she? Even like this. Especially like this.

He let out one last sigh, shaking his head. “Good night, Sakura.”

Then he pushed himself up, careful not to make a sound, and slipped out into the stillness of the apartment.

The couch creaked under his weight as he finally let himself collapse, one arm draped over his eyes. He rubbed a hand down his face, pulse still refusing to settle. He’d wrestled wild animals with firmer hands, braved storms with calmer nerves—and yet none of it had prepared him for tonight. Her skin, her warmth, and her trust had landed in his arms like live ammunition. He wasn’t sure if lying here meant victory, that he’d held the line, or if the hollow ache in his chest meant he’d already lost in some quieter, more dangerous way.

---

Sakura woke with her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth and a hammering behind her eyes. She groaned, burrowed deeper into the sheets—then promptly tangled her legs and tumbled unceremoniously off the side of the bed.

“Ow—dammit—”

Her brain scrambled, panic sparking as she realized the light streaming through the curtains was entirely too bright. Late. She was late. Work. The clinic. She flailed, searching for her phone by muscle memory. It wasn’t on her pillow. It wasn’t on the nightstand.

Her heartbeat spiked.

Then she froze, blinking down at herself.
“What the—”

She was wearing… not what she remembered. Oversized, black, nearly to her knees. Not hers. She knew exactly whose it was, and the knowledge made her stomach flip.

Her hands darted under the hem, patting clumsily. Fabric. Soft. She was clothed. Somehow.

“Oh no…” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut for half a second before dragging her palms down her face. Head pounding, stomach lurching, she forced herself to move. Find her phone. Figure out the time. Anything but think too hard about the shirt.

Her headache doubled as she sat there, clutching the hem of the shirt like it might explain itself. What the hell happened last night?

Her mind supplied flashes she wasn’t ready to face: a laugh too loud, hands clumsy on buttons, the mortifying suspicion she’d said something she shouldn’t have. The shirt’s cotton hem burned under her fingers, heavy with implications. She swallowed hard, bracing herself before stepping out the door.

The smell hit first: warm broth, garlic, something citrus-bright cutting through the heaviness in her head. The sound of metal clinking against a pan followed.

In the kitchen, Minato stood in a plain blue t-shirt with her pink apron tied neatly around his waist, moving between stovetop and counter with practiced ease. He glanced up as though nothing in the world was amiss, his smile bright as morning.
“Good morning.”

Sakura blinked, her foggy brain stuttering at the sight. Of all things—the apron. Her pink apron. On him. The absurdity collided with the way it somehow suited him, and heat crept up her neck before she could stop it.

A laugh almost slipped out, but she swallowed it down, what escaped instead a strangled sound caught between amusement and mortification. “…Have you seen my phone?”

Minato’s smile didn’t falter, but there was the briefest flicker in his eyes—like he’d noticed, like he knew exactly what had flustered her—before he turned casually back to the stovetop, as though nothing at all had passed between them.

“Coffee table,” he said, tilting his chin toward the living room. “I didn’t want to enter your room uninvited, so I thought it could wait.”

She froze. If he hadn’t entered her room… then—
Her gears spun, clattering painfully in her hungover head.

She should have gone to fetch the phone right then. Should have checked the time, salvaged her morning, gotten her bearings. But the sight of Minato in her kitchen—her apron tied neatly around his waist, steam curling in sunlit air—rooted her to the spot.

Before she could think too hard, he was already sliding a glass toward her. “I hope you don’t mind, I took over the kitchen. Figured you’d have a bit of a hangover, so I made something for it.” Pale green, frothy, faintly citrus. “Drink this first, then sit. Soup’s almost ready.”

Her fingers brushed his when she reached for the glass, a fleeting touch that jolted her awake more than the citrus tang of the drink probably would. She pulled back too quickly, muttering thanks as if the glass itself might betray her fluster.

The domestic ease of it—the sunlight on the counter, the steam rising, his casual warmth—made her legs carry her to the table before her brain caught up. She sat, careful, tugging at the hem of the shirt-turned-dress as it rode high on her thighs.

Breakfast passed in a quiet rhythm: the clink of bowls, the faint hiss of the stove, the slow drag of her headache easing with each sip of his concoction. She should’ve been grateful. She was grateful. But all the while, the back of her mind screamed: What on earth was I thinking getting drunk?

When the silence stretched too long, she blurted, voice too thin, “I… I didn’t say or do anything weird last night, did I?”

Her heart thudded, desperate for reassurance.

Minato looked over from where he was rinsing a ladle, and something about his smile—gentle, steady—settled the buzzing in her chest.

“No,” he said, calm as ever. “Nothing like that.”

Sakura sagged in her chair, relief flooding through her. “Good.”
Though the hem of the black shirt whispered against her skin, reminding her otherwise.

Sakura finally reached for her phone while Minato tidied the kitchen—he’d insisted, and she hadn’t the energy to argue. The screen lit up: 8:32. Plenty of time to change, grab a quick shower, and make it to the clinic.

She slipped back into her room, only to pause at the sight on her chair: her clothes from yesterday, neatly folded in a tidy stack. Definitely not her handiwork. She filed the thought away, tugged her hair back, and focused on the routine. There was work to get to.

By the time she emerged, bag slung over her shoulder, Minato was wiping down the counter. He glanced up at her, casual as if this were the most ordinary morning in the world.

“You’re heading out?”

“Mm. Clinic starts at nine,” she said, tugging her strap into place.

“I might wander around town today,” he said, tone light. “Check out the market, maybe the museum. The spots you mentioned.”

“Sounds good.” She hadn’t meant for it to come out so quickly, so warmly. It startled her—how natural this felt, like they’d done it before.

He tilted his head. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

Her answer was immediate, too fast. “No. I’m fine. Thanks.”

The scene was almost too whole: him in her kitchen, her at the door, a rhythm that shouldn’t have been familiar but felt like it was. The only thing missing was a kiss goodbye—

Sakura nearly stumbled over her own thought. Oh no. Absolutely not. No kisses. What the hell was wrong with her brain? She shoved the idea into the deepest mental trash bin she could find and set it on fire for good measure.

“See you later,” she blurted, maybe a little too loud. “I’m off at four—maybe I’ll catch you in town?”

“I’d like that,” he said simply.

Sakura nodded, waved, and slipped out, her pulse embarrassingly quick for something that definitely didn’t mean anything at all.

---

By the time Sakura made it to the clinic, coffee and adrenaline were doing their best to wrestle her back into professional shape. She’d just finished checking over the morning’s charts when Anko leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and a grin that spelled trouble.

“You look a little out of it,” Anko drawled. “Hangover? Boy problem?”

Sakura didn’t even look up from her clipboard. “Why would you think that?”

Anko smirked. “I just know.”

Rolling her eyes, Sakura changed the subject. “Why weren’t you at the dinner last night? Everyone else was.”

“Not my thing,” Anko shrugged, unbothered as always. “Besides, the old bats already think I corrupt the neighborhood kids with my pets. I wouldn’t want them assuming I bring them along to dinner.”

Sakura’s head shot up, horrified. “Anko. You do bring them, don’t you?”

“Just Petunia,” Anko said sweetly.

“The snake ?”

“She’s a tree snake. Practically a kitten with scales.”

Sakura shuddered, muttering something about never visiting her house again.

Anko just grinned wider, clearly delighted, before tilting her head, eyes glittering. “So… how is your guest?”

Sakura blinked, too quickly. “…What guest?”

“Oh, come on. Not like the neighborhood doesn’t have its own live CCTV and broadcast system.”

“CCTV?”

“The grannies.” Anko wiggled her brows. “They miss nothing. And besides, I saw you myself. That little scooter ride yesterday? Very romantic.”

Heat shot straight into Sakura’s face. “It—it wasn’t—! I mean—it’s not what you think—”

Anko laughed, sharp and wicked, leaning back with all the satisfaction of someone who’d just stepped on a landmine on purpose.

“So,” she drawled, twirling a pen between her fingers, “what are your plans for the festival? You and your blond mystery man.”

Sakura nearly choked on her coffee. “My what? There are no plans. He’s just—he’s a friend.”

“Mmhm. Just a friend who looks at you like you hung the moon and you two were eloping on your cute little motorcycle.”

“That is not —” Sakura broke off, cheeks flaming, hands flailing for emphasis. “We are not like that. At all.”

“Sure,” Anko said smoothly, unconvinced as stone. “Well, in case you change your mind, I’m running one of the booths. You should drop by. Both of you.”

Sakura scoffed, grasping for steady ground. “Pffft. Please. Whatever terror you’re spreading, I am not participating.”

Anko smiled then—slow, wicked, like a cat who knew exactly where the mouse would run. “Oh, you’ll see.”

And Sakura had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling she’d just been signed up for something without realizing it.

---

By the time the last patient left and the clinic settled into the steady hum of late afternoon, Sakura was slouched at her desk, reports half-finished, her pen dragging where her focus flagged. She rubbed at her temples, already calculating the fastest way home and whether she had enough willpower left to cook.

Her phone chimed.

She didn’t realize how quickly she reached for it until her fingers were already swiping the screen open.

A message. From Minato.

At the market. Guess who I ran into? Kushina.

She blinked. Of course, he’d run into the whirlwind.

Another message came through before she could respond. A photo this time. She had to stifle a laugh at the sight: Minato, bright-eyed and grinning like he’d won the lottery, holding up his phone toward a tank. Inside was a monstrous octopus, tentacles spread like it was auditioning for some sea monster movie.

I swear it waved at me. Never seen anything like it.

Sakura pressed a hand to her mouth, snorting quietly. Of course he was in full sunshine mode—her inbox suddenly overflowing with his retelling of the fish market adventure: the old vendor who insisted he try three different samples of dried squid, the toddler who’d nearly toppled into a crate of clams, Kushina laughing so hard she cried when Minato tried (and failed) to bargain for tuna.

By the time she reached the end of his messages, her shoulders ached less. The clinic’s walls felt a little less heavy. She caught herself smiling down at the screen, cheeks warming.

Another notification chimed. A different sender.

Kushina.

Sakura hesitated before opening it, already suspicious.

It was a photo—Minato bent slightly as he helped old man Yoshida wrestle a heavy crate into the back of his truck, sleeves shoved up, forearms taut with the effort.

Her stomach gave a very unprofessional swoop.

Kushina’s message followed right on its heels:

Good arms on that one. 💪😉 But you already know that!

Sakura made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a groan, nearly dropping her phone. “Oh my god.” She slapped it face-down on the desk like it might combust if she looked at it too long.

She pressed her hands over her burning face. Nope. Not thinking about it. Definitely not. Absolutely not.

And yet—unbidden, the haze of last night cracked open just enough to let something slip through. A flash, a voice. Her voice , teasing and breathy, left a shiver in its wake.

“Go on, sensei. Help.”

Mortification lit up her spine. No, no, no—

“Too tight.”

Then his, low and frayed around the edges, “It’s not even on yet…”

Her eyes flew open, horrified. She shot upright in her chair like the memory itself had bitten her.
“Oh kill me now.”

The heat crept all the way down her spine. If Minato remembered even half of that, how could he look so steady this morning? Unless he was pretending? The thought made her want to crawl under her desk and never come out.

“Morbid. I like it.”

Sakura nearly jumped out of her skin. She twisted around to find Anko lounging in the doorway like she’d been there the whole time, grinning like the devil.

“Go to hell,” Sakura muttered, shoving her reports into a pile.

Anko just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Nah. It’s a lot more fun here, you know.” She tipped her chin toward Sakura’s desk. “You about ready to head out? I’m clocking out too. Maybe I’ll ride with you.”

Sakura froze, halfway to slipping her pen into her bag. “I’d love to but…” The hesitation stretched, obvious.

Anko’s grin sharpened. “No biggie. You probably have other plans.” She lifted a hand in a breezy wave as she sauntered off. “See you at the festival. Both of you.”

Sakura groaned into her hands. “Both of you, she says,” she muttered, heat creeping up her neck.

Sakura tried to pull herself together, fingers drumming against her phone before she finally typed out a quick message: Where are you?

No reply. He’d been online not too long ago.

With a sigh, she flicked over to Kushina’s chat. Hey, are you still with Minato?

The response came almost instantly: Nope. Deposited him with the kids at the market when he started lecturing them about manta rays and sharks. He’s probably still there if they haven’t roped him into shenanigans. Which, knowing him… too easy. 🙃

Sakura groaned, rubbing her forehead. Of course, he had.

She knew he’d be at the marketplace last, so she aimed for there—but took the scenic route first, letting the breeze off the coast whip through her hair and clear her head. She swung onto her scooter after closing up the clinic, the road winding high above the beach, the late-afternoon sun dipping toward the horizon.

And there, unmistakable, golden head catching the light, was Minato.

He was barefoot on the sand, mid-game among a pack of children who were tearing up and down the beach, a scuffed football rolling to a stop near his feet.

Sakura parked a little way back, trying not to smile too obviously as she dismounted.

Minato spotted her almost immediately. He slowed, straightened, and then lifted a hand in an easy wave.

“There goes the ball!” one of the boys shouted, chasing after it.

She blinked in recognition. The kids were from the elementary school she sometimes volunteered at—Rin perched nearby, knees tucked up as she watched the chaos; Kakashi running with a half-lidded scowl that promised trouble; Obito hollering after him; and even the twin boys from her own neighborhood, their hair sticking up every which way.

It was, Sakura thought as her heart thudded in her chest, very much a scene she never imagined walking into: Minato Namikaze, perfectly at ease, folded seamlessly into her world.

Her chest tightened a little as she stood there watching him. There was something disarming about it—the way Minato looked as though he belonged here. Not as an outsider swept into someone else’s life, but already woven into it, like sunlight filling a familiar room.

Before she could think too hard about that, one of the boys spotted her.

“Sakura-sensei!” Obito’s shout carried across the sand. A moment later, the whole pack of them swarmed toward her, Rin trailing behind at a calmer pace.

“Wait,” Obito demanded, squinting up at her, “you know him?” He jabbed a thumb toward Minato.

“Of course they know each other,” Kakashi deadpanned, not even pausing in his kicking of the ball. “They smiled and waved. If they were strangers, that would be creepy.”

Sakura opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to defend herself before one of the twins blurted, loud enough for the seagulls to hear, “Is he your boyfriend?”

Her brain nearly short-circuited. “What—no!”

Her voice cracked on the word, far too sharp. Even the gulls seemed to pause. Minato, damn him, looked maddeningly calm—like he could stand there forever and let children dismantle her with questions.

Another boy chimed in with all the certainty of an eyewitness report. “He’s awesome, Sakura-sensei. He knows a lot of stuff, and he’s good at football. Totally boyfriend material.”

Obito crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes as if Minato were a suspect under interrogation. “He can’t be her boyfriend,” he declared, studying him with all the gravity of an eight-year-old judge. Minato, caught in the line of fire, blinked back at him with polite confusion.

“You should date my brother instead,” Obito continued solemnly. “You’re too pretty not to have a boyfriend.”

Sakura’s face had reached dangerous combustion levels when Kakashi, ever the destroyer of peace, added without inflection, “She already did. Didn’t work, remember?”

“Kakashi!” Sakura hissed, mortified.

Rin finally intervened, voice firm in the way only she could manage. “We shouldn’t be talking about adult business like that.”

“Thank you, Rin,” Sakura muttered, sagging in relief.

But Obito, resilient as weeds in the cracks, was already onto his next argument. “No, not that brother. The other one. Itachi’s way, way better than my idiot brother Sasuke.”

Sakura pressed her palms together, a desperate plea for patience. “Isn’t Itachi engaged to Izumi?”

“Oh yeah,” Obito said after a pause, then added, utterly unfazed, “I kinda like her too. Guess you can’t be my sister after all.” His sigh was so tragic she nearly laughed. Until—

“How about when I grow up, I date you?”

“Obito!” Rin’s cheeks were pink as she grabbed his sleeve. “You can’t just say that! And besides—” her gaze flicked to Minato and back—“Sakura-sensei is clearly with Minato-sensei.”

Sakura made a strangled noise in her throat.

Obito only doubled down, pointing accusingly at Minato. “See? She’s blushing! You are her boyfriend!”

That set off another round of arguing—half the kids taking Rin’s side, the other half gleefully chanting Obito’s wild theories. Kakashi, with impeccable timing, lobbed in, “He totally is.”

Sakura wanted the sand to open up and swallow her whole.

And then, mercifully, Minato waded into the chaos, voice calm but firm. “Alright, that’s enough, everyone. Let’s give Sakura-sensei a little peace, hm? I think she’s had a long day.”

He said it so gently, with that steady warmth, like he wasn’t pretending not to notice her mortification at all. But when she dared a glance at him, his eyes flickered with a knowing glint that nearly knocked the air out of her.

Minato clapped his hands once, voice mild but carrying. “Alright, alright. Why don’t you all get back to your game?”

This, of course, sparked an immediate round of bickering about teams, with one boy shouting, “Sakura-sensei’s boyfriend should be on my side next!”

Sakura nearly choked on air. Minato’s half-grin, sheepish smile could have come straight out of a manga. “Just one more game,” he murmured to her, apologetic, like he was being roped into a hostage situation by eight-year-olds.

“Fine,” she muttered, waving him off, “I’ll just enjoy the breeze with Rin.”

They watched from the sidelines for a bit, though Sakura noticed Rin’s gaze wandering—away from the ball, away from the boys, lost in her own quiet thoughts. Leaning down, Sakura nudged her shoulder gently. “Hey. Walk with me?”

Rin glanced up, nodded, and stood.

The sound of the game carried faintly on the breeze as they walked. Rin nudged at pebbles with the toe of her sandal, her voice so quiet Sakura almost missed it.

“…I think I like a boy.”

Sakura glanced down, schooling her face into warm encouragement instead of the grin tugging at her lips. “Oh?” she said softly. “That’s a big secret.”

Rin’s cheeks flushed pink. “He doesn’t even notice me. Not really. I’m always running around with the boys, so I think he just thinks I’m one of them.”

Sakura bent a little to catch her eyes. “Rin, you know what? That’s not a bad thing. It means you can keep up with them, which is pretty amazing.” She reached out and smoothed Rin’s hair, gentle as the tide. “And if he doesn’t notice you, that just means he’s not paying attention. You’re worth noticing.”

Rin fidgeted, then blurted, “But… he only likes really, really pretty girls. Like the kind with perfect hair and pretty eyes. Not me.”

“Oh, Rin,” Sakura sighed, pressing her palm to her forehead in mock despair. “Boys at that age don’t know what’s good for them. You could cure a disease and they’d still be too busy staring at someone’s hair.”

That earned a giggle, small but bright.

“And listen,” Sakura went on, straightening. “Whenever you feel like it, you can come find me—at the clinic or the Senju manor. I’ll even let you help me with my research. You like science, right?”

Rin nodded quickly, eyes lighting.

“Good. Then that boy can wait. Trust me—when you grow up, he and every other boy in your class will realize how special you are.”

The words slipped out easier than she expected, but something about them snagged in her own chest. Special. Worth noticing. She wasn’t sure if she was reminding Rin or herself.

