The Unwanted Marriage

by Zukaarimeikatochi

Summary:

Forced into an arranged marriage, Itachi and Sakura are forced to endure each other till death do them part or before one kills the other. Set in AU. Tags: Arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, HEA.

Chapter 1

Rain lashed the windows in furious bursts, each strike sounding like stones hurled in rage. The wind howled like a wounded animal, raw and relentless, while the skyline vanished beneath a shroud of darkness that stole every trace of light. Thunder rolled, shaking the glass with each violent clap. The storm outside was no less irate than the people gathered within the office.

More than half a dozen figures occupied the room, all clad in dark suits, their expressions unreadable. Four men stood sentry at either side of the long oval table—like the four horsemen of the apocalypse—with hands clasped before them, gazes sweeping from face to face, awaiting orders. Two others sat opposite each other, dressed in suits so fine they practically sneered at the weather.

“The storm’s an ominous sign,” Kizashi murmured, watching the rain strike the windows like icy bullets.

“I didn’t take you for a superstitious old fool,” Fugaku scoffed, leaning back in his chair and peering down his nose at the pink-haired man across from him.

“Not superstitious,” Kizashi replied, turning to meet Fugaku’s gaze. “Just wary of the company I’m keeping.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fugaku’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing.

“That I don’t trust you.” Kizashi turned back to the window, lightning illuminating the skyline for a fleeting moment before plunging it into blackness once more.

“Hmph.” Fugaku folded his arms. “You didn’t have to come.”

“If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have bothered,” Kizashi said, his tone flat. He sighed and tapped his fingers against the table, waiting for the man who had summoned them.

“The reason this meeting must happen,” came a firm voice from the far end of the room, “is to end this childish feud between your families.”

Both men rose and bowed their heads slightly as Hiruzen Sarutobi approached and took his seat at the head of the table. They followed suit, settling into their chairs once more.

Silence fell, thick and tense. Hiruzen glanced between them, feeling more like a headmaster dealing with unruly pupils than a mediator between powerful men. They stared each other down, daring the other to blink first.

“I’ve reached a decision on how to resolve this,” Hiruzen said at last, his tone final.

“And what would that be, hmm?” Fugaku folded his arms again, smirking at Kizashi. “You’ve finally decided to side with the Uchihas?”

“Your pride and ego will be your downfall, Fugaku, if you’re not careful,” Hiruzen warned, his steely gaze fixed on the raven-haired man. He rose and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the rain pour down in sheets.

“So what is your decision?” Fugaku asked, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Hiruzen watched the downpour, listening as the wind howled beyond the comfort of the room. He’d long been aware of the growing tensions between the Harunos and the Uchihas—two families driven by ambition, willing to use underhanded tactics to get ahead. Sometimes, that ambition spilled into bloodshed.

He’d mediated countless meetings between them over the years. Each ended bitterly, teetering on the edge of violence. Neither side ever left satisfied.

After witnessing one too many near-brawls, Hiruzen had resolved to find a solution—something that might force the families to cooperate, or at the very least, coexist. He drew in a slow breath and exhaled quietly. He knew full well his proposal would be met with resistance. But it was the only path forward.

Turning from the window, he walked to the table and sat down. His elbows rested on the polished surface, long fingers steepled together.

“My decision is final,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “It will not be changed or amended.”

He let the words settle like dust. There was no going back now.

When neither man responded, Hiruzen inhaled again, slower this time, and turned to Fugaku.

“What’s Itachi doing these days?”

Fugaku frowned. “Itachi? What does he have to do with any of this?”

“Everything,” Hiruzen replied, almost casually.

“He still works for me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Fugaku’s eyes narrowed, trying to read the old man’s angle.

Hiruzen nodded, then turned to Kizashi. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t need to ask about Sakura.”

Kizashi’s expression softened at the mention of his daughter. “She’s taking some time off.”

“She deserves it,” Hiruzen said gently. “She works too hard.”

Fugaku bristled at the exchange, fingers tapping impatiently against the table. The ease between Hiruzen and Kizashi grated on him.

“What do either of them have to do with your solution?” he snapped, each word laced with irritation.

Hiruzen studied him for a moment before sighing. “My solution is simple. It requires both families to work together.”

“How?” Fugaku demanded, checking his watch. “I’ve been here over half an hour, and you’ve done nothing but talk in circles.”

Kizashi shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Show some respect, Uchiha.”

“You might have time to sit here and play diplomat,” Fugaku shot back, pointing a finger at Kizashi, “but I have a business to run. This is a waste of my time.”

Hiruzen ignored the outburst, treating it like a tantrum from a spoiled child.

“Is Itachi seeing anyone?” he asked, voice calm.

Fugaku’s anger faltered, replaced by confusion. “What are you playing at?” he asked through clenched teeth.

It was no secret that Itachi, his eldest son, barely spoke to him. Their relationship was strained—cordial at best, cold at worst.

“Answer the question, Fugaku,” Hiruzen said, his tone patient but unyielding.

Fugaku stared at the old man, one brow arched. The only sound in the room was the relentless wind and the rain hammering the windows in rhythmic fury.

“No. He’s not seeing anyone,” Fugaku said at last, his voice clipped.

Hiruzen nodded, then turned to Kizashi. “And Sakura? Still single?”

Kizashi gave a terse nod, his jaw tight. “What does my daughter have to do with your solution, Hiruzen? You know she avoids business disputes.”

Hiruzen studied them both in silence. He drew in a slow breath, then exhaled with quiet finality.

“To ensure cooperation between your families,” he said evenly, “your eldest children will be wed.”

The room fell into stunned silence. Even the storm seemed to pause, as if nature itself were holding its breath.

Then Fugaku shoved his chair back and surged to his feet, the legs scraping harshly against the floor.

“What kind of solution is that?!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the room, nearly drowning out the storm’s fury. A vein pulsed at his temple, fists clenched at his sides, his breath ragged with rage. The air around him felt charged, suffocating.

“The only solution,” Hiruzen replied calmly, “where both families are forced to work together.”

“And we’re supposed to just agree to this madness?” Fugaku threw his hands up, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ground audibly.

“I said earlier—my decision is final.” Hiruzen pressed his fingers together, his gaze unwavering. “There will be no negotiation.”

Kizashi leaned forward, eyes sharp. “What about Itachi and Sakura? You know my daughter. She won’t agree to this willingly.”

“That,” Hiruzen said, rising to his feet, “is for you to manage.”

He stepped away from the table, voice steady. “The engagement will be announced in three days. The wedding will follow four days later.”

“This is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” Fugaku spat. “You must be going senile.”

Several men moved instinctively, hands drifting toward concealed weapons.

“You do not insult—”

Hiruzen raised a hand, silencing them with a single gesture. “There’s no need to threaten our guests.”

He turned to Fugaku, his voice colder now. “Especially one who came to me months ago, begging for a resolution. You assumed I’d side with the Uchihas. That your name alone would sway me.”

He scoffed. “Seems to me, Fugaku, it’s you who’s losing clarity—if you think you can speak to me like that.”

His gaze locked onto the raven-haired man, sharp and unflinching.

“And if I choose not to go along with your ridiculous solution?” Fugaku asked, arms folded tightly across his chest, his stare unwavering.

“Then either the Uchihas or the Harunos will leave Konoha for good,” Hiruzen replied, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “You’ve both spilled enough blood. This is the only way to end your childish tantrums.”

His words rang out, colder than the storm outside. The silence that followed felt heavier than thunder.

“Three days,” Hiruzen repeated, his gaze sweeping across both men. “The engagement will be held at my hotel. So will the wedding. I will oversee everything. No decisions will be made without my knowledge.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the room—and their futures—hanging in the air.

Kizashi exhaled shakily, as if the floor had vanished beneath him. It felt like waking into a nightmare: either abandon everything he’d built—his home, his business, his legacy—or watch Sakura be forced into marriage with an Uchiha.

He looked up slowly. Fugaku was staring at him, eyes burning with fury. Kizashi was certain his own gaze mirrored it.

“I know you’re a stubborn old fool,” Fugaku said, jaw clenched, voice low and venomous. “You won’t leave this city without a fight.”

“Which leaves us with the old fool’s solution,” Kizashi muttered, rising to his feet. He brushed off his jacket and buttoned it with deliberate calm. “It would be easier if you left. But I know you—you’d rather die than walk away.”

Fugaku lifted his chin, bitterness etched into every line of his face. “Then we’ll see each other in three days.”

“We will,” Kizashi said, motioning to his men. Together, they left the room and stepped into the storm, where the waiting cars idled like sentinels in the rain.

---

Mebuki took one look at her husband as he stepped through the door and knew instantly—he hadn’t agreed with the decision.

“What was said?” she asked, direct as ever. She never danced around conflict.

“We’ve come to an agreement,” Kizashi sighed, shrugging off his jacket and sinking into the sofa.

Without a word, Mebuki crossed to the cabinet, poured a generous measure of whiskey, and handed him the glass. “Does the agreement work in our favour?”

Kizashi offered a faint smile of thanks and took a long sip, letting the warmth spread through him. He closed his eyes, savouring the taste of smoked oak and citrus before opening them again.

“In a way,” he said.

Mebuki frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means neither we nor the Uchihas”—he spat the name—“will have to leave the city.”

Her brow arched. “When was that even an option?”

“It was either leave,” Kizashi said, taking another sip, “or accept Hiruzen’s solution.”

Before she could ask, he added, “The solution that lets both families stay in Konoha is marriage.”

“Marriage?” Mebuki sat on the edge of the sofa, facing him. Her brows drew together. “As in merge the companies and run them jointly?”

Kizashi glanced at his empty glass, stood, and poured himself another. He stared out the window. The rain had eased, but the wind still howled, shaking the trees like angry hands.

“No,” he said quietly. “A marriage between their son and our daughter.”

Mebuki stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Surely you said no to that ridiculous idea?”

But even as the words left her mouth, she knew the answer.

“It’s the only way,” Kizashi said, voice heavy with regret.

“There must be something else we can do—”

“The only choice,” he interrupted, “is to leave everything behind or marry Sakura off to an Uchiha.”

He downed the whiskey in one burning gulp, the liquid scorching his throat. He sucked in air through clenched teeth and set the glass down, one hand braced against the cabinet.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said, turning to her. “But if it ends this war between our families, I’ll take the risk.”

“It’s not your life you’re risking,” Mebuki snapped, rising to her feet, arms crossed. “It’s our daughter’s.”

“I know that!” Kizashi shouted. “Everyone has to make sacrifices. This is one of them.”

“Sacrifices?” Mebuki laughed bitterly. “You’ve stolen her future. Her will. Her everything.”

“What would you have me do?” he shouted back. “Throw away everything I built from nothing? All the sacrifices I made to get here?”

“You built?” she echoed, voice sharp. “You forget—I was there. I supported you. I helped you. I fought for this just as hard.”

Her eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

“Then you understand why I had to accept it. We can’t just throw it all away—”

“But it’s fine to throw Sakura to the wolves?” she cut in.

Kizashi stepped forward, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. “Sakura will understand,” he said, trying to soothe her.

“How long do we have?” Mebuki asked, her voice low, trembling with restrained fury.

“The engagement is in three days,” he said quietly.

“Three days?” she repeated, stunned. “And the wedding?”

“Four days later.”

Mebuki stared at him, speechless. Then she laughed—a hollow, humourless sound.

“You’d better be ready for her temper when she finds out. And”—she jabbed a finger into his chest—“you will be the one to tell her.”

She pushed past him and walked away, unwilling to stand another moment beside the man who had bartered away their daughter’s future.

Chapter 2

After a restless night, Kizashi stood in the kitchen, clutching a mug of strong black coffee, hoping the caffeine would dull the ache in his chest. The events of the previous evening haunted him through the dark hours, each thought circling back to the same question: had he made the right decision?

It couldn’t be changed now. He sighed deeply as the realisation settled over him, heavy and immovable. He took a sip, letting the scalding liquid burn his mouth—punishment, perhaps, for the choice he’d made.

He looked up as Mebuki entered the kitchen, her gaze deliberately avoiding his. He offered a tentative smile. “How are you, my darling?”

She barely glanced at him, placing a mug beneath the machine and pressing the button. “How do you think I’m doing, darling?” she replied, her tone sharp enough to cut.

Kizashi gave a tight smile. “I understand how you feel, but I didn’t have any other choice in the—”

“You had a choice!” she snapped, eyes blazing. “You should have consulted me before deciding to rob our child of her future!”

He shook his head and exhaled slowly. “If there had been another way, I would’ve taken it. But there wasn’t. And now… there’s nothing we can do.”

Mebuki scoffed, grabbed her filled mug, and turned away. “You’d better make sure you tell Sakura yourself before Saturday. She doesn’t deserve to find out on the day.”

She walked out, her dressing gown trailing behind her like a storm cloud.

Kizashi watched her go, left alone with his guilt. He drained the last of his coffee, rinsed the mug, and gathered his jacket, keys, phone, and briefcase. The drive to work was a blur, his mind consumed by one thought: how to tell Sakura she was to be engaged to a stranger.

At the board meeting, he announced the agreement between the Harunos and the Uchihas—one that ensured neither side would suffer major losses. Hours later, once the meeting adjourned, he sat alone in his office, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

Then the idea came.

He picked up the phone and pressed the button for his assistant. “Mira, I need you in my office.”

Moments later, she entered with a bright smile. “What do you need, Mr Haruno?”

“I need you to pick out several evening dresses for Sakura.” He reached into his wallet and handed her his bank card. “Make sure they’re elegant. Take them to her today so she can choose one for Saturday.”

“As you wish,” she said, taking the card. “If Sakura asks why, what should I tell her?”

He’d already prepared the answer. “Tell her it’s for an event celebrating the recent agreement between the companies.”

Mira nodded and left the office.

Kizashi leaned back in his chair. He would tell Sakura—just not yet. No point in stressing her out before it was necessary.

---

Sakura stretched across her bed, blinking herself awake from an unplanned nap. She’d been making the most of her time off—catching up on sleep, letting her body rest for once. She sat up, reached for her phone, and tapped the screen. 13:58.

She groaned. “I didn’t mean to spend the whole day in bed,” she muttered, tossing the phone aside.

Dragging herself upright before sleep claimed her again, she padded to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. It helped—barely. Teeth brushed, she made her way downstairs and surveyed the chaos of her living room. She pouted at the sight, tempted to retreat back to bed.

“No,” she said aloud, steeling herself. “We are not getting sidetracked again.”

She grabbed the bin and began clearing the clutter—rubbish first, then dirty clothes to the washing machine, dishes to the sink. She returned items to their rightful places and hoovered the floors until the room felt vaguely civilised.

An hour later, she collapsed onto the sofa, pleased with herself—until she remembered the mess upstairs. She groaned and switched on the television instead, flicking to a random channel. Phone in hand, she scrolled through social media, letting the hum of background noise fill the space.

She’d been there nearly an hour when the doorbell rang, pulling her attention away from a video. She frowned, trying to recall if she was expecting anyone. The bell rang again.

“I’m coming!” she called, rising reluctantly as it rang a third time.

She opened the door to find a rail of clothes wrapped in protective plastic, flanked by Mira—her father’s assistant—and another woman she didn’t recognise.

“Sakura,” Mira greeted her with a bright smile. “Your father asked me to deliver these.”

Sakura blinked. “Why?”

“He said there’s an event in two days, and he wanted you to have something appropriate to wear.” Mira gestured to the rail, her smile widening. “I personally picked out each dress. I’m sure you’ll love them.”

Sakura nodded once. “I wasn’t told about any event on Saturday.”

“You know how it is,” Mira laughed lightly. “These things pop up out of nowhere.”

Sakura forced a polite smile. “And what’s the occasion?”

“A celebration of a recent agreement,” Mira said, voice airy.

Sakura frowned. Her father hosted plenty of events—charity galas, contract signings—but she hadn’t heard a word about this one.

Mira cleared her throat, snapping Sakura out of her thoughts.

“Well,” Sakura said, stepping aside, “you’d better come in.”

She was grateful she’d tidied earlier. The women entered, wheeling the rail into the living room. The unfamiliar assistant began unzipping the garment bags, revealing ten black dresses in varying lengths and styles.

Sakura approached, fingers trailing over the fabrics—silk, velvet, chiffon. “How do you know these will fit me?”

“Oh, Sakura,” Mira laughed, her tone overly familiar. “I’m sure you’ll find all these dresses fit you perfectly.”

Sakura gritted her teeth at the syrupy tone. “Great,” she muttered, sighing as she scanned the rail. The selection ranged from tuxedo styles to ruffles to long, billowy gowns—none of which felt remotely like her.

“Your father was very clear,” Mira said in a singsong voice. “We had to find you a dress today. Time to start trying them on.”

Sakura rolled her eyes and glanced at the other woman, who offered a sympathetic smile. Before she could choose for herself, Mira had already plucked one from the rail.

“I think this one will suit you perfectly,” she said, holding it up. “It’ll show off your beautiful figure.”

Sakura took the dress, along with three others, and headed to her room. “It’ll show off your beautiful figure,” she mimicked under her breath, stripping off her clothes and slipping into the gown.

She stood before the mirror and frowned. She looked like she was playing dress-up.

She changed into the next—short, sleeveless, uninspired. The third had ruffles; she felt like a swan. The fourth was no better.

Dressed again, she returned the rejects to the rail and grabbed another four before Mira could intervene. She tried them all, still unimpressed, until she reached the final dress.

It was long and satin, with thin straps and a soft cowl neckline. The bodice hugged her gently, the skirt flowing with a slit that reached mid-thigh. Sakura smiled at her reflection. This one felt right. She could see herself in it.

She carefully removed the dress, hung it on her bed, and dressed quickly before returning the rest to the rail.

“Did you find something you liked?” Mira asked, her tone edged with bitterness.

Sakura smiled sweetly. “I did. The one you said I wouldn’t like.”

She turned to the boutique assistant, who had helped curate the selection. “Thank you for your suggestion. I really do love the dress.”

The woman smiled warmly. “I’m glad. I’ve brought the perfect accessories and shoes to match.”

She opened a bag and revealed matte black stiletto sandals with delicate straps, and a pair of silver earrings that caught the light with every movement.

Sakura’s smile deepened. “These are perfect. Thank you.”

The woman beamed.

Sakura turned to find Mira glaring at them both, her expression quickly rearranged into a brittle smile. “Your dad will be so happy you found the perfect dress.”

“Yes,” Sakura said, voice honeyed. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled—especially since he personally asked you to pick one out for me.”

“Hmm.” Mira’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She turned to the assistant and instructed her to take the rail away, then marched out without another word.

Sakura closed the door behind them, pleased with her outfit. She carried the shoes and earrings upstairs, placing them carefully away from the clutter still scattered across her floor.

Back downstairs, she picked up her phone and dialled her father’s number. It rang. No answer.

She hung up and sent a message instead:

Hey Daddy, how are you? Thanks for sending over all those dresses. Your assistant said it’s for a celebration event. Not sure what she meant by that. What are you celebrating? Love you.

She hit send and spent the rest of the day curled on the sofa, scrolling through videos, waiting.

No reply.

 

Chapter 3

The sound of shoes shuffling, gloves striking pads, grunts, and thumping music filled the gym.

“Again!” Kisame barked, slapping the pads together before raising them.

Itachi responded with a sharp jab, then a cross, his movements fluid and precise. They moved across the floor like dancers to the beat—sweat dripping from Itachi’s brow, his hair plastered to his forehead and neck. He wiped his eyes with the back of his glove and raised his hands again, ready.

“Can you keep going, pretty boy, or are you done?” Kisame smirked, watching his friend draw deep breaths.

Itachi ignored the jab and launched into another round—jabbing, ducking, blocking. Just as he pivoted for the next strike, the gym doors slammed open.

Four suited men entered, taking position like sentinels. Behind them strode Fugaku.

Itachi’s jaw clenched. He tracked his father’s movements but didn’t acknowledge him, continuing to strike the pads, sweat pooling on the floor beneath him.

Fugaku waited five minutes, fingers tapping against his leg. Ten minutes passed. He cleared his throat loudly.

Kisame straightened, his shark-like gaze locking onto Fugaku. His nostrils flared slightly, jaw tight.

“Pretty boy, you’ve got visitors,” Kisame said, dropping the pads and wiping his brow with a towel. He ran it through his short, blue-tinted hair.

“They must be desperate,” Itachi said, loud enough for his father to hear. “They never leave their ivory towers unless it’s urgent.”

He wiped his face, draped the towel around his neck, and turned to face Fugaku. Their eyes locked.

“Keep it civil,” Kisame muttered, low and firm. “I’m not cleaning your blood off my walls.”

“I’ve no intention of bleeding today,” Itachi replied just as quietly. He stepped forward, arms folded. “What can I do for you, Father?”

“Is that any way to greet your father?” Fugaku asked, voice laced with irritation.

Itachi said nothing, letting the silence stretch. Fugaku’s finger tapped furiously against his leg, the rhythm of his rising temper.

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you,” Fugaku snapped.

“You found me,” Itachi replied, bored.

“I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Fugaku stepped closer, stopping just short of contact. His breath was heavy. “You were asked to meet me. Why didn’t you?”

“Like I said, Father dearest—I’ve been busy.” Itachi wiped his face again, running the towel through his damp hair.

“Boy, you need to remember who you’re talking to!” Fugaku shouted, spit flying as he grabbed the front of Itachi’s shirt.

“How could I ever forget?” Itachi sighed, gently prising himself free. He smoothed the crumpled fabric with deliberate calm. “What do you need?”

“You’ll attend an event Saturday evening at the Sarutobi Hotel. You will be there.”

“What’s the event?”

“A business arrangement between us and the Harunos,” Fugaku spat the name. “You’ll show up and respect me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Itachi said, turning away and gulping down water from his bottle.

Fugaku glared, fists clenched. He wanted to lash out, but he knew Itachi wouldn’t rise to it. Instead, he turned and stormed out, his men trailing behind.

“What did your old man want?” Kisame asked, watching Fugaku leave.

“Daddy dearest wants me to play my part at some business event tomorrow,” Itachi said, stripping off his shirt and tossing it into his gym bag.

“What part’s that? Be the pretty boy you are?” Kisame grinned.

Itachi shot him a look. “You know I could knock that smirk off your face.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Kisame laughed, then softened. “You okay though?”

“I’m fine,” Itachi replied, voice flat. He wasn’t in the mood to dissect his fractured relationship with his father.

“You know I’m always here,” Kisame said, slapping his shoulder. “And always ready to hand you your backside.”

He winked and grabbed his bag. “Where’s the event?”

“Sarutobi’s hotel. Something to do with the Harunos.”

“Sounds like a kiss-and-make-up session,” Kisame pouted. “Bunch of old men kissing each other’s arses to stay on top.”

“Something like that.” Itachi pulled on a clean shirt, shouldered his bag. “See you later.”

He left the gym, drove home, showered, dressed, and headed to the kitchen. A sweet cup of coffee and a portion of Hanami dango later, he was on the road again—towards his father’s legacy: Uchiha Corporation.

He entered his office, shrugged off his jacket, and sank into the chair behind his desk. The computer hummed to life, screen flickering before a cascade of email notifications appeared—each one clamouring for his attention.

He clicked into his inbox and began the familiar grind: replying, arranging meetings, consulting clients, coordinating with staff overseeing contracts. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, his mind elsewhere.

Several hours passed. With most of the emails answered, Itachi leaned back and sighed quietly. His gaze drifted around the office—an office he’d never wanted, a desk he’d never asked for, and a seat in a company he’d never chosen.

He’d wanted to join the Konoha Police Force. Serve with purpose. But his father had made it clear from the start: the family business was his destiny, and nothing else.

A chirp broke his reverie. He glanced at the screen—a board meeting invite, starting in ten minutes.

Itachi sighed again, deeper this time. He opened the drawer, retrieved his laptop, and made his way to the meeting room.

The next four hours were a blur of raised voices and clashing egos. Old men shouted over one another, debating what was best for the company, each convinced their view was the only correct one. Others barked out opposing strategies, their tones sharp and dismissive.

Itachi sat through it all, silent and composed, the storm of noise washing over him. He took notes, offered the occasional nod, but said little. His presence was expected. His opinion, rarely invited.

---

Sakura stretched lazily across the sofa, phone in hand. 15:30.

She chuckled to herself. “Last lazy afternoon.”

She’d been forced to take a week off. At first, she’d resisted—citing paperwork, patient follow-ups, and a general sense of duty. But her colleagues had ushered her out the door with the argument that she’d discharged her final patient that morning and the paperwork could wait. Reluctantly, she’d agreed. Now, she was grateful. The house was finally in order, and she’d had time to reconnect with friends—most of whom regularly complained she worked too much.

She opened her messages and tapped her father’s name. His reply had come in the early hours:

I am well, my sweet. How are you? Enjoying the last few days of freedom? We are celebrating an agreement. I’ve arranged for you to be picked up at half six tomorrow. My driver will take you to the hotel.

Sakura frowned. Cryptic, as always. She’d tried to decipher the message but couldn’t make sense of it. No details. No context.

She pocketed her phone and wandered into the kitchen, made herself a coffee—extra sugar—and took a slow, contented sip.

Just as she finished, a knock sounded at the door. Sharp. Impatient.

She frowned. Not expecting anyone.

The knock came again, louder this time.

“I’m on my way!” she called, crossing the room and opening the door.

A beaming blonde stood on the doorstep—Ino.

“Ino, how are you?” Sakura smiled.

“Have you heard?” Ino asked, already pushing past her into the house.

“I’m well, thanks for asking. How are you?” Sakura shut the door behind her.

Ino raised a brow. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thank you. So polite of you,” Sakura teased. “And what have I heard?”

“The big event tomorrow,” Ino said, as if it were common knowledge.

Sakura frowned. “How do you know about it?”

“It’s all anyone’s talking about,” Ino replied breezily. “Are you going?”

“Yeah. Dad said his driver’s picking me up at half six. He called it a celebration event, but didn’t say much else.”

“It sounds exciting,” Ino beamed.

“Are you going?” Sakura asked, hopeful. She’d been to enough of these events to know how dull they could be—business talk, handshakes, and no one to really talk to.

“Uh, YES!” Ino squealed. “Everyone’s been invited. Well, almost everyone.”

Sakura’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“All the main families in Konoha. And a bunch of important people,” Ino said, as if it were obvious.

“Oh…” Sakura murmured.

“So, do you have a dress yet?” Ino grinned. “If not—shopping trip!”

“Dad sent over a few yesterday for me to choose from,” Sakura replied with a small smile.

Ino rolled her eyes. “Of course he did. Daddy’s little princess.”

Sakura rolled her eyes right back.

“Well, since you’ve got your dress, you can come with me to find mine,” Ino said, grabbing Sakura’s arm.

“Let me get my things first,” Sakura groaned.

“Fine, but be quick,” Ino relented. “You’ve got five seconds.”

“What?” Sakura blinked.

“Four, three, two…”

“Fine!” Sakura snapped, hurrying upstairs. She grabbed her bag, checked for her purse, tossed in her phone, slipped on trainers, and grabbed a jacket.

“Hurry up, woman!” Ino shouted from the stairs.

“I’m coming!” Sakura called back, bounding down.

Together, they left in Ino’s car, spending the afternoon hunting for the perfect accessories to match Ino’s dress—and making sure she’d shine.

 

Chapter 4

Itachi stood in his room, staring at his reflection. The black suit was tailored to perfection, paired with a crisp white shirt and a light grey tie. His long hair was tied back at the nape, a few strands framing his face. From the chest of drawers, he picked up his watch and fastened it, eyes falling on the time: 17:45.

Shoes on, he made his way to the living room, pocketed his phone and cards, grabbed his keys, and stepped outside—only to find Kisame leaning against the wall.

The larger man was dressed similarly, though his shirt was pale blue and his tie navy. “What are you doing here?” Itachi asked, locking the door behind him and heading for the car.

“Came to keep you company,” Kisame said, pushing off the wall and sliding into the passenger seat of the low-slung sports car.

“Why?”

“I know how much you love these events,” Kisame grinned. “And I happen to be free tonight.”

Itachi gave a single nod and started the engine, the low rumble filling the silence between them.

As they pulled into the hotel car park, Itachi’s eyes narrowed. Guests streamed into the building—many of whom he didn’t recognise from either company. He clenched his jaw.

“You sure this is just between the companies?” Kisame asked, echoing his thoughts.

Itachi inclined his chin slightly, the only sign of agreement. He stepped out, buttoned his jacket, and watched more guests arrive, dressed in their finest.

Kisame leaned against the car. “Looks like old Sarutobi’s throwing a party,” he smirked. “And where there’s a party, there’s booze and beautiful women.”

Itachi ignored him and walked into the hotel. The lobby was a sea of colour—dresses in every shade, suits in blacks, greys, and navies. His eyes swept the crowd, landing on his father, surrounded by board members, clients, and unfamiliar faces.

Then he saw it—a flash of pink. A woman walking away, hair swept into a messy bun, followed by a blonde. He watched them for a moment before turning back to his father, Kisame trailing behind. People parted around them like fish avoiding sharks.

“Father,” Itachi said, nodding slightly. He acknowledged the men around him with a glance.

