Chapter Text
Almost.
So close.
Nose scrunched, hips tilted just right, you try again to guide your boyfriend to a better spot. One that'll finally throw you off the edge you've been staring at for ages. But Taichi has never been great with directions. Verbal or otherwise. Every time you shift, tilt, or nudge him, he just settles right back where he started.
Same rhythm. Same mistakes.
Tonight is no different.
Another date. Another night staring at the cracks in your ceiling, wondering if they've grown longer or deeper. Or… maybe there's more of them? If there are, surely, that's cause for concern. And somewhere in your mental notes, you stopped hoping for more.
Now, you just wait for it to be over.
You thought sex was supposed to be fun. That's what your friends giggled about at the bath house with mischievous smiles hidden behind towels and flushed cheeks. It was like this secret thrill you just hadn't experienced yet.
But for you, sex isn't thrilling.
It's just… bodies pressing together. Motions without meaning. At best, it's forgettable. At worst, it stings.
Taichi usually lands somewhere in the middle.
With a final groan of your name on his breath, he collapses onto you, sweaty and satisfied. You lie still beneath him, muscles aching and skin clammy, wondering if this is what sex is always supposed to feel like.
He mumbles something sweet, kisses your shoulder, and slips off to the bathroom to clean up. You stare at the ceiling.
Same cracks. Same silence.
And in the quiet, a question starts forming in the back of your mind.
Is it me?
Or is this just what happens when you try so hard to want something you're not even sure you like?
"That was great," Taichi says, emerging from the bathroom with a satisfied grin. You mirror his expression, but you don't say anything. Your voice sometimes cracks when you lie.
"I've got to run, though. Early mission." He kisses the top of your head, throws a wink your way, and heads out the door.
You wait until the lock clicks shut before letting out the same tired groan you always do.
Because you know you're not broken. You do want sex.
You like the motions of it. The kissing. The touching. Even the press of a body against yours. It's not repulsive.
It's just... not enough.
And it's not just Taichi.
Even when you're alone, hand beneath the covers, blood thumping in your ears, chasing something that always slips just out of reach—the frustration remains. You've heard that some women struggle to orgasm. But not like this. Not every time. Surely, eventually, every woman figures it out on her own.
So why can't you?
You roll onto your side and press your face into the pillow, muffling another groan. The ache in your belly doesn't go away. It hums, low, stubborn and dull, as if mocking you.
And when sleep finally comes, it brings no peace. Only dreams filled with hands that know. Fingers that move with purpose. That understands your body better than you ever have.
"Thanks for coming with me today, Itachi-san," you say with a soft smile, glancing at the man beside you.
"Of course," he replies.
You exhale, eyes drifting to the gravestones ahead. "I can't believe it's been nearly ten years since Shisui-niisan passed."
The details of his face have started to fade, but his laugh still echoes in your memory. It used to carry over the fences between your homes, brightening even the dullest afternoons.
Losing Shisui had been a rupture. Even when his days were swallowed by his clan's duties and village missions, he always made time for you. Especially after your grandmother began to forget your name and your face.
He was a brother in everything but blood. But blood was the only thing that mattered because no one would ever tell you how he died. And not long after, Itachi started coming around. He became a shadow at the edge of your life, slowly stepping into the space Shisui left behind.
You asked him why once in a moment of courage.
"Shisui asked me," was all he said.
You still remember the way he looked at you after. Nostrils flared. Jaw set tightly. Fingers curled into his palm. And without needing to be told, you understood: don't ask again.
You'd always known Shisui was like a brother to him. You assumed Itachi had been grieving in his own way.
Years later, standing beside him, the quiet between you has softened. It's still heavy, but it's more of a weight the two of you carry together.
You crouch down, placing fresh chrysanthemums in front of the stone. The petals are crisp and delicate, trembling in the breeze.
"They were his favourite," Itachi says quietly beside you.
You glance up. "I thought he hated flowers."
A pause.