Rin’s blush deepened, but this time she beamed, ducking her head as though the praise was too much to hold. And Sakura thought, with quiet certainty, that one day the boys who overlooked her would be sorry they ever did.

The surf whispered against the shore, gulls crying faintly overhead as Rin kicked another pebble along the wet sand. She clasped her hands behind her back, eyes following the stone’s bounce before she glanced up at Sakura, mischief flickering through her shyness.

“…But you know,” she said, almost swallowed by the sound of the waves, “Minato-sensei really is awesome, like you, Sakura-sensei.”

Sakura gave a quiet laugh under her breath. “Minato—” she began, but Rin hurried on.

“He’s smart, and he’s kind, and the kids all like him. And you…” Rin tilted her head, studying Sakura with the unfiltered honesty only children had. “You look really good together. Like you match.”

Sakura’s step faltered, more from surprise than anything else. “Rin,” she said gently, trying for stern but softened by amusement, “you shouldn’t go around saying things like that.”

Rin only giggled, clearly delighted with herself. She pressed her small hands to her cheeks, eyes wide. “But it’s true! The way you smiled at each other when you saw each other—it was like the whole world disappeared.” She gave a dreamy sigh.

Sakura exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “You’ve been spending too much time with Obito,” she murmured, though warmth tugged quietly at her chest.

Rin skipped ahead a few steps, letting the waves lap at her ankles, and turned back with a grin that belonged to someone twice her age. “Perfect match!” she declared.

And Sakura could only sigh, more fond than exasperated, the warmth Rin had stirred lingering as stubbornly as the sea breeze curling around them.

Still, Rin’s words clung like burrs. Perfect match. The kind of thing a child said without hesitation—and the kind of thing Sakura absolutely could not afford to roll around in her head. Not when her pulse had already betrayed her more than once today.

The sun was slipping low, casting long ribbons of gold across the water when Sakura and Minato finally convinced the children it was time to head back. Reluctant as they were, a chorus of groans gave way to shuffling feet, sandals dragging through sand as the little pack fell into line behind them. Home before dark—that had been the rule—and both adults had been firm enough, if a little amused, to see it followed.

The twins were the first to peel away, their father’s booming greeting carrying down the lane as he swept them up with practiced ease. One by one, the rest of the group thinned, claimed by waiting parents or older siblings, until only Rin, Obito, and Kakashi remained. The boys flanked Rin like little guards, clearly taking their role as escorts very seriously.

Then, up ahead, a tall adult raised a hand in quiet greeting. Itachi stepped from the roadside, calm and composed, the designated guardian to see them home. Obito’s face lit up, Kakashi slowed but followed, and Rin trotted to meet him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that he would be the one to see them home.

When the last wave was exchanged, the lane felt suddenly still, softened by the cries of seabirds and the steady hush of waves. Minato and Sakura retraced their steps to where the scooter waited by a bench. Resting on the slats was a large watermelon, striped green and glistening faintly in the last of the light. Minato scooped it up with effortless care, tucking it under one arm.

“Payment for carrying crates at the market,” he said, a little sheepish. Sakura rolled her eyes, already having seen Kushina’s text with a picture of him hoisting the crates earlier—apparently the entire neighborhood was now well aware of his exploits.

They mounted the scooter together, Minato balancing the fruit with the same ease he seemed to carry everything. The road home unfurled beneath them, dusky light slanting between rooftops as neighbors waved from porches and doorways. They returned each greeting in kind, a lift of Minato’s hand, a curve of Sakura’s smile.

And though the day had stretched long, the ride back felt unhurried, the quiet between them companionable as the sea breeze.

Notes:

In response to a comment, don’t worry—I'll only abandon this when Minato finally decides to go home, which, honestly, feels like a ways off ✈️

No Uchiha massacre here, obviously. Itachi, Obito, Sasuke, Kakashi, and Rin all had perfectly normal childhoods in my book. No one dies.

Chapter 12: The Ebb Before the Tide

Summary:

The cat returns and most things unspoken

Notes:

Please let me know if you find any mistakes or inconsistencies. I didn't proofread this one. I'm just trying to upload it as soon as possible since I'll be off on a holiday like Minato and who knows when I'll get to sit down and write again. Anyway, hope you like it! Made it extra long to make up for an uncertain period of absence.

Caution: Alternating POVs

The kettle hissed softly as Minato arranged neat squares of tamagoyaki, steam curling against the kitchen window. His hands moved with quiet precision, folding rice into tidy onigiri, tucking pickles carefully into the lacquered box.

As he worked, yesterday’s conversation replayed in his mind.

He had just stepped out of the apartment that morning, the scent of damp soil lingering in the air, when he’d heard it: a faint, lilting hum. Mrs. Morino stood over her potted hydrangeas, watering can in hand, tilting her head as she glanced up. Her eyes brightened at the sight of him, as if she’d been expecting his arrival.

“Ah, Minato-kun! Off somewhere?” she called, waving him over.

He smiled politely, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Just exploring the town.”

Her face softened, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I see…” She paused, a thoughtful tilt of her head. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she added, “Do you know your way around town?”

“Ah,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose I’ll just walk around or take the bus. Sakura gave me the rundown yesterday. I’ll figure it out.”

Mrs. Morino’s expression shifted to one of fond exasperation, her eyebrows raising just a fraction. “Oh, that Sakura-chan… she takes care of everyone in town, but not herself. Skips meals, that girl. You’ll see—if she’s busy, she forgets to eat.”

Minato remembered the brief flash of curiosity that pricked at him, the subtle lift of his brow. “Is that so?” he murmured, voice quiet, reflective, as if he were already filing away the detail for later.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Morino had said, wagging her finger. “She’ll say she’s fine, but she needs someone to look after her once in a while.”

The memory lingered now, as real as the warm weight of the bento in his hands. Minato closed the lid with a soft click, Mrs. Morino’s words echoing in the stillness of Sakura’s kitchen.

Right on cue, hurried footsteps pattered down the hall. Sakura breezed into the kitchen, hair still damp from a rushed shower, coat half-buttoned and sleeves askew. She muttered under her breath about charts and lab reports as she tugged her bag onto her shoulder.

Her eyes flicked once toward the counter, catching the faint aroma of egg and rice, but she didn’t slow. She snatched an onigiri from the plate without even sitting, already halfway to the door.

“Thanks—bye!” she called over her shoulder, muffled around a bite of rice.

And just like that, she was gone.

Minato blinked at the bento sitting untouched beside the kettle. He exhaled through his nose, a soft sigh that carried more amusement than annoyance. He picked up the box, testing its weight in his hand.

So Mrs. Morino had been right. Sakura was impossible when she was in a hurry.

Which meant he already knew where he was headed next.

---

The clinic had been hectic from the moment Sakura stepped through the doors. By noon, she hadn’t had a chance to breathe, much less eat. She was finishing a chart when her nurse leaned in, eyes sparkling with barely suppressed amusement.

“Haruno-sensei? Just so you know… there’s a man waiting in the lobby. Tall, blond, very handsome.”

Sakura frowned, brow knitting. “A what?”

The nurse bit back a grin. “He just came in. Looks like he brought lunch, too.”

Her heart skipped. Excusing herself, Sakura hurried out—and there he was. Minato, seated in a waiting chair, bento wrapped neatly in furoshiki balanced on his lap, shoulders relaxed but posture attentive, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on her.

The lobby had noticed him too. Parents with children craned their necks, elderly patients whispered to one another, and nurses peeked over the counter. Every glance was open, unabashed.

“Is that the pretty doctor’s boyfriend?” one woman asked, voice loud enough for others to hear.

“Such a thoughtful young man,” another murmured, nodding approvingly. “Bringing her lunch, imagine that.”

Sakura’s cheeks flamed, fingers tightening around the chart. She caught Minato’s eyes, and he offered that calm, faintly apologetic smile, lips curving ever so slightly, as if to say I didn’t mean for this to be a spectacle.

She crossed the lobby quickly, lowering her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“You forgot your lunch,” he said simply, holding out the bento. His hand brushed hers briefly as he passed it over, and she felt a small spark of warmth at the contact. “I thought I’d drop by, since maybe it’s about time for your break.”

Her ears burned. “You—you didn’t have to…”

“I ran into Mrs. Morino yesterday,” he explained gently, eyes softening as he studied her flushed face. “She mentioned you skip meals sometimes. I figured I’d make sure you didn’t today.”

Sakura groaned, pressing a hand to her face, eyes darting to the lobby. One elderly woman leaned forward with a tiny smirk; a young mother whispered to her child, who peeked at Sakura with wide, curious eyes. The nurses in the corner exchanged knowing glances, nodding in commentary.

“The aunties are reporting on me now?” Sakura muttered under her breath.

Minato chuckled quietly, warm and untroubled. He leaned slightly toward her, tilting his head just enough to meet her gaze without crossing the fragile boundary between them. “I’ll get out of your way. You’ve got an important job to do,” he said softly.

Sakura blinked, flustered, her heart hammering. She noticed the subtle flicker in his expression—the faint lift of his brow, the gentle curve of his lips, the way his shoulders angled toward her despite his easy stance. Without meaning to, she leaned in as well, and for a breathless instant, the bustle and whispers of the lobby seemed to dissolve around them.

Then, just as quickly, he shifted back, drawing the moment closed. Straightening, Minato turned toward the exit with a kind of unhurried grace, as though reminding himself of the space he ought to give her. “Maybe I’ll drop by Tsunade’s lab,” he said lightly, almost offhand. “See if she needs another pair of hands.”

He took a few steps away, then half-turned, catching her eyes once more with an ease that belied the pull she felt in her chest. “What time do you get off today?”

“Six,” Sakura answered before she could stop herself.

He nodded once, calm and certain. “Then I’ll see you at six.”

With a wave, he slipped into the sunlight, leaving the clinic buzzing. Whispers and soft laughter followed him. One elderly patient nudged another, nodding toward Sakura. “Look at them. So sweet together.” A nurse leaned on the counter, smirking. “That’s a young man who knows what he’s doing.” Even the children whispered to each other, eyes wide at the tall, blond visitor.

Sakura stood frozen, the bento still pleasantly warm in her hands, a subtle hint that Minato had thought to keep it cozy for her. Her cheeks burned, aware of every pair of eyes following her. She glanced down at her hands, then toward the door where Minato had disappeared, catching herself smiling faintly despite herself. The warmth in her palms seemed to linger even after he was gone, and for a moment, it was almost like he hadn’t left at all. She ducked back into her office, muttering under her breath, “I’m never going to live this down.”

Back in her office, Sakura sat heavily behind her desk, glaring at the neatly wrapped bento like it had personally offended her. She waited until the hallway outside quieted, until the soft shuffle of nurses and the murmurs of patients drifted farther away. Only then did she slide the lid open.

The scent hit her first—warm rice, crisp vegetables, a hint of sesame, pickles. Simple, unfussy, but done with care. She picked up a piece of tamagoyaki with her chopsticks almost against her will, chewing, and nearly cursed aloud. It was good. Too good.

“Of course he can cook,” she muttered, setting her chopsticks down with a little more force than necessary. “Why wouldn’t he?”

She meant to pace herself, but the food disappeared quicker than she realized, the empty box sitting smugly on her desk when she finally leaned back. Her stomach was warm, full, and for the first time all day, she felt like she could breathe.

And that was the most frustrating part.

Minato hadn’t intruded. He hadn’t fussed. He’d simply been there, thoughtful and considerate, like it was the most natural thing in the world to make sure she didn’t skip a meal.

Sakura rubbed her temples, half-exasperated with him, half with herself. Because beneath the embarrassment, beneath the clinic gossip, a quieter truth nagged at her:

She liked it, and the thoughtfulness behind it made her feel warm and noticed.

---

He left the clinic not long after he had accomplished his mission of delivering lunch, slipping out as quietly as he had come. No need to linger—she had patients to see, and he didn’t want to make her self-conscious with all the curious stares.

Instead, his feet carried him toward the research lab. Last time he and Sakura had come, they’d zipped along on a scooter and trekked a bit, but today he had taken the bus and walked the rest, letting the crisp air envelop him. Tsunade had mentioned that some of her equipment needed shifting, and sure enough, when he stepped inside, the place smelled faintly of alcohol and ink, papers stacked precariously high, the faint hum of machines filling the background.

“You’re just in time,” Tsunade said without looking up from her microscope. “Grab that end.”

Minato wordlessly obliged, helping maneuver a clunky centrifuge across the room. One task bled into another: rearranging shelves, fetching clean beakers, jotting down labels. Tsunade worked like a storm, muttering half to herself, and Minato fell easily into the background rhythm, unbothered by her brusque commands.

When there was a lull, his gaze drifted to the desk near the window—the one piled with Sakura’s handwriting. Notes on cellular regeneration, annotated sketches, the beginnings of something precise and promising. He didn’t pry, only skimmed the edges, but it was enough to glimpse her focus, her relentless discipline. The kind of work that left her forgetting to eat.

“Careful,” came a warm voice. Dan appeared, tray in hand, carrying the comforting aroma of roasted tea. The sun filtered through the sliding doors, bathing the wooden floor in a soft glow. “She’ll enlist you to do everything if you let her.”

Minato chuckled, following him onto the engawa, leaving the faint tang of the lab behind. The warmth of the sun on his shoulders, the subtle scent of tea, the creak of the wood beneath his feet—it was a different rhythm, a space made for conversation and quiet moments rather than experiments and notes. He accepted the cup, the heat seeping into his hands. “I don’t mind helping.”

Dan smiled knowingly, setting the tray down. “Thought so. Sit with me for a bit. Tsunade won’t notice if we vanish.”

That “bit” stretched into a shogi match, then two. Dan was sharp, deceptively easygoing, and Minato found himself both relaxed and challenged in equal measure. They traded quiet conversation between moves—about the town, the weather, life in small places versus big cities.

When the board was cleared, Dan leaned back with an approving grin. “You should come by for dinner sometime.”

Minato hesitated, polite but firm. “Thank you, but not tonight. I promised I’d meet Sakura after work.”

Dan’s eyes crinkled, and he didn’t press. “Of course. Another time.”

And just like that, Minato excused himself, stepping back into the late afternoon sun. The day still had weight left in it, but he already knew how he wanted to spend it—waiting by the clinic gates until Sakura’s long shift ended.

By the time the clinic doors opened to release the last patient, the sun was already blushing into twilight. Minato leaned casually by the gate, hands in his pockets, posture unhurried. When Sakura finally stepped out, rubbing her temples, her eyes widened a fraction.

“You waited?”

He smiled. “I said I would.”

For a moment she just stood there, studying him in the fading light, before sighing in a way that softened at the edges. “You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But I wanted to.”

They fell into step together, the walk home quiet but comfortable, the streets alive with distant chatter and the scent of early festival preparations. At the corner market, Sakura tugged his sleeve toward the vegetables.

“You made breakfast and lunch today,” she said, resolute. “Dinner’s mine.”

Minato arched a brow but didn’t argue, instead carrying the shopping basket while she made brisk, practiced choices—green onions, tofu, miso paste, and some chicken meat. He liked watching her work, the way her hands knew what to reach for without hesitation.

Back at the apartment, she shooed him toward the table, though he still helped wash and slice. Soon the kitchen filled with the aroma of simmering miso and chicken teriyaki.

Over dinner, they traded their days in easy pieces. Sakura recounted a difficult patient, frustration softened by the satisfaction of a child’s fever breaking. Minato told her about Tsunade’s endless reorganizing, about Dan talking him into shogi matches.

“Dan, huh?” Sakura said, smiling faintly as she sipped her soup. “He’s a good man. Though if he asked you for a rematch, you’ll never get away.”

“I noticed,” Minato replied dryly, and she laughed—really laughed, the sound slipping out before she could smother it.

Later, after the dishes were washed and dried side by side, they moved around the apartment with quiet coordination: folding laundry, putting things back in order. It was ordinary, almost mundane. And yet, in the small domestic motions—the scrape of chopsticks, the brush of shoulders as they reached for the same dish towel—Minato felt something settling inside him.

Something that already felt like home.

---

The alarm hadn’t even finished its shrill ring when Sakura rolled over and smacked it silent. She lay there for a beat, staring at the ceiling, half-dreading the mountain of charts waiting for her at the clinic.

The faint clatter of pans drifted in from the kitchen.

Sakura blinked, sat up, then padded to the doorway—hair a mess, sleeves sliding off one shoulder. Sure enough, Minato was already moving around her kitchen like he belonged there, frying something in the pan while steam curled from the kettle.

“You’re up early,” she said, trying to sound sharper than she felt.

He glanced back, smiling easily. “You’ve got a long day ahead. Figured I’d get a head start.”

On the counter, another neat bento was already half-assembled, rice still warm from the cooker.

Sakura groaned softly, covering her face with one hand. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“You didn’t touch yesterday’s until noon,” Minato said simply, not unkindly. “I thought maybe today you’d eat on time.”

It wasn’t a lecture, just a statement, calm and matter-of-fact, which somehow made it worse. Or better. She hadn’t decided.

By the time she was dressed and ready, breakfast was waiting at the table. She sat, chewing absently, watching him tidy up the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When she left for work, he walked her to her scooter, falling into step with her at the corner. They split ways there, his hand lifting in an easy wave.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said, and something about the certainty in his voice—like there wasn’t even a question—stayed with her longer than she wanted to admit.

---

The day had started with the rickety cabinet door in the apartment—the one that had been hanging off its hinge since he arrived. He finally gave in and fixed it, the small satisfaction of a straight line and smooth swing setting the tone for the morning.

From there, the rhythm carried him outward: patching a leak in Tanabe’s roof tiles, carrying Arai’s groceries up the hill, and once again lifting crates of fruit for old Yoshida, who insisted he could manage until his knees betrayed him halfway down the road. None of it felt burdensome—it was simply what one did, helping where help was needed.

By the afternoon, Minato found himself at Tsunade’s lab again. The place was already alive with noise: vials clinking against glass, the sharp scent of herbs and antiseptic hanging thick in the air, researchers darting between benches. He slipped into the flow easily, moving crates of supplies, stacking boxes, sorting scrolls that had toppled into disarray.

At some point, Tsunade shoved a folder into his hands without preamble.
“Sakura’s research. Thought you’d be nosy enough to take a look.”

Minato raised a brow but opened it anyway. The pages were filled with meticulous notes, crisp handwriting, clean diagrams annotated with precision. He could almost hear her voice in the lines, her mind sharp and exacting, each word proof of the focus she poured into her work.

Later, when Dan coaxed him into tea, Minato obliged, listening more than he spoke, enduring yet another round of shogi with patient amusement. But when dinner was suggested, he declined with a polite smile.

“I’ll have to take a rain check. I’m sorry. I’m meeting Sakura after her shift.”

He had just left the Senju gate behind when the world ambushed him in the form of Kushina and Tsume barreling down the lane, splattered in streaks of bright paint like survivors of some domestic battlefield. Kushina had a smear of blue along her cheekbone, Tsume’s sleeves were dotted with green, and both of them were grinning like mischief itself.