“Itachi,” Fugaku replied. “Nice of you to show up.”

“Not that I had a choice,” Itachi murmured, eyes locked on his father’s.

Fugaku’s jaw tightened, his narrowed gaze delivering a silent warning.

For several minutes, Itachi endured the droning chatter—business deals, mergers, contracts. His attention drifted, eyes scanning the crowd, noting the flow of guests toward the bar.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a woman called out, silencing the room. The soft rustle of fabric and shuffle of shoes replaced the noise. “Please follow me to the dining room. Your food will be served shortly.”

The crowd moved slowly toward the large room, filled with circular tables dressed in white linen and exotic floral centrepieces. The front tables were reserved for the Haruno and Uchiha families.

As Itachi approached, his father stopped him. “You’ll sit with the family,” he said quietly.

Itachi clenched his jaw but complied, joining his mother, brother, Shisui, and several board members. He pulled out a chair and sat, Fugaku taking the seat beside him.

That flash of pink returned—Sakura, walking past with her friend. He caught fragments of their conversation.

“Did you ever find out what tonight’s about?” the blonde asked.

“No idea. I tried talking to Dad, but he’s been busy…” Sakura replied, her voice trailing off as they took their seats.

Moments later, Sakura’s parents arrived. Kizashi wore a grey suit, light pink shirt, and deep pink tie.

“Sakura,” he smiled, pulling her into a hug. “You look beautiful.”

“You picked the dress,” she smiled back. “You still haven’t told me what this event is for.”

Kizashi’s smile faltered. “You’ll find out soon enough. Dinner’s about to be served—come sit.”

He pulled out her chair and tucked it in. “Ino, lovely to see you again.”

“And you,” Ino replied warmly. She glanced around. “I should move—let someone else take this seat.”

“Nonsense,” Kizashi said. “You’re part of our family. Stay.”

“Thank you,” Ino beamed.

Sakura glanced at her mother, who sat stiffly, smile tight and eyes flicking toward Kizashi with something unreadable. Not love. Something else.

The room was called to order. “Your food will be served now,” the young woman announced.

Waiters emerged with trays, placing plates down with quiet efficiency. The room filled with soft chatter and the clink of silverware.

Sakura ate slowly, watching her parents. Her mother batted Kizashi’s hand away, sat rigid, eyes fixed on her plate.

“Mum…” Sakura leaned closer. “Is everything okay?”

Mebuki smiled. “Of course, darling. Why would anything be wrong?”

“You seem off. Did something happen between you and Dad?”

Mebuki’s smile faltered. She wanted to tell Sakura to run, to leave—but she couldn’t risk humiliating her husband in front of everyone. “Everything’s fine, my love. Oh look, dessert’s here.”

A waiter placed a plate in front of Sakura—cheesecake, fruit compote, three mini macarons. She turned to her mother, now deep in conversation with one of Kizashi’s colleagues.

Sakura scanned the room. Something was wrong. And it had everything to do with her family.

“You okay?” Ino asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Sakura replied. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

She picked up her spoon, barely tasting the dessert, her eyes drifting back to her parents.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the young woman called out, “your host for tonight—Mister Hiruzen Sarutobi.”

Polite applause rippled through the room. All eyes turned to the elderly man as he stepped forward, commanding silence with presence alone.

He looked frail, but his reputation was anything but. People sought him out for wisdom, for resolution.

“Thank you all for coming,” he began, voice strong and sure. “Tonight is a special night. A night where bridges are built, hatchets buried, and we look toward a brighter future.”

His gaze swept the room, landing first on the Haruno table, then the Uchiha’s.

“Tonight, we celebrate the union of two of Konoha’s families—a union that promises prosperity, healing, and strength. The Harunos and Uchihas have long stood opposed. That ends tonight.”

He smiled gently. “It is my pleasure to announce that the families have reached an agreement. A way forward. Together.”

His eyes fell on Sakura and Itachi.

Sakura’s face twisted in confusion. Itachi’s remained unreadable.

“Can the families please join me?”

“You’ll be joining us, Sakura,” Kizashi said, standing.

“Why?” Sakura asked, still seated. “What’s going on, Dad?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Kizashi said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced at Fugaku, who smirked with smug satisfaction. “Now, come,” he added, extending his hand toward Sakura.

Sakura clenched her jaw. Her father had never spoken to her like that—never ordered her. She stood reluctantly, her movements stiff, and followed her parents toward Hiruzen. From the opposite side, the Uchiha family approached, equally composed, equally unreadable.

Both families came to a halt on either side of Hiruzen.

“Sakura and Itachi,” Hiruzen said, his voice soft but sharp, leaving no room for refusal. “Please step forward.”

Sakura looked to her father, eyes questioning. He gave a small smile and gestured her forward. She stumbled slightly, then walked toward the old man, facing the raven-haired stranger whose gaze chilled her. His jaw was clenched, posture rigid.

Photographers swarmed the stage, cameras flashing, voices calling out.

Hiruzen extended his hand. His assistant placed a small square box into it. He nodded his thanks and turned to the pair.

“It is my pleasure to announce the engagement between Itachi Uchiha, eldest son of Fugaku Uchiha, and Sakura Haruno, daughter of Kizashi Haruno.”

He opened the box, revealing a gold band crowned with a large, clear diamond, encircled by smaller stones.

“I’m sorry—what?” Sakura asked, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up. She turned to Hiruzen, who met her gaze with a blank expression. No warmth. No explanation.

She turned to her parents. Her father offered a weak smile, eyes avoiding hers. Her mother stood frozen, expression tight, gaze narrowed at her husband.

Then she looked at the man she was supposedly engaged to. Tall. Raven-haired. Onyx eyes that gave nothing away. He stood motionless, fists clenched at his sides.

Hiruzen held the box out to Itachi, waiting.

Itachi didn’t move.

Fugaku stepped closer, voice low and venomous. “Boy, you will take that ring and place it on the girl’s finger. You will smile. You will not make me look like a fool in front of Sarutobi and Haruno.”

Itachi’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding painfully. He wanted to tell his father to do it himself. That he wasn’t a pawn.

Instead, he swallowed the words, took the box, removed the ring, and stepped forward. He took Sakura’s left hand and slid the ring onto her finger.

It fit perfectly.

Sakura snatched her hand back, ready to rip the ring off and throw it across the room—but the cameras were flashing, voices shouting their names, demanding they pose together.

She forced a smile, knowing the photographers were there to trap her. To make her compliance public.

Applause rippled through the crowd. Congratulations were shouted. Murmurs followed.

Sakura glanced at her table. Ino stared at her, wide-eyed, stunned.

“I’m sure you’d all like to congratulate the couple,” Hiruzen said, his voice cutting through the noise. “And I’m sure the families would appreciate a moment to speak privately.”

He paused. “The wedding will be held here in four days. I look forward to celebrating with you all.”

He turned to the families. “My assistant will lead you to a private room.”

“Please follow me,” the woman said quietly.

The Harunos and Uchihas followed her down the hall. She opened a door, smiled politely, and left them alone.

Silence.

Tension thickened the air.

Kizashi and Fugaku stared at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills.

Sakura stood apart, fury burning through her. “What is going on?” she demanded, her voice slicing through the quiet.

Fugaku smirked. “Did you forget to tell your princess what you agreed to?”

“You’re one to talk,” Itachi said coldly. “You didn’t mention it to your own son either.”

Fugaku turned, eyes blazing. “Watch your tone, boy.”

“Sakura,” Kizashi said, trying for calm, “we’ll talk at home.”

“I don’t think so,” she snapped. “You need to tell me now.”

Kizashi exhaled slowly. “It was an agreement. Between me, Uchiha, and Sarutobi. The only way our businesses—”

“Our businesses?” Sakura cut in, voice rising. “I’ve never been part of your business. I told you I wanted nothing to do with it. So why am I being dragged into this mess?”

“Sakura,” Kizashi warned, his gaze hardening. “We’ll discuss this at home.”

Sakura recoiled. He’d never spoken to her like that. Never made her feel so small. Her throat tightened, but she refused to cry.

Kizashi turned to Fugaku. “We’ll see you in four days.”

He turned to Mebuki and Sakura. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t wait.

Sakura looked at the Uchiha family. Fugaku remained rooted, eyes following Kizashi. Itachi stood in the corner, his calm cracking—rage flickering behind his eyes. The woman Sakura assumed was his mother looked torn, unsure who to comfort.

“Sakura, let’s go,” Mebuki said softly, placing a gentle hand on her back.

Sakura let herself be guided out, her heart pounding, her mind spinning.

 

Chapter 5

The drive to the Haruno residence was silent, but the tension was thick enough to choke on. Sakura stared at her father in the dim car, questions swirling in her mind, each one pressing against her throat—but her voice refused to surface. She swallowed them down, biding her time. She would unleash them soon enough.

The car pulled into the driveway. No one spoke as they filed into the house, the silence trailing behind them like smoke.

In the kitchen, Kizashi poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. He took a long sip, letting it burn down his throat before turning to face his wife and daughter.

He opened his mouth to speak—but Sakura beat him to it.

“You need to explain yourself. Now,” she demanded, fists clenched at her sides.

Kizashi raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “You’ve got your mother’s temper.”

“This isn’t a joke, Dad!” Sakura snapped. “Why has my future been stolen from under me? Why am I being told I’m marrying a stranger—someone I’d never choose for myself?”

“I did what was right for the family,” Kizashi said calmly, raising his glass again.

“For the family?” Sakura scoffed. “You mean what’s best for you.”

“We all make sacrifices in life, Sakura—”

“I AM THE ONLY ONE MAKING ANY SACRIFICES HERE!” she roared. “You get to sit there looking pretty while I lose everything—my life, my hopes, my dreams!”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?” Kizashi snapped. “I made the choice that benefits the family and the business.”

“I told you I wanted nothing to do with the business! I trained to be a doctor. I worked for it. I gave everything to it. And you’ve dragged me into something that has nothing to do with me!”

Kizashi slammed the empty tumbler onto the bar, the sound rattling the bottles. “Watch your tongue!” he seethed, stepping toward her, eyes blazing. “I’ve indulged you for far too long. Given you too much freedom. But now—you’ll do as I say.”

His voice dropped, cold and final. “From now on, I call the shots. When I say jump, you ask how high.”

“You have no right to speak to her like that!” Mebuki shouted, stepping between them and wrapping an arm around Sakura’s trembling shoulders. “We agreed—Sakura would choose her own future. Her own fate. You’ve robbed her of everything—”

“I’m done talking about this!” Kizashi roared, his voice echoing through the house. “The decision is made. You’ll go through with the wedding. And you’ll live with your husband once you’re wed.”

Sakura’s eyes widened. “What? No. I’m staying in my own house. I’m not living with a stranger.”

Kizashi scoffed. “Your belongings have already been moved to the Uchiha estate.”

“When?” Sakura whispered, dread creeping in.

“During the engagement,” he said. “Sarutobi made sure everything was handled. His people packed your things and delivered them. Your house is no longer yours. You’ll find a large sum in your account from the sale.”

Sakura’s jaw clenched. “You can’t do this. That was my house. My decision.”

“It’s already done,” he said, turning away and pouring another drink. “Your wedding dress will be delivered tomorrow.”

“Who chose her dress?” Mebuki demanded.

“I had Mira select it. She assured me it’ll be perfect. The woman has taste.”

Mebuki seethed, ready to speak—but Sakura stopped her.

“There’s no point arguing over a dress, Mum,” she said, eyes locked on her father. “He’s already stolen my life. What’s a dress to him?”

She spat Mira’s name like poison. “I’m sure she picked the best one—just like he asked.”

She pulled away from her mother and stormed toward her old bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Inside, she ripped off the black dress she’d once thought was a gift. She kicked off the shoes, tore off the accessories, and let them scatter across the floor.

Her eyes landed on the ring—the symbol of her sentence. She tried to twist it off, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Great!” she shouted into the empty room.

The tears she’d held back finally spilled. She wiped at them angrily, went through her nightly routine in silence, then collapsed onto the bed. She buried her face in the pillow and screamed until her throat burned.

---

Fugaku laughed heartily, his glass sloshing as he drank. “Did you see Haruno’s face when his daughter questioned him?”

The Uchiha family had returned to their estate after the engagement. Mikoto and Sasuke sat quietly in the living room, watching Fugaku revel in his triumph. Itachi stood off to the side, hands buried in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

“He clearly didn’t train her well enough to know when to hold her tongue,” Fugaku chuckled. “She looked utterly blindsided.”

“She wasn’t the only one,” Itachi said coolly. “You forgot to mention that you were selling me off to save your ego.”

Fugaku’s laughter died. His gaze snapped to his eldest son, eyes hard and cold. “I wasn’t saving my ego,” he spat. “I was saving our name. Our business. The empire I built from nothing.”

Itachi scoffed. “Built? You were handed the company on a silver platter. You just polished the silver.”

“Watch your mouth, boy!” Fugaku roared, his voice echoing through the room.

All eyes turned to the two men, tension crackling between them like static. It was always like this—volatile, combustible.

“Or what?” Itachi challenged. “You’ve already stripped me of my future. Oh wait—was that part of the empire too?”

Fugaku hurled his glass to the floor, the shards scattering like shrapnel. He stormed over and grabbed Itachi by the lapels of his jacket.

“You forget who you’re speaking to,” he hissed. “Maybe you need reminding.”

“I’ve proved before I can take you on,” Itachi said, shoving his father’s hands away.

“That won’t stop me from throwing you on your backside and teaching you a lesson.”

“Be my guest,” Itachi replied, voice flat. “While you’re at it, find yourself another groom for this circus of a wedding.”

Fugaku laughed darkly. “There’s no way out, boy. You’ll be wed in four days—and you’ll smile through it. If you think of skipping it, know this: you’ll be dragged there kicking and screaming.”

Itachi’s jaw clenched.

“Oh, and the old man sent his people to move your bride’s belongings into your house,” Fugaku added with a smirk.

“They don’t have access to my place,” Itachi said sharply.

“I gave them the key.”

“Of course you did,” Itachi muttered. “Anything else you’d like to take while you’re at it?”

“I could strip you of your job with a snap of my fingers,” Fugaku said, snapping them to punctuate the threat.

“Go ahead,” Itachi shrugged. “I never wanted your job.”

Fugaku bared his teeth. “Then it’s a good thing you get to keep it.”

“Lucky me,” Itachi said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He turned and walked toward the door, his father’s final words trailing after him.

“Remember, boy—you’ll be at that wedding. Even if we have to drag you there.”

Itachi slammed the door behind him, got into his car, and drove—fast. Away from his father. Away from the house that had never felt like home.

He pulled into his driveway and stepped out. When he reached the front door, he found it unlocked. His jaw tightened. He pushed it open and froze.

His living room was no longer his.

Trinkets. Ornaments. Photographs. Souvenirs. All scattered across the space he’d fought to keep untouched. He picked up a frame. Sakura’s face stared back at him, laughing.

His grip tightened, knuckles whitening. This house had been his sanctuary—his only domain of control. Now it was invaded, colonised by a future he never chose.

He slammed the frame down, glass shattering. He did the same to the others, hiding her face, erasing the reminders.

In his bedroom, he opened the wardrobe—and found dresses, suits, bags, shoes. His blood roared in his ears. He wanted to tear it all apart, throw it out, reclaim his space.

But he didn’t. He slammed the wardrobe shut and stormed into the bathroom.

He stripped out of his suit and stepped under the scalding spray, letting the heat burn away the last few hours. Or trying to.

Afterwards, he poured himself a heavy glass of whiskey. Then another. And another.

Each thought—his engagement, his father, his stolen autonomy—tightened his grip on the glass. He drank until the edges of his mind blurred, until the fury dulled into numbness.

Only then did he stumble to bed, letting drunken sleep claim him.

---

Sakura woke early, dressed quickly, and slipped out of her childhood bedroom. The house was silent, still cloaked in the hush of dawn. She crept downstairs, grabbed a set of car keys, and stepped outside.

The sun was beginning to rise, chasing away the shadows and bathing the world in pale gold. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, warding off the morning chill. The SUV beeped as she pressed the fob. She climbed in, started the engine, and drove.

Her house—her real house—stood quiet and unfamiliar. She stepped out, keys in hand, and walked to the front door. A notice was pinned to it.

House sold by owner.

Her jaw clenched. The words blurred as emotion surged through her, hot and suffocating. She shoved the key into the lock, twisted—but nothing happened. She tried every key she had. Still nothing.

She screamed, slammed her hand against the door, yanked the keys out, and stormed back to the car.

Inside, she beat her fists against the steering wheel, each strike punctuated by a scream. Angry tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill. She slumped back, breathing hard, wiping at her face with trembling hands.

Her gaze drifted to the building that had once been her sanctuary. Now it was just bricks and mortar. A shell. A stranger.

She considered driving to Ino’s, but the thought of burdening her again made her hesitate. Last night had been enough.

She turned the ignition and drove back to her parents’ house—her prison.

Kizashi stood in the kitchen, sipping tea. He watched her enter, but she didn’t look at him. She moved with purpose, grabbed a mug, placed it under the coffee machine, and pressed the buttons.

He sighed, guilt gnawing at him. “How are you doing, Sakura?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t pretend you care,” she snapped, still avoiding his gaze. She scooped heaped teaspoons of sugar into her drink and stirred.

“I did what needed to be done,” he said. “What was right for the family. One day, you’ll understand.”

“Seriously?” Sakura slammed her mug onto the counter, coffee sloshing over the edge. “This has nothing to do with family. It’s about you. Your business. Your ego.”

Kizashi set his mug down, his eyes hardening. “I don’t owe you an explanation. You’ll do as I’ve said. No excuses.”

Sakura stared at him. “You made that clear last night.”

She grabbed her drink and stormed back to her room, slamming the door behind her. She sat on the bed and drank, not caring that it scalded her mouth.

Her phone buzzed—messages from Ino. Concern. Offers of help.

Sakura typed her reply:

Can you find me a way out of this marriage?
If not, then no—there’s nothing you or anyone can do to help me.

She tossed the phone aside and walked into the bathroom. She ran a hot bath and sank into it, letting the water envelop her.

Her thoughts drifted. For years, everything had gone to plan. She’d finished her education, trained under the best doctors, worked in top hospitals. She’d carved out a future with her own hands.

She cupped water in her palm and watched it slip through her fingers, falling back into the bath. Her jaw clenched.

Her life felt like that water—slipping away, flowing in someone else’s current.

She stayed until the water turned cold and her skin prickled. Then she got out, dressed, and spent the rest of the day in her room, refusing to speak to anyone.

 

Chapter 6

Itachi finished typing the last email and stood up, stretched, and walked to the large windows and looked out, watching as life carried on without any issues. He wished his life was like that, but the last three days had been anything but. He had endured listening to nearly all the board members congratulate him on his engagement and upcoming wedding, which they were all looking forwards to. More like enjoy the free drinks that will be flowing, he thought bitterly to himself. He watched as his father gloated over how he had singlehandedly sorted out all the issues that the company faced, most were because of his ego to be the best and refusal to allow anyone to eclipse him.

He felt his control slip little by little each day, more so at home where his space was no longer his, each time finding something else that did not belong. He had managed to box away several of the trinkets lying about and placed the boxes in the utility room, giving him some relief over the madness that was his life now.

He sighed heavily as he pushed away from the window and walked to the coffee machine, pressed the button for his favourite drink, and added spoonsful of sugar in, stirred and took a sip. As he walked back to his desk, his office door burst open and Shisui, one of his close friends walked in with a smile and twinkling eyes.

“Last day of freedom man, how are you celebrating it?” Shisui asked as he sat down opposite Itachi, his smile turning wide.

“I am working,” Itachi said, clicking on another email as he took a sip of his drink.

“Seriously?” Shishu asked incredulously, “how boring can you be?”

“How annoying can you be?” Itachi threw back, he typed his reply and hit send.

Shisui chuckled at the comment, he looked over at his friend and could see the strain on him. His eyes tired, eyebags forming under them. His posture stiff, his jaw constantly clenched tightly, all the telltale signs of his stress. “Itachi,” he called, he waited for him to look up before he carried on, “seriously man, how are you doing?”

Itachi thought about the question for a few seconds, “I am fine.”

“Really?” Shisui raised an eyebrow, “tell that to the vein throbbing angrily on your temple, or to your jaw that is clenched so hard to a point I can hear your teeth pressing against one another, or to your eyes that are screaming for rest.”

Itachi ignored his friend’s concern, “what would you like me to say instead?” Itachi asked rhetorically, his gaze hardening, his tone turning harsh, “that I feel like I have no control over anything anymore, that I feel trapped and I want to break free from everything that threatens to confine me?” Itachi huffed out a humourless laugh, “like that is possible for me, the son of the great Fugaku Uchiha,” he spat out his father’s name, “so, yes, I am fine.”

Shisui gave him a small smile, “you know I am always here if you ever want to talk.”

“I appreciate that, thank you,” Itachi smiled slightly, “if you do not mind, I am busy,” he waved his hand at the computer screen.

Shisui nodded, “I’ll see you later man,” he got out of his chair and walked to the door, seeing himself out.

Itachi sat back in his chair and sighed heavily. His heart was beating hard against his chest, his jaw clenched in anger that seemed to have become a constant companion over the past few days, a reminder of everything he was losing, how he had no control over anything.

He shook away the thought from his mind and forced his attention back to his work, losing himself in the mundane routine of his job for the rest of the day.

---

Sakura was lying on her bed, her phone in her hands as she scrolled through random videos, videos that used to make her laugh, but now barely got any reaction out of her. She sighed and locked her phone, letting it fall onto the bed and turned her attention to her wedding dress. Her jaw clenched at the sight, memories of the past two days flashing though her mind, how she had been forced to endure trying on the dress under the watchful gaze of her father’s assistant, who gloated pridefully over her choice and how she had been specifically asked to find the dress, and who was aslo ordered to report back if Sakura dared to say anything or do anything unwanted. So, she had endured silently, while she screamed internally.

The dress was beautiful and simple, something that she might have chosen given the chance. An ivory-coloured strapless dress, with a sweetheart neckline, flounced skirt with a horsehair trim and a crystal beaded satin belt. She turned her gaze away from the dress and stared out the window, watching as the sun slowly descended on her last day of freedom. She had already started counting down the hours as they ticked by, as each hour passed, she heard the funeral march in her mind, marching her towards her lost life. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, letting her thoughts run wild.

Sakura was pulled out of her thoughts when her bedroom door slammed open and in walked her friends, Ino, Tenten and Hinata, all who were dressed to go out and enjoy themselves. Sakura watched as they walked towards her bed and sat down near her. “What are you lot doing here?” She sighed out.

“We came to take your sorry ass out for the night,” Ino replied with a wide smile, “get up and get dressed.”

Sakura shook her head, “no, I am not going anywhere,” she turned around and buried her face into her pillows.

“Yes, you are,” Ino grabbed her shoulder and forced her to turn around, “we are taking you out to let loose and enjoy yourself.”

“Why?” Sakura grumbled, “I have no reason to enjoy myself from now on.”

“Yes, you do,” Mebuki said as she walked into the room and eyed her daughter. “I asked your friends here to take you out. I do not want you to spend your last night stuck in your room being miserable, I want you to go and have fun, be yourself,” Mebuki smiled at her.

Sakura sighed and shook her head, a small smile gracing her lips, “fine,” she scooted off her bed and stretched her arms over her head. She walked to her wardrobe and pulled out the first dress she found, took it to the adjoining bathroom, and changed. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and ran the brush through her hair before leaving the room.

“Sit down and I’ll do your makeup,” Tenten ordered as she set up the dressing table.

“I will leave you to get dressed, and,” Mebuki said as she placed down notes of cash on the table, “here for you all to enjoy yourselves.” She smiled at the women in turn before leaving the room.

“Thank you, mum,” Sakura smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

“There, all done,” Tenten said as she placed down the makeup brush several minutes later, “you look ravishing,” she smiled wide at Sakura’s reflection.

Sakura looked at herself, her eyes framed with dark eyeshadow, making the greens of her eyes stand out, while her lips were painted red, giving her an alluring look.

“Great, let’s get this party started,” Ino beamed as she grabbed the cash from the table and walked out of the room, the others following behind and into the waiting taxi that took them to their destination, Petals Bar.

They made their way to an empty table in the back of the bar with their drinks, away from the loud thumping music, dancing bodies and shouts.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” Hinata asked tentatively as they sat down and sipped their drinks.

“Oh, you know, so excited that I am being forced into this marriage. It is what every girl dreams about,” Sakura replied scathingly.

“You know I looked him up,” Ino said around her drink.

“Looked who up?” Tenten asked.

“Itachi Uchiha,” Ino said, she grabbed her phone out of her bag, unlocked it and clicked on the web browser. “He is the oldest son to Fugaku Uchiha, and he joined his father’s company at the age of 15, having had graduated not only from high school, but higher education at the age of 13. He is a genius.” Ino read off her phone.

“You googled the man?” Sakura asked incredulously.

Ino shrugged her shoulders, “someone had to.”

Sakura shook her head in disbelief at her best friend.

“I just thought that you should know more about him, plus,” she taped on her phone screen and held it up, “he is quite good looking.”

Sakura scoffed at her words, “you do realise that most people who work in those roles are more likely to be sociopaths or psychopaths?” she rolled her eyes and avoided looking at the screen, she did not want to be plagued by pictures of the man who she would be tied to in less than a day.

Tenten and Hinata laughed at Sakura’s words.

“It doesn’t say he’s a sociopath or psychopath,” Ino said as she went through her phone.

“You really think he would allow anyone to write that online about him?” Sakura pointed it out.

“Okay, okay,” Ino huffed out as she locked her phone and placed it back in her bag, “no more talking about you know who, instead, let us drink!” Ino picked up her glass and held it out towards the others, “come on,” she urged with a smile.

The other followed suit, all clinking their glasses together and drank until their glasses were empty.

“Next round!” Tenten shouted as she stood up and made her way to the bar.

They spent the next several hours drinking every colour cocktail they found, laughing and enjoying themselves, before calling it a night as they stumbled into a taxi and went back to Sakura’s parent’s house for the night.

“I love you guys,” Sakura slurred as she stumbled to the front door, grabbed the key from the hiding place, and unlocked the door.

“We love you too,” the others said around giggles as they entered the house.

Chapter 7

Sakura groaned as the loud buzzing filled the room, each beep hammering against her skull. “Shut up,” she mumbled, burying her head under the pillow.

“Get out of bed, sleepyhead!” a voice shouted, yanking the duvet off her before grabbing her ankles and dragging her toward the edge of the bed.

Sakura clung to the pillow, groaning incoherently. “I don’t want to get up.”

“Tough. You’re getting married soon, and you need to get dressed,” the voice replied sharply. “Unless you’d prefer Mira to come in and help you,” they added in a singsong voice.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sakura growled, sitting up and squinting at Ino. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to get you ready for your wedding day,” Ino said, extending a hand. “Now get up.”

Sakura grumbled, “Don’t remind me. This is your fault.”

“My fault? How do you figure that?”

“You kept making me drink last night,” Sakura muttered.

“If it gets you moving, then sure—blame me,” Ino said, wiggling her fingers in invitation.

Sakura took her hand and let herself be pulled up. “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty. We need to be at the hotel by eleven thirty,” Ino replied, already setting up the makeup. “Now go shower so I can do your hair and makeup.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sakura waved her off and shuffled into the adjoining bathroom. She grabbed a towel, shut the door, and started the shower. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and stepped under the hot spray, letting the warmth soothe her aching body. Twenty minutes later, she dried off, dressed in her underwear, threw on a robe, and wrapped her hair in a towel.

Back in the bedroom, Ino—already in a dressing gown—had everything laid out. She ushered Sakura to the stool and spent the next hour applying makeup, then drying and styling her hair into an elegant bun with soft curls framing her face.

“Get your dress on. We haven’t got long.”

“Why are you rushing me?” Sakura groaned at Ino’s reflection.

“Because if you’re not ready soon, your dad will send his delightful assistant to check on you,” Ino said sweetly.

“Ugh,” Sakura rolled her eyes and stood. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

Ino laughed and slipped off her gown, revealing a blush pink dress. Her hair was styled in a loose bun, curls framing her face, silver heels completing the look.

“You look nice,” Sakura said, taking her in.

The door opened. Tenten and Hinata walked in, dressed similarly to Ino.

Sakura frowned. “What’s going on?”

Tenten smirked. “Did you think we’d let you go through this alone?”

“We’ll always be here for you,” Hinata added softly.

“Now, get your dress on,” Ino said, holding it up.

Sakura swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I love you guys,” she sniffed, eyes misting.

“Nope. Don’t you dare cry and ruin my hard work,” Ino warned.

Sakura chuckled. “Yes, pig.” She stepped into the dress, and Ino zipped it up.

Just then, Mebuki entered, wearing a beautiful green dress that brought out her eyes. “You all look lovely,” she said warmly. “Thank you for being here for my daughter.”

She walked to Sakura and hugged her tightly. “You look beautiful, darling.”

“Thank you, Mum.”

Mebuki smiled and held out a jewellery box. “These belonged to my mother. She gave them to me on my wedding day. Now I’m passing them on to you.”