"He did," he admits. "But he liked the ones you planted."
Your lips curve, caught somewhere between a smile and a sigh. "He always pretended not to notice."
"He noticed." His voice is softer now, like he's not talking to you, not entirely. "He noticed everything."
The weight of memory presses down on both of you, heavy as the summer air. Sitting back on your heels, your fingers brush a stray leaf off the grave.
"I wonder what he'd think of us. Still doing this after all this time."
"He would've told you to stop worrying about him," Itachi replies.
You huff a soft laugh. "That sounds right."
"But he would've liked it. That you still visit him."
The breeze dies for a moment, leaving only the rustle of grass and the distant hum of cicadas. You glance at Itachi out of the corner of your eye. His face is blank, but his hands are clasped behind his back. It's the way he always stands when he's holding too tightly onto too much.
You look back at the stone.
"I tried not to ask anymore," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "About how he died. But sometimes, I still wonder."
Itachi doesn't answer. You didn't expect him to.
"I just wish I knew if it hurt," you add, quieter now. "If he was scared."
He finally speaks, but his words are soft and strange. "Shisui wasn't afraid to die. He was only afraid of failing."
"Failing who?"
"The people he loved. Like you."
"Me?" You turn to him, something in your chest tightening.
Itachi meets your gaze for a beat too long. "Yes."
You swallow. It's not the first time someone has said that to you, but coming from him, it feels heavier. More final. You don't say I loved him too. It feels too thin and fragile against the truth of it.
Instead, you nod as you stand, brushing your palms against your skirt.
"I'll walk you back," he says.
You don't argue. You've learned not to with him.
The path back into the village winds through trees half-lit by the fading sun. Itachi walks beside you, close enough that your sleeves brush with every step. His hand lingers near the small of your back when the trail narrows, but he never touches you.
He never has.
You're almost home when he speaks again, his voice low.
"Are you hungry?"
You're not really. Visits to Shisui's grave always sit heavy in your stomach. But you know Itachi. He doesn't ask things without intent, and he rarely accepts your nos.
"I can eat," you say instead.
He nods once, as if that's the answer he expected, then turns away from your street and toward the village centre.
The sun has nearly set by the time you reach the little sushi shop tucked between a bookstore and a lantern vendor. Your favourite. Itachi leads the way inside without needing to ask. The hostess recognises you both immediately and shows you to your usual booth near the back, half-shielded from the rest of the dining room.
Quiet. Private.
Itachi's preference. Always.
You don't reach for the menu. You never need to. He orders for both of you without asking what you're in the mood for, and he always gets it right. You used to find it strange, the way he noticed the small things: the toppings you remove from your rolls, how you always ask for extra wasabi and pickled ginger.
But then again, Shisui was the same. Maybe it's just how their eyes work—those Uchiha eyes that miss nothing.
He pours your tea without asking. You chalk it up to tradition. Just a form of respect for someone technically older. But something about it feels settled. Like this has always been his role, and yours to accept it.
"So," you say, trying to ease the silence, "how have you been? Still going on missions?"
It's difficult to talk to Itachi sometimes. Even beyond his quiet nature, your lives don't really intersect. You bake bread and package sweets. He disappears for days at a time without explanation. A shinobi, yes. But you don't even know what kind. Taichi once mentioned he held a high rank, but even he didn't seem sure which one.
"Yes," Itachi says simply. "Though things have been... slower lately."
"Is that a good thing?"
He sets the teapot down with careful precision. "I prefer to be in the village."
You hesitate, then ask, "And Sasuke-san? Is he still training with your father?"
"He is."
"Do you ever join them?"
He pauses, then shakes his head and lifts his cup.
"I seldom train with my family."
There's always something sad and faraway in the way he talks about the Uchiha. Like he's not part of them anymore, even though his name still carries weight.
You nod, letting the quiet stretch between you. It's not uncomfortable, exactly. But there's always a sense of something restrained in his presence. Like he's forever holding himself in check, even in a moment as simple as dinner.