They almost collided before Kushina skidded to a stop, eyes lighting up in immediate recognition. “Minato! Well, would you look at that—talk about luck.”

Tsume let out a bark of laughter, hands on her hips. “Ha! We were just saying we’d have to rope some poor soul into helping us out—and look who fate drops right in front of us.”

Between them, swaying like a trophy, was a carrier harness. Inside it, Kage blinked, slow and judgmental, tail curling like a punctuation mark to their ambush.

Minato raised an eyebrow at the three of them, already suspecting he’d lost the argument before it began.

He blinked at her, then the cat. “…Were you.”

Tsume snorted, clearly unrepentant. “Festival prep. We’ll be knee-deep in paint, wood, gods-know-what for the next few days. Can’t leave him in the house with the hounds—unless you want to explain to Sakura why her precious cat turned into dog food.”

At the mention of Sakura, Kushina’s grin sharpened. “Besides, she’s been pestering me every other day to return him. Something about kidnapping charges?” She waved a hand, as if Sakura’s threats were a mild inconvenience, then pushed the carrier forward into Minato’s arms. “So you’ll do it.”

Before he could mount a defense, the weight of the carrier was already cinched across his chest, Kage settling in with a self-satisfied purr.

Kushina leaned back, clearly pleased with herself, streak of paint catching in her hair. “There. Problem solved. You two can play house now.”

Minato opened his mouth to protest—but Kushina was already striding off with Tsume, the pair bickering cheerfully about whether the blue or the green looked better on the stage banners. He stood there a moment longer, the quiet purr rumbling against his sternum, and exhaled a soft laugh despite himself.

“Looks like it’s you and me, then,” Minato murmured, adjusting the strap. Kage blinked up at him slowly, as if this had been the plan all along. The cat yawned wide, unbothered, tail flicking with the air of someone who’d orchestrated the entire arrangement.

And so he left with time to spare, finding his usual spot by the clinic gate. The lamps had just flickered on when the doors closed for the day, and there she was—hair a little mussed, shoulders drawn tight from fatigue. Minato lingered quietly, waiting, as if the day wasn’t complete until she looked up and found him there.

---

The doors clicked shut behind her, and she nearly sagged with relief. Another long day. She rubbed at the corner of her brow, only to feel the faint prickle of someone’s gaze. When she lifted her head, there he was—waiting by the gate like he had nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

And strapped to his chest, staring with slow, imperious blinks, was her cat.

Sakura stopped in her tracks. “Kage?”

The cat answered with a faint mrrow, as if to confirm. Minato’s smile tilted apologetically. “Delivery, courtesy of Kushina and Tsume. Apparently they’re swamped with festival prep and couldn’t risk leaving him with the dogs.”

Sakura blinked between him and the cat, half ready to laugh, half exasperated. “So they just… handed him to you?”

“Ambushed me, really,” Minato said, adjusting the strap when Kage shifted. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

But Sakura was already moving closer, her relief breaking through in a rush. “You ridiculous thing,” she murmured, pressing her face against Kage’s fur, kissing between his ears despite the unimpressed blink he gave her in return. Her hands smoothed over his head, his back, the little ridge of his spine, as if she needed to make sure he was whole, safe, hers again. The tension in her shoulders melted, replaced with something softer, freer.

Her mouth twitched despite herself. The sight of Minato—patient as ever, steady beneath her fussing, her cat dangling smugly against his chest—was so absurdly domestic it unraveled the fatigue in her bones. For a moment, with Kage snug between them, it looked almost like—

She cut the thought off, heart lurching.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said quickly, brushing past the lump in her throat.

“I didn’t mind,” he answered, falling into step beside her as they started toward the parked scooter. His pace matched hers without thought, easy, unhurried.

Kage rode along, unblinking, tail swishing like he’d been included in the plan all along.

By the time they reached the apartment, the air smelled faintly of grilled food from nearby homes, the hush of evening settling over the neighborhood. Sakura set her bag down and insisted, almost stubbornly, “Dinner’s on me tonight, you know, for breakfast and lunch again.”

Minato didn’t argue, only offered to chop while she cooked—though he had to pause and unstrap Kage, who promptly took up residence on the counter like a kitchen supervisor. Somewhere between stirring and plating, conversation drifted toward work. He mentioned glancing through her research at Tsunade’s lab.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, almost admiring. “The level of detail—you don’t miss anything.”

Sakura blinked at him, caught off guard. “You read it?”

“Tsunade handed it to me,” Minato admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Said I’d be nosy enough to look. She wasn’t wrong.”

Heat threatened her cheeks, but she turned back to the pan. “It’s just… something I’ve been working on. Nothing special.”

“It’s important,” he countered lightly, setting plates down on the table. “And it shows.”

She let the words hang in the air, unsure what to do with the warmth they stirred. Beside them, Kage flicked his tail, as if granting his approval of the exchange.

Before she could answer, a paw swiped across the table. Minato deftly pulled his chopsticks back as Kage, perched on the chair between them, made a bold grab for a piece of grilled fish. The cat blinked slowly, unrepentant.

“Kage,” Sakura scolded, reaching to push him down, but Minato only laughed—quiet and warm. “Persistent little guy, isn’t he?”

“Persistent menace,” she muttered, scooping the cat off the table. But when Minato slipped a tidbit of fish into Kage’s waiting paws anyway, she threw him a look.

He shrugged, amused. “I know when I’ve lost a battle.”

The rest of dinner went the same—Kage lurking under the table like a shadow, tail flicking against their ankles, a paw tapping insistently at Minato’s knee whenever the scent of fish drifted too close. A low, demanding mewl followed every time Sakura turned her back. By the third attempt, it was obvious Kage had discovered which human he could bully into surrender. Between Sakura’s exasperation and Minato’s quiet indulgence, the room felt unexpectedly alive.

Later, after dinner, they cleaned up together, falling into an easy rhythm that needed no words. When the last dish was dried, Sakura gathered her notes at the kitchen table, intent on finishing some paperwork bed. Minato, without asking, set water to boil and soon placed a steaming cup of tea beside her.

“Thanks,” she murmured, accepting it gratefully, fingers curling around the warmth.

He only hummed in reply and drifted to the living room, settling at the coffee table with a book. From her seat, she could still glimpse him across the open space, posture relaxed, hair catching the lamplight. It was steadying, somehow—that quiet presence anchored just within reach.

When she reached for the cabinet to fetch a reference folder, the door swung open without its usual groan, frame aligned perfectly straight. She stilled. A pause, too long. Her lips pressed together against the smile threatening to form. Of course it had been him. Just like the breakfast. The waiting. The patience woven into every small gesture.

Her chest tightened, warmth seeping in where she’d tried to keep walls. She brushed it off, sat back down, and bent over her notes as though nothing had changed. Still, the knowledge lingered, unshakable, like the faint echo of a song she couldn’t quite forget.

Her pen scratched steadily across the page, but her mind betrayed her. The smooth swing of the cabinet door. The way his voice softened when he spoke about her research. How he was always just there, waiting when she finally looked up at the end of the day. She caught herself smiling and immediately flattened her expression, lips pressed thin. Ridiculous. She had work. Responsibilities. No room for—

But memory intruded anyway: his laugh yesterday when she’d muttered about the aunties policing her eating habits. The sound slipped in uninvited, warm and easy. She shook her head, tapping her pen sharply against the paper as though the noise could scatter it.

The words blurred. She rubbed at her eyes. Too tired, she told herself. That’s all this is. And yet when she set the pen down, silence stretching around her, the image returned unbidden—Minato waiting by the clinic gate, as if he had nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Her chest squeezed, warmth rising. Sakura pushed back from the table with a sigh. “Get a grip,” she muttered, gathering her notes.

She turned toward her bedroom, exhaustion finally winning. Kage, who had been perched smugly on the armrest of the couch, stretched languidly and slid down to the floor. He trotted after her, tail flicking, but not before pausing to level Minato with a long, deliberate blink. Then he padded through the doorway like a king returning to his throne.

A soft thump followed—Kage claiming the pillow beside Sakura’s head. She, too weary to notice, only curled into the blankets and reached absently to scratch him behind the ears.

Minato, left on the couch, huffed out a laugh that was more fond than defeated. “Traitor,” he murmured into the quiet. But there was no weight to the word—only a gentleness he couldn’t quite hide.

---

The days were starting to blur into a rhythm. Breakfast with Sakura—Kage sprawled across the counter like a tyrant awaiting his morning offering—then the rest of it spent with Minato’s sleeves rolled up: carrying water pails for the aunties, hauling a cart up the slope for an old man whose knees had long given up, getting dragged into mending a fishing net by another neighbor who decided he “looked capable.”

And wherever Minato went, Kage somehow went too. The cat trotted alongside as if summoned, pausing to leap onto a crate while Minato hefted it, or curling beneath a porch to supervise when he patched a fishing net. More than once, Minato found himself working with a pair of green eyes staring judgmentally from a rooftop, tail flicking as though Kage were the foreman. By the time they returned to Sakura in the evenings, it always looked like the two of them had been on a job together.

It wasn’t effortful—it was natural. This was what a village was meant to be: people weaving in and out of each other’s days. And now, apparently, a cat too.

The more Minato helped, the faster the stories found their way back to Sakura.
By Friday, even the nurses had adopted a sing-song tone.

“Doctor, your boyfriend fixed the roof for the Tanabes and carried firewood for the Morinos.”
“He’s strong, isn’t he?”

Sakura groaned, burying her face in her hands. “He’s not my boyfriend—!”

Her denial only fueled the laughter. One of the younger nurses leaned in with a grin. “Not what I heard. Word is, someone spotted the three of you strolling down Main Street—looked just like a little family. Him with the cat strapped to his chest, you kissing his head after work…”

The others burst into laughter, and Sakura felt her ears burn. “I was kissing Kage, not—! You’re all imagining things!”

But the image refused to leave her colleagues’ eyes: Minato patient at the clinic gate, her cat riding smugly against his chest like a badge of honor, Sakura bending down to kiss its head. Even she knew how damning it looked.

When old Yoshida came in for his knee checkup—“on the advice of your boyfriend, who got sick of lifting crates for me”—he winked so broadly it nearly split his face. The old man teased without malice, like a grandfather claiming a son-in-law. Even he joined in on the chorus that left Sakura red-faced and helpless.

By the time she finally locked up that evening, she was running on fumes. Anko had vanished yet again, her shift left uncovered, and Sakura’s temper unraveled with every step.

“Typical Anko,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “She disappears right when I need her. If she thinks I’m not noticing—”

Minato walked at her side, listening, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he couldn’t quite decide if it was safe to laugh. “Sounds like you could use a change of scenery.”

She cut him a look, still frazzled. “What do you mean?”

“Dinner out,” he said simply. “You’ve been running on rice balls and clinic scraps all week. Why don’t we go somewhere tonight?”

Sakura exhaled, torn between indignation and relief. The thought of cooking tonight made her want to weep. “I’m too tired to cook anyway.”

---

The place Sakura had chosen was warm and bustling, filled with the savory scent of braised pork and simmering broth. The noise inside hit Minato as soon as he stepped through the door—chatter, laughter, the clatter of bowls. Sakura had already been stopped by a former patient outside, offering him that apologetic little smile as she waved him in.

He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when a booming voice cut across the room.

“Minato Namikaze? Don’t tell me that’s really you!”

The sunny blond hair was unmistakable, even in the dim restaurant light. Choza had only ever known one person with that color—bright as wheat in summer, impossible to miss no matter how many years had passed.

Minato blinked, then broke into a laugh.

“Choza!” He stepped forward. “I thought—” He started, clasping forearms with him. “—I thought you’d still be in the city.”

“Was in the city,” Choza corrected, motioning for him to sit. “But kitchens get old after a while. I met the love of my life and wanted something quieter. So I stayed here. Changed pace, you know. Turns out, cooking’s better when you’ve got fresh air and a happy stomach to share it with.”

There was the same boy underneath—the same Choza who used to trade snacks with him after sparring matches in a martial arts class—but broader now and settled into himself.

“And you?” Choza squinted knowingly. “Don’t tell me you’re doing the same thing. Moved away, came back chasing a slower life. Except—” His grin widened, mischief slipping in. “—you came back with company.”

Minato started to protest, but Choza’s gaze had already drifted toward the door, where Sakura was still caught in conversation, her head bowed politely to an elderly woman. Minato’s eyes softened instinctively, following her even as Choza chuckled.

“Good choice,” Choza said, nudging him with an elbow. “You couldn’t have picked better. Sakura-chan’s like family to this town. Kids adore her. The old folks practically fight over whose house she’ll visit. She’s… well, she’s a hero here, whether she likes it or not.”

Minato’s mouth curved faintly, but he didn’t argue.

“And we’re all protective as hell of her,” Choza added, his grin softening into something more serious for a beat. “So if you’d be around, Minato, you’d better know that.”

Minato met his friend’s eyes without hesitation. “I do.”

Choza studied him for a long moment, then the grin returned. “Then come on, sit down before the food gets cold. We’ll feed you both until you can’t move.”

The Akimichi place was a riot of smells and color—steam rising from simmering pots, skewers crackling over charcoal, the air thick with soy, garlic, and pork fat. Minato hadn’t even had the chance to sit before Choza had dragged him toward a table by the window, booming orders toward the kitchen.

“Bring out the braised pork, the hotpot, two plates of dumplings—and don’t be stingy with the broth! We’ve got old friends to feed tonight!”

A few minutes later, Sakura slipped in, cheeks pink from the evening air and from the patient who had detained her outside. She paused for a heartbeat, blinking at Minato already seated across Choza, his presence calm and grounding. Minato shifted automatically, making space for her to sit side by side in the booth, subtly angling toward her. For once, Choza held back the rest of his teasing, letting it linger in the air like an inside joke he’d save for later.

“Doctor Haruno!” Choza greeted warmly. “I should’ve guessed—you’re the one keeping this blond from starving.”

Minato offered a small, welcoming smile as Sakura slid in beside him. Side by side, the booth felt intimate yet casual, letting the energy of the bustling restaurant hum around them without intruding on the quiet focus he gave her.

Sakura flushed. “I—uh, well, you got it all wrong—”

Minato’s lips curved, quiet amusement in the corner of his expression as he nudged a steaming teacup toward her. “You’ve had a long day. Drink this before it gets cold.”

Choza’s wife, a cheerful woman with flour still dusting her sleeves, arrived then with the first wave of dishes. She set them down with practiced ease, her face softening the moment her eyes landed on Sakura.

“You work too hard, Doctor,” she chided gently, already reaching for the ladle. “Thinner than last week, I swear. Eat, eat.” She filled Sakura’s bowl before she could protest.

“I’m fine, really—” Sakura ducked her head, mumbling thanks as her chopsticks hovered uncertainly.

Minato, without a word, shifted the dumpling plate closer to her reach and slid the teapot nearer so she wouldn’t have to stretch.

Choza caught the gesture, one brow lifting, grin widening. “Some things don’t change. Still looking out for everyone, huh, Minato?”

“Habit,” Minato replied easily, though his eyes flicked to Sakura again—checking if she’d started eating, if she was comfortable.

The food came in waves: glossy pork belly, fragrant hotpot bubbling at the center of the table, crisp gyoza that hissed when bitten into. Conversation rolled on between bites, Choza’s booming laugh filling the room.

“You disappeared abroad in middle school and left me to fend off teachers alone,” he accused, though his tone was fond.

“You always managed fine,” Minato countered, smirking.

Sakura, listening with half a smile, broke in. “So you two really were friends back then?”

“Childhood friends,” Choza confirmed, proudly. “Though look at us now. I swapped city kitchens for this little town and found the love of my life here.” He threw a wink toward his wife, who swatted him with her towel. “And you—” his eyes twinkled as they darted between Minato and Sakura—“seem to be on the same path.”

Sakura took a sip of her tea—and promptly choked. 

Minato was instantly at her side, patting her back gently as she coughed. When she finally drew a shaky breath, he handed her a glass of water. “Here. Take small sips,” he murmured, calm and steady, his hand lingering lightly on her shoulder until her breathing evened out.

Choza’s wife only laughed, patting Sakura’s hand reassuringly. “Don’t mind him, dear. He’s only saying what everyone else is thinking. You’ve done so much for this town—it’s about time someone takes care of you.”

Sakura blinked up at Minato, cheeks still pink, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and grateful. Minato’s quiet, steady presence beside her made the teasing sting a little less sharp—and somehow a lot warmer.

Minato didn’t say anything to that, only refilled Sakura’s bowl when she set her chopsticks down for a breath, making it look as natural as breathing.

By the time dessert came—sweet bean cakes and roasted chestnuts—Sakura was visibly more relaxed, warmth creeping into her shoulders. Choza and his wife doted on her shamelessly, fussing over her sleep schedule and workload, while Minato sat back, quiet satisfaction in his gaze, as if seeing her laugh—unburdened, even briefly—was a feast in itself.

---

The street was quiet save for the chirp of crickets, the faint smell of grilled chestnuts drifting from Choza’s kitchen. Sakura still looked vaguely scandalized, though a smirk tugged at her lips.

“So,” she began, drawing the word out. “It’s true, then. You actually kept slugs in your lunchbox as a kid?”

Minato groaned. “Why would I lie about something like that...”

“And the frogs?” she pressed, laughter threatening to break. “You really named them?”

“Toads. And they weren’t just toads—they were companions,” he said, his voice soft, a little embarrassed. “I even introduced them to Choza. At six, I thought he’d understand.”

Sakura stopped in her tracks, incredulous. “And what exactly did you name them?”

Minato’s eyes flickered, and he smiled faintly. “Gamabunta… and Gamakichi.”

Sakura’s laughter burst free, carried by the night air. “Gamabunta and Gamakichi?! You actually named them after… toads from a story? ”

“It made sense at the time,” he muttered, shrugging, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward at her reaction. “And I suppose it’s been buried in my memory until now because Choza mentioned them today and it came rushing back.”

Sakura shook her head, still laughing, clutching her stomach. “Pretty boy genius with a secret toad army. I think I just found your true childhood title.”

Minato cast her a sidelong glance, half warning, half amused. “You realize Choza is never letting me live this down, right?”

Sakura smirked, quickening her pace. “Good. Now I’ve got material for months.”

Her laughter lingered as they walked, warm and light in the evening air, and Minato couldn’t help the small, private smile he gave at how much she enjoyed teasing him.

The walk to the parking lot was quiet at first, the night wrapping around them like a soft blanket. Sakura’s laughter from earlier still lingered, a light echo in the air. Minato fell into step beside her, occasionally adjusting her bag strap or brushing stray crumbs from her coat—a gentle attentiveness she barely noticed, though it warmed her in a way she refused to acknowledge.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, glancing at her with a hint of mischief. “Want me to drive the scooter for a change?”

Sakura raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You drive?”

“In theory,” Minato said, shoulders easing back. “I’ve only really tried it a few times. Not a professional, but… how hard can it be?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Alright. Just don’t wreck it… or get us killed in the process.”