Sakura opened the box and stared at the ivory pearl earrings and matching necklace. “They’re gorgeous,” she whispered, running her fingers over the pearls. “Can you help me?”

Mebuki fastened the necklace around her neck, then helped her with the earrings.

“Thank you,” Sakura said, looking at her mother and friends.

For the first time since the engagement, a bubble of genuine happiness rose in her chest. It made her feel lighter, almost herself again.

A knock at the door shattered the moment.

Kizashi stepped in, eyes landing on his daughter. “Sakura,” he said, smiling. “You look beautiful.”

Sakura’s jaw clenched. “Thank you,” she replied tersely.

The bubble burst. The illusion of happiness vanished, replaced by the heavy weight of reality—like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river.

Kizashi’s smile faltered. He nodded. “The car is ready to take us to the hotel.” He turned and left.

Sakura closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. “Let’s go,” she said, marching out of her bedroom for the last time and down the stairs into the waiting car.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Itachi wiped the sweat from his brow as he set down the barbell. He tapped his earbuds, silencing the thumping music, and drew in a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs before slowly releasing it. He grabbed his bottle and took a long sip, his eyes landing on Shisui, who had entered the room and was leaning against the wall, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You know you’re getting married in less than two hours,” Shisui said, pushing away from the wall.

Itachi ignored the comment. He lifted the barbell onto his shoulders, tapped his earbuds again, and let the music flood his senses. He began to squat to the beat, counting each rep silently.

“I already told him,” Kisame said as he walked into the gym. “But he pretended not to hear me.” The large man smirked. “Clearly, he wants to look his best for his bride.”

Itachi grunted as he finished the final rep and stared at his friends. “Do you two have anything else to do?”

“No,” Shisui replied, grinning.

“It shows,” Itachi muttered, placing the barbell back on its holder. He ran the towel over his face, then draped it around his neck. He rolled his shoulders, easing out some of the tension, and removed his earbuds, placing them in their case.

“You’ve been here for over two hours,” Kisame said. “You need to go and get ready.”

“I’ve got time,” Itachi replied, indifferent.

“Your father will be out looking for you in the next ten minutes,” Shisui warned. “He’s already called me asking where you are. Unless you want Daddy Dearest to come drag you out, I suggest you go home, shower, and make yourself pretty.”

Itachi’s jaw clenched at the news. He wanted to stay—lose himself in the music, in the rhythm, in the only space that still felt like his. Part of him longed to defy his father, to do what he wanted. But another part—the one shaped by years of expectation—knew he had to go.

He warred with himself, fists clenched tight, before making the only decision he could: to follow orders.

He pocketed his earbuds, grabbed his bottle and gym bag, and headed for the door. Shisui and Kisame followed.

“Where are you two going?” Itachi asked as he unlocked his car, tossed the bag into the boot, and climbed in.

“We’re going with you,” they said in unison, sliding into the car.

“To make sure you make yourself pretty,” Shisui added.

“Plus, we’re your best men,” Kisame said with a wide grin.

“I never asked you to be my best men,” Itachi replied, starting the engine.

“You didn’t have to,” Shisui said, laughing. “We knew you wanted us there to hold your hand.”

Itachi parked in his driveway and got out. “Are you two planning to go to the wedding dressed like that?” he asked, eyeing their casual clothes.

“Don’t worry about us, pretty boy,” Shisui winked, heading to the front door. “We need to get you looking perfect for your bride.”

Itachi’s jaw clenched at the word bride. He pulled out his keys, unlocked the door, and walked straight to his room. He grabbed a towel and stepped into the bathroom, starting the shower.

He made quick work of washing his hair and body, turned off the shower, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He ran another towel through his wet hair, then draped it over his shoulders and walked back into his room—just as Shisui entered, suit bag in hand.

“Your father sent this for you,” he said, setting the bag on the bed.

“Of course he did,” Itachi replied bitterly. He walked to his chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of boxers and socks.

“I’ll leave you to get pretty. Let me know if you need help styling your beautiful long locks,” Shisui smirked.

“Get out,” Itachi warned.

Shisui laughed heartily and left the room.

Itachi dried off, applied his aftershave, and dressed. He unzipped the suit bag to find a charcoal grey suit, paired with a black button-down shirt and a red tie embroidered with the Uchiha insignia. He dressed quickly, combed his hair, tied it back, and slipped on his watch.

When he stepped into the living room, he found Shisui and Kisame dressed similarly. His eyes flicked between them before landing on Shisui.

“I knew I’d regret giving you a key to my house.”

Shisui feigned a wounded look. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“When did you drop off your suits?” Itachi asked, pocketing his keys and phone.

“When you were at the gym,” Shisui replied with a wide smile. “There’s a car waiting for us outside.”

“Let me guess—Father Dearest doesn’t trust me to make my way to the hotel on my own,” Itachi said acrimoniously, as the three of them walked out of the house and into the waiting SUV.

 

Chapter 8

The car pulled up to the front of the hotel. A footman approached and opened the door, waiting for the passengers to exit.

Sakura stared at the building bitterly—the same hotel where she’d been blindsided by her engagement. Her gaze dropped to her left hand, the diamond ring glinting mockingly in the morning light. She wanted to rip it off and hurl it into the nearest drain. Instead, she stepped out of the car and stood to one side, waiting for her mother and friends to join her.

“Welcome,” the footman said with a smile. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

Sakura raised an eyebrow, tilted her head slightly, and pursed her lips.

“If… if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to him,” the man added hesitantly, his smile faltering.

“Please, lead the way,” Kizashi said with a smile, standing beside his wife.

The footman nodded once, turned, and led the party into the hotel. He stopped at a door, knocked once, and opened it, stepping aside to let the guests pass. He avoided looking at the bride, unwilling to meet her hate-filled gaze. He bowed to Hiruzen and slipped out, closing the door behind him.

“Sakura, you look magnificent,” Hiruzen beamed. “You make a beautiful bride.”

Sakura forced a smile for a moment before letting it fall. “Thank you.”

“I take it, Kizashi, you’ll be walking Sakura down the aisle?” Hiruzen asked, turning to the pink-haired man.

“I will—”

“I’d like my mother to walk me down the aisle too,” Sakura interrupted.

Kizashi glanced at his daughter, who still refused to meet his gaze. He inhaled slowly and nodded. “Both Mebuki and I will accompany Sakura.”

Hiruzen nodded in acknowledgment. “The guests have arrived and are seated. Uchiha arrived a few minutes ago,” he added, glancing at the family. “I’ll give you a few moments before you’re ushered into the room.” He looked to his assistant, who stood quietly in the corner, then walked out, softly shutting the door behind him.

“Sakura…” Kizashi began, searching for something to say, but no words came. His mouth felt dry.

Mebuki turned to her daughter and smiled gently. “I know this isn’t the wedding you would’ve chosen for yourself, sweetheart—”

“No, it’s not. And neither is the groom. I know nothing about him,” Sakura interrupted again, her voice laced with the anger bubbling beneath the surface, suffocating her from the inside. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, her eyes locking onto her father’s. “There’s nothing anyone can say or do to stop this wedding. So can we just get on with it?”

She turned to the young man standing awkwardly in the corner, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “We’re ready,” she said.

His head jerked up, startled, and he gave her a small smile. “This way,” he said, walking to the door and holding it open.

Sakura walked out, followed by Ino, Hinata, Tenten, and her parents. Quietly, they followed the man into the waiting room. The only sounds were heels tapping against the floor and dresses rustling with each step.

The man stopped outside the ceremony doors and turned to face the group. “I’ll let them know you’re ready.” He slipped inside and nodded at Sarutobi.

“Please, can everyone stand for the bride,” Hiruzen announced to the room.

“They’re ready for you,” the young man said as he returned and held the door open.

Sakura stood tall, lifted her chin, and walked into the crowd-filled room, her parents flanking her. She grasped her mother’s hand, intertwining their fingers—silently asking for the strength she lacked.

Several heads turned as the group walked down the aisle toward the front of the room, where Hiruzen stood in the centre, with three men positioned to the left. Sakura kept her gaze forward, refusing to look at them.

They stopped at the front. Mebuki squeezed Sakura’s hand, then kissed her cheek and offered a small smile before moving to sit in the empty chair. Kizashi turned to Sakura and placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

“You make me so proud, darling,” he whispered.

Sakura clenched her jaw at his words, biting back the angry retort that threatened to escape. Instead, she gave him a tight smile and watched him take his seat beside her mother.

“You may all sit,” Hiruzen called to the room. He waited until everyone was seated before beginning.

“Those of us in attendance today are present to witness a statement of lasting love and commitment between Itachi and Sakura. The ceremonial union of two people in marriage, in its primordial form, is as ancient as our very humanity, and yet still as fresh as each day’s sunrise. The commitment between Itachi and Sakura speaks of their shared experience together and their dreams for the future, of the importance of each of them as individuals, as well as the special bond they share—and of the importance of their community of family and friends.”

Itachi clenched his jaw at the words, at the falsehood of them. When he’d arrived at the hotel earlier, his father had greeted him with yet another reminder of what was expected and how the day should unfold. Itachi had quietly agreed, lacking the energy or patience to argue.

“Itachi and Sakura, please face one another,” Hiruzen said, waiting patiently.

Itachi turned slowly to face his bride, finding her just as rigid as he was. Her eyes blazed with fury, her jaw locked tight.

Sakura looked up at the man in front of her. He looked about as thrilled to be here as she did. His dark eyes reminded her of an endless pit—one that swallowed light, joy, and choice. Her words from the night before echoed in her mind: he could be a sociopath or a psychopath. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, refusing to avert her gaze. She would not be meek. She would not be broken.

“Itachi and Sakura, have you come here today with the intention to be legally joined in marriage? Do you pledge to choose respect, kindness, and compassion toward one another, to listen deeply to one another, and to speak truthfully, today and always?” Hiruzen asked.

Itachi wanted to scoff. I was forced here to be wed. Instead, he bit out, “I do.”

Sakura stared at him for a long moment before replying, “I do.”

Hiruzen smiled and continued. “The pledge you make today expresses your devotion to one another and to the love you share. The words spoken here will support your marriage if you are able to sustain your commitment through the inevitable hardships you will face together. Today, in the presence of your families and friends, you pronounce your love for each other and make a commitment that will define the next phase of your journey. We celebrate it with you, and wish you well.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch, then retrieved two rings, handing one to Itachi and the other to Sakura.

“Please repeat after me: I give you this ring as a sign of my vow to love and cherish you.”

Itachi repeated the words and slid the ring onto Sakura’s finger. He wasn’t surprised to find it a perfect fit—like everything else about this wedding, it had been arranged without his input.

Sakura followed suit, taking the ring and sliding it onto Itachi’s finger. As soon as it was on, she dropped her hand away, unwilling to maintain contact a second longer than necessary.

“Itachi and Sakura, since you have pledged yourselves to one another and have declared the same in the presence of this company by the exchange of vows and the giving and receiving of rings, by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.

You may now kiss the bride.”

Itachi clenched his jaw. He had hoped to avoid any display of affection toward the woman who had become the symbol of his stolen future. But here he was, staring at her as she glared back, her eyes burning with rage and hatred.

He stepped forward, bent down, and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips—then pulled away as quickly as he could.

Sakura wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, erasing the kiss. Itachi smirked slightly at the sight, glad to see she was suffering just as much as he was.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hiruzen announced, smiling broadly, “it is my pleasure to present to you the new Mr. and Doctor Uchiha.”

The room erupted in cheers and applause. Guests shouted their congratulations, and Sakura forced herself to smile, painting the perfect picture of a joyful bride.

Photographers surged forward, calling their names, snapping pictures of the couple from every angle.

“I’m sure the newlyweds would like a moment to themselves,” Hiruzen said, quieting the crowd. “If you would all please make your way to the bar, where refreshments await.”

He nodded to two footmen, who opened the doors. Slowly, the guests filed out, leaving behind the Harunos, Uchihas, their friends, and Hiruzen.

With the room empty, Hiruzen turned to the families.

“I’m happy to say that the deal we agreed upon is done. Neither family will need to leave Konoha—unless they choose to. I hope that with this marriage, you’ll learn to work together without issue, and resolve any future matters amicably.”

He turned his gaze to Itachi and Sakura.

“You two are the face of this deal. Create a united front. You will live together, and hopefully, build a family together. That will only strengthen the bond between your families.”

Sakura grit her teeth at Hiruzen’s words. Retorts filled her mouth, desperate to be voiced, but she swallowed them down, leaving a bitter taste behind. Her stomach clenched with anger. She glanced at her husband, who stood stock-still—his face blank, his eyes burning with emotion before he blinked it away.

Sakura scoffed quietly. Great. I’m married to a robot.

“I think we should give Sakura and Itachi a chance to speak, to get to know one another,” Hiruzen added with a small smile.

All eyes turned to the newlyweds, waiting for them to respond. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Slowly, the families began to file out of the room.

Tenten, Ino, and Hinata lingered, their eyes on Sakura, silently asking if she wanted them to stay. Sakura gave a subtle shake of her head—just enough for them to notice. Reluctantly, they followed the others out, closing the door softly behind them.

Sakura glanced at Itachi from the corner of her eye, waiting to see if he would speak. Minutes passed. Nothing.

She sighed and moved to sit on an empty chair, finally taking in the room properly. It was decorated beautifully—white and pink flowers arranged with lush greenery, candles in tall vases glowing softly in the corners.

Her gaze drifted back to her husband, who was watching her. She met his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“So…” she said. “This is nice.”

Itachi didn’t react. He remained where he was, silent and unmoving, unwilling to engage with the woman he was now bound to. He simply watched her, waiting.

The silence stretched, grinding on Sakura’s nerves. She cleared her throat loudly and stood.

“As nice as the silence is between us, I’m going to get a drink. If you plan on being a mute for the rest of our lives, that works just fine by me.”

She turned and walked out, not caring whether he followed or stayed rooted like a statue.

At the bar, she grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and downed them in quick succession. She walked over to the counter and ordered a large glass of white wine, placing the empty flutes down as she waited. When the glass was handed to her, she took several large sips, nearly emptying it.

Someone called her name.

Her grip tightened around the glass. Her jaw clenched.

She turned slowly to face a group of smiling guests, all complimenting her beauty and praising the ceremony. Sakura smiled back, hollow and polite, finished her drink, and turned to the barman, pointing to her glass for a refill.

“There you are,” Ino said with relief as she, Tenten, and Hinata joined her at the bar, ordering their own drinks.

“How did it go?” Ino asked, standing beside her.

“We stood in silence,” Sakura replied, sipping her wine as more guests smiled at her.

“What?” Tenten laughed incredulously. “You two were in that room for over half an hour.”

Sakura nodded. “If that’s how the rest of my married life will be, I’m fine with that.”

She placed her empty glass down and turned to face the crowd, watching them celebrate her big day—laughing, drinking, dancing. Enjoying themselves on her behalf.

She scoffed.

“Can I have a whiskey, please?” a voice said beside her.

Sakura turned to find Itachi standing there.

“Oh look, you can speak,” she said, unashamed, not caring who heard.

Itachi glanced at her briefly, then turned back to the bartender. He picked up the glass of amber liquid, knocked it back, and placed it down, signalling for another. With the second glass in hand, he walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

“Or not,” Sakura muttered, watching him go. “Suits me fine.”

She pushed away from the bar and made her way toward the large doors leading to the lush gardens. But just as she reached them, she was stopped by her father.

She looked up at the man she had once admired—the man who had praised her for everything, big and small. Her champion. Now, all she saw was the man who had stolen her dreams and forced her down a path she hadn’t chosen.

“Yes, Father?” she asked, her tone clipped.

Kizashi gave her a small, sad smile. “So much hostility for me?”

“What do you expect? You stole my dreams.”

“One day you’ll understand why I did this,” he said, gesturing around the room.

Sakura laughed dryly. “Sure I will.”

As she turned to walk away, the room was called to silence by the maître d’, gently tapping a glass with a spoon. Once the room had hushed, he spoke:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please join us to celebrate the bride and groom by making your way to the restaurant for the wedding breakfast, followed by the reception party in the large hall off the restaurant.”

Sakura groaned inwardly. The gardens beckoned—quiet, green, and far from the noise. She was tempted to walk out, to vanish into the trees.

But a gentle hand on her back stopped her.

“As tempting as running away sounds, you know you need to stay,” Mebuki said softly, guiding her toward the restaurant. “Just see this night through with a smile.”

Sakura sighed in defeat. Her mother was right.

“How much longer do I need to stay?”

“A few more hours, hopefully.”

Sakura nodded stiffly and walked with her mother into the dining room, decorated in the same colour scheme as the ceremony room. She made her way to the front, where her seat awaited her beside Itachi, who sat stiffly, his face void of emotion. Sakura pulled out the chair and sat down, waiting for the meal to be over and done with.

Soon after, the first course was served, followed by the main and dessert. An hour and a half later, the guests were ushered out of the dining room and into another space set up for the evening’s festivities—a large table in the centre held the wedding cake, a DJ stood at his podium in one corner, and a bar occupied the other. Round tables and chairs were scattered across the room, most already filled with guests.

Sakura walked to the bar and ordered herself another large glass of wine. She brought the glass to her lips and took three long sips, nearly emptying it. She turned to the bartender.

“You might as well hand over the bottle.”

“Let us put our hands together for the newlyweds, Itachi and Sakura,” the DJ announced from his podium. “They’ll now cut their beautiful wedding cake, followed by their first dance as husband and wife.”

Sakura clenched her jaw at the announcement—another moment she couldn’t escape. She finished her wine, turned to face the room, and spotted Itachi standing against the wall with a glass in hand.

Itachi looked over at Sakura, waiting for her to make the first move. He wasn’t in a rush to play the happy couple, but he wanted the night to end.

Sakura slammed her glass down on the bar and walked toward the cake table, her eyes fixed on Itachi. He pushed away from the wall and followed.

At the table, Sakura grabbed the small knife and cut into the bottom tier while Itachi stood beside her, arms at his sides. With a piece cut, she stabbed at the cake with a fork and held it up for him.

He looked down at her, opened his mouth reluctantly, and let her feed him the cake. He chewed without tasting and swallowed.

A few servers stepped forward to take the cake away for serving. The DJ’s voice boomed over the applause, asking guests to clear the dance floor for the couple’s first dance. A soft romantic song began to play, a woman’s voice crooning about eternal love and devotion.

Itachi and Sakura faced each other and placed their hands on one another, moving in slow circles. They avoided each other’s gaze, both silently willing the moment to end. As the song faded, they let go quickly and stood side by side, a gap between them.

“Let’s get this party started!” the DJ shouted, and upbeat music filled the room. Guests flooded the dance floor, giving Sakura and Itachi a reason to step away.

Itachi walked over to Shisui, who handed him a tumbler of whisky. He downed the amber liquid in one go.

“Steady there,” Shisui laughed as Itachi winced at the burn.

“I’m getting another,” Itachi muttered, heading to the bar. He signalled for a refill and, as he waited, watched Sakura approach. His body tensed, ready to leave at the slightest provocation.

She glanced at him briefly before ordering a large glass of wine. When their drinks were placed down, Sakura turned to him and clinked her glass against his.

“To a happily married life, husband.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Itachi alone with his drink and his thoughts.

Sakura returned to her friends, who offered small smiles of comfort.

“I want this day to be over. I want to get out of this dress and go home,” she grumbled, taking a large sip of her wine. Her head throbbed, and the alcohol was beginning to catch up with her.

“It’ll be over soon,” Ino said softly.

“Not soon enough.” Sakura finished her wine and placed the empty glass down. She watched the guests dancing, laughing, celebrating. She shook her head.

“This isn’t how I imagined my wedding day—drinking stupid amounts of alcohol and sitting in a corner watching everyone else have fun.”

She walked to the furthest table and sat down, hiding herself in the corner.

For the rest of the celebration, Sakura and Itachi stayed apart, each nursing drink after drink until the DJ announced the final song of the night.

Shisui turned to Itachi. “I can take you and Sakura back to your house now—save you from being harassed by drunk guests asking about your wedding night.”

Itachi looked at him. “Leave her here and take me home.”

Shisui laughed. “Nice try. You know she lives with you now.”

“Great,” Itachi muttered with contempt.

“I’ll go get Sakura. Meet me in the car park.”

Shisui walked over to where Sakura sat with her friends, her head in her hands.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he greeted with a wide smile.

Sakura raised her head and glared at him.

“If looks could kill…” Shisui chuckled. “I’ve come to offer you my services.”

“What services?” Sakura asked, eyeing him. “Didn’t realise my husband had friends who offered themselves to their wives.”

Shisui barked out a laugh. “I like you,” he said. “I came to ask if you’d like a lift out of here.”

“Can you take me to my house?” she asked, a small bubble of hope rising.

“Alas, I cannot—as much as I wish I could,” he said, smile faltering slightly. “I can take you to Itachi’s. Avoid the last of the drunk guests.”

Sakura scanned the thinning crowd, then nodded once. “Fine,” she sighed, standing up and wobbling slightly. She grabbed her bag from Ino and followed Shisui out to the car park.

He opened the car door for her and shut it gently behind her. Then he turned to Itachi, who stood against the car.

“Let yourself in.”

He walked to the driver’s side, got in, started the engine, and drove to Itachi’s house in silence.

 

 

Chapter 9

As the car pulled into the driveway, Sakura could just make out the one-story house in the darkness that surrounded her, engulfed her. She peered through the window, barely making out the greenery that framed the house. Her eyes drifted toward the building—simple, quiet—until her attention was pulled away by the sound of the car door opening.

Itachi stepped out silently and walked to the front door without a glance in her direction. Sakura scoffed to herself.

Shisui turned in his seat and faced her, offering a small smile in the semi-darkness. “Sakura, he isn’t usually like this. He’s a nice person.”

“When people say they’re nice, it’s usually the opposite,” Sakura countered. “For all I know, he could be a serial killer waiting to add me to his collection.”

Shisui barked out a laugh. “Sounds like you’ve watched one too many true crime documentaries.”

“Most of the killers said they were ‘nice,’ so you know…” Sakura shrugged.

Shisui chuckled. “I can assure you; he’s not a psychopathic serial killer who wants to kill you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sakura said as she opened the door and stepped out, bag in hand. Her eyes fell on the house again. It was simple, but her imagination took over—secret passages, torture chambers, weapons lining the walls. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the images.

Shisui followed and walked her to the front door. He turned to face her. “If you need anything, I’ll be happy to help in any way.”

Sakura gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

She pushed open the door and stepped inside, shutting it behind her. The hallway was pristine—white walls without a single scuff, no shoes littering the floor, no unopened letters lying around.

She slipped off her high heels and sighed in relief at the cool ground beneath her aching feet. She wriggled her toes, the blood rushing back in, leaving the sensation of thousands of bees stinging her from the inside out. She left the shoes where they fell and walked deeper into her prison.

The hallway opened into a large room on the left, while three closed doors greeted her on the right. She eyed each one, her thoughts running wild—torture rooms, muffled screams, hidden horrors. She turned away and entered the large room, which had been divided into three sections: dining room, living room, and kitchen. Each area was spacious, lined with shelves—some high, some low.

Her eyes landed on a few picture frames that had been turned face down. She furrowed her brow and picked one up, her jaw clenching at the sight—her own face staring back. She grabbed another. Another photo of her, also turned over.

“What an amazing welcome,” she muttered bitterly.

She placed the frames down and scanned the room, her eyes falling on Itachi, who stood in the kitchen with a glass of amber liquid in hand.

“Where am I sleeping?” she asked bluntly.

She was in no mood for small talk. And after the warm welcome she’d received, she doubted she ever would be.

Itachi took a large sip of his whiskey at the sound of Sakura’s voice invading his sanctuary. A small part of him had hoped Shisui would take her away, leave him alone in the silence he’d carved out for himself. But no such luck.

He glanced in her direction briefly and replied, “In the bed, on the floor—I really don’t care.”

Sakura clenched her jaw. “Do you have a spare room?”

“I do,” Itachi nodded, taking another sip.

“I’ll sleep there,” she said firmly.

“The spare room is my office,” he replied, eyes falling on her again. He watched as anger coloured her cheeks, her green eyes bright with frustration—at him, at the situation. Good, he thought. Let her suffer as much as I am.

Sakura furrowed her brow. “Surely you have some other room I can sleep in. After all, you’re the great Itachi Uchiha,” she bit out his name, making her disdain clear.

“Sorry, Princess,” Itachi snapped. “That my house isn’t good enough for your needs. That my humble home doesn’t meet the high demands you’re so used to.” He knocked back the last of his drink and refilled the glass, wincing as the burn hit his throat.

Sakura clenched her jaw tighter. He was off the mark—not just about her needs, but about everything. “Look,” she said, stepping closer, making it clear she wasn’t done with the conversation, no matter how much he wanted to be. “I get that neither of us want to be in this situation. So, I’ll ask you again—where am I sleeping?”

“Like I said, I really don’t care. But if it bothers you that much, then sleep in my bed.”

“And where are you sleeping?” Sakura crossed her arms, her foot tapping furiously against the floor.

“In my bed,” Itachi stated blankly.

“There’s no way I’m sleeping in the same bed as you,” she scoffed. “Living in the same house is bad enough.”

Itachi placed down his glass and turned to face her. “Haven’t shared a bed with a man before?” he asked, voice low and biting. “Or am I meant to break you in? Show you what happens when a man and a woman share a bed?”

Sakura stared at him in disgust. “There is no way I will be sharing a bed with you—today or ever. And I will never sleep with you.”

Itachi stepped forward. Sakura backed away instinctively until her spine hit the wall. He stopped in front of her, caging her in with his body. His hands pressed to the wall on either side of her head, blocking any escape. He leaned in, eyes locked on hers.

“You’ll beg me to sleep with you,” he said quietly, smirking. “Beg me to show you a good time.”

“The hell I will!” Sakura spat, glaring up at him, cursing him inwardly for being a head taller—for making her look up. Her hands clenched in front of her at his crude words. There’s no way I’ll ever sleep with him. She refused to stand there like some submissive little thing.

She raised her hands and shoved hard against his chest—but he barely moved.

Itachi smiled to himself at her attempt to push him away. His eyes fell to her hands pressed against his chest. He grabbed them, raised her arms above her head, trapping both wrists in one hand and pressing her further into the wall.

“You seem to have forgotten,” he murmured, voice low as he leaned in, his mouth mere centimetres from hers, “you’re in my house, wearing my ring, and you have my name.”

He could feel her breath against his skin, heavy and uneven. Her chest heaved with each wild inhale. “You can sleep in the same bed as me, or not at all. I really don’t care,” he whispered.

His eyes dropped to her lips. He thought about kissing her—brutal, punishing—just to remind her who held control here. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t touch her. Not even if she begged.

Sakura clenched her jaw at his words, twisting her wrists in vain. She stared him down, refusing to look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten to her.

Itachi was slightly impressed. She was fighting him—holding his gaze, not backing down. His smirk widened as he stepped back, letting her arms fall to her sides.

“Be a good little princess and don’t get in my way,” he said coolly, turning away. He walked to the counter, knocked back the last of his drink, and made his way to the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes, grabbed a change of clothes, and headed to the bathroom.

He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it into the laundry basket, followed by the rest of his clothes, and started the shower. The hot spray hit his skin, enveloping him. He ran his hands through his soaked hair, pressing his fingers against his aching skull, wincing at the burn behind his eyes. Too much whiskey.

He lathered shampoo into his hair, scrubbed soap over his body, trying to wash away the day. But the thoughts kept coming—sharp, relentless. Each one made him angrier. He slammed his palm against the wall, then pushed away from it, turned off the water, and stepped out.

He dried himself quickly, wrapped a towel around his waist, another through his sodden hair. He dressed, hung the towels on the rack, and returned to his room.

Sakura rubbed at her wrists, fury burning through her. She stomped through the house, following the path Itachi had taken. The bedroom was large—white walls, dark furniture, everything in perfect order. Not a speck of dust.

She stormed to the built-in cupboards and threw them open. His suits hung neatly beside her clothes. She rifled through them, uncaring if she disturbed the order, until she found her pyjamas. Another search yielded her underwear and wash bag.

She turned—and found Itachi standing in the doorway. His gaze burned into her, jaw clenched tight. He hated her in his space. She raised her chin, refusing to let him look down on her. She slammed the cupboard doors shut and stormed past him to the bathroom.

She dropped her clothes and wash bag, reached behind her, and unzipped the dress, desperate to shed it. She stepped out of it, kicked it aside, and began pulling out hair clips, tossing them onto the counter. She turned on the shower.

She fished out her shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and face wash, then stepped into the hot spray. Soap pooled at her feet. She tilted her face into the water, letting it swallow her. She rubbed at her face, smudging the remnants of makeup, then ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp.

She sighed as she worked the shampoo through her hair—but the calm didn’t last. Her thoughts surged, movements growing rushed. Anger bubbled up, consuming her. The shower no longer soothed. She finished quickly, turned off the water, and stepped out.

She grabbed a towel aggressively, wrapped it around herself, then another for her hair. At the sink, she pulled out her moisturiser and face cream, rushing through her routine. She dried her body, tossed the towel aside, dressed, then ran the towel through her hair before dragging a brush through it, wincing at the pain.