Even now, you can feel the weight of his attention. Not heavy. But constant. And for reasons you can't name, you don't look up.
"You're still seeing that boy," he says. Not a question. Not quite an accusation either, but it lands like one.
You blink, caught off guard. "Taichi?"
He doesn't say the name. Doesn't even acknowledge it. He simply lifts his tea again and says coolly, "You've been with him for some time."
You shift in your seat, not entirely sure where this is going because he's never asked about the men you've dated before. You didn't think you had that kind of relationship with him. But perhaps today has made him sentimental.
"A few months," you answer eventually.
Itachi's gaze lingers on the steam rising from his cup. "Is he serious about you?"
You laugh a little, trying to lighten the sudden shift in tone. "You sound like a father."
"I'm asking." He doesn't smile.
You exhale. "I… think so. I mean, he's kind. He listens. Brings me lunch at work sometimes."
Itachi finally looks at you again, and it stops you short. There's no anger in his eyes, but something colder. Cunning. Like he's running calculations in the silence between your words.
"Kindness is easy. Most people are kind when it's convenient or they're getting something from it."
You frown. "Itachi-san…"
"Does he protect you?" he asks.
You blink. "I don't need—"
"That's not what I asked."
You sit back slightly, unsettled now but trying not to show it. "He looks out for me. In his way."
"In his way," Itachi repeats, voice flat. "He's a shinobi?"
"A chūnin. Why?"
He doesn't answer. The silence grows sharp around the edges.
You busy yourself with the tea, not drinking it, just holding the warmth between your palms. "I know he's not like you. Or Shisui-niisan."
"No," Itachi says. "He isn't."
The weight of the words is disproportionate to their meaning. Heavy. Final. And you think that's just what this is.
You force a small smile. "You're just being protective."
"Of course," he says. But it doesn't sound like agreement. It feels more like a warning.
The food arrives just in time to break the tension.
Itachi doesn't eat right away. He always waits for you to start first. So you do, but his eyes never stray far from you. Even as he starts eating. You think, maybe, he just doesn't like Taichi. That maybe the brotherly instincts Shisui once had have passed on like a torch.
You'd like to think that Shisui would be the same way. Although you think he'd demand to meet Taichi personally instead of Itachi's polite, but pointed inquiries. But there's something about the way he sits now—still and sharp and too composed—that makes your skin prickle.
"How's work?" he asks at last.
It's a lifeline. A tonal shift. His version of an apology.
You take it gladly. You've always been quick to excuse Itachi's stiffness. Especially on days like this. Especially when he's the last piece of Shisui you still have.
"It's good."
"Any rude customers?" he asks, tone neutral.
You smile despite yourself. In anyone else's voice, it would sound like a plea for gossip. But from Itachi, it feels more like reconnaissance.
"Occasionally. But Honoka-chan doesn't let anyone get away with anything. She's scary when she wants to be."
His head tilts slightly, a rare flicker of amusement in his eyes. Approval, maybe. He lets you carry the conversation like he always does. You share new recipes the bakery is developing, a new tea shop you stumbled across during a delivery run, anything to fill the silence.
It's easier that way since Itachi listens more than he speaks.
When the bill comes, you don't even pretend to reach for it. He has never let you pay.
You wait by the door while he settles the cheque, arms tucked in loosely, feeling the weight of his presence before he even rejoins you. And when you step out together, his pace matches yours without needing to ask. You don't suggest he walk you home.
Itachi always does.
The streets are mostly empty, lanterns glowing faintly along the road. The moonlight catches on the windows of your neighbour's house, and in the reflection, you catch a glimpse of him, just over your shoulder.
A step too close. Like a shadow that won't let go.
"If you need anything at all," he says suddenly, low and even. "You tell me."
The way he says it makes your skin chill.
"I'm not a child," you reply, a little defensively. "I can take care of myself."