Minutes later, they were on the scooter, Sakura perched at the back while Minato’s hands gripped the handles. The engine hummed softly beneath them, a gentle vibration that carried through their connection. Sakura, exhausted and a little too full from dinner, found herself leaning slightly back against him, more instinctively than consciously.

She didn’t notice how tightly she’d gripped his waist until Minato’s chest stiffened under her. His heart skipped a beat, a rush of awareness. She was relying on him, even for something as small as steering the scooter through familiar streets.

“Careful,” she murmured, half to herself, half to the road.

“I’ve got you,” he replied quietly, almost breathless. And he did—mindful of each turn, each uneven patch of asphalt, while feeling the warmth of her leaning weight, the faint press of her arms instinctively around him.

Minato thought, not for the first time, about how someone like her—strong, driven, self-sufficient—could need him in such small, ordinary ways. What could he offer? Protection? Attention? Something as mundane as preparing her lunch or driving the scooter? Yet in this, in her trust and her slight dependence, he found a strange satisfaction, a feeling that maybe even someone as capable as Sakura could let someone else step in, just a little.

By the time they reached the apartment, Sakura had leaned back enough to rub the sleep from her eyes, still smiling faintly. She stepped off the scooter, brushing her hair from her face. Minato followed, quiet, letting her lead the way inside, though his chest still carried the echo of her weight against him and wished it happened more often.

Kage was waiting by the door like a sentinel, tail flicking with unmistakable judgment. The moment Sakura bent down to unlace her sandals, the cat gave a sharp mrrow and stalked past her ankles with theatrical disdain, as if to scold her for daring to come home late. He leapt onto the sofa, back turned deliberately, the picture of feline betrayal.

Sakura sighed, amused. “Don’t look at me like that. I deserve at least a five-minute grace period.”

Minato lingered by the entryway, watching the scene unfold with a tug of warmth low in his chest. Only when Sakura coaxed the cat with a scratch under the chin did Kage finally relent, leaning into her hand while still eyeing Minato like he’d been complicit in the crime.

Later, when Sakura ducked into the kitchen to put water on for tea, Minato found himself suddenly under siege. Kage had padded across the floor with the gravity of a monarch and, after a long appraising pause, hopped into his lap as though granting him audience. The weight was warm, solid, unexpected.

“Well,” Minato murmured, startled but careful not to move too quickly, “I suppose this is progress.”

The cupboard door clattered in the kitchen, and Minato reached for the small tin Sakura had once labeled as for special occasions. He hesitated only a moment before prying it open and fishing out a shred of tuna.

When Sakura returned, she stopped short at the sight: Kage sprawled contentedly on Minato’s thighs, purring like a tiny engine, while Minato held out another morsel of tuna with a conspiratorial calm.

Her brows shot up. “That’s the good tuna! He only gets that—”

“—on exceptional days,” Minato finished for her, unrepentant, his smile slow. “And considering the king was mad at us, I’d say today qualifies.”

Kage licked his fingers clean, then looked smugly between them both, as if declaring Minato’s case settled.

Sakura pressed a hand to her face, half exasperated, half laughing. “Unbelievable. He’s supposed to be my cat.”

“Maybe he still is,” Minato said lightly, scratching behind Kage’s ear. “But he seems willing to share.”

---

The first thing Sakura noticed when she woke was the weight on her face.

“Kage,” she groaned, muffled by fur, prying at the cat who had decided her nose made an excellent pillow. He flicked his tail in her eye before hopping off the bed with a satisfied chirp, sauntering toward the door like he owned the place.

She pushed upright slowly, blinking blearily at the stillness of the apartment. No faint rattle of pans, no hum from the kitchen, no low shuffle of slippers against the floorboards. Minato was gone. The quiet pressed at her too sharply, like her morning had skipped a step she’d already grown accustomed to.

Her phone buzzed on the dresser, Kushina’s name flashing across the screen. Sakura snatched it up, more grateful for the distraction than she’d admit.

“You’ve been feeding him extra, haven’t you?” she snapped in greeting as she opened her bedroom door.

Kushina’s laugh rang out, unapologetic and bright. “Good morning to you too.”

“I mean it,” Sakura insisted, watching Kage leap onto the couch and sprawl like an emperor. “He feels firmer than last week. And don’t you dare tell me that’s muscle.”

“Oh, please. He just adapted to the pack’s rhythm,” Kushina said airily. “You leave him with a clan of hounds for a week, he learns to eat when they do. Can’t fight instinct.”

Sakura pinched the bridge of her nose, irritation a little sharper than it should’ve been. “Funny, considering his own vet is the one enabling this. Tsume’s supposed to prevent overfeeding, not join the conspiracy.”

“Tsume says he’s thriving,” Kushina countered, smug as a cat herself. “And I say a little extra meat never hurt anyone.”

“Tell that to his liver,” Sakura muttered, earning a sharp meow from the couch, as if Kage sided with Kushina. “Great. Even he’s on your team now.”

“Smart boy,” Kushina said, laughing again. Then, with a suspiciously smooth pivot, she added, “Speaking of teams—you’re coming to the festival, right?”

Sakura frowned, wary. “What does overfeeding my cat have to do with the festival?”

“Everything. Because you can nag me in person while supporting a good cause.” Kushina’s voice turned sing-song. “Tsume and I are running a booth. All proceeds go to shelter dogs. You wouldn’t say no to puppies, would you?”

Sakura hesitated, lips twitching despite herself. “This sounds suspiciously like emotional blackmail.”

“Only the best kind,” Kushina shot back. “Besides, I hear you’ve already got a date.”

Sakura blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play coy. Someone spotted you, Minato, and Kage looking very domestic the other day. Him with the cat strapped to his chest, you kissing Kage on the head after work…” Kushina’s laugh turned wicked. “Word is, you made a cute little family picture. ”

Heat prickled across Sakura’s cheeks. Too easy to picture him again—quiet, steady, waiting for her with the cat like some absurd badge of honor. “People really need new hobbies,” she muttered, but her voice lacked bite.

“Mm-hm. Just admit it—you make a good cat mom, he makes a good cat dad. Simple math.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Sakura threatened, though her smile betrayed her.

“Booth. South square. Don’t be late,” Kushina barreled on. “And if you don’t come for me, at least come for the puppies.”

The line clicked off before Sakura could retort.

Kage stretched luxuriously on the couch, tail draped over the spot Minato had claimed as a bed where his pillows and blanket were carefully made. The sight made the silence in the room sharper somehow. Sakura sighed, glaring half-heartedly at the cat.

“Traitor,” she said, but the word came out softer than she meant it to.

---

The door opened midmorning.

Minato stepped in with a cooler balanced easily in his arms, his cheeks tinged pink from sun and salt. He looked maddeningly at ease, as though coming home with such a thing was the most natural thing in the world.

Sakura froze, halfway to the fridge. The relief that rushed through her startled her more than his sudden appearance. She’d woken to the silence of the apartment—no quiet rustle of slippers, no clatter in the kitchen—and the emptiness had felt sharper than she’d expected. As if his absence were somehow louder than his steady presence had ever been.

Now, seeing him again, she caught herself staring longer than she should have. He wasn’t just visiting anymore—he was in this, already woven into the town as though he’d always belonged. That realization tightened her chest with something uncomfortably close to panic.

“You’re back,” she said, sharper than intended.

“Yeah—sorry. Got talked into fishing this morning,” he explained with a sheepish grin. “Yesterday I helped Goro-san mend a net, and this morning he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Next thing I knew, I was on his boat.”

He crouched and cracked the lid of the cooler, beckoning her closer like an excited kid. Kage padded over too, tail flicking, eyes bright with interest at the smell of sea and fish.

“Look,” Minato said, lifting one of the catches carefully by the tail. “My first time fishing in open water. We went farther out than I thought—saw the sunrise break right over the waves. It was… incredible. And I actually pulled this one in myself.”

Sakura surprised herself by smiling, her heart tugged along by his excitement. His voice carried the salt air with it, vivid and unguarded, and for a moment she was right there with him, imagining the horizon, the spray on her face, his laughter echoing across the boat.

But then something in her chest cinched. This would never be normal. Not really. He would leave, eventually, and she would still be here—her days repeating, her routines intact, with no one walking through the door midmorning flushed with sun and salt. The thought lodged like a splinter under her skin.

Her smile faltered before she could stop it. She turned to rinse her hands at the sink, masking the ache with movement.

“You okay?” Minato’s voice softened, concern overtaking his earlier excitement. He leaned against the counter, studying her with those maddeningly perceptive eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly.

He hesitated but let it go, glancing back to the cooler. “So… what do you think we should make for lunch? Grilled? Fried? Something fancy?” He crouched again to let Kage sniff the fish, laughing when the cat pawed curiously at the lid.

Sakura forced a small laugh too, though her chest still ached. “I’ll figure something out. Just don’t spoil him with the good cuts.”

In the end, they salted one of the smaller fish and grilled it over the stove, the smell filling the apartment until even Kage hopped onto a chair, eyes locked on the sizzling pan.

“Exceptional case,” Minato said, slipping the cat a morsel before Sakura could protest. “First catch deserves a tribute to the king.”

“Unbelievable,” Sakura muttered, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

The rest of the catch Minato suggested dividing. “We’ll never finish all of this ourselves. We should share—Tanabe-san, Morino, Arai… they’ll appreciate it, right?”

Sakura hesitated. She wanted to say no. To keep it contained. But he was already sorting the fish into neat bundles, the movement so casual and sure it rattled her. As if this was normal. As if this was his life.

By the time they’d wrapped and delivered the portions, neighbors smiling at their doorways and waving them off warmly, Sakura’s chest ached with a new heaviness. He fit. Too well. And she didn’t know what to do with that.

They had just finished dropping off the last parcel when the timing doubled back on them—Tanabe herself appearing at Sakura’s door, arms full of candied plums.

“Ah, I was about to come thank you!” she exclaimed warmly, setting the bundle into Sakura’s hands. “This young man’s been such a help this week. Now today, bringing fish too? I can’t let that go unanswered.”

Sakura blinked, caught between protest and embarrassment, while Minato only inclined his head politely, as though this was the most natural exchange in the world.

“And,” Tanabe added with a conspiratorial smile, “if you’re free tomorrow, I could use a little help setting up my tea booth for the festival. Both of you, if you don’t mind.”

Sakura stammered something about schedules, but Minato was already nodding, agreeable as ever.

---

The rest of the afternoon slipped by in a hush. Sakura sat at the kitchen table, fingers moving briskly over her keyboard as she tried to finish Tsunade’s reports before the festival swallowed her schedule whole. Minato, at first, read one of the paperbacks she’d left lying around, stretched easily across the couch with his usual calm. Later, the steady rhythm of her typing was joined by the softer sound of his breathing—he had dozed off, Kage sprawled comfortably on his stomach like a conquering king.

It should have been ordinary. Comfortable, even. Yet it wasn’t. Sakura glanced over once, twice, catching the picture of him asleep, unbothered, perfectly at home in her space, and something in her tightened. He’d said earlier he’d rather stay in today—after being all over town the past few days—and though his words had been casual, it unsettled her. He wasn’t just fitting in anymore. He was content here, as if he belonged.

By the time evening fell, the unease had rooted deep.

Dinner was simple—a fish stew from the day’s catch, with the candied plums served alongside. They ate quietly, the air stretched thinner than usual. Minato tried, once or twice, to spark small talk—an anecdote about the fishing trip, a question about the report she’d been working on—but Sakura’s responses were short, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

She excused herself early, muttering something about needing to finish reports. She avoided looking too long in his direction, avoided lingering at the table. The awareness of his presence had become too much, pressing at the edges of her thoughts. She needed space, distance, something.

Minato noticed. He always noticed. But he didn’t press. He cleared the dishes without comment, folded his blanket on the couch, and let the quiet settle between them. Uncertainty pricked at him, but he left it untouched, respecting the boundary she drew—even if he didn’t quite understand it.

Sakura shut herself in her room, heart heavy with things unspoken. On the couch, Minato lay awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he had overstepped somehow—or if this was simply the ebb before the tide.

At some point, the bedroom door cracked open. Kage padded out, tail flicking, and without ceremony hopped onto the couch. He circled once before settling against Minato’s side, purring low and steady. Minato exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite the weight in his chest. Even the king, it seemed, had chosen his place for the night.

Chapter 13: What a Cliché, Part I

Summary:

Prediction or premonition?

Sakura woke to the faint scrape of a pan and the warm smell of butter. For a moment, still curled in the hush of her bed, she let herself imagine it was normal—two people starting the day together, quiet and easy. Then her stomach clenched.

Stop it. Don’t start thinking like that.

She pushed herself upright, whispering, “Careful. This is temporary,” as if saying it aloud might steady her.

By the time she padded into the kitchen, her smile was ready.

“Morning,” she said, a touch too bright.

Minato glanced up from the stove, sleeves rolled, hair untamed in the morning light. On the counter, a small stack of pancakes gleamed under a drizzle of syrup, sausages lined neatly beside them.

“Morning,” he returned. “We’ve got a long day ahead, so I thought something hearty.” He set the plate down, then added with a flick of a smile, “I wasn’t sure if you’re the savory type… so I balanced it.” His gaze slid to hers, playful, almost sly. “Though, if I had to guess—you’re partial to sweets.”

Sakura blinked, caught mid-reach for the mugs. “I mean, not always—sometimes—” The words tangled in her mouth, heat pricking at her cheeks. She abandoned the thought and busied herself at the counter, grateful to find the kettle already steaming—of course he’d thought ahead. All she had to do was pour into the waiting press. Simple.

Too simple.

She measured out the grounds with excessive precision, poured the water in a steady swirl like it was some delicate ritual, and then gripped the plunger with a focus that could’ve leveled armies. The press squeaked loudly as she shoved it down too hard, making her wince.

Minato’s mouth quirked. He said nothing, only let the silence stretch, and in that quiet she could feel the echo of her own flustered overcompensation settle warmly between them.

Before she could risk meeting his eyes again, Kage leapt onto the counter, landing with the authority of a monarch inspecting tribute. His sharp green gaze bypassed the pancakes entirely and locked on the smaller covered dish to the side.

Sakura narrowed her eyes. “Honestly, you impatient overlord. You could at least pretend to wait your turn.”

The cat blinked once, slow and imperious, as if to say her opinion was noted—and entirely irrelevant.

Minato chuckled, uncovering the dish—flakes of tuna folded with grated carrot. He stirred briskly, fanned it cool, and slid it down to the floor. “Safe to eat now, boss.”

Sakura blinked. “You made him something from scratch?”

“Of course. Got to keep our boy healthy.”

Our boy. The words snagged somewhere inside her, and she turned to the coffee press quickly to hide her face.

Kage, purring, tucked in none the wiser to the carrot.

Meanwhile Minato flipped the last pancake—too high, too showy. It arced like a coin in sunlight.

“Watch out—!” Sakura lunged, nearly knocking the coffee press as she tried to catch it. The pancake landed on the very edge of a plate, wobbled, then held.

Kage froze mid-bite, ears flattened in outrage at the aerial stunt.

“Guess my showmanship needs work,” Minato said, biting back a laugh.

“You think?” she muttered, lips twitching despite herself.

They sat down. Minato slid her plate forward, fingers brushing hers. “Thanks,” she said quickly, eyes dropping.

They ate. Or rather, moved through the motions. His gentle questions—“Sleep well?” “Tanabe-san’s expecting us at nine, right?”—met with her tidy answers: “Fine.” “Yes.” “Okay.” Words stacked carefully, like stones that kept a distance.

Kage finished first, of course. He hopped into Minato’s lap, curling in satisfaction.

“Hey, just whose cat are you?” Sakura muttered, tugging at him.

But Kage burrowed deeper, tail curled smugly across Minato’s thigh.

“Guess he knows who cooked,” Minato said lightly.

When she looked up, he was watching her—not pressing, not serious, but with a flicker of fond mischief, as though he’d seen more in her than she meant to show.

Her throat tightened. She drank her coffee too fast, burning her tongue, but welcomed the sting. Don’t get used to this.

After breakfast, Sakura changed into cropped work pants and a short-sleeved linen blouse, soft teal in color, with a thin camisole beneath it. Practical, breathable—something she wouldn’t mind if it wrinkled under the summer heat. She tied her hair neatly at her nape, satisfied she looked sensible enough.

Minato was already waiting by the door. Pale blue linen shirt, long-sleeved but rolled up at the forearms, worn open over a soft white undershirt. His ridiculous many-pocketed trousers sagged with who-knew-what—twine, pens, spare string lights, probably cat treats, or Kage’s food bowl.

Kage sat at the threshold like a foreman, tail swishing his verdict.

Then Sakura slipped into her shoes and glanced sideways. Her blouse over cami. His shirt over undershirt. Pale cream and pale blue. Work trousers, both of them. Two variations of the same idea. Coordinated. Practically uniform.

Her pulse jumped. No, no, no. They looked like they’d planned this. Like a pair.

“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.

Minato raised a brow. “Problem?”

She shook her head far too fast. “Nothing.”

Kage trotted out first, tail high, leading their little parade into the summer morning. And as Sakura stepped beside Minato, the faint scent of him—soap, linen, warm cotton—slipped into her senses, clinging like something she shouldn’t keep but couldn’t quite push away.

---

The square was already humming when Tanabe arrived, basket hooked in the crook of her arm. Stalls rattled open one by one, children darted between legs, and someone’s dog yapped at the lantern ropes being strung overhead. The air smelled of wood polish and red bean paste.

The tea booth wasn’t standing yet—its planks and poles and crates were stacked neatly at the edge of the square, waiting to be lifted into place.

She spotted Morino and Arai nearby—well, Morino was loitering with arms folded, while Arai had already wheedled her way into the vendor’s supplies, fingers twitching toward jars like a crow among bright buttons.

“Finally,” Morino said when she saw Tanabe. “I thought you’d overslept.”

Tanabe set her basket down with a decisive thunk. Her slight delay had been strategic; she’d taken the shortcut through the back lane to arrive just before the pair she knew would follow. “As if I’d leave this to you two. We’re the front line. The tea booth sets the tone for the whole event.”

“Yes, yes,” Arai said, eyes shining as she bustled closer. “But the real show starts when they arrive.”

“They?” Morino narrowed her eyes.

“I saw them just now,” Arai breathed, dropping her voice though the square was loud enough to swallow it. “Side by side, walking in step like it was nothing. And dressed to match—linen and light shirts, both of them. Suspicious, if you ask me.”

Tanabe smoothed the cloth cover for their table, tone mild. “I can confirm. They left the apartment together, and yes, in matching shades.”

Morino barked a laugh, sharp and delighted. “Oh, I knew it! And of course I was here too early to miss the sight myself.”

“That cat of hers strutted past my window like a conquering general,” Tanabe added, lips twitching. “Tail up like a banner.”

Arai clapped her hands once, half scandalized, half delighted. “That cat has more pride than half the men in this town.”

Tanabe only hummed, fussing until not a wrinkle remained on the cloth. She’d seen enough mornings to know the difference between coincidence and proximity. And proximity was where mischief lived.