She turned off the lights and returned to the bedroom. Itachi sat on the bed, phone in hand. She ignored him, climbed into the bed, refusing to sleep on the floor or the sofa. She punched the pillows into shape, tucked an arm beneath them, and lay facing away from him, pulling the duvet over her.

Itachi didn’t acknowledge her. He scrolled through his phone for ten more minutes, then locked it, turned off the lights, and lay down—his back to Sakura. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.

 

Chapter 10

Sakura woke from a restless sleep. Her muscles were stiff from lying in the same position all night, barely allowing herself to move. Slowly, she sat up, groaning as tension rippled through her body—seized muscles, a dull throb behind her eyes. She let her head fall into her hands, pressing her palms against her eyelids until bright stars bloomed in the dark.

She rolled her shoulders gently, trying to ease the tightness. Her neck tilted side to side with soft pops, then she stretched her arms overhead with a quiet groan.

The room was still. Familiar now, but not comforting. Memories from the day before flooded in—the wedding, too much alcohol, and finally stepping into her new house. Her prison. Her gaze drifted to the sleeping form beside her: long, dark hair fanned across the pillow, the sheets rising and falling with each breath. His words echoed in her mind: You will be begging to sleep with me.

She scoffed silently. In your dreams.

In the kitchen, her head pounded from the hangover and lack of caffeine. She rummaged through the cupboards for paracetamol and coffee. One after another came up empty, her irritation rising with each failed attempt.

Eventually, she found the medicine, popped out two tablets, filled a glass with water, and swallowed them. The search for coffee continued until she located the machine tucked away in a cupboard. Opening the drawer beneath it, she found several coffee pods laid out in perfect order. She shook her head. Someone clearly needs to learn to let loose.

She chose a cappuccino pod, slotted it into the machine, placed her cup, and pressed start. After finding the sugar pot, she added several heaped spoonfuls, stirred, and made herself a bowl of cereal.

In the living room, she set her cup on the table, curled up on the sofa, and tucked into her breakfast. Once finished, she left the bowl and cup where they were and returned to the bedroom. She grabbed a pair of black trousers, a white blouse, a faded pink jacket, and her shoes, then headed to the bathroom.

Showered, teeth brushed, hair tied up, she dressed for work. Back in the living room, she searched for her purse, frowning as she remembered leaving it in the car of the man who’d dropped them off after the wedding. She sighed, annoyed at herself—and everything else.

She slipped on her jacket and went looking for keys. House and car. She found them in the hallway, tucked inside a cupboard. Jaw clenched, she exhaled sharply, irritation mounting. But when she opened the front door, she stopped.

Shisui was leaning against the wall, smirking.

“I came to make sure you survived the night—tha t the psychopathic serial killer didn’t kill you.”

Sakura stared at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m alive for now. But he’s not the nice guy you said he was.”

“Neither of you are in an ideal situation,” Shisui shrugged. “Also—” he held out her purse “—I figured you’d want this back.”

Sakura took it from him. “Thank you,” she said, smiling. She opened it, pulled out her phone, and unlocked it—several messages, just as many missed calls.

Shisui looked her over. “Where are you off to?”

“Work. Why?” Sakura locked her phone and slipped it back into her bag.

“Aren’t you supposed to have time off for, you know…” He smirked. “Getting to know your husband better?”

Sakura rolled her eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten, we can’t stand the sight of each other,” she said, walking down the driveway toward a sleek black sports car. “Besides, we’ve got a lifetime to figure each other out.”

Shisui chuckled, catching up as she unlocked the car and climbed in. He raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a smirk. “Does Itachi know you’re stealing his car?”

Sakura stared up at him. “I don’t think he’ll mind. Now that we’re married—what’s his is mine and all that,” she replied, shutting the door. She adjusted the seat and mirrors, then started the ignition.

Shisui laughed, shaking his head at the bold woman who’d made Itachi her enemy. “Well, this is going to be fun,” he said, turning back toward the house and slipping through the still-open front door.

---

Itachi blinked a few times before sitting up in bed. He glanced at the empty side and smiled faintly to himself. “Just a bad dream,” he muttered.

He got out of bed, stretched, and walked into the bathroom—only to freeze.

Wet towels, clothes, and a wedding dress were strewn across the floor. Bottles littered the shower. Strands of hair clung to the brush. A messy makeup bag sat open on the counter.

Not a dream. A living nightmare.

His jaw clenched, blood pounding in his ears with each slow breath. He powered through his morning routine, unable to stand the mess a moment longer.

In the kitchen, he found Shisui seated at the bar, sipping coffee.

“What are you doing here? And how did you get in?” Itachi snapped.

“Good morning to you too,” Shisui replied dryly, taking another sip.

Itachi groaned at the state of the kitchen—sugar granules scattered near the coffee machine, dried milk stains by the fridge, and an open cereal box left on the counter. His breathing deepened as irritation surged through him. He grabbed the cleaner and a cloth, wiped down the surfaces, closed the cereal box, and returned it to its place. Then he made himself a coffee, adding several heaped spoonfuls of sugar, and stirred.

“Looks like you had a great night,” Shisui teased, watching Itachi rub his temples.

“Why are you here?” Itachi snapped again, glaring.

“Your wife let me in as she was leaving,” Shisui replied, eyes sharp.

“Leaving?” Itachi asked, a flicker of hope in his voice.

Shisui nodded, smirking. “She left in your car. Said she was going to—”

The bubble of hope burst. Itachi’s jaw clenched, rage searing through him. He slammed his mug onto the counter—coffee splashed over his hand and across the surface.

He stormed into the hallway, searching for his keys. Nothing.

He threw open the front door and growled at the empty driveway.

“You let her leave in my car and did nothing to stop her?” he seethed, fists clenched.

“I wasn’t about to drag your wife out of it,” Shisui shot back.

Itachi shoved past him, stormed into his room, dressed in record time, pocketed his phone and wallet, and returned to the hallway.

“You’re taking me to her work. I’m getting my car back.”

Shisui’s smirk faltered. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“I’m not letting her walk into my house, use my things, trash the place, steal my car—and get away with it.”

Itachi stood beside Shisui’s car, waiting. Minutes ticked by, his temper rising with each one, until finally Shisui stepped out of the house and shut the door behind him.

He unlocked the car and watched as Itachi slid into the driver’s seat, buckled in, and hit the ignition—ignoring the fact that the door was still open and Shisui hadn’t even climbed in yet.

“Put the address into the satnav!” Itachi ordered, reversing out of the driveway and merging into the morning traffic. His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles bleaching white.
How dare she!
She’s been in my house less than a day and already she’s made a mess, taken my things without permission!

“Itachi, slow down!” Shisui snapped as the car screeched around a bend, tyres protesting against the tarmac.

Itachi didn’t respond, eyes locked on the satnav directions.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the hospital’s busy car park. Itachi threw open the door and stepped into the crisp morning air—it did nothing to cool his fury. He strode toward the entrance, Shisui catching up quickly.

“Itachi, think about what you’re doing! This is her workplace!”

“I don’t care!” he muttered.

At the reception desk, a young woman looked up and offered a polite smile.
“Good morning,” she greeted. “How can I he—”

“Where is Sakura?” Itachi cut in, voice sharp.

The woman blinked, startled. Like a deer caught in headlights.

“Sorry, what?” she asked, voice small.

“Where. Is. Sakura!” he repeated, each word laced with fury.

“Oh… um…” She clicked at her keyboard nervously. “She should be in her office. But you’ll need an appointment to see her. Do you have one?”

Itachi ground his teeth. He didn’t have time for this—he wasn’t here to listen to polite protocol.

“Forget it!” he snapped, pushing away from the desk. “I’ll find her myself!”

He stormed off, ignoring the receptionist’s calls. He had one goal: get his car back from his thieving wife!

He didn’t have to look far. Sakura was seated in the cafeteria with a group of staff, chatting animatedly. He stalked toward her, eyes locked, and rounded on her.

“Where is my car?” he demanded, voice low but brimming with anger.

Sakura looked up, startled by his tone. Her gaze narrowed. She forced a smile, eyes flicking to her colleagues—some watched with quiet judgement, others avoided eye contact entirely.

“I’m at work. This can wait,” she said, voice controlled, anger simmering beneath the surface.

“I don’t think so!” he retorted. “I want the keys. Now!”

“You’ll get your car when I’m done with work!” she snapped.

“I don’t appreciate anyone touching my property without permission! That includes you, wife!”

Sakura stood abruptly, placing her half-empty cup on the table. “The keys are in my bag. Follow me!” she said through clenched teeth, striding toward her office. Staff and patients instinctively moved aside, her silent fury parting the crowd.

She slammed open her office door, grabbed her bag, and rummaged inside. Pulling out the keys, she slapped them into Itachi’s waiting hand.

“Here!”

“Where’s it parked?”

“In the staff area. You’ll need a pass to get in.”

“I’ll find a way!” He curled his fingers around the fob. “Next time, ask before you take something—or I’ll involve the police!”

Sakura bristled. “How am I meant to get home now?”

“That’s not my problem!” he said, turning on his heel and heading for the exit.

He found Shisui at the front desk, quietly calming the receptionist. Without a word, Itachi marched up and demanded access to the staff car park.

The woman jumped at his tone and quickly complied, retreating to the safety of her desk as soon as she’d handed over the pass.

“Itachi, was this really necessary?” Shisui asked as they reached the car park.

“Yes!” Itachi replied, climbing into his car. He adjusted the seat and mirrors, then drove away without another word—leaving Shisui behind to return to his own.

---

By the time Sakura finally finished work, it was close to ten. Most of the doctors and nurses had already left, the night shift team having taken over hours earlier. She grabbed her bag, pulled out her phone, unlocked it, and tapped Ino’s name.

“If you’re calling me while having sex, I don’t want to hear it!”

“I’m going to die a virgin,” Sakura replied dryly.

Ino’s laughter filled her ear. “You have to be a virgin for that to happen, and we both know that’s not you. What’s up?”

“Can you please pick me up?”

“Tired of your husband already?”

“I’m at work! My dear darling husband left me stranded here!” Sakura bit out, her blood boiling at the thought of Itachi.

“At work? Girl, you only got married yesterday! Aren’t you supposed to be consummating your marriage or something?”

“I swear I’m going to kill you!” Sakura snapped, listening to her best friend laugh.

“You know I’m joking,” Ino said through her giggles.

“It was either go to work or go to jail for murder,” Sakura muttered.

Ino sighed. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Thank you! I love you,” Sakura smiled, ending the call. She finished her last email, saved her files, and began tidying the scattered paperwork on her desk. Twenty minutes later, she stretched, rolled her shoulders, grabbed her belongings, and walked out of the hospital into Ino’s waiting car.

“What happened?” Ino asked as Sakura buckled in.

“I took Itachi’s car, and he literally hunted me down to demand it back! Told me he doesn’t like anyone touching his things. He acts like a bloody toddler!”

“Charming,” Ino said sarcastically, starting the engine. “What’s douchebag’s address?”

“Can you drop me at my parents’ instead?” Sakura asked.

“Are you seriously running away already? What happened to my warrior best friend—the one who never backs down and fights her way out of anything?”

“I’m not running away!” Sakura shouted. “I just want to get my car so I don’t have to rely on husband dearest for anything!”

Ino nodded. “Sorry for shouting,” she said meekly as they drove toward Sakura’s parents’ house. “Want me to come with you and beat your husband?”

“You sure you can handle prison life?” Sakura asked, eyeing Ino’s immaculate makeup. “You’d have to shave your head, probably end up with a buzzcut, and be someone’s bitch.”

Ino scrunched her nose. “I think I’ll pass!” she chuckled. “If you need anything, I’m always here—but I won’t go to prison for you.”

Sakura smiled. “You’re too pretty for prison anyway. Thanks for offering.”

“I love you!” Ino called as Sakura got out.

“Love you more!” Sakura replied, walking to her car. She fished out the keys buried in her bag, unlocked the door, dumped her belongings in the back, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Hands on the wheel, she sat for a moment, no rush to leave. Then, with a deep breath, she started the engine and drove back to her husband’s house—her prison.

All the lights were off when she arrived. She tried the handle. Locked. She knocked once, waited, then knocked again—harder, more persistent—until a light flicked on and the door unlocked.

“Do you realise what time it is!” Itachi asked, swinging the door open.

“Most people don’t leave their wives stranded at work!” Sakura snapped, glaring at him.

“Most wives don’t steal their husband’s car!” he shot back.

Sakura scoffed and pushed past him. She kicked off her shoes, threw her bag on the hallway table, and marched into the house.

Itachi stared at the mess in disbelief. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and followed her.

“Put your things away neatly!” he seethed, watching her drink water in the kitchen. “And next time you eat, clean up after yourself! This isn’t a hotel, princess—it’s my house, and you clean up your own mess!”

Sakura finished her drink, placed the glass in the sink, stormed into the hallway, grabbed her shoes and bag, and headed to the bedroom. She tossed her shoes into the wardrobe, dropped her bag on the table, grabbed her pyjamas, and went into the bathroom for her nightly routine.

Back in the bedroom, she found Itachi already in bed, his back turned. She rolled her eyes, placed her phone on the bedside table, climbed into her side, turned off the lights, and lay down—punching her frustrations into the pillow.

Chapter 11

The next few days fell into a familiar rhythm: Sakura waking sore from restless sleep, followed by breakfast, coffee, and the usual rush to get ready for work. The only saving grace was that she finally had her own car—no more stealing Itachi’s. Not that she could if she wanted to; he’d hidden the keys, as if she were some reckless teenager who couldn’t be trusted.

Still, she had to knock on the door every time she returned from work—a tedious ritual that grated more each day. The sound of her own knuckles against the wood made her jaw tighten. And without fail, she was met with a scowl, which she returned in kind. He’d grumble about the hour and storm off, leaving her to simmer in silence.

She missed her old flat. Missed the quiet, the freedom to come and go without commentary. She missed evenings spent curled up with a book, not tiptoeing around someone who made her feel like an intruder in her own life. This wasn’t how she’d imagined marriage. She’d always assumed it would be a partnership, not a prison sentence wrapped in cold shoulders and slammed doors. Yet here she was, married to her own warden—someone who couldn’t stand to be around her, and she felt the same in return.

Every glance from him felt like a reminder of what she’d lost.

On the first weekend in her prison, Sakura woke to an empty bed, which instantly lifted her mood. She stretched lazily, relishing the rare moment of solitude. Grabbing her phone, she spent an hour scrolling through random videos before finally getting up to start her day.

She used the bathroom, then headed to the kitchen. Eggs, bacon, pan, oil—check! From her pocket, she pulled out her phone again, opened her music app, and tapped her favourite playlist. The volume went up, and she sang along as she cracked two eggs into the pan, followed by strips of bacon. While they cooked, she dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

The coffee machine whirred to life. She selected her usual cappuccino, added several spoonfuls of sugar, stirred, plated her food, and sat down to eat—singing at full volume, blissfully lost in the moment.

She didn't hear the front door open. Or the footsteps. Only when the music cut off did she turn, startled, to see Itachi standing there, unimpressed and glaring. Her happy bubble popped instantly.

"What are you doing?" he asked quietly, eyes scanning the kitchen. His jaw clenched, fists tightening at the sight: a crusty pan left on the hob, oil splattered across the surface, the sugar pot open with a wet spoon staining the counter.

Sakura stared at him. If looks could kill… "I was having fun before you rudely interrupted it!" she snapped, grabbing her phone from the counter and pocketing it, refusing to look away.

"Clean this mess. Now!" Itachi ordered, turning toward the bedroom.

"You have no right to boss me around!" she shot back, arms crossed.

He placed his gym bag down, turned, and walked toward her. Each step he took, she backed away—until her spine hit the wall and he loomed over her.

"Do I need to remind you whose house you're in?" he asked, voice low.

"You remind me every day—with your glares, sighs, and snide remarks!" she replied, dripping sarcasm.

"Then Princess," he hissed, "you should know I don't like the mess you keep leaving behind! You're no longer in your father's castle, where servants cater to your every whim!"

Sakura bristled. "You need to stop assuming I lived in a castle and was spoilt—"

"Then cleaning up after yourself shouldn't be that hard!" he interrupted, stepping back. "Clean. Now! I'm not repeating myself!"

He grabbed his gym clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. By the time he returned, Sakura was scrubbing the counters, her movements sharp and angry. He turned away and walked into his office, shutting the door and the world out.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Sakura slammed the bedroom door shut behind her, clicked on Ino's name, and typed out a message:

I need out of this place now!

She watched the three dots bounce on the screen, followed by Ino's reply:

Drinks and bitch?

Sakura considered it. As much as she would love a drink or two, it would only make her angrier.

No, because I might end up acting out on my wishes to severely maim the dearest.

Oh dear, what has he done?

I'll tell you when I see you. Let's hit the gym.

Ughh, you know how much I hate getting sweaty! But I know you wouldn't ask if you didn't need the outlet. See you in 15 minutes!

Sakura smiled slightly at the message and went in search of her gym clothes. Changed, she grabbed a fresh outfit, her wash bag, towel, phone, and earbuds, then slipped into her shoes. Relieved that Itachi was nowhere to be seen, she grabbed her car keys and left, tossing her bag in the back and driving to the gym.

Ino wiped the sweat from her brow and slumped onto the floor, panting heavily. "How are you still going?" she asked, looking up at Sakura, who was still powering through her workout.

Sakura glanced at her friend, counted the last rep, then dropped the weights and sat beside her. "Because I'm angry!" she admitted, wiping her brow with a towel.

They had spent the last hour and a half lifting weights, doing cardio, and everything in between. Fuelled by rage, Sakura pushed herself harder with every rep. By the end, her muscles were screaming, her body trembling with exertion.

"Please tell me you're done!" Ino panted. "I don't think I can do anymore!"

"I'm done," Sakura said, standing and offering her hand.

"Thank God for that!" Ino grinned, grabbing Sakura's hand and following her to the changing rooms. After showering, they made their way to Sakura's car.

"How are you feeling now?" Ino asked as she buckled in.

"I still want to kill him," Sakura muttered, starting the engine and driving toward Ino's place.

"You still haven't told me what happened," Ino said, watching Sakura's clenched jaw, the vein throbbing in her temple, and her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

"He walked in, turned off my music, and ordered me to clean up!" Sakura growled. "Then he pinned me against the wall, called me a spoilt princess who lived in a palace surrounded by servants!"

Ino's eyebrows shot up. "What?!"

Sakura nodded once. "Yup. That is my darling husband."

"Wow, Sakura… I don't even know what to say."

Sakura chuckled humourlessly as she pulled into the driveway. They got out and headed to the kitchen—Ino grabbed a bottle of wine, Sakura grabbed the glasses.

"Does he think you're his personal cleaner instead of his wife?" Ino asked, settling onto the sofa.

"I made myself breakfast, and I was enjoying my music when he walked in all grumpy and demanded I tidy up!" Sakura said, taking a large sip of the crisp wine.

Ino raised an eyebrow. "So, he told you to tidy up after yourself?"

"No, he ordered me to!" Sakura snapped, side-eyeing her.

Ino huffed a laugh and shook her head.

"What?" Sakura asked defensively.

"You know when you lived at your place, how you'd let it get so messy—clothes everywhere, dishes stacked in a corner—and then you'd go on a mad cleaning spree?"

Sakura blinked at her. "What's your point?"

"You have a problem with cleaning!" Ino laughed.

"Whose side are you on?!" Sakura barked.

"Yours! Always yours! But you have to admit, the man may have a small point," Ino said carefully, choosing her words. "Next time, don't give him a reason to order you around. Clean up before he has a chance to say anything."

Sakura clenched her jaw. She'd expected her best friend to validate her anger—not tell her that her grumpy husband had a point. She downed the rest of her wine and refilled her glass to the brim.

"How about I order us something to eat?" Ino offered, eager to change the subject.

"As long as you're paying, pig," Sakura grumbled, sipping her drink.

Ino unlocked her phone and ordered burgers, chips, and anmitsu for dessert—knowing full well that Sakura's favourite sweet was the fastest way to lift her mood.

The food arrived just as Sakura finished her second glass of wine. She tore into the burger like it had personally offended her, chewing with purpose, eyes narrowed at nothing.

Ino watched her, amused. "You know, if you glared at Itachi the way you're glaring at that burger, he might actually combust."

Sakura snorted. "I wish."

They ate in silence for a while, the comfort of food and friendship slowly softening Sakura's jagged edges. When the anmitsu arrived, Ino handed it over like a peace offering.

Sakura took one bite and sighed. "You always know how to fix me."

"I've had years of practice," Ino said, nudging her shoulder. "Besides, you're not broken. Just... temporarily unhinged."

Sakura chuckled, then leaned back against the sofa. "I hate that he gets under my skin so easily."

"Because you care," Ino said simply. "Even if you don't want to admit it."

Sakura didn't respond. She stared at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch.

Eventually, she stood, gathering her things. "I should go."

Ino raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You could crash here."

Sakura shook her head. "No. If I stay, I'll just avoid him longer. And I need to face him. Even if I want to throw a dumbbell at his head."

Ino grinned.

Sakura stepped outside and walked to her car. The drive back was quiet, her thoughts louder than the engine. By the time she pulled into the driveway, her resolve had settled.

She wasn’t going to let him dictate her mood. Not anymore.

She stepped out of the car and walked to the front door, sighing heavily, already bracing to knock and interrupt whatever mundane task Itachi was pretending to care about. She tried the handle first—locked. Of course. Her jaw clenched as she knocked twice and waited.

What felt like minutes later, the hallway light flicked on. She heard the lock turn, then saw him: her husband, staring at her with that familiar look of disdain. He didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked away.

Which was fine. She didn’t have anything to say either—well, nothing polite.

Inside, she dropped her bag in the hallway, slipped off her shoes, and padded towards the bathroom. The light was soft, the air still warm from earlier. She changed into her pyjamas, brushed her teeth, and tied her hair back loosely.

Back in the bedroom, Itachi was already in bed, reading. He glanced up as she entered but said nothing.

Sakura didn’t speak either. She walked to her side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down facing away from him.

Her eyes stayed open for a while, thoughts swirling. But eventually, the tension in her shoulders eased, and sleep began to pull her under.

 

Chapter 12

Itachi stirred awake and sat up, expecting the bed to be empty—only to find Sakura sleeping soundly on her side. Her messy hair sprawled across the pillow, her mouth parted slightly, soft snores tumbling out. She looked peaceful—an emotion he rarely saw on her face.

He had hoped to have the house to himself, especially after their argument about her mess. But like everything else in his life now, solitude was no longer an option—not while he was married.

He grabbed his phone and typed a quick message to Kisame, letting him know he'd be coming to the gym soon. Three dots bounced on the screen, followed by Kisame's reply:

Two visits in two days? You must love me.

I can take my business elsewhere.

Who else would put up with your surly ass? See you in a bit.

Itachi locked his phone, got out of bed, grabbed his gym clothes, and headed to the bathroom. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and dressed. Ten minutes later, he was in his car, driving to the gym. He pulled up, grabbed his bag, and walked inside—relieved to find it empty.

He headed to the back, loaded several weights onto the bar, laid down on the bench, and began lifting. Halfway through his first set, he heard footsteps approaching. He knew exactly who it was—and kept going.

"And here I thought you'd be in bed playing the bedroom Olympics," Kisame's booming laugh echoed around the room, grating on Itachi's nerves.

Kisame watched as Itachi finished his set, then added more weights to the bar, laid down, and began lifting. He walked over and spotted him through the set.

"What happened, pretty boy?" he asked as Itachi placed the bar back on the stand, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Nothing," Itachi grunted, sitting up and craning his neck side to side.

"Say that to your face," Kisame barked, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Trouble in paradise?"

"I'm not living in paradise," Itachi replied tersely. He laid back down, grabbed the bar, brought it to his chest, and pushed it back up. "The complete opposite," he bit out, jaw tensing at the memory of who was responsible for his hellish life.

"Have you spoken to your wife?" Kisame asked, placing the bar back on the stand and looking down at him, black eyes narrowed.

"I have nothing to say to her!" Itachi snapped, reaching for the bar again—but Kisame stopped him.

"You know she's just as stuck as you are in this situation," Kisame said, staring him down.

"What's your point?" Itachi asked curtly, batting Kisame's hands away and lowering the bar to his chest.

Kisame chuckled. "Look, man, I know you're a private guy—barely speaks, never lets anyone in—but I'm sure if you talked to Pinky, you'd find something to bond over. Something you have in common. You might even find you don't hate her."

Itachi finished the last rep, placed the bar down, and sat up. He turned to face the huge man with bright blue hair and a sharklike grin.

"I don't want to have anything in common with her—let alone anything to do with her." He stood, grabbed his towel, and wiped his face before moving to the dumbbells.

"I get it," Kisame said, grabbing his own pair. "But you two are stuck together for life. Might as well get to know each other and find a way to get along."

Itachi counted his reps, then let the weights fall from his hands. He looked up at his friend.

"Where is this coming from?"

"I just worry about you, man," Kisame said, placing down his weights.

"There's nothing to worry about," Itachi replied gruffly, starting his cardio workout.

"Yet here you are in my gym again—hiding from your wife," Kisame pointed out, lips twitching.

"I'm not hiding!" Itachi grunted, starting to run on the treadmill.

Kisame huffed a laugh. “Whatever you say, pretty boy.” He hopped onto the treadmill beside him. “Oh, and Shisui filled me in on the whole car situation. That was cold—even for you.”

Itachi’s jaw tightened. “Do you and Shisui seriously have nothing better to do than gossip about me?”

Kisame grinned, unbothered. “We’re like two old ladies—love sticking our noses into your business. Especially when you’re being a dramatic little ice cube.”

Itachi shot him a glare, breath already quickening from the run. “I wasn’t being dramatic. I was being practical.”

“Sure,” Kisame drawled. “Leaving Sakura stranded at work with no way home was very ‘practical.’ You should teach a masterclass in emotional detachment. Maybe throw in a bonus module on how to ghost someone in broad daylight.”

Itachi didn’t respond. He focused on the rhythm of his steps, the thud of his feet against the belt, trying to drown out Kisame’s voice. But his shoulders were tense, his expression tight.

Kisame glanced over, still smirking. “You know, for someone so composed, you’re awfully easy to rile up.”

Itachi muttered, “Whatever,” and pushed harder into his cardio, as if speed could outrun the conversation.

---

Sakura woke up and stretched across the bed, groaning as her muscles screamed in agony from yesterday's workout. She had overdone it in her anger, and now she was going to pay for it for the next few days.

"I need to start going to the gym more often," she grumbled to herself as she sat up, reached over, and grabbed her phone from the bedside table. She checked the time: ten thirty.

She contemplated going back to bed for a little longer, desperate to squeeze in a few more hours of restful sleep. Unlocking her phone, she scrolled through messages, emails, and social media. It wasn't until she heard the front door open and shut that she sat up again and checked the time.

Eleven forty-five.

Shit, I wasn't meant to stay in bed this long.

She threw back the covers and stood up, groaning as her muscles protested with every step.

Her foot caught on something, sending her stumbling forward—landing on something hard and warm. Calloused hands gripped her elbows, steadying her.

"If you didn't leave your clothes lying around, you wouldn't trip over them," Itachi said, his tone sharp with irritation. He quickly removed his hands and walked to his wardrobe.

"Pick them up," he ordered tersely.

Sakura stood motionless for a moment. Then she shook her head and turned to face him.

"I was about to tidy them away!" she snapped, eyes blazing, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"Sure, looks like it," he drawled, glancing her up and down, then at the bed—making his point clear. He grabbed his clothes and left the room, leaving her alone.

Sakura blushed angrily at his subtle jab, heat rising in her chest. She grabbed the clothes and threw them unceremoniously onto the bed, sorting through them with jerky movements. Clean ones were folded neatly; the dirty ones she carried to the utility room, tossing them into the washing machine, adding detergent and softener, and starting the cycle.

You have a problem with cleaning, Ino's words echoed in her mind, fuelling her frustration.

"No, I don't!" she muttered bitterly, stalking through the house and purposefully picking up anything of hers left lying around. She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the space, satisfied.

In the kitchen, she grabbed a mug and placed it under the coffee machine. She selected her favourite pod, hit start, and watched the rich liquid fill the mug. She added sugar, stirred, took a sip—and sighed in contentment.

Mug in hand, she returned to the bedroom and finished tidying her clothes.

Meanwhile, Itachi had taken a quick shower, dried off, and slipped into his boxers and shorts. He reached for a shirt—but his hand came up empty. Groaning, he realized he hadn't grabbed one in his earlier frustration. He stood there, debating. He didn't want to walk out shirtless in front of Sakura, but he wasn't about to spend the day locked in the bathroom.

He sighed heavily, ran the towel through his hair, and walked out.

Sakura placed the last of her clothes away, sat on the bed, and picked up her mug, savouring another sip. Just as she did, Itachi walked into the room—shirtless.

She choked on her drink.

She hadn’t known what to expect—but it wasn’t this.

His body was lean, but powerful. Broad shoulders framed a sculpted back, each muscle defined with the kind of precision that spoke of discipline, not vanity. His arms were strong, corded with sinew and strength, and his abs—sharply cut and taut—shifted with every breath like armour beneath skin.