He looks at you, and something flickers behind his eyes. Not fear. Not concern. Something colder.
"If you're certain."
Despite his flat tone, the way it lands is almost mocking.
You don't respond.
He doesn't move to leave when you reach your door. He just watches you with that same intense stillness, as though he's memorising you.
"I'll see you around," you offer, unsure how else to end the moment.
"You will," Itachi says.
The morning rush has died down, and the bakery settles into a warm, quiet lull. Golden sunlight filters through the front windows, dancing across trays of cooling buns and powdered sugar. The only sounds are the hum of the fridge and the soft squelch of Honoka icing buns at the prep table.
"I swear," she says, flicking the piping bag with exaggerated flair, "if Hayato-kun keeps showing up with surprise snacks, I'm going to get fat. He brought me strawberry mochi last night. Strawberry mochi, like he knew I was craving it before I even said anything. Isn't that scary?"
You glance over your shoulder with a faint smile. "Romantic scary, or stalker scary?"
"I haven't decided yet." Honoka grins, brushing her bangs from her eyes. "But honestly? He's lucky he's cute. If some random guy pulled half the stuff he does, I'd have filed a restraining order by now."
You snort. "That's true love right there."
She presses a hand to her heart. "Finally. Someone who understands."
You go back to wiping the display case. Honoka watches you for a moment before continuing, her tone softer. "Anyway. Enough about my suspiciously sweet boyfriend. What about you? How are things with Taichi-san?"
You hesitate, then shrug. "Fine."
Honoka tilts her head. "That was the most suspicious 'fine' I've heard all week."
You busy yourself with rearranging a tray of melonpan, hoping she'll let it go.
She doesn't.
"Come on," she says. "You always say it's fine. You've been dating for how long now?"
"A few months," you murmur.
"And it's still just… fine?"
You sigh, finally turning to face her. "It's not like anything's wrong exactly. He's nice. He remembers anniversaries and important dates. He brings me dinner when I work late. But…"
Honoka waits, eyebrow raised.
You trail off, voice quieter. "It doesn't feel like… enough. Like something's missing."
She nods, tapping the counter thoughtfully. "Okay. Is it an emotional thing, or like, a physical thing?"
You flush slightly, but she doesn't look away. Just leans in with the easy familiarity of someone who's not going to judge.
You stare at your hands. "… Physical."
Honoka just hums knowingly.
"He's just… really repetitive," you say. "And I keep thinking maybe it'll click, but it never does. Even when I'm on my own, it's still…"
You falter. Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head.
"Still what?"
You exhale slowly, words quiet. "It just doesn't work."
A pause.
"You mean—"
You nod, eyes still on your hands. "I've never had one. Not with him. Not alone. Not ever."
There's a beat of shocked silence.
Then Honoka, loudly, "You've never had an orgasm?!"
The bell above the front door jingles.
Your stomach drops.
Itachi steps into the bakery, calm and impassive as ever, the sunlight outlining the sharp planes of his face. His gaze flicks briefly between you and Honoka, then settles on you.
You stand frozen behind the counter.
Honoka slaps both hands over her mouth, eyes wide. With her face burning, she disappears into the back with a strangled excuse.
Itachi walks forward, expression neutral as if he hadn't just heard your most mortifying secret.
"This was on sale today," he says evenly, placing your favourite type of onigiri on the counter. His voice, as always, is soft. But that only makes your heart beat louder in your ears.
You reach for the ball, avoiding his eyes. "Thanks."
"You remember what I said," he says, voice low but cutting cleanly through the stillness. "If there's anything you need, you tell me."
The way he says it isn't casual. It isn't a vague request. It's quiet, but firm. Decisive in a way that sends a chill down your spine.
Then, with a small nod—as if that's all the clarity he intends to offer—he steps out, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
You stand motionless behind the counter, the rice ball still clutched in your hands, heart thudding in your chest. Because you're still hearing his voice, steady and cold, echoing louder in your head than it should:
Anything you need.