“They’ll be here any moment to help,” she said at last. “So we must be ready.”

“Ready to pour tea?” Morino teased.

“Ready to watch,” Tanabe corrected, voice prim.

And just as if cued, movement stirred at the far end of the square. Minato and Sakura came into view, stepping through the sunlit bustle with matching linen layers—her blouse loose over a white cami, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, both in near-identical shades that made them look, at a glance, like they’d dressed with each other in mind. Kage padded between them like a herald, tail flicking high.

Arai let out a tiny gasp, triumphant. “See? See!”

Morino’s eyes widened, then narrowed in wicked glee. “Ohhh, this is better than tea.”

---

They were still smirking over that when Minato and Sakura approached them, Kage trotting at their heels with the air of a tax collector coming to audit.

“Ah, there you are,” Tanabe greeted smoothly, as though she hadn’t been watching them in the past two minutes. “Just in time. We need another pair of hands.”

“Or two pairs,” Arai added, eyes twinkling.

The booth was still just a collection of crates, planks, and poles waiting to be coaxed into shape. Before Sakura could so much as touch anything, Minato had already stooped to heft a beam onto his shoulder, muscles flexing with easy confidence.

“I can carry that,” Sakura said, bristling.

“I’ve got it,” Minato replied, as if it were obvious.

So she bent, seized the other beam, and lifted it without so much as a grunt. His eyes widened—genuine surprise flashing there—before the corners of his mouth quirked. A blush crept up his cheekbones. Oh. He liked that.

From their vantage point, the aunties exchanged looks sharp as paring knives.

“Strong girl,” Tanabe murmured, lips twitching.

“And strong boy,” Morino added with a wicked grin. “What symmetry.”

Minato, suddenly very focused, busied himself wedging the beam into place. But Sakura noticed the way his gaze lingered when she hefted a crate with deceptive ease, her arms taut with effort she made look casual.

Soon the square was echoing with the clatter of wood and the aunties’ artful commentary. Every time Sakura reached for a load, Minato’s hand was there—steadying, intercepting, refusing to let her strain. And every time, Sakura proved she could match him pound for pound, her jaw set, her eyes daring him to underestimate her again.

“Such good coordination,” Morino observed, far too innocently, when the two maneuvered a heavy crate into place. “Like clockwork.”

Sakura shot her a look sharp enough to cut rope, but Morino only grinned wider.

Then came the banner. Arai thrust a brush into Sakura’s hand while Tanabe passed Minato the paint tin. “Touch up those letters,” she ordered, shooing them both closer.

So they knelt side by side, leaning over the stretched cloth. Sakura tried to keep her strokes even, her hand steady, but Minato’s sleeve—once neatly rolled—had slipped loose and brushed hers, warm through the thin fabric, leaving a streak of black on his cuff.

“Ah,” Arai clucked her tongue, eyes sparkling. “Careful, Minato-kun—you’ll be covered in paint before long. Though I suppose matching stains would suit you two.”

Sakura’s ears burned hot. Matching. Stains. Honestly—

Minato only gave her a crooked smile, unbothered. “Occupational hazard.”

“You’ll ruin it if you keep dragging your cuff everywhere,” Sakura muttered, nudging his sleeve back. With a huff, she caught his wrist and briskly folded the linen above his elbow again, sharper and neater this time. Fingers quick, precise—though more careful than she liked to admit.

“There,” she said shortly, releasing him. “Now you won’t smear everything.”

Except, as she went to push a stray lock of hair from her face, the back of her hand brushed her forehead—leaving a bold streak of black paint right across it.

Minato’s laugh startled out, bright and unguarded. Before she could scowl, he leaned in, catching the loose strand she’d missed and tucking it behind her ear. “You’ve got a little something—” His finger hovered just above her brow, eyes dancing.

Mortified, Sakura scrubbed at the spot, only to smear it worse.

“Oh, perfect,” Arai sighed theatrically. “Now they match.”

Sakura’s eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, she swiped her paint-stained finger across Minato’s jaw, leaving a dark streak. “There. Now we match.”

Minato froze, blinking—then his grin spread, slow and wicked.

The aunties exchanged a look, their delight barely contained.

---

When the cloth was dried and ready, they tried hanging it—but the stools were too short and the ladder had been claimed by another stall.

“Can’t reach?” Tanabe asked smoothly. “Hmm. Shame the ladder’s occupied.”

“Not a problem,” Arai said brightly. “Good shoulders on that one. Just climb right up.”

Minato, crouched with the twine, blinked. “…Excuse me?”

Sakura froze. They couldn’t possibly mean— “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come now,” Morino pressed, eyes dancing. “I’ve seen him lift sacks of rice heavier than you. Solid as a temple beam. You’ll be safer up there than on any ladder.”

Her stomach dropped. Her whole body screamed refusal. And yet—Minato was already rising, expression calm, maddeningly calm, as though this weren’t humiliating at all. His hands braced, offering.

“It could work.”

It was like a trapdoor opening beneath her. She could hear her pulse in her ears, loud as festival drums. “No. I’ll wait. The ladder—”

“The ladder won’t be free for an hour,” Tanabe cut in, smug. “And the banners won’t hang themselves.”

Every eye turned to her. Her skin prickled hot, mortified to her marrow. Minato, the steady traitor, only said, low and certain, “I’ve got you.”

So she climbed.

The moment she settled on his shoulders, his hands closed firm around her ankles—warm, steady, entirely too steady. She tried not to notice. She failed.

It’s fine. Just balance. Just physics. Not him. Definitely not him.

“Doing all right?” Minato asked, voice low and impossibly calm.

Her stomach swooped. His voice carried up through him, into her bones. “Perfectly fine,” she lied, which became instantly, provably untrue when Arai called out, delighted, “Now that’s a picture—like a bride on her groom’s shoulders!”

Sakura nearly strangled herself with the banner. Bride. Groom. Absolutely not. Absolutely never.

Her face went hot enough to rival the lanterns overhead. Mortification buzzed in her ears, in her fingertips, everywhere. She tied the knot with desperate precision, muttering excuses in her head—heat, height, paint fumes, anything but him.

“There. Done!” she blurted, tugging the rope harder than necessary.

Minato shifted to steady her descent, but she panicked and scrambled down too quickly. Her foot slipped. The world tipped, the ground rushed up—until, in the next instant, he twisted to catch her.

They went down together, his back hitting the packed earth with a muted thud, her weight cushioned by the brace of his arms. Not crushed, not sprawled in disgrace, but held, sheltered, his body the barrier between hers and the fall.

The world steadied, though her pulse did not. She was pressed against him, breath caught. His heartbeat thudded beneath her cheek—fast, urgent, nothing calm about it.

When she dared to look up, his eyes caught her—blue, so vivid it made her pulse stutter. Not calm, crystalline blue, but darker, stormier, pupils blown wide. Worry sharpened there, yes, but something else too, something that rippled through her before she could stop it.

Too close. Far, far too close.

And because her brain hated her, her gaze flicked lower—his mouth, parted as if he’d been about to speak, close enough that if she leaned even an inch—

No. God, no.

From the sidelines, a collective gasp erupted.

“Ohhh, did you see that?” Arai squealed, practically bouncing on her toes.

“Like a scene from one of those romance dramas!” Morino added, eyes wide, voice pitched to scandal.

Tanabe’s hand flew to her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Good heavens!”

Sakura’s ears burned crimson. She scrambled upright, heart hammering, trying to tear her eyes away while her body stubbornly remembered every point of contact.

Minato sat up more slowly, still steadying her with one hand, concern flickering across his face. “Are you all right?”

The worry in his voice undid her more than the fall had. She was still far too close, still reeling.

“I—yes—I’m fine,” she stammered, but the words came out thin, breathless. Jolting back as if burned, she nearly tripped over the crate again in her rush to retreat. Her face felt incandescent.

Kage, perched smugly on the beam above, flicked his tail once, the silent judgment clear: You’re not fooling anyone, silly girl.

---

The three of them tucked themselves together, watching their handiwork unfold.

“Did you see her face when she climbed onto his shoulders?” Arai gasped, clutching Morino’s sleeve. “Red as festival lanterns!”

Tanabe smirked. “Like she was hiding a fever.”

“And the way she kept refusing his help,” Arai pressed on, eyes glittering. “That’s not practicality, that’s panic. She feels it—the current’s too strong.”

“Exactly,” Tanabe agreed. “The more she resists, the harder fate pulls.”

Morino tilted her chin, assuming the solemn weight of an expert. “Classic romance arc. I’ve read the books. This is the denial stage—burns hottest right before it catches fire.”

“And don’t get me started on how he looks at her,” Arai sighed, half-dreaming. “Like he can’t believe something as ordinary as lifting a crate could be worth marveling at, as if even the plainest motion were made just for him.”

Tanabe chuckled low. “And the picture they made painting together—shoulder to shoulder, sleeves brushing, breath catching—looked like joy to me. Like a couple lost in their own little world.”

“On his shoulders,” Arai insisted, leaning forward, “you saw it too, didn’t you? She thought she looked ridiculous, but in my eyes, it was pure delight. Like a bride lifted up to be admired.”

“Only in your imagination,” Tanabe teased, though her eyes were bright. “She was stiff as a board, and he was barely holding steady.”

“Details,” Arai dismissed with a flourish. “The way they looked at each other when he caught her—oh! It was straight out of a cheesy romance drama. Tumbling into his arms, eyes locked, like fate itself shoved them together.”

Morino clapped her hands once, verdict delivered. “Progress.”

“Proximity,” Tanabe echoed.

“Perfection,” Arai finished, glowing.

---

The booth stood finished at last, lanterns strung like beads of fire along the rafters. Arai had dragged Minato off to fetch supplies, leaving Sakura alone with Tanabe and Morino—who, with suspicious glee, unveiled a teapot as if it had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Festival tradition,” Tanabe declared as steam curled fragrant from the spout. “The fortune tea.”

“Fortune tea?” Sakura repeated, cautious.

“You have to pour it yourself,” Morino said, almost ceremonial.

Sakura hesitated, then lifted the pot, careful not to spill. She didn’t look thrilled about it, but politeness kept her from refusing. The tea rippled dark into her cup.

Morino leaned forward, solemn as a priestess. “It’s simple. Clockwise swirl—someone loves you deeply, faithfully. Counterclockwise—the heart is restless, pulled in two directions. Sometimes… toward disappointment.”

Tanabe leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing sacred gossip. “And if the swirl breaks? Then it means unlucky in love this season. Best to wait.”

“And,” Morino chimed in with relish, “if you’re very fortunate—two spirals entwined. The double spiral. That means destined pair, fated union. Unbreakable.”

Sakura’s grip tightened on the cup. “That’s… very specific.”

“Very reliable,” Tanabe corrected, eyes twinkling.

Sakura peered into the tea. The steam curled, then drifted into a perfect clockwise spiral, crisp as a brushstroke.

Both aunties gasped in unison. “Ohhh.”

“Love right at her shoulder,” Morino whispered reverently. “Very close. Just waiting to step in.”

Heat flared in Sakura’s face. Steam and surface tension. That’s all. But her hands trembled as she set the cup down, almost sloshing it.

And then, as if the universe itself had taken its cue, the curtain at the booth’s entrance lifted. Minato stepped inside, tray in hand, Arai trailing smugly behind him. Hair ruffled, sleeves loose, carrying rice cakes and roasted chestnuts like he belonged in the picture all along.

The spiral in Sakura’s cup gave one last shiver—the steam tightening, as though quickening at his arrival.

Both aunties gasped in unison. “It moved faster!”

“Destiny conspiring in real time,” Tanabe breathed.

Sakura grabbed her spoon and stirred—hard—until the tea sloshed against the rim. Normal people would never stir fortune tea. She nearly snapped the teaspoon handle proving exactly nothing.

Absolutely not. Stop thinking like that.

“What’s this?” Minato asked, glancing from the steaming cups to Sakura’s flaming ears.

“Tea fortunes,” Tanabe said briskly. “She just got a clockwise.”

“Which means someone adores her,” Morino added, glowing.

Sakura coughed, nearly choking. “Coincidence. Really.”

“Oh no, no—he has to try too,” Arai interrupted, pouncing before he could escape. She thrust a fresh cup into his hands.

Minato poured the tea carefully, methodical like he was in a lab. He watched as the ripples gathered, spiraling counterclockwise.

A chorus of scandalized gasps.

“Oh dear.” Tanabe’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Counterclockwise,” Arai breathed, eyes shining at the drama.

“Not broken, at least,” Morino said quickly, as though rescuing him. “That would’ve meant unlucky in love. No, no—counterclockwise simply means a heart full of doubt. Restless. But—” she tapped the rim of his cup—“a counter and a clockwise can still turn into a double spiral, if the hearts are true. That’s the old saying.”

Sakura groaned softly, dropping her forehead into her palm. “Who even came up with these random rules?”

“Ancient priestess,” Tanabe said promptly.

Morino nodded gravely. “Kept her teapot in a shrine.”

“Uh-huh,” Sakura said flatly. “Or was it someone’s grandmother after too much plum wine?”

The aunties exchanged a guilty glance.

“…Possibly both,” Morino admitted.

“It was very spiritual plum wine,” Tanabe added with dignity.

Arai clapped like she’d witnessed a performance. “Tradition!”

Sakura rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained them.

While the others laughed, Minato sat silent with his cup cooling between his palms.

Her swirl was love. Mine was doubt.

And the worst of it—wasn’t it true? He probably was in love with her. Helplessly so. But if hers was love already fated, then perhaps it wasn’t meant for him. He can’t keep pretending he hasn’t noticed she kept pulling away, skittish at every brush of closeness, like his attention was unwelcome. Maybe the swirls had only shown what he already knew.

He swallowed hard, forcing a polite smile when Arai nudged his elbow.

“Persistence,” she whispered knowingly. “That’s the key.”

---

But as they walked home—both of them quiet, lost in their own thoughts—Kage lay content in Minato’s arms, purring like nothing in the world could be wrong.

For Minato, though, the fortune lingered.

“Just steam,” he told himself, though the image of that stubborn spiral clung to his mind’s eye like a bad omen, refusing to fade.

“There’s no validity here. Turbulence, convection, heat differentials. All easily explained.”

He repeated it again, thinner now, almost a plea: “All easily explained.”

But the words rang hollow in the late afternoon air, and the steam kept swirling in his head long after the water had gone still.

Beside him, Sakura’s phone buzzed again. She glanced down, thumbs moving quick across the screen, her expression pinched with reluctant duty more than distraction. After a pause, she slipped the phone back into her pocket with a sigh.

“My ojisan,” she said at last, almost apologetic. “He’s been insisting we come by for dinner. Tonight, actually. And at this point, saying no isn’t an option.”

Her voice softened then, the usual briskness edged with something shy.

“You don’t have to say yes, you know. Dan can be a little much.”

Minato shifted Kage in his arms, the cat giving an indignant mrrow at being disturbed. He smiled faintly, though his chest felt heavier than it should.

“I don’t mind. He’s good company.”

“That’s one word for him,” Sakura muttered, but she pressed on quickly, as if she needed to justify it. “Besides, I’ve got reports to deliver to Tsunade anyway. Might as well. Two birds, one stone.”

Her cheeks warmed as she said it, though she tried to keep her tone practical. “He just—he likes you, that’s all. He doesn’t get attached to people quickly, but… with you, it’s, like, different.”

The faintest sting pricked Minato, because for one wild, unguarded second, he wondered why her uncle seemed to embrace him so easily when Sakura herself kept him at arm’s length. He pushed the thought down fast, burying it beneath an easy laugh.

“Well, then I should be honored.”

She looked at him sidelong, suspicious of his cheerfulness, but let the moment pass. They reached the corner where the light began to turn golden, the air carrying that drowsy hush before evening meals and lit windows. Kage stretched in Minato’s arms, oblivious to everything except his own comfort.

The hush between them was companionable but brittle, like thin glass that might fracture with a wrong word.

Finally, Sakura said, “We’ll go later then. Ojisan will be thrilled.” She gave a small sigh, glancing down at her own clothes—creased, dusted with dirt, a streak of paint still bright across her forearm. “But first we’d better freshen up. If we show up like this, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Her attempt at humor came with a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Minato nodded, returning the smile with one of his own—gentle, steady, hiding the little tremor that still stirred in him. The fortune’s spiral uncoiled again in his mind, as if mocking him, and for the rest of the walk he carried not only Kage’s soft warmth, but also that gnawing, unanswered question:

How long before something breaks?

 

Chapter 14: What a Cliché, Part II

Summary:

What the tea didn't predict

Notes:

This is 🔞
Alrighty, over-18s only. Nothing too explicit, promise—we're still skating the edge of a T rating here. Barely. BUT I can't promise your wholesome image of Minato and Sakura in this supposedly cute little fiction will remain intact. If you're not ready to see them a little feral, maybe step away and check back in a few days for the next chapter.

And before anyone cries foul (unlikely lol), please don't. I've been scattering hints since chapter 3, so really, you should've seen this coming. 😝

Consider yourself officially warned. I claim no responsibility for any corruption, mental trauma, or whatnot. I swear.

The meal at Tsunade and Dan’s started loud and stayed that way. The table was crowded with steaming dishes. Platters crowded the low table: river crab braised in miso, salt-grilled mackerel so fresh the skin still shimmered, clams steamed open in sake, and octopus slices dressed with citrus and herbs. Bamboo shoots glistened with sesame oil, pickled daikon and cucumbers gleamed like jewels in their jars, and bowls of rice seemed to refill themselves no matter how much Minato ate. At the center, as if it were the crown of the feast, sat a lacquered tray of shrimp tempura piled high, golden and impossibly crisp. Even the fruit at the end—sliced melon, sweet persimmons—looked too perfect to disturb.

Sakura and Minato had wiped the day clean from themselves. The sun’s warmth and traces of sweat from the festival booths were gone, replaced by freshness and care. Instead of her usual practical hairdo, Sakura wore her mid-back-length locks loose and smooth, falling softly over her shoulders—a carefree choice that hinted at how at ease she felt among family. Light makeup brightened her features, giving her face a livelier glow. She wore a lavender buttoned midi dress that draped gracefully over her frame, the soft fabric hinting at her trim physique while turning the fatigue of the long day into understated elegance. 

Minato, in a cotton button-down with neatly rolled sleeves over a blue undershirt and freshly pressed jeans, couldn’t help noticing how every detail of her—her hair, the subtle shimmer of her skin, the way she carried herself—made her look impossibly graceful. This was the same woman who had lifted crates and beams as if they were nothing; the same woman whose hands and arms bore the marks of a day’s hard work—yet here she was, effortless and radiant. Together, they seemed untouched by the day’s chaos, at ease and quietly commanding attention.

Shizune, sticky-fingered from stealing candied plums, giggled as she clambered on Tsunade’s lap, while Tsunade fended her off with one hand and poured sake with the other. Dan’s rich laugh filled the room, carrying through every quiet corner, while Sakura’s quiet sighs of exasperation lingered in the spaces between.