But it was the tattoo that held her gaze.

A crow, inked in sweeping black lines, stretched across the upper span of his back. Its wings flared over his shoulder blades, talons poised mid-flight, and eyes—red as blood—pierced through the monochrome. Every time he moved, the muscles beneath the ink rippled, animating the creature with eerie realism. It didn’t just sit on his skin—it moved with him, like it belonged there.

Sakura found herself staring longer than she meant to. There was something captivating about it—the way the ink danced with his body, the way the red eyes seemed to watch her. She liked it. More than she expected to.

Itachi grabbed the first shirt he saw and slipped it on. He turned, scanning the room—spotless. Not a single item out of place. His gaze shifted to Sakura, who was watching him.

“You put everything away,” he said quietly.

Sakura blinked. “Huh?” she replied, before his words registered. “I’ll have you know I tidy up all the time!” she added defensively, arms crossing as her eyes narrowed.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Itachi said dryly.

“I’m sorry I’m not a neat freak like you. Some of us like our homes to look lived in!” she snapped.

“Some of us have standards,” he shot back.

Sakura bristled. “Whatever.” She snatched up her phone and empty mug, got off the bed, and pushed past him as she left the room—muttering under her breath how much she couldn’t stand him.

In the kitchen, she made herself another coffee, then wandered into the living room. She set the mug down and curled up on the sofa with the remote, flicking through channels, trying to find anything to distract her from the murderous thoughts swirling in her head about her husband.

Itachi sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead—something he found himself doing more often since Sakura had moved in. He was convinced he’d end up with permanent finger indents soon enough.

He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a mug, placed it under the coffee machine, and pressed start. Leaning against the counter, Kisame’s words floated through his mind. Sure, they both liked coffee—but that wasn’t enough to spark conversation, let alone bond over.

The machine beeped, pulling him out of his thoughts. He grabbed the mug, added sugar, stirred, and took a small sip before heading to his office.

He sat down at his desk, placed the mug on a coaster, and powered up his laptop. Clicking into his emails, he began reviewing potential contracts and checking on current ones, making sure everything was running smoothly.

His phone vibrated on the table. The screen lit up—his father's name flashing. He watched the call ring out, choosing neither to answer nor decline. He returned to his laptop, replying to another email.

The phone rang again. His father's name. Again. And again. He ignored each call, letting them go to voicemail.

Then came the ping—no doubt a voicemail. He didn't check it. Instead, he lost himself in work.

When his phone pinged several times in a row, Itachi picked it up, unlocked it, and tapped the message icon. Several texts from Shisui appeared:

You need to answer your father's calls.
He hasn't stopped calling me for half an hour, demanding that I get you to call him.
ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

Itachi sighed and replied:

I'm busy.

He watched the three dots bounce on the screen before Shisui's next message appeared:

I don't care how busy you are! I'm not going to listen to your father ask me why you're not answering his calls.

Itachi sighed heavily and typed:

What does he want?

I AM NOT YOUR SECRETARY! ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

His phone rang again—his father's name flashing across the screen. He counted to ten before tapping the green button. As he raised the phone to his ear, his father's angry voice exploded through the speaker.

"How nice of you to finally answer your phone! In case you forgot, I'm your father—the reason you exist—and it would be nice if I didn't have to remind you of that and demand your respect!"

"What can I do for you, Father?" Itachi asked with a deep sigh, though what he really wanted to say was, Why would I want to talk to you?

"And here I thought you'd have loosened up since your marriage."

Itachi clenched his jaw at the insinuation but said nothing. He knew better than to take the bait.

"Clearly consummating your marriage hasn't made you less of an uptight fool. You and your wife are coming over to the house on Friday."

"Why?" Itachi asked, brows furrowed in annoyance.

"Do I need a reason to tell you to come over?" Fugaku's voice roared. "You're both coming. Is that clear?"

Itachi's jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding, the sound reverberating in his skull, drowned out by the thunder of his heartbeat.

"I said, is that clear?"

"Yes," Itachi snapped through clenched teeth before hanging up. He threw the phone onto the desk and pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to ease the headache that had been building—and was now raging.

He pushed back from the desk, stood, and left his office.

As he entered the living room, the smoke alarm began to scream. Smoke curled from the kitchen, and Sakura's insults rang out over the blaring alarm. The pain in his head intensified with each shriek, his eyes watering from the stinging haze.

He rushed into the kitchen, pushed Sakura aside, and grabbed the burning pan from the hob. He threw it into the sink and turned on the cold water. The pan hissed angrily, steam rising in thick curls.

Itachi covered his mouth, coughing, then turned to face Sakura, who stood to the side, hands raised in front of her. He glared at her, fury rising with every beep of the alarm.

"Can you, for once, try not to ruin my house?" he shouted over the noise.

He opened several windows, letting fresh air flood the room. Grabbing a tea towel, he waved it under the alarm, fanning away the smoke. After several minutes, the shrieking stopped—but his anger didn't.

He turned to Sakura, stormed toward her, and pinned her against the wall. His hands landed either side of her head, trapping her.

"Can you seriously not go one day without making a mess? Without ruining everything?" he seethed.

Sakura stared at him with wide eyes. "I… I—"

"What?" he snapped.

"I didn't mean for the food to burn!" she shouted, her voice rising with each word. "I was trying to make dinner for us!"

"More like burn my house down!" Itachi fumed.

"I was trying to do something nice!" Sakura shouted back.

"Sure you were," he replied sarcastically.

"You know what?" Sakura looked up at him, eyes blazing. "I don't need this!"

She shoved him hard in the chest, forcing him to step back, and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Itachi groaned and pressed his forehead to the wall, frustration surging through him. He stood there for a while, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths, trying to regain control. Minutes passed. His heart rate slowed. His anger dulled.

He walked to the sink, grabbed the scorched pan, and scrubbed it clean. Then he started on the rest of the kitchen.

He glanced at the bedroom door and groaned again, annoyed that he'd let his emotions get the better of him—and that he'd taken it out on Sakura when most of it was aimed at his father. He wanted to go to her. To apologize. But every time he imagined it, the words wouldn't come.

In the end, he decided to make dinner. Maybe that would be enough.

He rummaged through the fridge and cupboards, grabbing whatever he could find, and spent the next hour cooking.

As he began plating up, he watched Sakura leave the bedroom and head to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she emerged and was about to return to the bedroom when he spoke.

"Sakura," he said, watching her pause. "I've made dinner."

"Good for you!" she snapped.

Itachi ignored the jab. "I'll plate some up for you."

He ladled beef and vegetable stew into a bowl and placed it on the counter.

Sakura turned toward him, her stomach growling at the rich, savoury smell. She wanted to refuse. Wanted to throw it at him. But she was starving, having barely eaten all day.

Reluctantly, she walked to the kitchen, grabbed the bowl, picked up a spoon, and sat at the table. She scooped up a bite, blew on it, and tasted it.

It was delicious.

She was annoyed.

She'd hoped it would be awful so she could toss it away. Instead, she took another bite. Then another.

Itachi filled his own bowl, grabbed a spoon, and sat across from her. They ate in silence, the only sound the scrape of spoons against ceramic.

"Thanks for dinner," Sakura muttered as she stood, placed her empty bowl in the sink, and rinsed it. She decided to clean the kitchen—he had cleaned her mess and made dinner, after all.

She grabbed a container, poured the leftover stew into it, and placed the dirty pan in the sink with the rest of the dishes. She rinsed them, stacked them in the dishwasher, and wiped down the counters and hob.

Itachi placed his bowl in the dishwasher, added a tablet, and started the cycle.

"Thank you for cleaning up after me," he said as Sakura turned toward the sink.

She glanced at him briefly, then washed the cloth and hung it to dry. She washed her hands, returned to the bedroom, picked up her book, and read until sleep claimed her.

Itachi spent the next few hours in his office, only stopping when he noticed the time—midnight. He stood, groaning as his body protested after sitting so long. He stretched, twisted his back, and sighed in relief as his spine popped.

Phone in pocket, he used the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and made his way to the bedroom. He used his phone to light the way, sat on the bed, set his alarms, and lay down.

The sheets wrapped around him, and exhaustion pulled him under.

Chapter 13

Itachi was up early, showered and dressed, standing in the kitchen with his mug in hand. He watched as Sakura emerged from the bedroom, her eyes heavy with sleep, her movements slow and sluggish as she entered the kitchen. From the corner of his eye, he observed her quietly preparing her drink—yawning, rubbing at her eyes—before adding the same amount of sugar to her mug as he had to his.

His gaze followed her hands as she lifted the mug to her lips. He noticed how she licked her bottom lip before blowing on the contents and taking a small sip, sighing softly to herself. When she turned and looked at him, he gave her a small nod of acknowledgement. He considered saying something, but nothing came to mind—his thoughts still replaying their argument from the day before. He sighed and took another sip of his drink.

When she looked down at her mug, Itachi's eyes drifted over her. She wore a long, baggy shirt that just reached the tops of her thighs. His gaze lingered on her long, lean, and toned legs. He found himself wondering what they would feel like beneath his hands—and how she might react to his touch. His fingers twitched with the urge, but he quickly looked away, forcing the thoughts out of his head and clearing his throat.

Drink finished, he placed the empty mug in the sink. Turning to face her again, he forced his eyes to stay on hers.

"Have a good day at work," he said quietly, then walked away.

He grabbed his jacket from the table and left the house, heading to his car. As he drove, he mentally kicked himself for his reaction to Sakura. He'd seen women in far less—and yet seeing her in an oversized shirt stirred something unexpected in him.

"Get a hold of yourself," he muttered.

He parked and made his way to his office, spending most of the morning on calls or replying to emails. It wasn't until someone knocked on the door that he looked up from his screen. He blinked a few times, then called out for them to come in.

Shisui strolled in lazily, his lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"Did you speak to your dear old father in the end?" he asked, settling into one of the chairs facing Itachi.

"I did," Itachi replied, his tone clipped with irritation at the mention of his father.

"And?" Shisui prompted nosily. "What did he want?"

"To remind me that I wouldn't be here without him—and that Sakura and I have to go to the family house on Friday," Itachi said, clearly annoyed.

Shisui whistled low. "Sounds like you're in for a wonderful night. What does your wife think about it?"

Itachi didn't answer. Instead, his mind drifted to the image of Sakura in that long shirt. He clenched his jaw and forced the thought away.

"I didn't get a chance to tell her."

"What?" Shisui laughed. "You live with her, sleep with her, and you didn't tell her she gets to meet dear daddy-in-law in five days?"

Itachi bristled. "We are not sleeping together," he said sharply.

"I can tell," Shisui replied dryly.

Itachi ignored the jab. "What do you want, Shisui?"

"Just came to see how you're doing," Shisui said with a playful smirk.

"You've seen how I am. Anything else?" Itachi asked, eyes narrowing.

"Alright, alright," Shisui chuckled, then shifted to a more serious tone. "Look, man, I've known you nearly all my life. I know what makes you tick—and what makes you want to rage."

"What's your point?" Itachi asked bluntly.

"I know it's none of my business, but I think if you spoke with Sakura—"

"You're right. It's none of your business," Itachi interrupted.

"You'd realise she isn't the bad guy here. It would do you both some good to get to know one another. Might make this marriage easier on you both." Shisui continued as if Itachi hadn't interrupted him.

He watched his friend turn away, then huffed a laugh and stood up. "I'll leave you to your sulking. I'll see you later," he said, walking out of the office.

Itachi remained seated, the silence settling around him like dust. The door clicked shut behind Shisui, but his words lingered, irritatingly persistent.

She isn't the bad guy here.

Itachi exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers curling slightly against the armrest. He hated how Shisui could read him so easily—how he always knew which thread to tug to unravel the composure Itachi worked so hard to maintain.

He glanced at the framed photo on his desk. Not of Sakura. Of his family. His father's stern gaze stared back at him, frozen in time. Five days. Five days until she met the man who had shaped so much of Itachi's silence.

Getting to know one another…
The idea felt foreign. Dangerous, even. Like peeling back layers he wasn't ready to expose.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Enough thinking. Enough feeling. He had work to do.

But as he reached for the next file, his hand paused mid-air.

She isn't the bad guy here.

He hated how true that sounded.

It wasn't until the sky had darkened that he finally stopped. He stretched his arms overhead and cracked his back, relieved to have made a dent in his emails—and pleased that they'd secured the new contract with Iwagakure.

He shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, pocketed his phone, and walked out of the office. Most of the lights in the building were off, and the only people he passed were the cleaners.

He drove home and was surprised to find that Sakura's car wasn't in the driveway. He wondered whether she had decided to stay at her friend's house after their argument yesterday. Sighing deeply, he shook his head.

"Can't do anything about it now," he muttered to himself as he walked into the empty, quiet house.

He changed out of his suit, showered, dressed in shorts and a shirt, and made himself something to eat before settling in the living room with his laptop to check for any new emails.

When he heard a soft knock at the door, he glanced at the clock—quarter past eleven. Another set of gentle knocks followed. He placed his laptop on the low table, stood, and walked to the door, unlocking and opening it.

Sakura stood slumped against the wall. She gave him a weak, tired smile as she stepped inside. He closed the door gently behind her and watched as she kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag on the floor, and disappeared behind the wall.

He stood silently for a few moments before following her—and found her collapsed on the sofa.

For several minutes, he simply watched her, waiting for her to stir. Instead, he noticed how her breathing deepened, her lips parted slightly, and a soft sigh escaped. His eyes traced her face; she looked utterly exhausted. A few tendrils had come loose from her bun and fallen across her cheeks.

Gently and quietly, he walked toward her and carefully brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He held the strands between his thumb and forefinger, marvelling at the softness of her pink locks.

He thought about leaving her to sleep, but he knew from experience how uncomfortable she'd be in the morning. Carefully, he slid one arm beneath her legs and the other behind her back, lifting her without waking her. He held her close to his chest as he carried her to the bedroom.

He laid her gently on the bed, pulled the covers out from beneath her, and tucked them around her.

Then he returned to the living room, shut down his laptop, locked the front door, and turned off all the lights before climbing into bed himself.

---

 

Sakura woke with a sudden start and sat up. She blinked several times, looking around, confused by her surroundings. She remembered returning to the house but couldn't recall how she'd ended up in bed—or why she hadn't changed out of her clothes from the day before.

She reached over to grab her phone but found nothing within reach. Her eyes landed on the bedside table, where the digital clock read 6:45. Frowning, she got out of bed and walked into the living room, where she saw Itachi sitting on the sofa.

Itachi looked up as Sakura entered, her hair tousled and confusion etched across her face.

"Good morning," he called out.

Sakura glanced around, unsure who he was speaking to. When she saw him still watching her, she gave a tight smile.

"Morning," she said quietly, then blurted, "Did you put me to bed last night?"

Itachi nodded once. "You passed out on the sofa as soon as you got in."

"Why… why didn't you leave me there?" Sakura asked, her voice uncertain, brows furrowed. She couldn't understand him. He'd made it abundantly clear she wasn't wanted here—gone out of his way to show it—and yet he'd carried her to bed when she'd collapsed from exhaustion.

Itachi raised an eyebrow and let out a dry laugh. "Most people thank the person who makes sure they're comfortable and don't wake up in pain. Next time, Princess, I'll leave you where you fall so you can wake up sore and miserable."

He stood, grabbed his mug, and walked to the kitchen. He finished the last of his drink, rinsed the mug, and set it aside to dry before heading to the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

He stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower before the water had a chance to warm. Running a hand through his sodden hair, he scowled.

Last time I do anything nice for that princess, he thought grumpily.

He washed his body and hair, turned off the water, and dried himself before wrapping a towel around his waist and walking out. In the bedroom, he began to get dressed just as Sakura entered.

She watched as Itachi slipped into a pristine white shirt and began buttoning it, her eyes following the movement of his hands. She shook her head to clear it and said, "Itachi… I…"

She licked her lips, hesitating.

"I… thank you for carrying me to bed last night."

Itachi spared her a glance before looking back at the mirror as he began to tie his tie.

"You can't be mad at me for my reaction," she continued. "Since I got here, you've been nothing but ice cold—making it extremely clear that I'm not wanted here. Then you go and do something like that."

Itachi looked at Sakura's reflection in the mirror. He watched her eyes search his for any hint of emotion. He dropped his collar and turned to face her.

"I was only trying to be helpful," he said flatly.

"And I'm grateful for that," Sakura added quickly, her lips pulling into a small but sincere smile.

"You have a funny way of showing it," he countered, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I wasn't expecting you to show me any kindness," she shot back.

Itachi nodded, accepting her words. He knew how he'd treated her had been unkind—but he was angry. Still angry about the situation he was in. Shisui's words from the day before echoed in his mind: You'll realise she isn't the bad guy here.

He grabbed his jacket from the cupboard and turned to look at her. "I'll try to be a bit kinder to you," he said as he left the room.

He pocketed his phone and walked to the front door, recalling Sakura's late arrival home. Opening the small drawer on the unit beside the door, he fished out a set of spare keys. He headed toward the bedroom to find her, but the room was empty and the sound of the shower filled the air.

He grabbed some paper from his office, scribbled a short note, and placed it on the kitchen counter with the spare keys on top before leaving for work.

---

Showered and dressed, Sakura walked into the kitchen and made herself a drink. Her eyes fell on the note left on the counter. She walked over, swept the keys aside, picked up the note, and read it.

Sakura,

A spare set of keys for the house, so you don't have to knock on the door to be let in.
—Itachi

Sakura frowned at the note, then let out a small chuckle.

"He wasn't joking about trying to be a little kinder," she murmured to herself, pocketing the note and keys.

Drink finished, she grabbed her bag and phone, and walked out of the house—locking the door behind her.

---

Sakura finished work later than she'd hoped. She'd been informed that she would be overseeing a complicated operation as the lead doctor tomorrow, and had spent most of the day speaking with the surgeons—getting to know the case thoroughly and identifying everything that could possibly go wrong, along with how to prevent anything fatal from occurring.

She picked up the file and placed it in her bag, tossed in her phone, grabbed her jacket from the stand, and shrugged it on. With her bag in hand, she turned off her computer, walked to the light switches, and flicked them off as she left the office.

She got into her car, placed her bag on the passenger seat, and began the drive to Itachi's house. Pulling into the driveway, she grabbed her belongings and knocked on the door. She waited a moment, then raised her hand to knock again—just as the door opened.

She looked up at Itachi's scowling face.

"Thank you for—"

"Have you lost the keys I left for you already?" Itachi interrupted, his scowl deepening.

"Keys…?" Sakura blinked in confusion before realization dawned. She reached into her bag and rummaged until she found the keys with the note. Looking up at him sheepishly, she said, "I forgot about them."

Itachi raised an eyebrow and turned away, walking back into the house. Sakura followed, closing the door behind her.

She walked into the bedroom, placed her bag and jacket on the floor, and kicked off her shoes before heading into the bathroom. With the shower running, she stripped out of her clothes, discarding them on the floor, and stepped under the warm spray. She sighed as the jets hit her tired muscles, relaxing them. She stayed under the water for several minutes before washing her hair and body.

After turning off the shower, Sakura dried herself and looked around for her pyjamas—only to come up empty. She groaned in frustration, having forgotten to bring clothes. Wrapping the towel around herself to cover her modesty, she walked to the door and cracked it open, peeking out to make sure Itachi wasn't in the living room.

Satisfied it was empty, she quickly made her escape and tiptoed into the bedroom, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Itachi wasn't nearby.

Not watching where she was going, Sakura bumped into something hard—yet warm—causing her to stumble backward and trip over her discarded shoes. She reached out instinctively for something to steady herself.

Two strong arms shot out and caught her.

It was only then that she realized what she'd bumped into—and who she was holding onto.

Itachi.

Itachi had acted without thinking, reaching out to steady Sakura before she could fall.

"Are you okay?" he breathed, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of injury.

When his gaze dropped, he swallowed hard. She was clutching the towel to her body with one hand, the other still curled into his shirt, knuckles white. Damp strands of hair clung to her skin, framing her flushed face and neck. Droplets slid down her shoulders in languid trails, and he followed them with his eyes—watching as they disappeared into the towel pressed against her chest.

His gaze dipped lower. The towel had parted slightly, revealing the tops of her thighs and the elegant line of one toned leg. His breath faltered. Her skin was flushed, a bloom of colour rising from her collarbone to her cheeks, and she didn’t look away.

He moved his hand to the top of her back, fingers brushing against damp skin—warm, soft, and far too inviting. Another droplet formed and he traced its path with deliberate slowness, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. Her breath hitched, barely audible, but enough to make his pulse spike.

The air between them thickened. Her grip on his shirt tightened, and for a moment, neither of them moved. His gaze flicked to her lips, parted slightly, and then back to her eyes—dark, unreadable, but burning.

It was only when Sakura exhaled, a sound too close to a sigh, that Itachi snapped back. He recoiled, sharp and sudden, as if the heat between them had scorched him. As if staying close a second longer might unravel them both. Taking a few steps back, his foot caught on something—her discarded shoes.

He scowled and looked up at her, irritation flaring once again, devouring whatever he had felt for a moment, burning it away into ashes.

"If you hadn't thrown your shoes, this wouldn't have happened! Clean up after yourself!"

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Moments later, the bang of his office door echoed through the house.

He collapsed into his chair, breath fast and uneven, questioning himself. Why had he reacted like that? He'd been with women before—seen them in far less—but never had he lost control like that. Not in his own bedroom.

He buried his head in his hands, fingers tugging at his hair as he groaned in frustration—at himself, at her, at the situation.

Choosing distraction over confrontation, he threw himself into work for the next few hours, pushing through until his eyes could no longer stay open.

He shut his laptop and dragged himself to the bedroom, where he found Sakura curled up asleep beneath the duvet.

He stared at her for a moment, then groaned inwardly at the memory of their earlier collision.

Without a word, he lay down beside her and turned his back.

 

Chapter 14

Over the next few days, Sakura made it her mission to avoid Itachi as much as possible following the incident in the bedroom. But, as luck would have it, she either physically bumped into him or they somehow ended up in the same room.

His gentle touch and blazing eyes were seared into her mind, and each time she looked at him, she felt the ghost of his touch on her skin—his eyes haunting her with their intensity, threatening to burn her, consume her. She even found herself trying to recreate his touch, but nothing she did came close.

“I’ve got too much pent-up energy!” she scolded herself one morning as she stood in the shower, water cascading around her while her mind conjured images of them together in a small, enclosed room—water droplets slowly making their way down her body, and Itachi’s hot, greedy mouth following the same path. She groaned and pressed her thighs tightly together, trying to rid herself of the sensations coursing through her, building inside her. She turned off the water, stepped out, and quickly dried herself.

Dressed for work, Sakura ran her hairbrush through her wet hair and twisted it into a messy bun, lacking the patience to dry it properly. In the living room, she grabbed her phone and checked her work emails, scanning for anything that required immediate attention.

Itachi was standing in the kitchen. He placed his mug on the coffee machine and pressed start just as he heard Sakura walk into the living room. He watched as she stood by the sofa, phone in hand, her eyes scanning the screen while her teeth worried her bottom lip. His gaze drifted lower, taking in her attire. She wore a black skirt that hugged her like a second skin, showing off her long legs and toned backside, paired with a white silky blouse tucked neatly into the waistband. Her hair was up in a messy bun, with tendrils falling around her face, drawing attention to her slender neck.
Images of her pinned against the wall beneath him, water droplets trailing down her neck and his tongue following their path, while her soft whimpers filled the silence, assaulted his mind. He groaned and shook his head, chasing away the thoughts. When he looked up, he found Sakura watching him.

“What time will you finish work today?” Itachi asked, his voice low and clipped—an attempt to steer his mind away from the images still lingering.

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. “Sorry—what?”

“We’re meeting my parents at seven tonight,” he said, mug in hand, leaning against the counter.

She frowned. “Why?”

He stirred his drink, then looked up. “My father wants proof we haven’t killed each other. Yet.”

Sakura raised an eyebrow. “So… he needs confirmation you’re still breathing?”

“That we both are,” he corrected, eyes steady.

She shook her head, exasperated. “I’ve got back-to-back appointments today, plus two major ops. If everything runs smoothly and there are no emergencies, I should be done by… seven, maybe half past.”

Itachi nodded once. “We need to be at the estate by seven.”

He took a slow sip from his mug, watching her over the rim—reading every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

“He’ll just have to wait, won’t he?” Sakura snapped, stepping into the kitchen. She moved beside Itachi, made herself a drink, added sugar, and stirred. A sip later, she sighed in satisfaction at the sweetness.

Itachi’s gaze lingered on her. Up close, he noticed the swell of her breasts beneath the soft fabric of her blouse. A droplet of water slid from her hair down her neck, disappearing into the neckline. He envied it. Groaning inwardly, he felt himself stir in his trousers—images of her bare skin beneath him flooding his mind. He shoved a hand into his pocket, masking his reaction. Get a grip, he scolded himself.

Sakura felt his eyes on her. She looked up and met the same intense stare from their last encounter—his gaze roamed slowly over her body, undressing her inch by inch, before settling on her face. Her breath hitched. Her pulse quickened. That look—hungry, wanting, possessive—made her knees weak. Her eyes dropped to his lips, imagining them everywhere. She licked her own and swallowed hard, forcing herself to look away. With trembling hands, she lifted her mug and took a long sip, hoping the caffeine would snap her out of it.

As she lowered the mug, Itachi noticed a smudge of foam onher upper lip and at the corner of her mouth. He turned fully towards her, leaned in, and brushed his finger gently across her lips.

“You’ve got something here,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

He brought the finger to his mouth and licked the foam away.

Sakura’s heart thudded. Goosebumps raced across her skin. A moan threatened to escape as she watched him lick his finger slowly, eyes locked on hers. She clutched her mug tightly, resisting the urge to touch him—to trace the lines of the body she knew lay beneath that fitted black shirt.

They drifted closer, breaths mingling. Itachi reached for her neck—

The front door opened. Footsteps echoed.

They sprang apart, breathless, as if doused in cold water.

“Oi, Itachi!” Shisui called, rounding the corner into the kitchen. His eyes flicked between them, and he smirked. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No!” Sakura blurted, darting to the sink and placing her mug down. She headed to the bedroom, slipped on her shoes, grabbed her jacket.

Itachi watched her go, then turned to Shisui, who was grinning like a fool.

“What are you doing here? And how did you get in?” he snapped.

Shisui dangled a set of keys. “You gave me a spare, remember? We’ve got to meet Inuzuka—security briefing for the new job.” His grin widened. “Did I walk in on sexy time?”

Itachi scowled. “That’s not happening.”

He drained his coffee, placed the mug in the sink, and shrugged on his suit jacket.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Shisui muttered.

Sakura reappeared, walking past them to grab her bag.

She glanced up at Itachi. His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. She bit the inside of her lip, muscles tightening at the tension between them. She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist, stopping her.

He stepped closer, his trousers brushing her bare legs. His voice dropped to a husky whisper.

“Be back before seven.”

Sakura shivered as his breath grazed her neck, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. She forced herself to focus.

“You could try saying please,” she replied, steadying her voice. “Depends what time I finish.”

“Finish early,” he said, grip tightening slightly as he pulled her closer. He inhaled deeply—her soft floral scent making his jaw clench.

“Not all of us get to pick and choose our hours, husband,” she said, turning her head to meet his gaze, eyebrow raised. “I’ll be back when I’m done.”

She slipped free of his grasp, waved at Shisui. “Have a good day.”

She picked up her keys and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“You too, gorgeous,” Shisui called after her.

Itachi turned to him, eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at?”

“Just saying goodbye to your wife,” Shisui said, grinning. “That little exchange was steamy. You sure nothing’s going on?”

Itachi shook his head, exhaled slowly. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing his keys and heading for the car.

Shisui’s laughter followed him out.

---

Sakura ran her hands down her face and sighed heavily. She’d spent the morning tending to patients before being rushed into the operating theatre to assist with an emergency procedure. She’d only just made it to her office and sat down when the door flew open and her best friend strode in.

“We’re going out for lunch,” Ino announced, breezing in like a whirlwind. “And no, you don’t get a say.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Sakura asked, peering past her to the corridor. No one was there.

“Tenten and Hinata. They’re already at the café. I’m your personal escort.”

Sakura opened her mouth to protest, but Ino steamrolled right over her.

“I don’t care how busy you are, Forehead—you’re coming with us.” She snatched Sakura’s phone, tossed it into her handbag, then grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet. “Here,” she said, thrusting the bag at her and dragging her out of the office, out of the building, and down the road.

“You do realise I’m capable of walking unaided?” Sakura muttered, tugging her hand free.

“I do,” Ino replied with a grin. “But I wasn’t about to give you the chance to bolt.”

Sakura couldn’t help but smile as they reached the back table, where Tenten and Hinata were already seated, drinks waiting.

“How are you holding up?” Tenten asked, throwing her arms around Sakura as she sat down beside her. “How’s married life treating you?”

“He’s still breathing, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sakura replied dryly.

Ino snorted. “Just barely?”

Sakura sighed, her thoughts drifting to that morning—his touch, the way he’d looked at her. She couldn’t shake the images, the tension, the what-ifs. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

“It’s been… eventful,” she said.

“Oh?” Tenten and Ino said in unison, leaning in.

“Can we order first? I’m starving,” Sakura said, pulling the menu towards her.

Five minutes later, with their food ordered and paid for, Sakura filled them in on the week’s arguments with Itachi—skipping over the more intimate moments, the brush of his fingers, the way her body had reacted to him.

Ino whistled. “Damn, girl. You’re really going through it. How about we go out tonight? Let loose, have a few drinks, forget the world?”

“I wish,” Sakura groaned. “But I’ve got dinner with the in-laws. Apparently, we need to prove we haven’t murdered each other… yet.”

“That sounds ominous,” Hinata said softly, just as their food arrived. “How do you feel about it?”

“About as thrilled as watching paint dry,” Sakura muttered, biting into her sandwich.

“It might not be so bad,” Hinata offered with a gentle smile.

“I’ve had two run-ins with Itachi’s father. That’s two too many,” Sakura said flatly.

“He’s not exactly known for his charm,” Tenten added.

Sakura nodded. She remembered the way Fugaku had looked at her during the engagement and wedding—like she was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. She’d tried to stay out of the feud between him and her father, made it clear she wanted no part in it. And yet here she was, smack in the middle of it. She sighed again, the weight of it pressing down.

“We’re going out tomorrow night,” Ino declared, slapping her hand on the table and making their drinks wobble. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Sakura rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “Fine, Pig.”

They chatted about plans for the next evening as they finished their lunch, before heading off in different directions back to work.

---

Sakura stretched her arms over her head, a low groan escaping her lips as some of the tension left her muscles. After lunch, she’d had to step in as lead surgeon for another operation. It had been touch and go for a moment when they discovered internal bleeding, but thanks to Sakura’s quick thinking and decisive action, they managed to staunch the bleeding and complete the procedure successfully. The patient was now in recovery, and all his vitals were stable.

She glanced at the clock—six thirty. Half an hour until doomsday, she thought. Turning back to her computer, she filed away another email. She’d managed to see all her patients, read through nearly all her messages, and update the charts. It had been a busy but productive day, and she was pleased with how much she’d accomplished. With the final email filed, she shut down her computer, grabbed her phone and tossed it into her bag, picked up her keys and jacket, and headed to her car.

Pulling into the driveway, she retrieved the house keys she’d been given and unlocked the door. As she stepped inside, she collided with a hard, warm wall that smelt of cedarwood and something dark and delicious. She took a quick step back, finding Itachi standing before her, one brow raised in question.

“We need to leave. Now,” he said abruptly.

“Hi, how are you? How was your day at work?” Sakura replied sarcastically. “Most people greet each other like that.”

Itachi clenched his jaw. “Hi,” he bit out, then added, “We need to go.”

“I need to get changed first,” Sakura countered. She pushed past him and headed towards the bedroom, but he caught her elbow, halting her.

His eyes travelled down her slowly, taking in her appearance. More tendrils had escaped her bun, framing her face. Her blouse was slightly rumpled, and her skirt had ridden up just enough to expose more of her legs than usual.

“There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing,” he said quietly, his gaze locking with hers.

Sakura’s heartbeat quickened under his scrutiny. She didn’t understand why his gaze affected her so deeply. She’d been looked at before, but never like this—never with this kind of reaction. She swallowed and held his gaze.

“I’m going to get changed,” she said firmly, lifting her chin to make it clear it wasn’t up for debate.

Itachi raised an eyebrow. “Sakura—”

“I won’t be long,” she cut in, gently prising her arm from his grasp before disappearing into the bedroom.

He stared after her and groaned aloud, glancing at his watch—seven fifteen. They were already running late. A few more minutes wouldn’t make much difference. He sighed and leaned against the wall.

Ten minutes passed. Itachi sighed again, pushed away from the wall, and walked into the bedroom. He found Sakura struggling to zip up her dress, grumbling under her breath. As she reached back once more, he stepped in and zipped it up, making her jump slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered, shivering as his fingers skimmed across the top of her back. “I just need to do my hair.”

She reached for the hair tie, but Itachi gently took it from her. He watched as her hair tumbled down in loose waves, framing her face and shoulders. He ran his hand through it, his fingers softly scraping against her scalp.

“There. Now your hair’s done,” he murmured, holding a tendril between his fingers, marvelling at its softness. He liked her hair like this—sprawled around her, silky in his grasp.

Sakura nearly moaned at the feel of his hand in her hair, the look he gave her, and the low baritone of his voice.

“I…” she began, trying to find something to say, but the words died on her tongue at the hungry look in his eyes. She bit her bottom lip, stifling the moan that bubbled in her throat. His gaze dropped to her lips.

“You look…” Itachi’s eyes travelled down the length of her. The dress hugged her upper body and flared at the hips, accentuating her figure. His gaze traced the line of her neck before returning to her eyes. “Good to me,” he whispered.

He moved his hand from her hair to her neck, gently caressing her jawline with his thumb. Goosebumps rose on her skin where he touched her. He watched as colour bloomed in her cheeks, turning them a soft pink. He leaned in, his eyes flicking between her lips and her gaze. His mouth moved closer to her ear, his nose brushing the side of her face.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

He pulled away slowly, sliding his hand down to hers, and led her out of the house towards his car.

Sakura got into the car in a daze. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of his touch, his voice, and the way his gaze had lingered. She frowned, irritated at how easily he’d managed to unravel her thoughts with a single look and that low, gravelly voice.

She chanced a glance at Itachi, watching him drive in silence. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as he navigated the traffic with ease. Her eyes drifted to his forearm—shirt sleeve rolled up, muscles shifting with each turn of the wheel, thick veins tracing up his skin like a map of quiet strength.

“It’s rude to stare,” he said, eyes still on the road.

Sakura blinked, caught off guard. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were,” he replied, voice calm but edged with amusement.

She turned away, flustered. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

Sakura didn’t answer. She stared out of the window, letting the silence stretch between them.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into a sprawling driveway. An ornate fountain stood at its centre, flanked by vast, manicured lawns. As the car rolled closer to the house, Sakura let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

“That’s... not a house,” she murmured.

Itachi glanced at her. “It’s a statement.”

Sakura frowned. “A statement of what?”

“Of how much my father wants everyone to know he’s richer than they’ll ever be.”

He parked the car, grabbed his jacket from the back seat, and stepped out. Sakura followed, standing beside him as she took in the towering structure.

“He’ll probably interrogate you about your father’s business,” Itachi said, voice clipped.

“Good luck to him,” Sakura replied. “I don’t get involved in his business, never have. Plus, I haven’t spoken to my father in over a week.”

Itachi raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

“Nothing to talk about,” she said, brushing past him.

He placed a hand on her back, guiding her towards the entrance. Inside, the house was a museum of excess—masterpiece paintings, ornate vases, polished marble floors. Sakura’s eyes widened as she took it all in.

Itachi’s jaw tightened. “Every piece has a story. And every story ends with my father bragging about how he got it before anyone else.”

A soft voice interrupted them.

“Master Itachi, welcome home.”

They turned to see a young woman approaching.

“Hello, Akari,” Itachi said politely. “Where is he?”

“In the guest dining room, waiting for you and…” She glanced at Sakura with a warm smile. “Your wife.”

Itachi’s expression didn’t shift. “Of course he is.”

They followed Akari down a long corridor into a grand room dripping in wealth—original figural paintings from the Edo period, rare ornaments, and a table large enough to seat twenty. At its head sat Fugaku, his expression one of disdain. Beside him, Mikoto offered a gentle smile.

“How nice of you to finally show your faces,” Fugaku sneered.

Sakura forced a smile. “That’s on me—I was running—”

“Did I ask you?” Fugaku snapped, cutting her off with a glare.

Sakura’s jaw clenched. She looked away, taking in the room instead.

“I said seven. It’s half past,” Fugaku said, turning his glare on Itachi.

“We don’t all run on your clock, Father,” Itachi replied coolly. He guided Sakura to a seat a few places down from his father, pulled out her chair, and sat beside her. “You’re lucky we came at all.”

Mikoto leaned forward, trying to ease the tension. “How are you both? Sakura, it’s lovely to see you again. Such a shame we didn’t get to speak at the wedding.”

“I’m well, thank you,” Sakura replied, her tone polite but guarded. “And you?”

“I’m doing very well,” Mikoto said brightly. She turned to her son. “Itachi, darling, how are you?”

“Fine, Mother,” he said, voice flat.

Sakura glanced at Fugaku, who was still glaring at her. She met his gaze without flinching, refusing to let him intimidate her.

“It’s nice to see you home again,” Mikoto said, smiling brightly at her son. “It’s been a long time.”

“I wonder whose fault that is,” Itachi replied dryly, casting a glance at his father.

“You seem to forget whose house you’re in, boy!” Fugaku snapped.

“Not a chance of that, Father,” Itachi said, his eyes drifting to the many ornaments surrounding them.

“Why are you late?” Fugaku asked bitterly.

“I was late finishing work,” Sakura offered again.

“I didn’t ask you!” Fugaku spat, glaring at her. “I was talking to Itachi. Learn your place, girl!” He turned back to his son. “Well?”

“Sakura’s answered your question twice now,” Itachi said, bored. “Try listening, old man.”

Fugaku sneered, his gaze sliding over Sakura. “What were you busy doing that made you late? Let me guess—trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable.”

Sakura forced herself not to recoil at the look he gave her. She plastered a smile on her lips and replied sweetly, “I was busy saving someone’s life. You know—doing my job as a doctor.”

Fugaku bristled at her tone. “Hmph!” he scoffed. “Just like your father—full of excuses.”

“I didn’t realise saving someone’s life was an excuse,” Sakura said flatly. “If anything, I think it’s a duty to help your fellow humans. But I suppose not everyone’s cut out for that.”

Itachi felt the corners of his mouth twitch at how well Sakura held her ground. He raised a hand to his lips, hiding the small smile.

“Most people know how to be punctual!” Fugaku barked.

“Next time, I’ll be sure to leave the patient on the operating table mid-surgery so I can get here on time,” Sakura replied, her sickly-sweet smile still in place.

Fugaku glowered at her. “Your father never taught you manners!”

“He taught me how to stand up for myself,” Sakura countered heatedly. “How not to let anyone belittle me or the work I do.”

“How pathetic! I don’t understand how I ever let my son marry someone like—”

“You had just as much choice in this marriage as I did,” Itachi cut in sharply, his voice rising. He wasn’t about to let his father insult Sakura.

“You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger. I suppose he just had to get his—”

“Watch your words!” Itachi roared, standing abruptly. “You will not speak to my wife like that!”

“You insolent boy!” Fugaku shouted. “How dare you speak to me that way! You’ve always been a pain—always causing trouble, always getting in the way. All you’re good for—”

“Itachi is good at many things!” Sakura interrupted, her voice fierce. “But I suppose your ego’s so inflated you can’t see past yourself!”

Itachi turned to her, momentarily stunned, before quickly masking his expression. A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips before he turned back to his father. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Mikoto cut in.

“Can we please have one night where we pretend to get along?” she shouted, her gaze bouncing between her husband and son, eyes pleading.

Moments later, three members of staff entered and placed soup bowls in front of everyone.

“Your starter: pea and mint soup,” Akari said quietly, avoiding eye contact. “The mains will be out shortly.”

Sakura wanted to leave. She was ready to run and never look back—but at the same time, she didn’t want to give that bitter man any more reasons to hold against her or Itachi. She was shocked by the way he’d spoken to them both, and furious at the insult to her father. She wanted to lash out, but held herself back, unwilling to cause a scene.

Reluctantly, she picked up her spoon, dipped it into the soup, and took a bite. Around her, the others did the same. The tension in the room didn’t ease; it lingered, thick and oppressive, pressing down on her like a weight.

Once the starter was finished, the staff entered silently, clearing away the dishes before placing plates of food in front of them. Sakura eyed the steak on her plate, grimacing inwardly at how rare it was. She was surprised no one had asked how she liked it cooked—but given how the evening had gone so far, she wasn’t shocked. Fugaku clearly called all the shots, even when it came to other people’s preferences.

She cut a small piece and took a bite, nearly gagging at the taste. Forcing herself to swallow, she moved on to the smooth mash and green beans, grateful for something more palatable.

Itachi watched Sakura sit stiffly beside him, barely touching her food. He couldn’t blame her. His own jaw was clenched tight, anger simmering just beneath the surface—anger at being back in a place he’d sworn never to return to, and at being spoken to like a child who could do no right.

He’d barely touched his meal when he turned to Sakura, waiting for her to meet his gaze.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly.

He stood, grabbed his jacket, and held out his hand. When Sakura placed hers in his, he gently pulled her to her feet and turned to face his parents.

“We’re leaving,” he said firmly.

“Itachi, Sakura,” Mikoto said gently, rising from her seat. “Neither of you have eaten your dinner.” She glanced at their plates, then added with a small smile, “And I especially made your favourite dessert. Please stay.”

“Maybe another time, Mother,” Itachi replied. He turned his gaze to his father, who was still eating, not bothering to acknowledge them. Without another word, Itachi placed a hand on Sakura’s back and led her out of the house towards his car.

He unlocked the doors and got in, watching as Sakura did the same. As he drove away, he watched the house grow smaller in the rear-view mirror, the distance between them and that place stretching with every turn of the wheel.

Eventually, he pulled into the old part of town, parked the car, and stepped out. He walked around to Sakura’s side and opened the door for her.

“What are we doing here?” Sakura asked as she got out.

“You didn’t eat much. I thought you might still be hungry,” he replied.

Sakura gave him a small smile. “I couldn’t eat. It was too uncomfortable.”

Itachi nodded. “What would you like? There’s a ramen shop, a barbecue joint, Amaguriama…”

“I haven’t got much of an appetite right now,” she admitted, “but I won’t say no to dango.”

Itachi looked at her, brow slightly furrowed. “I didn’t realise you liked dango.”

“We haven’t exactly talked about our likes and dislikes,” Sakura said with a soft smile.

Itachi gave her a small smile as they walked towards the dango shop. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sakura rubbing her hands along her bare arms, trying to chase away the cold. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Sakura looked at him, surprised by the gesture. “I’ll be okay,” she said, beginning to remove the jacket, but Itachi placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

“You need it more than I do,” he said quietly, continuing their short walk.

Once inside the shop, Sakura gazed at the display of desserts, her mouth watering at the sight of them all.

“Good evening, and welcome to Amaguriama,” the young woman behind the counter greeted them with a smile.

“Good evening,” Itachi and Sakura replied in unison.

“What can I get for you today?”

Sakura glanced at the menu briefly before asking for a portion of anmitsu, while Itachi ordered Hanami dango.

“Would you like anything else?” the woman asked.

“Two cappuccinos, please,” Itachi said, placing money on the counter.

“I can pay for myself,” Sakura countered, reaching into her bag for her purse, but Itachi stopped her.

“It’s my treat—for putting up with my father.”

Sakura gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

The woman busied herself preparing the drinks and placed them on the counter. “Please take a seat, and I’ll bring your desserts over.”

Itachi picked up his mug and followed Sakura to the back of the small shop. He set his drink down on the table, then returned to the counter to fetch the sugar pot and two teaspoons. He placed them on the table and sat down, scooping three teaspoons of sugar into Sakura’s drink before doing the same with his own.

“How did you know how much sugar I take?” Sakura asked, surprised once again.

“I pay attention,” Itachi replied nonchalantly.

“What else do you pay attention to?” Sakura asked, sipping from her mug.

“That you’re very messy,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

Sakura rolled her eyes. “You’ve pointed that out since the first day.”

“That you’re driven. And you work incredibly hard,” Itachi added quickly.

He watched as her frown softened into surprise, her eyes flicking across his face, silently questioning.

“You are those things too,” Sakura said after a pause.

“Thank you,” Itachi replied.

They sat in comfortable silence, sipping their drinks and glancing around the shop.

“Thank you for waiting,” the young woman said as she placed their desserts on the table. “Enjoy.”

Sakura beamed at the sight of her filled bowl. She picked up her spoon and dug in eagerly.

Itachi picked up one of the bamboo skewers and took a bite of the coloured dango, enjoying the subtle sweetness that filled his mouth. He looked over at Sakura and found her watching him curiously.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I didn’t take you for a dessert person,” she said, speaking around a mouthful of her own.

“I enjoy sweet things,” Itachi said, his voice low and steady. “Hanami dango’s my favourite, but I’ll eat just about anything with sugar.”

Sakura raised an eyebrow, amused. “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She turned her attention back to her dessert, scooping another bite with quiet satisfaction.

After a few moments of silence, Itachi spoke again. “How are you doing?”

Sakura glanced up, puzzled.

“After meeting my father properly,” he clarified.

Sakura puffed out her cheeks. “It was... something,” she said. “I’m glad I don’t have to share a room with him ever again.”

Itachi gave a small nod. “I understand.”

“Why is he like that?” she asked suddenly, unable to hold the question back. “So cold. So rude.”

“He’s always been that way,” Itachi replied. “As far back as I can remember.”

He thought about how Sakura had stood up for him earlier, calling his father out without hesitation. It had caught him off guard—in a good way. He’d assumed she wouldn’t care. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“I feel sorry for your mum,” Sakura said gently. “She has to live with him every day.”

She looked at Itachi, hesitating. She felt sorry for him too, but wasn’t sure how he’d take it—whether he’d brush it off or bristle at the sympathy. Watching Fugaku interact with him had given her a clearer picture of the man beside her: the guardedness, the restraint, the quiet strength.

Itachi gave her another small smile, then turned back to his dessert. They finished the rest of their meal in silence, each lost in thought.

Once they’d left the shop, they returned to the car and drove home. Sakura headed into the bathroom, changed into her oversized T-shirt and shorts, and went through her nightly routine. Sakura stood in the doorway, frozen. Her eyes traced the lines of Itachi’s back, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin, the striking crow tattoo with its crimson eyes staring back at her like it knew exactly what she was thinking.

Gods, what am I doing?
She knew she should look away, but her gaze lingered, drawn to the way his arms flexed as he moved, the quiet confidence in every motion. It was maddening—how someone could be so composed, so effortlessly magnetic.

He’s just getting changed. It’s not a big deal. Stop staring, Sakura.
But her body didn’t listen. Her heart thudded in her chest, loud enough she was sure he could hear it. She felt heat crawl up her neck, her face burning with embarrassment.

Then he turned—and caught her.

“Like what you see?”

Her breath hitched. She scrambled for words, anything to deflect the mortifying truth. “I… uh… sorry…” She quickly turned around, mentally kicking herself over and over, her thoughts berating her.

Brilliant. Very smooth. That wasn’t obvious at all.

When he pulled on his shirt and told her she could look again, she risked a glance, trying to compose herself. But the blush refused to fade, and her thoughts were still a mess.

“I…” Say something normal. Anything. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, pulling the tie from his hair and letting it fall around his shoulders.

Her brain short-circuited, she swallowed hard. “Oh… um… for dessert.”

He accepted it without question, but Sakura could barely look at him. She crossed the room quickly, climbed into bed, and turned her back to him. She buried her face in the pillow, groaning inwardly. Just sleep. Maybe tomorrow you’ll have some dignity left.

She heard him chuckle softly, and then the room fell into darkness.

“Good night,” he murmured.

“Good night, Itachi,” she whispered, eyes closed, silently pleading for sleep to come—anything to quiet her thoughts and offer a brief escape from herself.

 

Chapter 15

Sakura woke to find herself alone in bed, which suited her just fine. It left her with her thoughts from the night before.

You’re such an idiot! she groaned inwardly. Why had she stared at him while he was getting changed? She’d made things weird—especially after they’d seemed to reach some kind of breakthrough, a mutual understanding.

Well, you can’t do anything about it now, so get on with your life.

She climbed out of bed, made her way to the bathroom, and went through her routine: shower, moisturise, dress. Back in the bedroom, she made the bed, sorted through her clothes, loaded the washing machine, added powder and softener, and hit start.

She checked her phone for messages but resisted the urge to scroll through social media, knowing she’d end up wasting time. Instead, she spent an hour tidying up after herself before grabbing her laptop and powering it on.

She worked through patient records, checking notes to see how those who’d undergone surgery were recovering. Several hours passed as she reviewed the remainder of the files. Eventually, she called it a day and closed the laptop.

Lunch was simple—she ate while scrolling through her phone, then picked up a book to read.

Sakura was curled up on the sofa when her phone rang beside her. She glanced at the display. Ino. She answered and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Hey, Pig. How are you?”

“Where are you?” Ino demanded.

Sakura frowned. “In my prison… why?”

“I knew you’d forgotten!” Ino sighed heavily.

“Forgotten what?” Sakura asked, trying to recall their plans—but her mind came up blank.

“We’re going out tonight!”

“Oh…” Sakura replied, remembering their chat at the café yesterday. “Yeah… I forgot. Maybe we can rearrange for another night?” she asked hopefully.

“Nope! Not a chance. Let me guess—you’re not even ready.”

Sakura sighed in defeat. “Ino, I’m tired,” she complained. “I’m not in the mood for—”

“I don’t care what you’re in the mood for. I’m coming over. Text me the address.”

Sakura sighed again. “Fine. I’ll see you in a bit.” She knew there was no stopping the blonde once she’d made up her mind. She hung up, sent over the address, and picked up her book again.

Almost an hour later, a loud knock rattled the door, followed by Ino shouting her name. Sakura grumbled, slipped in a bookmark, and untangled herself from the sofa. She walked to the door and opened it, finding her best friend all dolled up, holding a large bag.

“What are you wearing?” Ino asked, her tone laced with disdain as she eyed the ensemble Sakura dared to call clothes—loose tracksuit bottoms and a plain white shirt. While she was dressed to the high sevens.

Sakura rolled her eyes. “Hi, it’s so nice to see you too,” she muttered, folding her arms.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ino replied, breezing past her into the house. Her gaze swept the room like a critic at an art show. “Have you even showered today? Or have you just sat around doing nothing?”

Sakura stiffened. “I’ve showered,” she said, sharper than intended. “I’ve been busy. I treated myself to a book.”

Ino raised a brow. “Good for you. Now go freshen up while I find you something to wear—and sort out your hair and makeup.”

Sakura blinked. “Where are we going?”

“Konoha Lounge,” Ino said, already halfway down the hall, gesturing vaguely toward what she assumed was the bedroom.

Sakura trailed behind, clutching her book like a shield. “What time are we meeting the others?”

“Around half seven.”

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table and groaned. “We’ve got over two hours before we need to leave.”

Ino turned, hands on hips. “Masterpieces aren’t created in seconds, you know. Where are your clothes?”

“That one,” Sakura said, pointing sullenly at the wardrobe.

Ino threw open the door and began rummaging. “Why are you still sitting there?” she called over her shoulder. “Go shower!”

Sakura sighed and dragged herself to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sounds of Ino’s rummaging. She peeled off her clothes, tossed them into the laundry hamper, and stepped under the warm spray. The water soothed her tension, but her mind buzzed with Ino’s whirlwind energy. She washed quickly, wrapped herself in towels, and padded back into the bedroom.

Ino had transformed the space into a makeshift salon. Makeup was spread across the bedside table, and on the bed lay a short, form-fitting black dress paired with bright pink heels.

Sakura stared. “Ino… isn’t that a bit much for a bar?”

Ino looked up, then down at the outfit. “Nope. It’s perfect. Time to show off those killer curves you keep hiding under all that cotton,” she said with a grin.

Sakura hesitated, then sighed and slipped into her underwear and the dress. She sat on the dining chair Ino had dragged into the room. “I’m all yours,” she said, resigned.

“Just how I like you,” Ino teased, planting a light kiss on Sakura’s cheek. She picked up a brush and began working through Sakura’s damp hair, her movements surprisingly gentle. Half an hour passed in quiet concentration as she dried it, then another hour styling it into loose curls that tumbled down Sakura’s back.

Then came the makeup—smoky eyeshadow, red lipstick, a touch of highlighter. Sakura watched her reflection shift in the mirror, unsure whether to feel glamorous or exposed.

By the time Ino stepped back to admire her handiwork, it was quarter past seven.

“Where’s Itachi?” Ino asked as she packed away her things.

“I don’t know,” Sakura replied truthfully. When she’d woken that morning, the bed had been empty and there was no sign of Itachi anywhere in the house. It seemed to be the norm—he was rarely home, and when he was, he was usually cooped up in his office.

Ino handed Sakura her heels and matching clutch bag. “Your phone’s already in there,” she said, pulling her own bag from the larger one. “Sai’ll be here in ten minutes to pick us up.”

Sakura slipped into her heels and grabbed her bag. Together, the women made their way out of the house, Sakura locking up behind her just as Sai pulled into the driveway.

“Hi, Sakura,” he said with a smile as she climbed into the back seat. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks, Sai. How about you?” Sakura returned the smile and buckled her seatbelt.

“There’ll be time for talking once we’re at the bar,” Ino cut in, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling up. “Let’s go, babe,” she added with a grin at Sai.

“As you wish, beautiful,” Sai replied, smiling back as he started the car and pulled away.

They arrived at a sleek, modern building, where a long queue of patrons waited to be let in. Everyone was dressed similarly to Sakura and Ino—the women in chic outfits, the men in suits or dark jeans paired with button-down shirts and jackets. The air buzzed with excitement, everyone eager to kick off the weekend and spend time with friends.

Sakura felt herself swept up in the atmosphere, her earlier reservations fading as they were ushered into the club. The interior was just as sleek as the exterior. A dance floor dominated the centre of the room, flanked by tables, chairs, and booths. The main bar stretched across the back wall, brightly lit and drawing attention. Stairs led to the upper levels, reserved for premium patrons with access to their own bar. That’s where Sakura and the others headed.

They were greeted by Tenten and Hinata, who hugged them warmly and gushed over their outfits before ushering them towards the low sofas, where Naruto and Neji were already seated.

“We’ve ordered you guys some drinks,” Tenten shouted over the thumping music, gesturing to the low table in the centre.

Sakura picked up what she assumed was hers—yuzu gin and lemonade. She raised her glass, and together the group toasted to good health and a night out. She took several sips, enjoying the refreshing taste as she listened to the chatter around her.

“How did it go at Itachi’s parents’ place?” Tenten asked during their second round of drinks.

“Ughhh!” Sakura groaned, recalling the awkward evening. She picked up her glass and took a large sip. “It was horrible.”

She told them about the tense dinner, the way his father had spoken to them, and the general discomfort of the whole affair. “I swear, I never want to be in the same room as that man again,” she said, shuddering at the memory and taking another long sip.

They chatted and drank some more before Ino pulled them all onto the dance floor.

---

Itachi stood and stretched, the pull in his back easing as tension released from hours spent hunched over. The day had been long—site visits, contract checks, conversations with the workmen. He asked questions, listened, offered suggestions when asked. Always respectful. Always direct.

He spoke to the workmen as equals. It was a principle he held quietly but firmly. Without them, the company wouldn’t exist. His father hated that. Considered it beneath him. Every time Itachi shook a calloused hand or lingered too long in conversation, he could feel the weight of that disapproval—even when his father wasn’t there.

The rest of the day had passed in his office, finalising contracts, ensuring timelines were realistic, contingencies in place. He didn’t mind the solitude. It gave him control, clarity. But lately, even the silence felt heavy.

He checked his watch—half past seven. Later than he’d meant to stay. He saved the files, shut down the computer, and tidied the paperwork into neat stacks. His phone slipped into his pocket with a familiar weight.

He paused at the door, hand on the frame, and glanced back at the room. It was clean, ordered, efficient. Just like him. Just like his father had taught him to be.

But somewhere between the spreadsheets and the silence, he wondered if he’d become too much like the man he’d spent years trying not to emulate.

Outside, the car park was empty. His was the only vehicle left. He got in, started the engine, and drove home in silence—no music, no distractions. Just the hum of the road and the quiet ache of a day done.

Itachi walked into the house, expecting to hear music, pots and pans boiling—expecting to find the place a mess. Instead, he was greeted by silence. The space around him was clean, tidy.

He raised an eyebrow at the sight and walked further in, finding both the kitchen and living room empty. Shrugging off his jacket, he headed towards the bathroom, knocking lightly to see if Sakura was inside. No answer.

He opened the door and was met with warm, damp air—as if the shower had just been used. Closing it again, he walked into the bedroom, finding it empty too, save for a few of Sakura’s clothes left lying on the bed. He sighed. So much for hoping she’d learnt to put her things away.

A fragrant scent lingered in the air. Not overpowering, but distinct—soft floral notes threaded with something sharper, like citrus or spice. Itachi paused, his gaze drifting across the room. The scent was familiar, but not quite hers. Or not the version of her he had come to know since she started living in his house.

He stood still for a moment, listening. No footsteps. No movement. Just the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted. The silence suited him—especially after it had been broken two weeks ago.

He wondered where Sakura had gone. They’d been speaking amicably the past few days, but he supposed they weren’t close enough to share their whereabouts—especially since he’d left that morning without a word or a note.

Grabbing a change of clothes, he headed into the bathroom and washed away the day’s grime and stress.