Halfway through, Dan, seated at the head of the table, gave Minato a firm clap on the back—hard enough that his chopsticks nearly flew from his hand. A sly, teasing grin tugged at the corners of Dan’s mouth, eyes glinting with amusement.

“So. The medicine Sakura gave you—did it work?”

Minato inhaled wrong and nearly choked on his rice. Sakura, sitting beside him, nearly snapped her own chopsticks in half in panic.

“Uncle!” she hissed, mortified. “It’s not like that!”

Tsunade, seated to Dan’s left with Shizune on her lap, raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with restrained laughter, while Sakura’s blush deepened in response. Minato, still coughing lightly, shot her a helpless glance, caught between amusement and embarrassment.

Dan raised both brows, all innocence. “What? You brewed something for him, didn’t you?”

Tsunade smirked as she wiped Shizune’s hands. “The frog thing, right? I told you not to hand out experimental aphrodisiacs, Sakura. But I suppose if you were going to give it to anyone…” She let the thought dangle, eyes sliding wickedly to Minato.

Minato froze, cheeks heating. He’d had his suspicions when Sakura first mentioned “medicine,” but he hadn’t exactly expected to be grilled at dinner.

Sakura sat impossibly straight, ears flaming. “It wasn’t—! It’s not—that! It was for his migraines. He told me before that grading too many student papers gives him headaches. It has anti-inflammatory properties, not—ugh!”

Dan chuckled, not at all chastened. “Well, if it’s not for him, then you’d better have another batch ready for me. The frog formula worked wonders like I said before.”

Sakura groaned into her palms. “I should still have the very last samples in my drawer in my office. Unless Aunt Tsunade’s already raided them and handed them to you.”

Tsunade’s smirk said everything. Dan beamed.

Trying to salvage her pride, Sakura turned her glare on Minato. “You know what? If you do want to try the frog samples, you can tag along with my uncle. I’m sure you’ll have fun.”

Minato, caught between defending himself and wanting to laugh, said the worst possible thing:
“I don’t need them.”

The words hung in the air, suggestive in a way he hadn’t intended. His ears burned as realization hit.

Dan blinked, then roared with laughter, slapping the table. Tsunade nearly spat her sake. Even Sakura’s lips twitched before she ducked her face behind her cup.

Minato bent over his bowl, mortified, wishing for the floor to swallow him whole. And then little Shizune, wide-eyed and guileless, tilted her head.

“Minato-niisan,” she said sweetly, “why are you red like a tomato?”

The room erupted. Kage, perched on the windowsill, blinked with smug feline judgment, tail flicking as if to say: You did that to yourself.

The laughter lingered, echoing through the warm dining room until it finally ebbed into easier chatter. Minato risked looking up again, cheeks still warm, only to find Sakura carefully avoiding his eyes while pretending her rice bowl was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Dan, mercifully—or perhaps strategically—changed the subject. He poured himself another cup and leaned back with the weight of a man about to give a speech.

“Festival’s shaping up nicely this year. Those booths you two worked on earlier—good craftsmanship. Sakura, you’ll be there for the dawn ritual, won’t you? You know how it looks if one of ours misses it.”

Sakura, still pink around the ears, straightened. “I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Dan gave a firm nod, satisfied. “Good. Tradition matters, even in a town as small as ours.”

Before Sakura could answer, a tug at her sleeve interrupted her. Shizune stood there, bottom lip poked out in a practiced pout, eyes big and imploring.

“Nee-chan… can Kage sleep with me tonight? Please?”

All eyes turned toward the tuxedo cat sprawled smugly on the windowsill. At the sound of his name, Kage opened one golden eye, flicked his tail, and gave the group a look that clearly said, About time someone asked what I want.

Sakura hesitated. “Shizune-chan, cats aren’t toys—”

But Kage made the choice for her, hopping down, padding with deliberate grace to Shizune’s side, and curling possessively around her legs. The little girl squealed with delight.

“See? He wants to!”

Tsunade chuckled, ruffling her daughter’s hair. “Looks like you’ve been chosen, brat. Don’t let him hog all the blankets.”

Shizune scooped up Kage—or rather, Kage tolerated being scooped, his chonky body nearly filling her tiny arms—and paraded off toward her room with her prize. The cat didn’t look back once, tail waving like a victory flag.

Dan, shaking his head with a smile, reached for the polished ceramic sake jug. “Well, one child down.”

Tsunade poured with a grin sharp enough to cut. “Now that the kid’s asleep, we adults can drink properly.” She filled Sakura’s cup to the brim, ignoring her weak protests, then pushed the jug toward Minato. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it either, Blondie. If you’re eating at my table, you’re drinking at it too.”

Sakura sighed, catching Minato’s eye for just a second before rolling her own. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Once she starts, there’s no escape.”

But there was already a faint flush across her cheeks, whether from embarrassment, alcohol, or both—and Minato had the sinking feeling that the night was only just beginning.

Tsunade kept the cups full, her grin widening every time Sakura’s protests got weaker. Within minutes the banter started again, this time louder, looser, and with far fewer brakes.

Dan launched into tales of his mayoral woes—squabbles about booth placements, farmers arguing over stall rights, the headache of organizing the dawn ritual. “It’s like herding cats,” he grumbled. “Except cats don’t write angry letters about flower garlands.”

“That’s because cats just shred them in silence,” Minato offered, surprising himself.

Dan barked a laugh. “See? This one gets it!” He slammed a palm against Minato’s back, nearly making him spill his cup. Sakura snorted into hers, then gave Minato a sideways glance that was equal parts annoyed and impressed.

The drinks kept flowing. Sakura’s cheeks flushed deeper, her laughter easier. She leaned against Minato without seeming to notice, brushing his arm when she reached for another bite, lingering longer than strictly necessary. Every accidental touch tightened something inside him, and he found himself smiling inwardly at how unbothered she was by the alcohol, the warmth, the closeness.

By the time Tsunade called it a night, Sakura was decidedly unsteady, slurring complaints about “too much rice” and “who ate all the tempura?”

She had no idea it was her, Minato thought, stifling a chuckle. The so-called tempura thief is sitting right here, looking scandalized and innocent as ever. Honestly, how does she manage to eat half the tray and still act like a proper victim?

By the time they stood, Minato felt the pleasant haze of alcohol in his chest, but his movements stayed steady, his grip firm as he guided her toward the hallway. He couldn’t help the protective tilt of his thoughts: careful, amused, enjoying her silliness without letting her stumble and fall.

Dan clapped him on the shoulder, eyes twinkling. “She’s your problem now, son.”

Tsunade, smirking, ushered them to a guest room. “You’ll manage. Sweet dreams.” The door shut behind them with suspicious speed.

Inside, the guest room was softly lit, the curtains drawn against the night. A single bed filled most of the space, neat and inviting, with a faint scent of the linens mingling with the warmth of the evening. Shadows pooled gently in the corners, the kind of dim, quiet light that made the room feel private, intimate, and a little heavier with the possibilities of the night ahead.

Minato froze for a fraction, then muttered under his breath, “One bed, of course.” His pulse quickened, but his balance and mind remained his own—slightly lighter, more amused, more watchful. Sakura leaned into him again, and he let himself relax just enough to appreciate the moment, letting the warmth of the room—and her—sink in.

Sakura swayed into the room, fingers clawing at the snap buttons of her dress with the single-minded fury of the very drunk. “Ugh. Too many buttons—who makes these stupid things—” she grumbled, jerking at the fabric like it had personally wronged her. It wasn’t just clumsy fumbling; she clearly wanted it gone, and fast.

Minato moved in a hurry, steadying her elbow before she toppled over. Panic prickled at the back of his neck—he remembered all too well the last time she’d waged war against her clothes before bed, and how much skin had been revealed in the process. He guided her toward the mattress, already telling himself he’d fetch water, blanket, anything to put some distance between her and those buttons—

—but she lurched, clumsy, catching at his shirtfront to steady herself. The sudden tug pulled him closer, too close, until her face lifted toward his.

Her eyes found his then—hazy, searching, a flicker of something surfacing through the blur. For an instant the air held, taut with unspoken awareness.

And then she closed the distance in a snap, her lips colliding with his—clumsy, insistent, and impossible to mistake.

He went rigid, mind blank, as though he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Her mouth pressed to his—soft, achingly soft, like the rest of her. His breath stuttered.

Then instinct surged. He gave in. His lips moved against hers with equal intensity, answering her demand with his own. Heat flared as she tugged him down with her, and they shifted together, caught up in the kiss, sliding slowly until she half-fell back onto the mattress and he braced over her—one hand tight at her waist, the other digging into the sheets by her head. The soft, floral warmth of her hair enveloped him, a fragrance he had come to associate with her, overwhelming in its presence yet utterly comforting. Her skin pressed against him, radiant heat blending with the scent that clung to every curve, filling the quiet intimacy of the moment, as if the world had narrowed to the rhythm of their bodies aligning naturally.

Her dress rode up slightly as he pressed closer, fabric bunching around her hips, a soft barrier between them that did little to dull the heat or the way her body yielded beneath him. He found himself pressed between her parted thighs, her body yielding without hesitation, making room for him like it was the most natural thing to do.

Her mouth parted, sake-sweet and reckless, and he deepened the kiss before he could think better of it—clumsy turning hungry—until their breaths tangled, hot and uneven. A teasing slide of her tongue met his, brief but insistent, and he responded in kind, their mouths moving together in a heated, chaotic rhythm. 

The room seemed to constrict around them, air thick and stifling, as if every gasp and shiver had made it too hot to breathe. She clutched at his shoulders, then her hands slid higher in a slow, unsteady sweep. When her palms caressed along his neck and her fingers threaded into his hair, goosebumps sparked down his spine, the shock of it pulling a shudder from him. She curled tight at his nape, holding him there as if she’d never let go. His body pressed flush against hers, chest to chest, her frantic heartbeat thundering against his ribs as if it belonged to him.

A warning flared in his mind—too close, too far—but her lips parted beneath his again, too sweet and insistent, and he answered anyway, helpless against the pull. Their mouths found each other over and over, tongues tangling briefly, the rhythm reckless, quickening until thought itself unraveled.

His control frayed with every tug of her, every arch of her body beneath his. Her curves yielded where he pressed, softness giving way to the hard strain of his body, until he could no longer tell whether he was holding her back or giving in. Each uneven shift dragged her against him, until the undeniable press of her core cradled him through the thin barrier of fabric. His body tensed, every muscle taut, a sharp, undeniable strain reminding him just how fully alive he was—how painfully, inescapably drawn to her.

The shock of it slammed through him—half agony, half ecstasy. Heat seared where they met, sharp enough to strip thought to nothing but sensation. A groan broke from his throat, low and raw, the sound nearly foreign to him. His breath tore ragged after it, every instinct howling at once: to pull away, to bury himself closer, to stop, to never stop. And still she pulled him tighter, hips angling as if her body sought its own answer.

At last, his lips slipped lower, tracing the line of her jaw, down to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse hammered wild beneath his mouth. Each touch was deliberate, tasting her, savoring the warmth and rhythm of her skin without pressing too hard. One hand cupped her face with aching care, thumb brushing her cheek as though to soften the hunger of his mouth against her, while the other clamped at her waist, grip taut with restrained possession, holding her close as though any looser touch might let her slip away—or let his control shatter entirely. For one reckless moment—endless, dangerous—he let himself drown in her warmth.

Sakura tugged at the layers of his shirt, fabric giving way beneath her insistence, and finally her fingers found his bare skin. The instant her hand brushed against his abs, a sharp, electric jolt shot through him, making him catch his breath.

Every nerve seemed to flare alive, his body thrumming with sudden, undeniable awareness, screaming at him to go further. His fingers itched to roam lower, to trace the curves and softness of her body, his chest straining closer, drawn by the pull of her, answering the primal call without overstepping. Desire roared through him, hot and relentless, until it felt less like a choice and more like freefall.

Another thought broke through, jagged, almost panicked—stop, before it’s too late—

And then her low, helpless moan broke against his ear. The sound hit him like a slap of ice water.

She’s drunk.

His body jolted, every muscle seizing. Tearing his mouth from her warmth was like wrenching against his own body, each movement taut with restrained ache. He tried to shift back, pressing against her side, attempting distance—but the slide of her hips, the way she pressed into him, made the motion betray him, dragging him subtly deeper despite his intent. A low, shared groan escaped them both, a reflexive sound that spoke of surprise, heat, and hunger.

Chest heaving, breath ragged and uneven, he pressed his forehead hard to the mattress beside her shoulder, bracing against the wild, insistent pull still clawing through him. He shifted cautiously, trying to avoid, each motion deliberate, measured, a quiet battle of restraint—but her body moved instinctively beneath him, pressing and sliding as if trying to relive the earlier sensation. The result betrayed him: every subtle, unintended press through the tight line of his jeans was a sharp, almost cruel reminder of how painfully aware he was. His heart thudded like a hammer, each beat reverberating through ribs, veins, and skull, making restraint feel like splitting bone, every nerve a taut wire of craving and tension he could not release.

“—No,” he rasped, the word raw, dragged from the pit of his stomach. He pushed himself up, retreating sharp and frantic, as though distance alone could steady him. His hands hovered uselessly in the air, trembling, afraid to touch her again.

Sakura blinked up at him, utterly ruined—eyes glazed with heat, lips bruised from his, hair tumbling loose in wild strands around her flushed face. She looked divine like that, wrecked and wanting, and the cruelest part was the truth: he had done this to her.

The realization tore through him. Pride twisted into shame, desire into dread. He had no right to revel in the sight, not when she was too far gone to know what she was asking.

“Why not?” she whispered, breath unsteady. “Don’t you—want to?”

The words lanced straight through him, and for one searing instant every answer screamed yes. His throat locked, silence strangling him, until the truth ripped out ragged, too fast, as though he could patch over the damage with sheer denial.

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice cracking at the edges of restraint. “I’m already at my breaking point. Watching you walk around your apartment in nearly nothing is enough to drive me insane. And now you kiss me like that and expect me to just—” He raked both hands through his hair, desperate, miserable. I wish I had a reset button from the moment we stepped into this room—before any of this happened, before we kissed, before I lost all control, he thought bitterly, every nerve still thrumming from their closeness, every muscle taut from the accidental touches and pressure. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have liked it. Not even a little.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you back. It shouldn’t have been like this. Not when you’re not even going to remember in the morning. You deserve more than some half-drunk mistake with a man who—” He bit off the end, breath hitching, too guilty even to name the rest aloud.

An apology hovered in his chest, unspoken, swallowed down by shame and desire—the truth that he had enjoyed every second, and hated himself for it.

But Sakura didn’t answer.

He turned back, confused—then froze. She’d already slipped sideways across the bed, lashes shut, breathing soft and steady. At some point while he’d been spilling his useless confessions, she’d managed to yank her arms free of her sleeves; the front of her dress gaped open down to her waist, fabric pooled around her hips. She wore only her lacy bra above it, bare shoulders rising and falling in sleep, lips still curved faintly from the remnants of her last smile.

Minato’s mind blanked, short-circuited. Heat punched through him so fast it left him reeling, guilt and longing colliding sharp enough to hurt. He tore his gaze away, pressing the heel of his hand to his brow as if he could physically shove back the sight of her.

Not like this. Not ever like this.

Jaw tense, he shrugged out of his button-down and moved carefully, like handling something sacred. He eased her arms into the sleeves, the fabric slipping across her bare skin. His fingers grazed her warmth, and the touch rattled him to the core. He swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in his hands as he pulled the shirt across her shoulders, fastening it just enough to shield her from the night—and from him.

Then, with painstaking care, he shifted her position. She’d collapsed sideways across the mattress, legs tangled and head tilted at an awkward angle. He gathered her gently, laying her head against the pillow, smoothing her hair back where it had fallen across her face. Noticing that the rest of her dress had ridden up her hips, he carefully tugged it back down, straightening the fabric so it lay smoothly over her thighs. Her legs he straightened next, guiding them carefully onto the bed, every brush of contact like fire against his palms. He forced himself to be clinical, not lingering, not letting his hands slide to learn what he longed to know—the smoothness of her skin beneath his touch. When she was properly settled, he tugged the blanket up and over her, tucking it around her with quiet finality.

Her hair spilled across the pillow, catching the lamp-light in threads of rose gold. She shifted slightly, curling toward the shirt as though seeking him even in sleep. That faint smile lingered.

It ached, the sight of her like this. Achingly tender, achingly out of reach. It would have been so easy—too easy—to slip under the covers beside her.

Instead, Minato dragged one of the spare pillows to the floor and lowered himself onto his back, the wooden boards unforgiving beneath him. He stared at the ceiling, every nerve still buzzing, the weight of the moment pressing in from all sides.

The tea fortune’s spiral returned, merciless and mocking. Yet in its center, he saw her—Sakura, safe and at peace, wearing his shirt, her trust placed in him without hesitation. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, he let himself imagine a future where that trust meant something more.

His heart pulled tight with the wanting of it. But his feelings—real, steady, unshaken—were measured in restraint. She would wake warm, comfortable, and untouched. That, at least, he could give her.

And so he lay in the silence, torn between despair and hope, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath.

Normally, alcohol would have left him loose, heavy-limbed, half asleep already. Instead, his body thrummed, raw and restless, as if every nerve still carried the echo of her touch. He clenched his jaw, forced his eyes shut, and told himself he’d sleep it off. But the lie rang hollow. Sleep wouldn’t come—not with her so close, not with his thoughts circling like vultures.

He hated himself for wanting, for how her unguarded trust only deepened the ache, leaving him adrift in the quiet punishment of her nearness. And still the fortune coiled through his mind, unforgiving, unbroken—whispering that while he knew he was in love with her, she might not return his feelings, that tonight could be nothing more than alcohol’s sway, her body yielding in trust that was never meant to mean more.

And perhaps that was his doom, written plain in the spiral all along. No one had asked him to come this far, no one had lured him into hope. If his heart broke on this path, he would have no one to blame but himself.

---

Sunlight needled through the curtains, slicing straight into Sakura’s skull. She groaned, flinging an arm over her face—only to freeze when the cuff slipped over her wrist.

This wasn’t her sleeve.

Blinking against the light, she lowered her arm and squinted. The shirt she wore was too broad at the shoulders, the fabric clean and faintly smelling of pine and soap. Minato’s. The buttons were done just enough to keep her decent, the rest left easy, comfortable—his kind of solution.

Her pulse skipped.

Shoving the hem aside, she peeked beneath—and heat shot up her throat. The dress was still there, but only halfway: the snaps undone down to her waist, the fabric pushed back and bunched loosely around her hips as if abandoned mid-battle.

She lurched upright, too fast, her head swimming. The motion dragged the truth into full view—the undone line gaping open below her ribs, the dress hanging precariously until gravity claimed it. With a soft whisper of fabric, it slid from her hips and puddled at her ankles in a crumpled heap.

She stared at it, stricken. Oh no. Oh, gods. Did I—?

The door creaked.