As he walked towards the kitchen, a knock sounded at the door. He wondered if it was Sakura, returning from wherever she’d gone. A flicker of annoyance passed through him—why hadn’t she used the keys he’d given her?

He opened the door and found Kisame and Shisui standing there, both wearing smirks.

“What do you want?” Itachi asked, turning away from the door and heading to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water.

“We’ve come to take you out,” Shisui said with a wide grin, bracing his arms against the breakfast bar. “It’s been a while.”

“And?” Itachi sipped his water, eyeing them both.

“And you’re joining us,” Kisame added, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Even if we have to drag you out.” He grinned, sharp teeth on full display.

Itachi leaned against the counter, glass in hand, watching Kisame and Shisui settle in like they owned the place. Their presence was loud, even without words—grins too wide, movements too casual. The silence he’d returned to had felt almost sacred, and now it was shattered.

He wasn’t sure if he minded.

Kisame was already rifling through the fridge, muttering about the lack of beer, while Shisui wandered towards the living room, peering around like he expected someone else to be there.

“Sakura not home?” Shisui asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Itachi didn’t answer right away. He took another sip of water, letting the coolness ground him. “No.”

Shisui raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Kisame snorted and shut the fridge with a thud. “You need to get out more. This place smells like lavender and loneliness.”

Itachi’s lips twitched. “You’re poetic now?”

“Only when I’m trying to guilt-trip you,” Kisame said, already heading for the door. “Come on. We’ve got a table booked and Shisui’s wearing cologne, which means he’s trying to impress someone.”

Shisui rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to avoid smelling like Kisame’s gym bag.”

Itachi hesitated. The quiet had been comforting, but maybe too much so. The scent of Sakura still lingered, and with it, the echo of something unspoken between them. He wasn’t sure what it was yet—but it tugged at him.

He set the glass down and grabbed his jacket.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not staying late.”

Kisame clapped him on the back. “We’ll see about that.”

Phone and keys in hand, Itachi followed his friends out to the waiting car. The drive to Konoha Lounge was loud—music blaring, Kisame shouting. Itachi tried to tune him out, but no matter how hard he tried, Kisame’s booming voice cut through everything.

Once parked, they made their way into the lounge, finding it packed with bodies and the music deafening—almost headache-inducing. They pushed through the crowd to the upper levels, weaving past gyrating bodies and grabbing hands. Clearing the stairs, the trio headed to the bar and ordered their drinks.

“Here’s to a good night out!” Shisui cheered, tapping his bottle against the others, grinning wide.

Itachi took a sip of his cold beer and glanced around. His eyes landed on Neji Hyuga, who was leaning against the railing, looking back at him. They nodded in greeting before the trio moved to the other side of the level.

The music was still loud, but no longer overwhelming. Shisui leaned against the barrier and looked down at the crowd—people dancing, laughing, enjoying themselves. He turned to find Itachi tucked away near the back, hiding from all the fun. He glanced at Kisame and raised an eyebrow; the larger man simply shrugged.

They walked over to Itachi and sat down with a heavy sigh.

“Is there a reason you’re being antisocial in the corner?” Shisui asked, sipping his drink.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I don’t want to be in the centre of all the noise. You don’t need to babysit me—go and have fun,” Itachi said plainly.

He kept his gaze fixed on his friends, fingers loosely clasped around the neck of the bottle. He watched as his friends sauntered away, leaving him to his solitude. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He’d never been one for nights out, yet here he was—dragged along by well-meaning friends.

Once he'd finished his drink, he stood and made his way to the bar, ordering another bottle. As he waited, his eyes drifted to the large group gathered on the far side of the upper level. Naruto stood out instantly—his bright yellow-blonde hair impossible to miss. Beside him was his wife, Hinata, heiress to Hyuga Corp.

Next to them stood another woman, her black hair just visible through the crowd. He remembered seeing her with Sakura at the wedding and assumed they were friends, especially given that Hinata, the dark-haired woman, and a blonde woman had all worn matching dresses and stood beside Sakura throughout the night. He looked around, no sight of the blonde woman, or Sakura for the matter. He assumed that his wife was here somewhere.

Drink paid for, he drifted towards the barrier, the bass thudding through the soles of his shoes like a second heartbeat. Below, Kisame and Shisui moved in rhythm with a cluster of women, their laughter rising in bursts, bright and fleeting as fireworks.

His gaze skimmed the crowd, faces blurring into colour and motion—until it snagged. Pink hair. Vivid, unmistakable. The same strands he’d find tangled in his bedsheets, clinging to the shower tiles, or stuck to the soles of his feet like ghosts of touch. Sakura.

She was dancing with her blonde friend, spinning beneath the strobe lights, her smile wide and unguarded. His eyes tracked her, drawn to each turn and twist of her body like a moth to flame. The music pulsed around him, but all he could hear was the thud of his own heartbeat, out of sync with the rhythm below. He watched as the blonde friend walked away, beelining towards the busy bar.

Other men watched her too—eyes full of want, of hunger. They lingered at the edges of the dance floor, calculating, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and claim her for a song or a night.

One of them stepped forward. A hand slid around her waist, pulling her close, his chest pressed flush against her back. The sight hit him like a punch to the ribs. He tensed, breath caught, waiting. Would she brush the man off, laugh it away, say she was married? Or would she let it happen—let herself be swept into someone else’s orbit, even just for tonight?

Technically, she was his wife. On paper. In the eyes of the law. But the last two weeks had stripped that title of meaning. She filled his house with tension, turned his sanctuary into a battleground of sighs and silences. And he knew she found him just as intolerable. Still, there’d been that moment—brief, fragile—at his parents’ house. A flicker of something. But was that enough to tether them to loyalty? He didn’t know.

Sakura turned in the man’s arms, letting him draw her closer as the music swelled. Her smile flickered, not quite reaching her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she moved with him—graceful, composed, yet distant. Her shoulders remained taut, her posture too careful, as if she were performing rather than enjoying.

He watched her, jaw tightening. The way she danced—elegant but guarded—made something twist inside him. The lights blurred, the crowd faded into a dull hum, and all he could feel was the heat rising in his chest. Anger, perhaps. Or something far more complicated. Something that clawed at him from the inside, watching her give herself to the moment, but not to the man.

He didn’t remember deciding to move. One moment he was watching from above, the next he was threading through the crowd, the music pounding against his ribs like a warning. Bodies pressed in on all sides, but his focus was singular—Sakura.

---

Sakura turned in the arms of the man who held her. He was handsome, smirking, confident. She danced with him for a while, letting the music guide her movements, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere—to another man. A man with onyx eyes, eyes that didn’t just look at her but seemed to see through her. Eyes that held things he never said aloud. She thought about the tattoo of the crow, how it moved with him, how it felt like a warning or a promise. She remembered the way he had stood up for her—not with grand gestures, but with quiet certainty. There was something about him that unsettled her, something that made her feel exposed and seen in ways she wasn’t ready for. Her husband. The man she was supposed to hate. The man who made her feel something.

“What’s bothering you sweetheart?” the man said close to her ear, pulling her out of her thoughts.

Sakura pulled out of his arms slightly, “look, you’re gorgeous and all, but… I’m married.”

The man kept his hands on her waist, “and?”

“And this,” she waved a hand in the space between them, “isn’t going to happen.”

The man nodded with a knowing smirk, “but a dance can’t hurt, can it?”

Before Sakura could reply, Itachi was there, pulling the man away from her, standing in front of her. Sakura blinked several times, sure that she was imaging Itachi standing in front of her. I’ve had too much to drink. She placed a hand against his chest, nope, he’s real. She looked up at him, into those onyx pools that looked down at her, emotions swirling around them. “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Itachi countered, voice low, eyes unreadable.

People danced around them, oblivious. The music surged, but they stood still—locked in a moment that didn’t belong to the club.

“Are you following me?” Sakura asked, incredulously, her eyes narrowing at him suspiciously.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?” She questioned again, her tone turning hard with accusation.

“I came out for a few drinks with my friends and happened to find you here, dancing with strangers.”

Sakura raised her chin, refusing to let him look down at her. “And, what is your point?”

Before Itachi could reply, Ino walked towards them. “Here,” she handed Sakura a glass, “that queue was the longest ever!” she grumbled, taking a sip of her drink. She looked over and found Itachi standing close to Sakura and raised a pointed, well-manicured eyebrow. “Am I disturbing something?” she asked

Sakura shook her head. “Nope.” She took a large sip of her drink and grabbed Ino’s hand, leading them both away from Itachi and his disapproving stare.

“What’s your husband doing here?” Ino asked once they’d moved a safe distance away.

“I don’t know or care,” Sakura replied, taking another large sip. The alcohol had started to hit her, making her feel slightly light-headed. But she shrugged it off, finished her drink, and made her way towards the bar to get another. She could still feel Itachi’s stare on her back, following her. When she looked around, she couldn’t see him.

Good. I hope he’s left.

Yet she found herself thinking about the way he’d looked at her when he approached—the way his eyes had burned with something. An emotion that threatened to burn her, consume her.

I’m imagining things.

Sakura walked back onto the dance floor with her drink. She danced away her irritation, letting the music drown out her thoughts—until she stumbled. Strong hands gripped her, held her upright.

“You’re done. I’m taking you home,” Itachi told her.

“What?” Sakura shouted, glaring at him. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Itachi’s expression didn’t shift. “We’re leaving.”

She yanked her arm, trying to break free. “No, you’re leaving. I’m staying.”

The music pulsed around them, drowning out everything but the heat in her voice. She turned sharply, pushing deeper into the crowd, disappearing between bodies swaying to the beat.

Itachi followed, jaw clenched, eyes locked on her. “Sakura,” he said again, louder this time, “we’re going. Now.”

She didn’t stop. “I said no!”

She tried to wedge herself further into the crush of dancers, but he caught her wrist again—this time with less patience. She twisted, ready to snap, but he pulled her back with a sharp tug that made her stumble into him.

Before she could protest, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her waist, tying it tight to cover the hem of her dress that had ridden up in the chaos. Then, in one swift motion, he bent and hauled her over his shoulder.

“What the hell—Itachi!” she shrieked, fists pounding against his back. “Put me down!”

One arm locked around her legs, pressing the jacket against them, shielding her from the stares of onlookers. The other braced her weight as he strode toward the exit, unmoved by the gasps and laughter trailing behind them.

She kicked, cursed, twisted—but his grip didn’t loosen.

“You’re flashing half the club,” he muttered, not slowing.

“I don’t care!”

“Well, I do.”

Outside, the night air hit them like a slap—cool, sharp, sobering. He set her down on the pavement, but kept hold of her arm as she tried to storm off again.

He raised a hand, hailing the nearest taxi. The cab pulled up with a screech of tyres and a flicker of neon light.

“Get in,” he said, opening the door.

She hesitated, jaw tight, eyes burning—but climbed in anyway, sliding across the seat with stiff movements.

Itachi got in beside her, shutting the door with finality.

The silence between them was thick, suffocating. Neither spoke. The cab rolled forward, headlights slicing through the dark, but inside the car, it was all clenched jaws and crossed arms.

She stared out the window, refusing to look at him. He sat rigid beside her, gaze fixed ahead, knuckles pale against his knee.

The tension didn’t crack. It just settled—low and heavy, like a storm waiting to break.

The taxi pulled into the driveway with a low hum, headlights sweeping across the front of the house. Before the car had fully stopped, Sakura shoved the door open and stormed out, heels clicking furiously against the pavement.

Itachi stayed behind just long enough to pay the driver, his movements calm but clipped. He stepped out into the night, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud, and followed her up the path.

Sakura marched up the steps, yanked the keys from her clutch, and unlocked the front door with sharp, jerky movements. The moment it swung open, she stormed inside, heels striking the floor with deliberate fury.

Without looking back, she tore Itachi’s jacket from her waist and flung it onto the hallway floor, the fabric landing in a crumpled heap.

Then she stood there—arms folded, foot tapping, waiting for him to follow.

Itachi stepped inside moments later, shutting the door gently behind him. He locked it, placed his keys away, and bent to pick up the discarded jacket. He could feel Sakura’s angry gaze tracking his every movement.

“What the hell is your problem?” she finally shouted, breaking the tense silence.

“Stopping you from making a scene,” he replied coolly, hanging up his jacket.

He walked further into the house, the sharp tapping of Sakura’s heels following close behind.

“I wasn’t making a scene! If anyone did, it was you!”

“You were drunk. You could barely walk.” He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and took a sip.

“I am not drunk! I was fine—I was dancing, enjoying myself, until you came along!” she seethed.

“Didn’t look like that to me.” He took another sip, eyes fixed on her—taking in her flushed skin, her rigid stance, the fury burning in her gaze.

Sakura clenched her jaw tightly, her teeth grinding against one another harshly. Her heartbeat thumped through her, deafening her. “You seriously have some issues! No one goes around acting like that, grabbing people, and throwing them over their shoulders, and taking them home against their will.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when the other guy was grabbing you, pawing at you,” Itachi countered, his jaw tensing.

Sakura looked at him with narrowed eyes, before laughing once, bitter, and sharp. “You did all this because you were jealous?”

Itachi didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on Sakura, his jaw tensing further.

“I can’t believe you! Neither of us want to be here, stuck in this marriage, chained for eternity. Hell, you’ve made it quite clear how you feel about my being here. Sure, we seemed to get along yesterday, but this—” she waved her hands between them, “the way you acted, it’s stupid.”

Itachi placed his glass down and stalked towards Sakura. It was almost like a dance—each step he took forward, she stepped back. A sense of déjà vu hit him. How many times had he had her pinned against a wall to make a point?

When her back hit the wall and a soft breath left her, he placed his hands next to her head, caging her in. He moved his body closer to hers, leaving just enough space that they weren’t touching.

He felt her shaky breath hit his face, the scent sweet and tinged with alcohol. “I don’t like it when people touch things that belong to me,” he told her quietly, his eyes falling to her mouth—her lips parted slightly—before looking back up at her eyes.

“I am not your property,” Sakura snapped.

“No, you’re my wife,” he agreed.

“Only on paper,” she countered bitterly. “Why would you care who I danced with, who I touched, or spent my time with?”

“Because,” his gaze fell back on her lips, the energy between them charged, changed. He moved closer still, his mouth lingering near hers. He felt Sakura take in a deep, audible breath, slowly letting it out. Her body pressed further against the wall, yet somehow leaned toward his. Her gaze flicked between his mouth and eyes, her tongue darting to lick her bottom lip.

“Because what?” Sakura whispered low, her breathing fast. The way he looked at her, the energy around them—it made her feel lightheaded.

Itachi didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on her lips, then flicked back to her eyes—dark, unreadable, but burning with something unspoken.

Sakura’s breath caught. The air between them pulsed, thick with heat and hesitation. Her heart thudded against her ribs, loud and insistent.

He leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

His mouth brushed hers—tentative, almost reverent. Her lips parted, soft and uncertain, and he deepened the kiss, slow and searching, like he was memorising the shape of her mouth. One of his hands slid from the wall to her waist, fingers splayed, anchoring her as if afraid she might vanish.

Sakura’s hands hovered, then gripped his shirt tightly, knuckles bunching the fabric. The kiss shifted—no longer careful, no longer measured. Itachi pressed in, mouth demanding, claiming, the tension between them snapping taut. His other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back as he kissed her harder, deeper, like he was trying to brand her with every breath.

She responded in kind, her body arching into his, breath catching as the kiss turned brutal, breathless. Their mouths clashed, teeth grazing, lips bruising. His hand slid lower, fingers skimming the curve of her hip, pulling her closer until there was nothing left between them but heat and friction.

She gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, chasing it with another kiss—rougher, hungrier. Her fingers tugged at his shirt, desperate, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her lips.

It was messy, raw, and far too much—but neither of them pulled away. If anything, they clung harder, as if the only way to stay grounded was to lose themselves in each other.

Then her phone rang.

The shrill sound sliced through the moment, making them both jump. Sakura tore herself back, gasping, her hand fumbling for the device. Itachi stepped away, chest rising and falling, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the screen as if it had personally offended him.

Sakura glanced down. “It’s my mum,” she muttered, swiping to answer.

“Mum?” she said, voice still breathless.

“Hi, sweetheart! Just checking you’re still coming over tomorrow evening. I’ve planned a proper dinner, and Itachi’s invited too, of course—he’s part of the family now, isn’t he?”

Sakura blinked, her gaze flicking to Itachi, who had turned away, his expression unreadable. “Right. Yeah. We’ll be there,” she said, trying to steady her voice.

There was a pause on the line.

“You sound out of breath. Is everything alright?”

Sakura hesitated. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… moved around too quickly.”

Her mum hummed, unconvinced but unwilling to press. “Alright, love. Well, we’ll see you both tomorrow afternoon. Your dad’s looking forward to it too.”

The call ended. Silence settled between them again, heavier than before.

Sakura lowered the phone slowly. “They’re expecting us.”

Itachi didn’t look at her. “Of course they are.”

They stared at one another, neither speaking for a long moment. Then, as if coming to their senses, they both stepped away.

Sakura turned towards the bedroom, walked in, grabbed her pyjamas, and made her way to the bathroom. She shut the door and pressed her body against it, groaning inwardly at what had just happened between them. She could still feel his lips on hers.

With shaky fingers, she touched her mouth, a soft moan bubbling in her throat.

No. Not happening, she told herself firmly.

But her body betrayed her—still humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he’d kissed her like he meant it. Like he needed it.

She pushed off the door and went through her nightly routine—washing off her makeup, brushing her teeth. The mirror didn’t help. Her reflection looked flushed, unsettled. Like someone she didn’t quite recognise.

What the hell was that? she thought, scrubbing harder than necessary. A moment of madness? Desperation? Possession?

She changed into her pyjamas, then gathered her dress and shoes before returning to the bedroom.

Itachi was already in bed; his back turned to her.

He lay still, eyes open, staring into the dark.

He heard her moving—soft footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the quiet clink of something being set down. Every sound sharpened his awareness, made his pulse thrum harder.

Why did I react like that? he thought, replaying the scene at the club. Seeing that guy touch her—laugh with her—like she was his to handle. I lost control. That’s not me.

But it had been. He’d grabbed her, dragged her out, kissed her like he was trying to stake a claim. Brutal. Desperate.

Was it jealousy? Possessiveness? Or something worse—something I don’t want to admit?

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight.

She kissed me back. That truth sat heavy in his chest, tangled with everything he didn’t know how to say. The way her hands had clutched his shirt. The way her breath had hitched. The way she hadn’t pulled away.

But what is she feeling now? Confused? Angry? Regretful?

He heard her pause, then the bed dipped slightly as she climbed in beside him. No words. No touch. Just silence.

He kept his back to her, muscles tense, pretending to sleep.

I shouldn’t want this. But I do.

And that scared him more than anything.

Chapter 16

Itachi’s eyes opened to the hush of early light filtering through the curtains. The world was quiet, suspended. But she was there—Sakura—curled beside him, her breath soft and even, still lost in sleep.

She’d shifted closer in the night. He could feel the warmth of her body, the gentle press of her arm against his. Not accidental. Not quite deliberate. As if her subconscious had reached for him, and his had answered.

He hadn’t meant to move. But he had. Somewhere between sleep and waking, he’d turned toward her, drawn by something he couldn’t name. Now, their foreheads nearly touched. Her lashes fluttered faintly, her lips parted in sleep, and he could feel the whisper of her breath against his skin.

He watched her, unmoving. The space between them was barely a breath, yet it thrummed with tension. Not the kind that demanded action—but the kind that made him acutely aware of every inch of her. Of the memory of her mouth beneath his. Of the way she’d responded—not just physically, but emotionally. Unspoken. Unresolved.

She stirred slightly, her fingers brushing his chest in sleep. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat.

They were still. But not distant.

And somehow, that closeness felt more dangerous than any touch.

Itachi lay motionless, every muscle held in quiet discipline. Sakura’s breath warmed the space between them, her fingers curled lightly against his chest, still lost in sleep.

But now, with her so close, restraint became a blade pressed to his own throat.

He could feel the memory of her kiss lingering on his skin—brutal, unguarded, real. It haunted him more than it should. Her body, relaxed in sleep, betrayed none of the tension she carried when awake. No guarded glances. No sharp words. Just softness. Vulnerability.

His hand twitched, aching to touch her. To trace the curve of her cheek. To feel her warmth not by accident, but by choice.

But he didn’t.

Because if he reached for her now, it wouldn’t be gentle.

So, he stayed still. Let the silence stretch. Let her sleep, unaware of the storm she’d stirred in him.

And in that stillness, he hated how much he wanted her.

His hand twitched again.

Not from impulse, but from the slow erosion of control. Her breath warmed his chest; her fingers still curled there like a promise she hadn’t meant to make. And he—he was unravelling.

The memory of her kiss burned through him. Not just the feel of it, but the way she’d responded. No hesitation. No fear. Just raw, unfiltered need. It had undone him then. It was undoing him now.

His gaze drifted to her face—peaceful, unguarded. She looked nothing like the woman who met him with sharp words and narrowed eyes. This version of her was softer. Closer. And it made something inside him ache.

He leaned in, just slightly. Just enough to feel the whisper of her breath against his cheek. His fingers hovered near her waist, aching to close the distance. To touch. To claim.

But then—

He stopped.

The desire clawing at him was too much. Too dangerous. If he stayed, he would cross a line neither of them could uncross.

So, he pulled back.

Slowly. Carefully.

Her fingers slipped from his chest as he shifted, the warmth between them breaking like a spell. He sat up, movements fluid and silent, and stepped out of the bed without a sound.

The air felt colder. His skin felt wrong.

But he didn’t look back.

Quietly, he grabbed his gym bag, shoved in a change of clothes, and slipped into the bathroom. The mirror caught him off guard—eyes dull, jaw tight. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and dressed for the gym with mechanical precision, each movement a silent rebellion against the weight pressing on his chest.

He didn’t look back as he left the house. The air felt thick, the silence between him and Sakura still clinging to the walls like smoke. No words, no resolution—just that lingering ache of things unsaid. He slid behind the wheel, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he pulled away.

Kisame’s gym. The one place where thought gave way to motion, where sweat drowned out the noise in his head. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find clarity between the reps.

---

Sakura woke to an empty bed—again. One arm lay draped across Itachi’s side, as if she’d rolled over in the night and reached for him, pressed herself against him. Surely not, she thought.

She sat up slowly, her head pounding from a mix of alcohol and the tension that had simmered between her and Itachi the night before. Running a hand across her face, she groaned, “What am I going to do?”

With no answer forthcoming, she reached for her phone—only to come up empty. Another groan escaped her as she climbed out of bed, searching for her bag. She found it in the hallway, right where she’d thrown it against the table in anger last night.

Phone in hand, she unlocked the screen to find several messages waiting. Some were from the group chat, asking what the hell had happened. Sakura wondered the same, her eyes drifting to the wall she’d been pinned against—the place where he’d kissed her, brutally, possessively. And she’d kissed him back with just as much fire.

She shook her head, refusing to dwell on how she’d responded. But her body betrayed her, reacting to the phantom touch that still lingered.

She scrolled through the rest of her messages, spotting several from Ino—all asking what had happened. Sakura checked the time: 7:30. Ino would still be in bed and likely turn into a grizzly bear if her hibernation was disturbed. Instead, she sent Ino a message, letting her know she was okay, keeping the message brief, and not bothering to say anything about the kiss.

Her mind buzzed with questions, thoughts, and images. She didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel. So, she decided to go to the gym.

Not wanting to drive to her usual spot, she opened the browser on her phone and searched for something closer. Iron Shark Gym. She clicked the website and checked the directions—twenty minutes on foot or six minutes by car. She chose to walk.

Back in the bedroom, she pulled out her gym shorts and top, got dressed, grabbed her earbuds from her work bag, and slid them into her ears. Music on, she headed out.

---

Sakura arrived at a large warehouse that had been converted into a gym. The name—Iron Shark Gym—was bolted to the side of the building, alongside a cartoonish image of a shark with a wide grin pumping iron.

She stepped inside and tapped the terminal, purchasing a day pass. Once paid, the doors slid open and she walked in.

The gym was nearly empty, save for a few early risers working out. Sakura headed to the functional area, grabbed a mat, and began her stretches. Then she moved to the treadmill and started an inclined run.

The treadmill hummed beneath her feet, each step pounding out a rhythm she tried to lose herself in. Sweat prickled at her skin, but it wasn’t just exertion—it was the heat of memory.

His breath against her lips.
The press of his body, pinning her to the wall.

The way her fingers had curled into his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

Sakura clenched her jaw, increasing the incline. She needed to burn it out of her. The tension. The confusion. The way her body had responded before her mind could catch up.

“You wanted that,” a voice whispered in her head—hers, but not hers. She shook it off, focusing on the beat in her ears, the thud of her trainers against the belt.

But the images kept coming.

The look in his eyes—dark, unreadable, but burning.
The way her lips had parted before his met hers.
The sound she’d made when he kissed her.

She stumbled slightly, catching herself with a hand on the rail. Her heart was racing, but not just from the run.

Why didn’t I stop him?
Why did I kiss him back like that?
What does it mean?

She pushed harder, legs aching, lungs burning. She wanted to outrun the questions, the guilt, the thrill that still curled low in her belly.

The phantom touch still lingered.
And her body still remembered.

She hit stop on the treadmill, her breath coming out fast, while her heart thumped through her body. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to remember. She grabbed her towel and wiped at her face, wiping away the sweat, grabbed her bottle and took a large gulp of water before moving towards the cable machines. She pulled down the cables, attached the clips to her ankle cuffs and started her workout. Lost in her workout, she didn’t notice the attention she was gaining.

---

Itachi finished his rep and sat up, muscles taut, breath steady—only to find Kisame leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with that maddeningly unreadable stare.

“Say whatever you need to say,” Itachi muttered, grabbing his towel.

Kisame didn’t miss a beat. “Care to explain your behaviour last night, caveman?”

Itachi’s jaw ticked. “There’s nothing to explain.”

He wiped his face, trying to scrub away more than just sweat. So much for avoiding his thoughts—especially when his friends were determined to drag them back into the light.

“I beg to differ,” Kisame said, pushing off the wall. “You threw your wife over your shoulder and stormed out like a man possessed. We all saw it.”

Itachi’s grip tightened on the towel. Of course they did. The image of Sakura—furious, flailing, humiliated—flashed through his mind, followed by the memory of her in another man’s arms. Then the kiss. Heated. Messy. Unplanned.

“She was drunk,” he said flatly.

“That doesn’t explain why you carried her out like she was a sack of rice,” Kisame shot back. “You looked like you were ready to break someone.”

Itachi ground his teeth, the tension in his jaw sharp. How was he supposed to explain something he didn’t fully understand himself? They could barely tolerate each other most days—snapping, clashing, circling like predators—and yet he’d acted like a jealous fool. Two weeks. That’s all they’d known each other. Not months. Not years. Just two chaotic, frustrating weeks. So why had he reacted like that?

The kiss lingered in his thoughts. The way her lips parted. The way her fingers curled into his shirt. She’d responded. But was it real? Or just adrenaline, alcohol, and proximity?

Did I kiss her because I wanted to? Or because I needed to prove something?

He shook his head, trying to chase the thoughts away. He didn’t want to be plagued by them—not here, not now.

Kisame raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more. When none came, he sighed and gestured toward the front of the gym. “Come on.”

They walked in silence until they reached the main floor, where a group of men were huddled together, murmuring, and sneaking glances toward the cable machines.

Kisame scanned the room, then smirked. “Well, well.”

Itachi followed his gaze—and froze.

There she was.

Sakura, clad in fitted gym gear, focused and fierce, working the cables with precision. Her pink hair was tied back, her expression unreadable. But Itachi felt the shift in the room—the way eyes lingered, the way attention pooled around her.

He stiffened, his grip tightening around the straps of his bag and the towel. His eyes narrowed, tracking every movement she made.

Kisame glanced sideways. “You sure there’s nothing to explain?”

Itachi didn’t answer. But his silence spoke volumes.

“Yeah,” Kisame said, chuckling low, “funny, you keep insisting there’s nothing going on, your face says otherwise.”

Before Itachi could act like a caveman again, Kisame strode over to the group silently.

“If you lot want to keep working out here,” he said, voice low and deliberate, enjoying the way the grown men jumped at the sound, “you’ll stop ogling my customers and get back to your pathetic lives before I kick you out of my premises.”

He watched with satisfaction as they dispersed, each throwing a final glance over their shoulder—only to find Itachi standing nearby, his gaze murderous. One look from him was enough to send the stragglers scurrying faster.

Itachi’s gaze lingered on Sakura a moment longer—unreadable, taut with something unspoken. He weighed whether to approach her and take her back, or leave her be, the memory of what happened last time still vivid. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the gym, his departure as sharp and deliberate as his glare.

Kisame watched his friend leave, and said to his retreating back, “see you later pretty boy.” He walked over to Sakura, leaned against the wall, and waited for her to finish her set.

Sakura looked up to find the large man whose name she couldn’t recall, though she recognised him from her wedding—one of Itachi’s friends. She finished her rep and stood, unhooking herself from the machine. Grabbing her towel, she wiped her face and turned to face him. His arms were folded across his chest, muscles bulging against his shirt as if they might tear through the fabric by sheer force alone.