She jerked her head up just in time to see Minato step in, balancing a tray with a glass of water and what looked like some tablets. His eyes widened, then shot immediately away from her, ears flaming red.

“I—I should have knocked,” he stammered, spinning halfway around so quickly he almost sloshed the water over the edge. “I only came to check if you were awake—clearly you are—and, um, I brought these. I figured you might be—actually I’ll just leave it here—sorry.”

The tray clinked as he set it down blindly on the nightstand. He was already pivoting for the door, his rambling words tripping over each other. “Didn’t mean to intrude, really, I’ll give you a minute—”

Sakura, face burning so hot it nearly matched her hangover, clutched the hem of his shirt tight around herself and croaked, “Wait!”

He froze mid-step but kept his back firmly to her.

She swallowed, mortification tangling in her chest. The memory of her gaping lavender dress, the sight of her wrinkled, hopelessly stretched clothes on the floor—it was obvious someone had tried to make her decent again. He dressed me.

Her fingers clenched harder into the shirt cuff. No way she was putting the dress back on now. Not when it looked as though it had lost a war. Not when she could barely even face what she must have done last night.

“…I’ll keep this on,” she muttered, barely audible.

Minato nodded, still not turning. His voice was tight, careful. “Of course. Breakfast is ready if you feel like having it now.”

The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving her alone in the silence—her heart thundering louder than the headache in her skull.

Sakura sagged back onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. Her head pounded, her stomach flipped, and yet the sharper ache came from the hollow in her chest.

She had the horrible feeling that she’d done something—that she’d been reckless, humiliatingly reckless. The last thing she could recall was Minato’s shirtfront in her fists, the taste of sake still burning her mouth.

Her pulse fluttered in her throat. I kissed him. I must have kissed him.

But—had he kissed her back?

Minato had taken care of her before, once, when she’d overdone it. He’d been calm then, steady, gently amused at worst. This morning, though? He couldn’t even look at her. His voice had gone ragged, strained at the edges, as if—what? As if she’d crossed a line he didn’t know how to uncross.

Sakura curled tighter into the borrowed shirt, mortification crawling over her skin. Stupid. So stupid. You always do something stupid when you drink. And this time—

A muffled mewl drew her gaze. Kage sprawled on the windowsill, eyes slit, tail flicking lazily as if to say I know exactly what you did, and it was shameful.

“Don’t start with me,” she muttered, dragging her fingers through her tangled hair. The cat blinked, unimpressed.

By the time she managed to splash water on her face and shuffle out, Minato’s shirt falling past her thighs, the others were already gathered at the low table for breakfast. Dan’s absence was noted with a casual mention—he’d gone early to oversee the festival preparations.

“Good morning!” Shizune chirped, beaming up from her seat with an enthusiasm that made Sakura’s head throb harder. She scooted over eagerly, patting the cushion beside her. “Sit next to Minato-niisan!”

The words struck like a bell. Sakura froze, heat creeping up her neck. Minato was already on his feet, pulling a chair out for her with quiet politeness. She forced her legs to move, lowering herself into the seat with deliberate care. He sat again a beat later, their shoulders almost brushing, both of them holding still as if the slightest shift might give them away.

Shizune, oblivious, passed her a bowl. “Eat lots—you look like you need it.”

Kage slunk past her knees under the table, tail flicking across her shin with a deliberate tsk. Sakura nearly dropped her chopsticks.

And then Tsunade looked up. One golden brow arched, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Interesting choice of clothes this morning, Sakura.”

The words landed like a kunai.

“Rough night?” Tsunade’s voice continued, smooth and deceptively casual. Sakura glanced up to find her aunt watching the two of them with a glint of amusement behind her lashes. “Did you two sleep alright?”

Sakura nearly choked on rice, face flaming. Minato coughed into his sleeve at the exact same moment, ears burning scarlet.

Shizune blinked between them, confused, while Kage, the traitor, tucked his paws neatly under his chest and purred smugly.

---

The ride home should have been routine. Familiar streets, morning sunlight, the hum of the scooter. But Sakura gripped the handlebars like they were her only lifeline, every nerve in her body screaming with the memory of last night.

At least she wasn’t doing it in Minato’s oversized button-down and nothing else. Tsunade had shoved a bundle of proper clothes into her arms before they left—slacks and a blouse, both a little too mature for Sakura’s taste, but infinitely better than parading through town in her wrinkled, half-unbuttoned dress or Minato’s shirt over her underwear. Still, she felt like every seam carried accusation.

And behind her—oh, gods.

Minato sat stiff as a statue, shoulders squared, gaze locked firmly on the passing rooftops. And strapped to his chest, snug in Sakura’s old baby carrier, was Kage. The cat’s white whiskers twitched, golden eyes narrowed to slits of scorn, as though he had personally witnessed the sins of the previous night and intended to broadcast them to the world.

Sakura could feel the weight of their neighbors’ eyes. Curtains twitched. Aunties leaned just a little too casually on their fences. They’ll talk. Of course they’ll talk. The respectable doctor and the out-of-town professor, arriving home together midmorning, him carrying her cat like a baby—what more fuel could they possibly need?

Her face burned hot enough to power the scooter.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Minato said finally, voice low, as though even the air might eavesdrop.

“I’m driving,” Sakura shot back, too fast. She refused to look over her shoulder. If she did, she’d see him—and worse, she’d see Kage, smug and secure, his paws kneading against Minato’s shirt like he’d claimed him.

Her cat had chosen a side.

When she dared a glance at the nearest window, one of the aunties raised her brows and smirked. Sakura nearly swerved into a pothole.

She wanted to dissolve into the pavement.

Inside Sakura’s apartment, the silence thickened. The door clicked shut, muffling the gossiping neighborhood outside, but the weight between them didn’t lift. Kage hopped free from the carrier with an indignant mrrow and immediately began his usual patrol, tail swishing like a censor’s brush.

Sakura lingered by the door, fussing with her borrowed blouse. Say something. Anything. But the words stuck like thorns in her throat. The memory of her dress falling open, of his hands steadying her, of his mouth—she shoved it down hard, smoothing her face into something brisk.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted at last. The apology felt too loud in the small space. “About last night. I… I shouldn’t have—” She gestured vaguely, as though waving off the entire incident. “It was a mistake. Let’s forget it.”

The words landed between them like a stone.

Minato froze mid-motion—he’d been setting down Kage’s carrier—and for a heartbeat, something in his posture caught her attention: a slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers lingered on the edge of the carrier a moment too long, a quick, almost imperceptible exhale that seemed to release more tension than the words would allow. His smile, polite and careful, appeared just slightly too measured, eyes flicking away before settling on her again, as if he were holding something back.

“Of course,” he said, tone even. “No need to explain. You were drunk. Things happen.”

Sakura misread the careful calm, reading detachment or mild annoyance where there might be hesitation, restraint, or the faint echo of something he didn’t dare say aloud. Her chest tightened with a pang of self-reproach, unaware of the storm beneath his controlled exterior.

And the neatness of it stung. He was smoothing it away, folding it into nothing, and somehow that made her chest ache worse than any scolding would have.

“Right,” Sakura said, sharper than she meant. She turned her back, busying herself with unstrapping the scooter helmet and hanging it up. She told herself she was relieved—that this was cleaner, simpler. But her pulse thudded in her throat, traitorously aware of the distance his words had just carved between them.

Behind her, Minato let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. A sound too quiet, too tired.

Kage leapt onto the windowsill with a heavy thud, tail lashing like a whip. Golden eyes flicked between the two of them, narrowing with feline exasperation.

He gave a sharp, offended mrrow—the kind that said you two are unbearable—then flopped onto his side with his back to them in the most dramatic display of disgust a cat could muster.

Sakura pressed her lips together, pretending not to notice. Minato, meanwhile, busied himself with his phone, thumb flicking over the screen like checking his messages was a matter of national security.

But Kage’s huffy tail kept twitching in the corner of their vision, punctuation to the silence stretching sharp and unbearable between them.

Notes:

Re-uploaded this chapter because I had to edit Minato's torture.

Chapter 15: A Message in Morse Code

Summary:

Minato experiencing high tides and low tides

Notes:

I have a soft spot for metaphors, and this chapter is brimming with them, maybe a little too much, but I couldn't resist. They aren't just decoration—some might carry more weight than they seem. So read closely; it's a loaded one. 🧐🧐🧐

Sakura slipped out of her shoes, careful not to look his way. Her movements were neat, precise — the kind of carefulness she used when she was one step away from shattering.

“I think,” she said finally, voice thin as thread, “I’ll rest a bit. I still feel the sake.”

Minato sank onto the couch, tilting his head with a small, easy smile. “I can make you the same tonic I gave you before, if you want.”

The offer was gentle, but it brushed too close to kindness. Sakura’s spine stiffened. “No, it’s fine. I only have one more day off before work, and the dawn ritual’s tomorrow. Better to just sleep it off.”

Her hand was already on her door. She didn’t wait for his reply before sliding it open, stepping inside, and pulling it closed again. The soft snick of the lock slid into place a moment later.

Minato stared at the thin line of wood that now divided them. His hand hovered uselessly at his side. A tonic. That was all he had to give, and even that had been refused.

It wasn’t a fight, not exactly. But the silence felt heavier than arguments he’d had. At least those had a clear conflict. This—this was something else. A domestic problem, he thought bleakly. If it could even be called that.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Persistence, Arai’s voice whispered in his memory. But persistence felt like walking into a door she had locked from the other side.

So he stood, restless, and decided he needed air.

---

The neighborhood was stirring lazily—shutters opening, the clatter of buckets, the distant bark of a dog. He let his feet choose the path, carrying him past familiar houses and gardens until the road thinned to dirt and the trees gathered in a green wall.

That was where he heard it: a cluster of voices, pitched high with both disgust and fascination.

“Gross!”

 “No, wait—look at it! They’re… they’re slimy but… they’re hugging?”

“They’re wrestling.”

“They’re definitely kissing.”

Minato rounded a bend and found them: Rin, Kakashi, Obito, and the twins Haru and Natsu, crouched low at the forest edge. All five had their heads bent over a patch of damp earth, expressions caught between awe and horror.

Obito spotted him first. “Sensei!” he called, waving him over with frantic excitement. “You gotta see this!”

Minato crouched beside them, following their pointed fingers. On a broad leaf, two slugs twined together in slow, deliberate spirals, their translucent bodies gleaming in the sun.

Rin wrinkled her nose, looking like she wanted to bolt but couldn’t. “What are they even doing?”

“They’re… gross,” Haru declared, voice trembling with both fear and thrill.

Minato fought a smile. “They’re mating,” he said simply.

A chorus of horrified gasps.

“What?!” Rin squeaked.

“But—they’re the same,” Natsu stammered. “They both look the same!”

“They are the same,” Minato replied, keeping his tone even, teacher-quiet. “Slugs don’t need to be boys or girls like other animals. They are both. When they mate, they swap… slug stuff, so they can both make babies.”

The children’s jaws dropped in unison.

Rin made a strangled noise. “Ew! We’re actually watching them make babies?!”

Haru groaned, eyes wide at the shiny, sticky trail forming between the two slugs. “That slime… it’s for… baby stuff?”

“That’s awesome,” Natsu whispered, fascinated despite himself.

Obito’s eyes widened. “So they both get to be mom and dad!”

Minato allowed himself a faint smile. “Something like that.”

“Alien monsters,” Haru muttered, but he couldn’t look away.

Kakashi gave Minato a sidelong glance. “You know a lot of weird stuff.”

Minato only shrugged. “Biology’s not weird. It’s just honest.” The words left his mouth before he realized how close they struck to the memory he was trying to bury—Sakura’s breath against his, the taste of her kiss, how near they’d come to honesty of another kind. The thought tightened his chest. He blinked it away, fixing his attention back on the children.

Obito jabbed his stick into the dirt. “Next time, I’ll catch a frog! When I went hiking with my brothers, there were frogs everywhere. Big ones, little ones, some that croaked so loud you could hear them all night!”

Kakashi’s mouth thinned. “Kids aren’t allowed in the forest unsupervised.”

Obito scowled. “Then Sensei can take us. You like hiking, right?” His grin stretched wide. “And you should bring Sakura-sensei too—your girlfriend, of course.”

Minato stilled. The twins giggled. Rin glanced between them, curious. Kakashi looked away as if he wanted no part of this conversation.

Minato’s smile was small, taut at the edges. “We’ll see,” he said.

The children groaned at the non-answer, but Obito beamed anyway, already convinced.

---

The children eventually lost interest in the slugs, distracted by the promise of tag and the twin boys daring Obito to lick a rock for no reason other than to see if he would.

Kakashi leaned in with a sly grin. “Go on, Obito! You have to try it!”

Obito’s eyes lit up at the challenge, but Rin crossed her arms, scowling. “You’re not actually going to do that, are you? That’s disgusting.”

Haru giggled, egging him on anyway, while Natsu just shook his head, laughing.

Minato excused himself with a wave, watching their energy explode into the street like firecrackers before he turned back toward the quieter way.

The silence felt almost heavier now. Every step seemed to echo Obito’s words—your girlfriend, of course—a phrase said with such childish certainty that Minato hadn’t known whether to laugh or wince.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked on, the cicadas buzzing overhead. Shikaku’s voice drifted back to him from memory, dry and certain: This trip’s troublesome. You’re doomed.

His phone buzzed just then, as if conjured. He pulled it out, the screen flashing both Shikaku and Inoichi on a joint call. Minato frowned; midmorning here meant it was well past midnight there. He thumbed it on anyway.

“Finally,” Shikaku drawled, voice hoarse with fatigue. “Thought you’d ghosted us.”

“You sound awake,” Inoichi yawned, but his tone was needling. “Must be all that heartbreak. Can’t sleep?”

Minato’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “It’s morning here.”

“Oh, right,” Shikaku muttered. “Lucky bastard with your beaches and sunrise.”

Inoichi jumped in. “Yeah, we’ve seen the photos. The ocean, the food, that ridiculous picture of you holding a fish like you just conquered the sea—”

Shikaku chuckled. “The sunrise one was worse. It looked like a travel brochure.”

Minato exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t meant for those photos to become fodder.

“And dinner last night,” Inoichi continued. “That post was vague as hell. It looked like you weren’t telling us something big.”

“You’re hiding her,” Shikaku said, tone sharper now. “Where’s the photo?”

“Maybe she’s hideous,” Inoichi quipped.

Shikaku snorted. “Hardly. Minato wouldn’t have lost his mind and flown halfway across the world on a few days’ notice if she were.”

They laughed. Minato’s silence stretched between them.

“Don’t tell me,” Inoichi said slyly. “She doesn’t even exist, does she? This is just your elaborate ploy to job-hunt in Konoha.”

“She’s real,” Minato said, quieter than he intended. He looked down at the dirt path, cicadas buzzing loud in the heat. “Best thing that’s ever happened to this town. At least… that’s what everyone here thinks.”

Inoichi hummed like he wasn’t convinced. “Then give us a name, mystery boy.”

Shikaku piled on. “Or a description. Anything. Because right now all we know is: lives remote, brilliant doctor, might be cute—if that slip wasn’t just the lack of sleep talking. You’ve given us less than a paper abstract.”

Minato hesitated, pride and privacy tangling in his throat. He could picture Sakura’s face if she knew he’d handed her over as gossip material—how her guard would slam back into place, how the fragile trust she’d given him might fracture. Better they thought him evasive than risk that.

“See? Doesn’t exist,” Inoichi pressed, chuckling. “Meanwhile, we’re the ones being hounded by your students. Don’t forget—curriculum revision in two weeks. If you’re still planning on coming back, that is.”

“Big if,” Shikaku added dryly.

Their words landed heavier than they knew. Minato tried to brush them off, but the doubt prickled.

“Oh—by the way,” Inoichi said suddenly. “I heard from a friend that Konoha’s Tsunade is cooking something. Orochimaru’s restless because he wants in.”

Minato froze mid-step. “Tsunade?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” Shikaku said, half-amused. “Our boss is flying to Fire Country in a few days. He said he’s going to visit an old colleague, likely poaching some talent he hasn’t managed to sink his claws into yet. That’s what I gathered from his rant.”

Minato’s heart kicked against his ribs. He wanted to correct them—Tsunade wasn’t in Konoha at all. She was here. In this sleepy town by the sea, surrounded by plants and salt wind and the kind of quiet that nourished research better than any city lab.

The thought flickered sharp in his chest: There could be something here.

The call ended in a blur of yawns and teasing, the line cutting to silence. Minato stood for a moment, phone still in his hand, cicadas sawing in the heat above.

Orochimaru. Fire Country. Visiting colleagues. Poaching talents.

The words sank into him like stones. If Orochimaru was restless enough to circle, if Tsunade’s work had caught his notice, then this sleepy coastal town wasn’t as insulated as Sakura might believe. Whatever she was building here — the clinic, the trust of the townsfolk, the fragile peace she’d carved for herself—it could be swept into Konoha’s orbit with or without her consent.

He thought of her locked door that morning, her brittle pride in refusing even his hangover tonic, her instinct to retreat rather than face discomfort. What would she do if Konoha came knocking again? If her world, this life she’d made, was forced open by people like Orochimaru, by institutions too hungry to care what it cost her?

Minato clenched his jaw, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

The children’s laughter had faded into the distance. He was alone with the buzzing, with the memory of Sakura’s silence at breakfast, with the sour taste of words left unsaid.

Persistence is key, Arai’s voice echoed again. But persistence wasn’t only about her. It was about protecting this life she’d built—even if she wouldn’t fight for it herself.

For now, though, he needed something to hold them together, even if only with the thinnest thread of normalcy. He exhaled, steadying himself. Dinner. Something good, something careful. A table laid not with awkward silence, but with a semblance of home.

And so he turned toward the marketplace, already planning what to buy.

---

He decided on salads—crisp, bright greens tossed with a touch of sweetness, something light to balance the heavier stews and fried dishes they’d been having. Something his mother used to make, quick but thoughtful, the kind of food that always tasted like comfort and warmth, the kind of meal that could make a house feel like home.

He picked carefully: a handful of small tomatoes, their skins warm and splitting under his thumb; a bunch of tender greens; a pair of crisp apples and a pear, to be sliced thin and fanned out over the leaves; a heavy, jewel-red pomegranate, its seeds waiting to scatter sweetness across the bowl. A modest wedge of goat cheese would crumble soft against the crunch of toasted pecans, everything tied together with a vinaigrette—apple cider brightened with ginger and honey, whisked smooth until it gleamed.

Pale-green eggplants followed, destined to roast slowly, softening into smoky, honeyed collapse; and finally a modest cut of chicken, enough for two, to be baked with slices of lemon, a scatter of herbs, fragrant sprigs of rosemary, and a touch of oregano and thyme until tender, the meat soaking up the citrus, the skin crisping at the edges.

He could see it already—the citrus melting into the pan juices, garlic, oregano, thyme, and rosemary curling fragrant in the heat. His mother had hummed while she cooked it, sliding the tray into the oven with a flick of her wrist, sunlight pooling across the counter. The smell would carry through the whole house, sharp and clean, announcing dinner long before the plates were set.

A meal like that wasn’t grand, but it was honest—something you could eat with your sleeves rolled up, something that lingered on the tongue even after the plates were cleared. Just food, just habit, just hands working. But maybe, he thought, it could also be a thread back to ease. A language Sakura might understand better than the words he couldn’t yet say.

“Minato!”

The shout pulled him from his thoughts. He turned, blinking, and spotted Kushina weaving through the market crowd like a storm with legs, a bag of trinkets clattering against her hip.

He had barely noticed anyone else; all his mind had been on the dinner he wanted to make, imagining the chicken roasting with lemon and herbs, the salads tossed just right—how he would see Sakura smile at the first bite.

“You were going to walk right past me, weren’t you?” she accused the moment she reached him, planting herself in his path with hands on her hips, red hair blazing in the sun.

“I wasn’t,” Minato said, though his tone betrayed him—the same mild defense he’d once used as a boy when caught stealing rice cakes from her mother’s kitchen.

“Uh-huh.” Her sharp eyes dropped immediately to the bag in his hand. “What’s this? Shopping for your girlfriend?”

He froze for half a heartbeat. That was all Kushina needed. A grin spread across her face like fire catching.

“Oho. That is what this is.”

Minato shifted the bag against his side, suddenly conscious of the tomatoes pressing through the cloth. “It’s just dinner.”

“Dinner for two.” She hooked her arm through his before he could retreat, dragging him toward the bus stop. “C’mon. You can’t hide that dopey look from me. Sit, spill. I want the details.”

Reluctantly, Minato let himself be towed, his quiet reverie dissolving into the relentless tide of Kushina’s laughter and chatter.

---

She talked the whole way to the bus stop, waving her free hand as she described the festival stalls she’d been running with Tsume. “Pet charms, collars, little carved pendants — you should buy one for Kage! He’d love it, and it’ll definitely earn you points in Sakura’s book.”

Minato blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “Kushina—”

“Trust me,” she said, a grin lighting her face, “he’ll look adorable, and you’ll score brownie points with her. Win-win!”

Minato let out a small, resigned laugh, thinking that yes, Kage would probably love it, and perhaps this was an easy way to charm Sakura without having to spell it out.

But she only laughed, tugging him onto the bench at the roadside. It wasn’t shaded — the wood was sun-warmed, the metal too hot in places — but the view more than made up for it. From here, the land fell away to pale sand and the wide stretch of sea, late light throwing gold across the water. The horizon glared, almost too bright to look at, yet impossible to turn from.

She let him sit with his bag balanced neatly at his feet, studying him out of the corner of her eye. His shoulders were straight, his face composed — but the quiet around him wasn’t serenity. It was the kind of silence that sagged heavy, as though he was carrying something too fragile to set down.

“Something’s bothering you,” she said at last, softer now.

Minato didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the burnished line where sky and water met.

“Kushina,” he said finally, his voice low. “She’s… distant.”

“Distant,” she repeated, tilting her head, as if tasting the word. Then her mouth quirked. “And you’re sulking about it.”

He frowned faintly.

She leaned back, squinting against the sun. “Don’t take it so personally. Sakura’s always been like that. Too kind to everyone, not kind enough to herself. She’ll smile at you while holding you at arm’s length. Drives people mad. But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t care.”

Minato’s hands flexed against his knees.

“She’s not easy to reach,” Kushina said, her tone softening with thought, “but that’s not because she’s cold. She’s afraid. Always has been. The only ones who get close are the stubborn ones. Anko. The aunties. Me. Even Sas—” She froze mid-word, cheeks warming as she realized she’d almost said too much. It wasn’t her story to tell.

Then, as if to shake off the slip, she jabbed his side with her elbow, grin flashing. “So don’t give up just because she shut a door once. If you love her, tell her already. Stop being such a coward.”

Minato started, caught between protest and silence.

Her grin widened. “Ha! That look says everything. You’re madly in love, aren’t you?”

The truth pressed against his ribs, but he couldn’t give it voice. His silence betrayed him anyway.

Kushina laughed, tossing her hair back, satisfied.

Down on the beach, Sakura had slowed her steps along the waterline. From her distance she could see them clearly: Kushina leaning close, bright with laughter; Minato, bent slightly toward her, drawn into her orbit.

A flicker of something unfamiliar tightened in her chest—an ache of curiosity, perhaps, or a quiet stir of jealousy she barely recognized. She reminded herself it was absurd; Minato wasn’t hers to feel this way about. And still, she couldn’t quite shake the icy feeling that spread through her as she watched him smile, so easily, so openly, for someone else.

She smoothed the pinch away before it could show, even to herself, and shifted the helmet in her hand, tucked her shoes more securely under her arm, adjusted the fall of her hair against the breeze, letting her pace stay unhurried.

Just a walk, that’s all it was. She stood a moment longer at the surf’s edge, watching the tide ease in and out, then turned back the other way, the line of her posture easy, almost languid. From above, no one would know the difference.

On the bench, Minato stilled mid-breath, a prickle running the length of his spine. He glanced toward the beach, eyes narrowing against the sun. Nothing—just waves curling white on the sand, a few figures wandering the shoreline, ordinary, distant. And yet, for a moment, he was certain he’d been seen.

Kushina nudged him, drawing his attention back with another burst of teasing. The feeling passed, leaving only the faint ache of something he couldn’t name.

---

When Minato let himself back into the apartment, he expected silence—Sakura curled away in her room, still sleeping off what she’d claimed was a hangover. Instead, the living room lamp glowed low, and she was there, shrugging a thin cardigan off her shoulders to drape over the arm of the sofa, the pale strap of a cami catching the light. Bare legs folded as she sat back, the hem of her shorts brushing against the cushion.

He blinked. “You’re not in your room?”

She glanced at him, composed as ever. “I went to get some fresh air.”

“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Where?”

“The beach,” she admitted.

His brows lifted. “Really? I was just in the area, too. Depending on which stretch you mean, anyway.” A faint, rueful smile tugged at his mouth. “Funny we didn’t run into each other. We could’ve walked back together.”

For a moment, something unreadable flickered across her face. Then she smoothed it away, polite as ever.

He reeled himself back, lightening his tone. “Anyway. I was thinking I’d cook tonight, if that’s alright with you. Something my mom always used to make.” He tilted his head, almost cheeky. “I’m pretty sure you’ll love it. Everyone likes her cooking, and I’ve got this one dish down to perfection.”

Her mouth curved in a polite smile. “Very well. But you’d better be certain it tastes good. Otherwise, I’ll have to ban you from the kitchen entirely.”

He let out a quiet laugh—softer, lighter than it had been all day. Relief flickered through him; at least she was talking to him now.

---

The kitchen filled quickly with the sounds and scents of dinner: the rhythmic chop of spring onions, the hiss of oil as eggplant softened into smoky collapse, the clean citrus-sharp bite of lemon zest curling into the air. The chicken roasted slowly in the oven, bathed in lemon and herbs, the skin crisping at the edges while pan juices pooled fragrant and golden. Beside it, he tossed tomatoes slick with olive oil, the skins just beginning to split, and crumbled in soft cheese until it bled creamy against their warmth.

Minato moved with a quiet assurance, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands steady. He worked the way someone does when memory carries them, when muscle remembers the recipe better than thought. Sakura leaned casually against the counter, arms folded, quietly observing — the rise and fall of his motions, the ease with which he belonged in the kitchen.

She felt a strange mix of admiration and wistfulness, a small tug of longing she didn’t fully understand. He was so natural here, so gentle and precise, and she realized how much she missed this—the quiet rhythm of shared spaces, the unspoken understanding of someone caring without words. A pang of regret nudged at her: the way she’d pulled away, the walls she’d set up. Yet even behind that careful restraint, she couldn’t deny the warmth swelling inside her, small but insistent. And she hated that she wanted it—that dangerous comfort, that reminder of how easily kindness could undo her guard.

When they sat down, the table glowed with freshness: chicken sliced tender, lemon pooling bright on the plate; eggplant rich and smoky, melting against the sharp bite of onion; tomatoes bursting sweet against the tongue. A salad of crisp greens, dotted with jewel-red pomegranate seeds that popped with a tiny, juicy burst, and thin slices of pear and apple, mellow and fragrant, added a refreshing brightness that balanced the savory warmth.

Sakura took a careful bite, then another, letting the flavors settle. “This… this is perfect,” she admitted, eyes meeting his. “You’ll have to teach me this recipe someday.”

Minato leaned back slightly, lips twitching with mischief. “Ah, that’s a family secret,” he said lightly, though the undertone suggested he knew she might want to ignore the warning. His gaze lingered just a fraction longer than usual, the smallest trace of pride and something more unspoken in his expression.

Sakura caught it—or thought she did. She swallowed, then laughed softly, brushing it off. “You and your secrets,” she teased, though the warmth of her voice didn’t quite hide the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Beneath the laughter, a quiet restraint lingered, a careful guard she hoped she didn’t let him see.

For a while, it was almost like nothing had happened. Sakura’s cheerfulness filled the air again, almost too bright, carrying chatter about the aunties and tomorrow’s dawn ritual. Minato listened, smiled, offering a word here and there, grateful just for the sound of her voice and the way the lamplight caught in her eyes. He noticed the delicate pop of pomegranate seeds punctuating their shared meal, and though her voice danced with brightness, he sensed the quiet spaces she left unsaid—and treasured them all the same.

But eventually, the conversation curved almost absentmindedly toward the Senju manor. The name fell into the space between them and lingered, heavy and deliberate. Sakura smoothed her napkin, her smile tightening at the edges. Minato set down his fork too carefully, as though the quiet might shatter. 

Neither reached for the thread again.

---

Later, after dishes were cleared and the apartment had gone quiet, Sakura slipped into the back garden no one really used. The space was small, half-forgotten, edged with trees. The night hummed steady—crickets droning, leaves whispering, the occasional croak of frogs carrying from somewhere low and damp. Fireflies blinked in and out among the branches, patient little lanterns.

She settled on the old stone bench tucked beneath an overgrown hedge, pulling her knees close. Her phone glowed faintly in her hands as she scrolled through old messages—threads of half-serious jokes, late-night rambling about frogs and fieldwork, stretches where one of them had gone quiet too long. Her thumb lingered on a line she’d once read and reread before she sighed and locked the screen.

The door creaked.

“Mind if I join you?”

She startled, setting her phone face down on the bench before looking up. Straightening a little in her seat, she found Minato standing in the doorway, his outline softened by the dim spill of light from the apartment. Draped over his arm was her cardigan.

“Of course,” she said quickly, slipping on her lighter tone like a shield. “It’s not my garden to guard.”

He chuckled as he crossed the patch of grass, then lifted the cardigan a little. “Thought you might get cold.”

Her expression softened for a beat before she masked it again, taking the cardigan with a quiet thanks.

He lowered himself onto the bench beside her—not too close, but close enough that their shoulders shared the same night air.

For a while, they sat in companionable quiet, watching the fireflies blink like tiny sparks between the trees. Then Minato spoke, his voice gentle, as if testing the ground. “Remember the things we used to talk about? Back then—on calls, late at night, when the signal kept cutting.”

Her mask held. “You mean when you drowned me in frog trivia?” she teased, voice bright.

He gave her a side look. “Drowned? You loved it.”

“I tolerated it.” She smirked, but her eyes softened.

They batted the memories back and forth, her tone still light, his replies dry but warmed by the sound of her laughter. The tension of the day eased, just a little, dissolved in shared remembering.

And then Minato’s voice shifted, quiet but steady.

“All those times we went quiet in our chats—technically my fault.” He gave a rueful smile, eyes fixed on the fireflies blinking in the dark.

Sakura tilted her head slightly, tracing a firefly with her gaze. “Hmm,” she murmured, prompting him to continue.

“I told myself I could handle it, that if I went a few weeks without hearing from you, I could keep pulling back, keep it manageable. But my thoughts kept circling back. I don’t connect with people easily—not really, not on a deeper level. Even if it might look like I’m… everywhere, it’s not the same.” He exhaled, shoulders lifting in a small, helpless shrug.

Sakura’s lips twitched, almost a smile, but she stayed silent, letting him continue.

“And somehow, I knew what we had all those months ago was… something. And when I caught myself thinking of the doctor with plant and slug obsession across the sea more often than I should, I realized I couldn’t just leave it at that. So I hurried through everything I had on my plate just so I could make it here. And when you asked me why, I said I didn’t know. But the truth is… I just really wanted to see you. Because you’re my person, Sakura. And you hold a special place in my heart. So whatever happens, I hope we’ll still remain friends.”

Sakura’s practiced brightness faltered. The cardigan lay folded across her lap, and her fingers found its edge, twisting the fabric as if it might steady her. For a heartbeat she only looked at him, eyes wide, mask slipping under the weight of his honesty. Then she let out a small, uneven breath and smiled—softer this time, genuine.

“Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t want to lose you either. As a friend. And as my favorite mad frog scientist.”

His lips curved despite himself.

A cool breeze stirred, ruffling her high ponytail and raising goosebumps along her arms. She slipped into the cardigan, tugging it close—but the movement caught her ponytail awkwardly beneath the fabric, pulling at her scalp.

Without a word, Minato reached over, gently lifting the cardigan at her back and freeing her hair. His fingertips brushed lightly against her as he smoothed it free.

Sakura’s breath hitched, warmth blooming across her cheeks. Embarrassing as it was, she appreciated the quiet thoughtfulness, the way he noticed small discomforts without being asked.

Then the night broke with a faint buzz. Her phone vibrated against the bench. She unlocked it, already speaking to him. “Just my uncle—reminding me about the dawn ritual tomorrow.” Her tone was casual, a little exasperated, as she typed a quick reply, eyes flicking between the screen and him.

In that moment, Minato’s gaze caught the top of the screen—their chat thread, his contact name displayed clearly. He froze, eyebrows lifting in mild scandal, but said nothing.

Sakura, oblivious, finished her message and looked up at him. “He wants you to be there.”

Minato just blinked, still processing what he’d glimpsed.

“What?” she added, noticing his pause. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. It’s fairly early, after all.”

His eyes flicked back to the phone for a brief second, then up at her. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and instead just shook his head, letting a small, bemused smile slip.

“Did that say Professor Yellow Tree Frog?”

Her eyes flicked guiltily to his. “…Maybe.”

He groaned. “Why would you—? I do not look like a frog.”

“You don’t have to. You are like one. Obsess like one. It suits you.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

She grinned, warmth creeping in under the teasing. “Don’t tell me you went with something cheesy. Given your username back then—flying_thundergod, really?—I can only imagine.”

He almost slipped then, almost said the name he’d once considered saving her as in his own contacts—something far too tender, too revealing. He caught himself, but she’d seen the flicker.

“What?” she pressed, leaning in, eyes narrowing with mischief. “What did you want to call me? Come on, if you saw mine—”

“No,” he said firmly, though his smile betrayed him.

Sakura’s hand shot out, slapping his shoulder with a quick, playful whack. “Hey!” she exclaimed.

Minato flinched just a fraction, then chuckled, shaking his head. “Careful,” he said mock-seriously. “You’re insanely strong, you know. I could lose an arm over this.”

Sakura grinned, giving his shoulder a soft bump. “That’s what you get for saying no to me.”

“I deserve it,” he said, mock-sighing, “but you really should watch it. I’m delicate, you know, despite how I look.”

“Oh, please,” she shot back, jabbing his side lightly. “You’re exaggerating.”

He wiggled in mock pain, then laughed again. “Fine, fine. But if you keep this up, I’ll have to start counting my puns before speaking.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, eyes glinting, and delivered one last gentle knock to his shoulder. “I’ll be merciful this time.”

For a while, they lingered, letting the laughter taper off into soft chuckles. Shoulder bumps marked punchlines, witty quips, and the occasional ridiculous observation—his old “flying_thundergod” antics, a misremembered frog story—small, shared moments of their familiar rhythm.

Eventually, their teasing quieted. They watched the fireflies blink like tiny sparks between the trees. The night felt almost suspended, warm air still, punctuated by the faint hum of cicadas.

He leaned back slightly, letting the quiet stretch between them, the fireflies flickering in small bursts around the garden. “You know,” Minato said softly, almost conversationally, “fireflies can control the color of their light by regulating chemicals in their abdomen. It’s kind of like a chemical Morse code.”

Sakura tilted her head, curious. “Huh. I never knew that… Morse code?”

“Yeah,” he continued, voice low, thoughtful. “Each blink, each pattern—it’s a message. Something simple, maybe, or something more complex. But it only works if the other firefly is paying attention, noticing the pattern, understanding it.” He looked at her, not too directly, but enough to let the thought linger. “If you miss a blink, or misread it, the message doesn’t get across.”

Sakura considered that, eyes catching the soft flicker of lights. “So… it’s about being deliberate. Careful. Patient.”

“Exactly,” he said quietly. “Even a small, subtle signal matters. You just have to notice it.” His gaze drifted back to the fireflies. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she digested his words. Then, softly, she said, “Minato… I don’t want there to ever be awkwardness between us again. Ever. I want to notice your flickers, your signals… to really understand you.”

He blinked, a small warmth tugging at him, and nodded. “I can do that too.”

Sakura lifted a hand. “I’ll try to be more honest, more aware, about things, too.”

He offered a faint smile, linking her pinky with his. “Pinky promise.”

The fireflies blinked on, tiny bursts of light carrying silent messages across the night air—like their own new, fragile rhythm of understanding.

Sakura let their linked pinkies fall apart with a soft laugh. “All right then, what do you think that one just said?” She pointed toward a firefly that blinked twice, paused, then blinked again.

Minato tipped his head, as though consulting some invisible field manual. “That one said: ‘Excuse me, this is a no-fly zone.’”

Sakura grinned. “Wrong. Obviously it was: ‘Back off, this branch is taken.’”

Another firefly drifted lazily past, blinking in a lopsided rhythm. Minato narrowed his eyes. “That one’s definitely drunk.”

Sakura laughed into her hand. “Or it’s late to the firefly conference.”

Soon every blink became another absurd dispatch: traffic complaints, formal diplomatic negotiations over leaf real estate, over-the-top love triangles between bugs.

“That one,” Sakura declared, pointing at a particularly quick series of flashes, “just rage-quit the entire conversation.”

Minato pretended to gasp. “Unbelievable. So unprofessional.”

She bumped his shoulder with hers, laughter bubbling up again. “You’re terrible.”

“And yet,” he said with mock gravity, “you keep participating in my highly scientific translations.”

“Correction,” she shot back, eyes dancing, “I am peer-reviewing your nonsense.”

They dissolved into laughter, shoulders shaking, the night air filled with their voices and the soft glow of fireflies carrying on their imaginary debates. For the first time in what felt like a very long while, it was simple and easy.

Notes:

I don't know about you, Sakura, but firefly signals usually mean one of two things: attracting a mate or warning of danger. And the way you so easily accepted Minato's signals… well, that's telling. Whether it's romance or trouble, I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into. 🤭

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Whole Damn Restaurant