“Can I help you…?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.

“No, but maybe I can help you,” he replied, smirking broadly.

Sakura raised an eyebrow.

“You happen to be in my gym, Pinky.”

She rolled her eyes. She couldn’t stand it when beefcakes like him acted as if the gym they worked in belonged to them. “Sure, buddy,” she said dryly, adjusting the cable machine for her next exercise.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Kisame chuckled, “but I assure you—I own this gym. It’s my pride and joy. Hence the shark logo.” He grinned wider, letting her see his teeth—teeth he’d often been told resembled a shark’s.

Sakura looked him over again. It made sense. Someone like him owning a gym suited him. “Okay, so why are you here, next to me?”

“Came to see what you’re up to—and to stop your dear caveman of a husband from slinging you over his shoulder again,” he said, smirking knowingly, then added a wink for good measure.

She glanced around quickly at the comment, scanning the room to see if Itachi was indeed here, spying on her. But he was nowhere in sight.

“Don’t worry, Pinky. He left a few minutes ago—after glaring at half the men in here for blatantly checking you out while you worked out,” Kisame chuckled, watching her eyes flit across the room.

Sakura ignored him, adjusted the weights, and resumed her reps.

“Mind if I help with form?” Kisame asked after a moment. “You’re strong, but you’re overcompensating on the left side.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”

They spent the next half hour working through her sets. Kisame was surprisingly patient, offering tips without condescension, cracking jokes to keep her from spiralling too deep into her thoughts. She found herself relaxing—just a little.

During a water break, he leaned against the machine beside her, arms folded. “You holding up alright?”

She glanced at him, wary. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Just asking. Things seem... tense. Between you and Itachi.”

Sakura snorted softly. “That obvious?” She wondered whether Itachi had said something to the large man, seeing as the large man had hinted of Itachi’s presence earlier. She didn’t know Itachi well, if at all, so she wasn’t sure whether he would have said something or alluded to something.  

“Only to someone who knows him,” Kisame said, voice low but not unkind. “He’s not exactly subtle when he’s brooding.”

He paused, then added, “I mean—you’ve only been married two weeks. I figured you’d have at least spoken by now or something.”

Sakura stiffened, the towel halfway to her face. “We’ve spoken,” she said curtly, then dropped the towel into her bag. “Just not about anything that matters.”

Kisame raised a brow but didn’t push.

She exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “I’m not exactly thrilled to be married to someone I barely know.”

“Fair,” he said, after a beat. “Still. You both deserve better.”

Her gaze flicked to him. But she didn’t reply—just turned back to the machine and adjusted the weights for her final set.

When she finally finished, her body aching and her mind quieter, she grabbed her things and slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Thanks,” she said, pausing at the door.

Kisame gave her a nod. “Anytime, Pinky. If you ever want help with your workouts, just ask. No strings.”

She gave him a look—half amused, half grateful. “I’ll think about it.”

“Take your time,” he said, already turning back to the weights. “You know where to find me.”

The sun was high but gentle, casting soft shadows across the pavement. Her legs burned, her thoughts buzzed, but the tension from earlier had dulled into something slower, heavier. She didn’t know what she’d say when she saw him again—or if she’d say anything at all.

But for now, she just walked.

Sakura stepped through the front door, her limbs heavy from the workout and the silence that had followed it. She didn’t pause. Didn’t call out. She headed straight to the bedroom, dropped her gym bag, and walked into the bathroom.

The shower hissed to life. She stripped, stepped beneath the spray, and let the water surround her—consume her.

It was scalding, almost punishing, but she didn’t flinch. She welcomed the heat, the sting against her skin, as if it could burn away the tension still clinging to her. The silence of the drive, the way Itachi had looked at her without saying a word—it all echoed too loudly in her chest.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting the water run over her face, down her neck, across her shoulders. If she stayed here long enough, maybe the ache would dissolve. Maybe the confusion would swirl down the drain with the steam and soap suds.

She pressed her palms to the tiled wall, breathing through the tightness in her chest.

Alone, she tried to scrub away feelings that refused to be rinsed clean.

Across the house, Itachi sat in his office, fingers poised over the keyboard. He’d been working since they returned—emails, reports, deadlines. The usual. But when he heard the front door open, his hands stilled.

He didn’t get up. Didn’t call out.

He listened to the distant sound of the shower starting, the faint echo of water against tile. Then he resumed typing, his expression unreadable, his focus fractured.

Sakura stepped out of the shower, dried herself, and dressed. Her hair clung damply to her skin, her muscles sore, her thoughts no quieter than before. She walked into the bedroom, grabbed her brush, and ran it through her tangled strands.

No sign of him.

She moved to the living room, settled into the corner of the sofa with a book and a cappuccino. The steam curled upward, warm against her face, but it did nothing to ease the chill in her chest.

A few minutes later, she heard footsteps.

Itachi walked into the kitchen, silent as ever. He moved with that same measured calm, reaching for a mug and making himself a cappuccino at the machine.

Sakura’s gaze followed him—just for a moment. The line of his shoulders, the way his hand curled around the cup, the faint tension in his jaw.

Then both glanced toward the wall.

The one he’d pinned her against.

The memory flickered—brief, electric. That kiss. That moment. That breathless, reckless heat.

Their eyes met.

Neither spoke.

Then, just as quickly, Itachi looked away. He turned, mug in hand, and walked back toward his office. The door clicked shut behind him.

Sakura watched as Itachi retreated to his office—without a word, without even a glance.
She’d wondered if he might say something. Anything about last night. But no.

Then again, she didn’t know what to say either.

If he wanted to pretend nothing had happened between them, fine. She could do that too.
She could pretend that brutal, bruising kiss hadn’t happened.

But her body betrayed the lie—still humming with unspoken desire, pooling low in her belly.
She forced the feeling away and grabbed her book, willing herself to read. To forget.

Silence surrounded her, and she let herself get lost in her book, not paying attention to the time.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, cutting through the quiet. She reached for it and found a message from her mother:

Just a reminder, darling—you and Itachi are coming over for dinner later. Don’t be late!

Sakura stared at the screen, her stomach tightening. She’d completely forgotten. Dinner. With her parents. With him.

She checked the time—half past four—and groaned. They needed to get ready.

Sliding off the sofa, she walked toward Itachi’s office. Her hand hovered near the door, uncertain. Then, with a quiet breath, she knocked twice.

Itachi stood, opened the door, and looked at her.

Sakura met his gaze, her eyes drifting to his lips before she could stop herself. The memory of their last encounter flickered through her mind like a broken reel.

“What’s the matter?” Itachi asked, snapping her out of it.

“I—we need to leave soon,” she said, too quickly. Then, fumbling to steady herself, added, “Dinner at my parents’.”

Itachi nodded. “Let me finish up. We’ll go.” He returned to his desk, tapped at the keys, then closed the lid of his laptop.

He walked into the bedroom and found Sakura in jeans, a top, and trainers. Casual. Informal. He furrowed his brow slightly; he’d expected her to be dressed more formally, like she had been when they’d gone to his parents’ house.

“Is there a dress code?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

Sakura hesitated, her brow twitching slightly. “No,” she said, after a beat. “Just… whatever you’re comfortable in.”

She stepped past him, careful not to brush against his arm, her movements deliberate. The silence lingered a moment too long before he turned to get ready.

Itachi’s brow furrowed further. He wasn’t sure what to expect from this dinner—especially if it was anything like the one they’d had with his parents.

He pulled out a pair of blue jeans, a white button-down shirt, and smart shoes, then got dressed. He untied his hair, ran a brush through it, then tied it back up. A touch of cologne. Then he headed into the living room, where Sakura was waiting—bag in hand, car keys in the other.

“I’ll drive,” she said, already moving toward the door.

The drive was quiet, save for Sakura’s music playing softly in the background. Neither of them spoke, and that suited them just fine—both lost in their own thoughts.

As Sakura pulled into the wide driveway, trees framed the space, giving it the feel of a hidden gem. The house was large, but not ostentatious—nothing like his parents’ estate.

They got out of the car, and Sakura padded to the front door, unlocking it and stepping inside. He followed silently, surprised to find no wait staff hovering to greet them or usher them into whatever room her parents were waiting in.

He watched as she placed her bag on the hallway table and wandered through the house. No staff lingered in corners, waiting to be summoned. The silence felt deliberate, almost sacred. As he looked around, he saw no ornate statues, no gilded frames or polished marble—nothing that screamed wealth or demanded admiration. If anything, the house was simply that: a home. Not a monument to pride, not a stage for ego.

He stepped into what he assumed was the family room. The air was soft with muted tones; the walls lined with photographs that spoke of time and tenderness. Family portraits, candid snapshots, Sakura at various ages—grinning, laughing, caught mid-moment. Each image radiated warmth, a quiet joy that felt almost intrusive to witness.

He watched as Sakura threw her arms around her mother, the embrace full-bodied and fierce, as if trying to make up for every missed moment. Their greeting was wordless, but thick with love. From the sidelines, he saw her father rise—hesitant, but drawn in. He joined the embrace, and for a moment, the three of them folded into one.

Itachi stepped back, instinctively. The moment was theirs, and he knew it. He didn’t belong in that circle of arms and shared history. So, he gave them space, not just physically, but emotionally—retreating into the quiet, into observation.

Mebuki pulled away from the hug and looked Sakura up and down. “How are you?” she asked, the question ladled with wordless worry. She hadn’t heard much from Sakura since the wedding, and had wanted to give her daughter space—time to work things out. But she’d been worried. Worried whether Sakura was being treated with the kindness she deserved, and whether Sakura was being kind in return. She knew her daughter well—knew the temper she housed.

Sakura smiled. “I’m… fine,” she answered, letting her mother hear the truth in the silence between the words.

She turned to face her father—the man she had always loved, looked up to, who had once been her everything, until he had given her up. Yes, she was still angry. Still annoyed that he had taken her future away from her. But she could see the love in his eyes, the quiet smile that softened his face. Something Itachi’s father lacked entirely.

At the thought of Itachi, she turned to find him standing back from them, letting them have their moment before they broke apart.

Kizashi gripped Sakura’s shoulder tenderly, squeezing his love into her as he walked towards Itachi, hand extended. “Welcome to our home,” he said with a smile.

Itachi hesitated.

The gesture was simple, but it caught him off guard. He looked at the offered hand—calloused, worn, shaped by work and care. His own father’s hands bore no such marks. Fugaku had always kept his distance, both physically and emotionally, deeming warmth a weakness and labour beneath him. Praise had been rare. Affection, rarer still.

He wasn’t sure what to expect from Sakura’s parents. He’d braced for scrutiny, for veiled judgement, for the cold civility he’d grown used to. But this—this quiet welcome, this open gesture—felt disarming.

He took the hand, the grip firm and steady, and nodded. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

Kizashi’s smile didn’t falter. “Please, come join us,” he said, motioning towards the sofas, where Sakura and Mebuki sat talking in hushed tones.

Itachi followed, still unsure whether he was stepping into warmth or walking into something he didn’t yet understand.

Kizashi settled into the armchair opposite Itachi, his posture relaxed but his fingers briefly drumming against his knee—a quiet tell. He glanced at Sakura, then back at Itachi, as though weighing something unspoken.

“How have you been?” he asked, voice low and measured. Not prying. Just… curious. The kind of question that carried more weight than it let on.

Itachi met his gaze, steady but cautious. He could feel the shadow of Fugaku lingering in the room—unspoken, but present. Kizashi’s tone didn’t carry the sharpness he’d expected. No veiled judgement. Just a man trying to understand the person his daughter had married.

“I’ve been well,” Itachi said. “Thank you.”

Kizashi nodded, as if that was enough. “Good,” he said simply. “Glad to hear it.”

From the sofa, Mebuki shifted slightly, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked at Itachi with a soft smile, though her eyes held something more reserved. Protective, perhaps. Cautious.

“And how have things been,” she asked gently, “since you and Sakura got married?”

Itachi paused. The question was simple, but it wasn’t small talk. It was a mother’s way of asking whether her daughter was truly happy—without demanding proof.

He glanced at Sakura, as if searching for the right shape of truth between them. Her gaze met his, steady but unreadable.

“They’ve been… steady,” he said, voice clipped. “We’re learning each other.”

Sakura nodded, almost reflexively. “Still learning,” she echoed, her tone just as tight.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t warm either. It hung between them like something unfinished—an admission, maybe, or a quiet truce.

Mebuki didn’t press. She simply offered a small, knowing smile and folded her hands again, as if to say: that’s enough. For now. She cleared her throat and stood up, “I’ve already prepared dinner, chicken tonkatsu, hope you’re okay with that?” she asked Itachi.

Itachi nodded his answer, “thank you.” Surprised that Mebuki had made the dinner, not a chef.

Together, they made their way to the small dining room adjoining the kitchen. Itachi was surprised again to find the space intimate—modest. A rectangular table with six chairs, already set with plates and cutlery. A steaming pot sat in the centre, its aromas warm and inviting.

He glanced around, half expecting wait staff to appear. None came. Instead, they helped themselves.

The food was delicious. And for the first time, Itachi felt a quiet sense of contentment—rooted not in solitude or silence, but in the warmth of a family setting. The atmosphere was unlike anything he’d known at his own home. No rigid formality. No veiled tension. Just the soft hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery.

He listened quietly as Sakura filled her parents in on her work, answering any questions directed his way. It was calm. Peaceful. No words ladled with silent threats. Just presence.

He thought briefly of dinners at the Uchiha compound—long tables, polished silence, and the weight of expectation hanging over every bite. Fugaku at the head, stoic and unreadable. Mikoto, graceful but distant. Conversation, when it happened, was measured and strategic. A performance.

This—this was something else entirely. Messier, perhaps. But real.

When dinner was done, Mebuki returned with an array of dessert bowls—anmitsu, dango, dorayaki, and more. “I know how much you love your sweet things, Sakura,” she said with a smile.

Sakura beamed at her mother and reached for the anmitsu, digging in with delight. Itachi helped himself to some dango.

By the time the dishes were cleared and evening drinks had been shared, it was close to nine. Sakura hugged her parents once more, thanking them and promising to stay in touch regularly.

Itachi shook hands with Kizashi and Mebuki, offering quiet thanks for welcoming him into their home.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Kizashi said with a smile. “We’re family now.”

The drive back was quiet.

Sakura kept her eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The dashboard cast a soft glow across her face, highlighting the faint crease between her brows. Itachi sat beside her, watching the blur of streetlights flicker past the window

Her parents had been warm in a way that unsettled him. Not performative, not forced—just open. Mebuki’s easy laughter, Kizashi’s unfiltered affection. It had filled the room, pressed against his edges. He hadn’t known where to put it.

His own childhood had been quieter. Sharper. Fugaku’s approval came in silence, Mikoto’s kindness in folded shirts and untouched meals. Love had been something implied, not offered. Not like this.

Sakura hadn’t said much since they left. Just a soft “ready?” before unlocking the car. No commentary. No questions. But her grip on the wheel had tightened when they pulled away.

Sakura pulled into the driveway, got out, and walked to the front door. She unlocked it and slipped inside without a word.

She moved through her nightly routine on autopilot—face washed, teeth brushed, hair tied loosely back. Then into the bedroom, ready to call it a day. The air felt thick, heavy with everything left unsaid. A day full of charged glances, quiet avoidance, and the echo of something neither of them had named.

She set her alarms, placed her phone on the bedside table, and climbed into bed. The duvet came up over her shoulder in one smooth pull, her eyes closing before she’d fully settled. She heard him enter—soft footsteps, the rustle of fabric as he got into bed beside her.

She didn’t look.

But she felt it. The shift in the air. The static. If she turned, she was sure she’d see sparks flicker between them.

She didn’t.

Instead, she pulled the duvet closer, like a shield, and forced her mind to quieten. To stop conjuring images of them—pressed against the wall, breathless, undone.

She sighed, long and low, and closed her eyes again.

Willing sleep to take her before her thoughts did.

 

Chapter 17

The next few days passed without incident. She’d made it her personal mission to avoid him, and he seemed to be doing the same. Dinner was the only time they had to face each other—and even that was a quiet, strained affair. Heavy with everything they weren’t saying. The tension between them had begun to crackle, sharp and silent, whenever they shared a room.

But nights were different.

Almost every morning since, Sakura had woken to find they’d drifted close in sleep, as if their bodies were quietly betraying the distance they tried to keep by day. As if some part of her—some deep, unguarded part—was reaching for him without permission.

This morning was no exception.

She stirred to find herself near him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, the soft rise and fall of his breath brushing her shoulder. It was barely a touch, but it lingered—like something tender, something forbidden. Like a lover’s shy caress.

She studied his face—peaceful. Calm. The early light softened him, casting faint shadows across his brow. Her eyes lingered on the faint crease between his eyebrows, even in sleep, as if some part of him refused to fully let go. His lashes—longer than she remembered—fluttered faintly with the movement beneath closed lids, chasing something in a dream she’d never be part of.

She followed the line of his nose, straight and familiar, before her gaze dropped to his mouth. Full, firm lips. Lips that had undone her with a fierce kiss—one that still lived in her skin, her breath, her bones. They were slightly parted now, the barest hint of warmth escaping. She could almost feel it.

His jaw was strong, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble catching the light. A small scar just beneath his cheekbone—one she’d never asked about—drew her in like a secret. She let herself take it all in. The quiet vulnerability of him like this. The contrast to the man he was when awake.

Just a few seconds more.

Then, quietly, she slipped out of bed. Fished out some clothes in silence, and made her way into the bathroom. Showered and dressed, she returned to the bedroom, only to find it empty. She brushed her hair, tied it up, grabbed her jacket and shoes, and padded into the kitchen.

Her phone buzzed.

Sakura glanced down, thumb swiping across the screen. An email. She scanned the subject line, then the first few lines—her brows knitting faintly. Whatever it was, it held her attention just long enough.

She turned the corner.

And walked straight into him.

The impact was soft but jarring. His mug jolted, coffee spilling in a dark arc between them. Her blouse darkened instantly, the damp fabric clinging to her skin, turning semi-sheer in the morning light.

She gasped, stepping back. “I—I’m so sorry.”

Itachi’s jaw flexed. He looked down at the mess soaking into his shirt, then back at her. “Of course you weren’t looking,” he muttered, voice low and dry.

Her eyes narrowed. “I said I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off, the wet fabric sticking to his skin before he pulled it free.

Sakura’s gaze flicked up—reflex, not choice. The lean muscle, the way his body moved like tension had been carved into him. She tried not to look. Failed.

Her eyes lingered.

So did his.

His gaze dropped, just briefly, to the soaked fabric clinging to her chest. The blouse had turned almost translucent, the outline of her bra faint beneath it. He didn’t speak, didn’t shift his stance—but something in his expression sharpened, like he’d noticed and wasn’t trying to hide it.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks at the look he gave her. “You could’ve moved,” she said after a few seconds, a little breathlessly—like she had to force the words through the fog in her head.

“You could’ve watched where you were going.”

They stared at each other, the air between them taut with everything they refused to name.

Then her gaze dropped to her blouse, and the realisation hit—how wet it was, how exposed she felt. Her breath caught.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, turning on her heel.

He didn’t stop her.

She strode back to the bedroom, fingers already tugging at the buttons. The irritation prickled beneath her skin—not just at the spill, but at him. His tone. His silence. The way he looked at her like he saw too much and said too little.

She changed quickly, pulling on a fresh blouse—something darker, safer. She tied her hair back again, tighter this time, as if that might help her feel more composed.

She was heading back toward the kitchen when he stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low around his hips, long hair damp and a little unruly. Strands clung to the curve of his neck, trailing down over his shoulders—dark against skin still flushed from the heat.

He didn’t stop.

Just passed her in the hallway, water glinting on his collarbone, the scent of steam and cedar trailing behind.

“I made you a cappuccino,” he said, voice low, almost distracted, as he disappeared into the bedroom.

She blinked, turned, and walked into the kitchen. On the counter, a single mug waited—steam curling softly from the surface. Her drink.

She picked it up, fingers wrapping around the ceramic. The foam was thick, the temperature perfect.

Still, she hesitated. She was sure that Itachi wouldn’t have made her drink the way she liked it. The sweetness that she craved like a hit. She was sure it would be bitter. Strong. No sugar. No softness.

She furrowed her brow, bracing herself—and took a sip.

Then paused.

It was exactly right.

Smooth. Balanced. Just the right amount of sweetness.

Her gaze lingered on the mug, lips pressing into a faint line.

How did he know?

Had he paid attention?

She scoffed under her breath, dismissing the thought before it settled. He wouldn’t. Not like that.

But the taste lingered—warm, familiar, quietly disarming.

Three weeks. And already, he was under her skin.

She rinsed the mug, placed it in the sink, and reached for her bag and jacket. The cappuccino lingered on her tongue—warm, balanced, unsettling in its precision.

She didn’t want to think about it.

Didn’t want to wonder how he’d known.

Her mind tugged at the thought anyway, circling it like a sore tooth. Had he paid attention? Guessed?

She scoffed, irritated by the idea and even more by how it made her feel.

In the car, she turned the music up—loud enough to drown out the questions she refused to ask.

---

Itachi stepped out of the boardroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The meeting had dragged—three hours of stale air, recycled arguments, and the low hum of fluorescent lights gnawing at his nerves.

He’d barely taken three steps when Shisui appeared at his side, grinning like he’d been waiting for the moment.

“Lunch,” Shisui announced, already walking backwards to block his path. “We’re going. We’ve been locked in that room all morning. I need actual food and sunlight.”

Itachi exhaled slowly. “I have work to finish.”

“You can finish it after,” Shisui said, already turning. “Come on. Don’t make me drag you.” He called out to Izuku and Rin to join them as he headed for the elevators.

Itachi didn’t argue. There was no point. He followed Shisui out of the building and into the midday light, the buzz of traffic and conversation rising around them.

The café was busy, but not packed. They found a table by the window, ordered without fuss, and settled in. Itachi took the seat with his back to the door; Izuku slid in beside him, leaning close, trying to catch his eye.

---

The door chimed softly as Sakura stepped into the café, flanked by two colleagues from the hospital—one mid-story, the other already laughing. Sakura joined in, her laughter light and unguarded, the kind that turned heads without trying.

She glanced around, scanning for a free table—then stilled.

Itachi.

He was seated near the window, half in shadow, posture composed as ever. Shisui sat opposite him, laughing, gesturing with a drink in hand. Two women flanked them—one mid-sentence, the other leaning in, her hand resting lightly on Itachi’s arm.

Sakura tensed.

The sight snagged something inside her—tight, unfamiliar. Not anger. Not quite. But sharp. She didn’t recognise the feeling, not fully. It lodged beneath her ribs, unwelcome.

She looked away, deliberately. Walked to the counter. Ordered her drink. Her voice came out steady, but her fingers curled against the edge of the till.

When she turned back, the woman had shifted closer. Her shoulder brushed Itachi’s. Her hand still lingered.

Sakura clenched her jaw.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

And yet—she wanted to rip the woman’s hand away.

The thought startled her. She swallowed it down, tried to focus on the clatter of cups, the low hum of conversation. But her gaze drifted back.

Itachi was looking at her.

Not at the woman beside him. Not at Shisui. At her.

The tension between them snapped taut again—silent, electric. His eyes held hers, unreadable, steady. Something passed between them, low and simmering. Not quite invitation. Not quite challenge. Just heat.

Sakura didn’t look away this time. It was only when a colleague tapped her shoulder that the moment broke. She blinked, swallowed hard, and turned with a tight smile—too quick, too practiced. Her fingers curled around the tray as she nodded, murmured something polite, and stepped away.

She chose a recently vacated table. Close enough to see him. Not close enough to be obvious.

Her movements were calm. Measured. But her pulse betrayed her—steady only on the surface.

Sakura forced her attention onto her food. Onto her colleagues. Not on the man who infuriated her.

She kept telling herself it didn’t matter who he was sat with. Who touched him. But her mind wouldn’t stop.

Did he kiss her the way he kissed me?
Does he look at her the way he looked at me?

She shoved the thoughts aside. She didn’t care.

Right?

When she glanced over again, Itachi was standing, buttoning his jacket, preparing to leave. As he passed her table, their eyes met. A slow, deliberate perusal of one another—neither of them flinching—before he walked on.

---

Sakura ran her hands through her hair, gently pulling at the strands, trying to alleviate some of the tension that was in her head. She locked her computer and stood up, stretching her arms over her head. Glad that she was done with the day. She grabbed her bag, fished out her car keys and phone and made her way to the car.

The whole drive, Sakura’s mind conjured up the woman who had touched Itachi. She couldn’t understand why it had bothered her. Sure, he was her husband, but that was just for show. To settle whatever issues were between the families. So why did she care so much?

She pulled into the driveway, grabbed her things, and got out. She fished out the house keys and let herself in. The aroma hit her first. Delicious, savoury. Her mouth watered, her stomach grumbled. She padded further into the house and found Itachi in the kitchen, cooking. Gone was the suit jacket at tie, he had a towel thrown over his shoulder, while he was busy cutting something. His back to her. His back to her. His shoulder length hair tied low, a few strands falling free with his movements.

Itachi looked over his shoulder as Sakura entered, having heard the door open and close moments earlier. Their eyes met—briefly, silently—before she turned away and disappeared into the bedroom.

She kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag onto the end table, and changed out of her work clothes. After freshening up, she made her way back towards the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said, catching the sound of her soft footsteps approaching.

He plated the food—chicken curry and steamed rice—and set it down.

“Thank you,” Sakura murmured.

Dinner passed in near silence. The only sound was cutlery against porcelain. Sakura’s mind kept circling back to the woman. Her jaw tightened. She tried to shake the thoughts, but they clung stubbornly.

Afterwards, she helped Itachi clear up. And before she could stop herself—or think better of it—she turned to him.

“Who was the woman with you today?”

Itachi glanced at her. He’d noticed her reaction earlier, the way her gaze had lingered on Izuku’s hand resting on his arm. He’d wondered if he’d imagined it. Her question confirmed otherwise.

“Izuku. Why?” he asked.

“I just wondered who she was,” Sakura said with a shrug, trying to sound indifferent. But inside, she was kicking herself. She wanted to know. Needed to know. If he was seeing her, she had a right to it.

“Izuku is someone I work with,” he told her, reading her unasked question.

“You don’t say,” Sakura deadpanned. “Who is she to you?” The words slipped out, colour rising to her cheeks.

Itachi looked at her, watching the flush bloom across her face. “A colleague,” he said, lips tugging slightly at the corner. He liked watching her unravel.

“Great,” Sakura muttered, wiping down the counter. She turned to leave.

“Are you jealous?” he asked, stopping her in her tracks.

“Jealous? No! Why would I be jealous?” Sakura spun round to face him. “I don’t care who you talk to, or who touches you, or any of that.”

“Looks like you do.”

“I do what?” she snapped, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Care.”

“I don’t!” Sakura snapped. She turned and walked away, muttering under her breath. In the bedroom, she grabbed her phone and replied to Ino’s messages. Letting her know that she may need an alibi soon.

Who does he think he is! Telling me I’m jealous! I’m not!

Yet the image kept plaguing her.

She went through her nightly routine and got ready for bed, grabbing her book and got into bed. She turned the pages without reading. Geeting annoyed that her mind would not focus, she slapped the book on the end table, laid down and pulled the duvet over her with more force than needed.

Chapter 18

Over the next few days, Itachi noticed Sakura returning from work later. First it was an hour, then two, then three. Each time she walked through the door, she looked exhausted—overworked, drained—but said nothing.

He sat in the living room, the silence pressing in. He’d grown used to her presence: the sound of her footsteps padding through the house, her humming, her music. At first, he’d found it irritating. Now, the house felt hollow without it.

He glanced at the clock. Nearly half eleven.

His eyes flicked to the front door, waiting—hoping—to hear the jangle of keys, a sigh, the thud of shoes kicked off. But nothing came.

He closed his laptop, placed it on the low coffee table, and stood. Grabbing his phone and keys, he slipped into his shoes and jacket, then headed out.

The hospital car park was still busy. He watched as patients were led inside, others leaving with family members. The building glowed under harsh lights, sterile and unwelcoming.

Inside, the reception desk was vacant, the computer shut down. He remembered the layout—her office tucked behind the main wing, second floor, end of the corridor. He hadn’t been there in nearly a month, but the memory was clear.

He reached her office, the door shut, light escaping from the bottom of the door. He knocked gently.

No answer.

He knocked again, firmer this time. Still nothing.

Frowning, he tried the handle. Unlocked.

He pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside.

Sakura was slumped over her desk, fast asleep. Her hair was splayed around her, hiding most of her face. One hand curled around a pen, the other resting atop a stack of papers.

He took in the room properly for the first time. Files and half-filled prescriptions littered the desk. Empty coffee cups sat precariously near the edge. The bookshelves were crammed with medical texts, thick with jargon. A few frames hung on the walls—one of her graduation, smiling proudly beside her parents; others displaying her doctorate.

He looked back at her. She hadn’t stirred. Her breathing was deep, steady.

He padded over, rounded the desk, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Sakura,” he said softly, giving her a light shake.

“Mhn,” she grumbled, but didn’t wake.

He tried again, speaking slightly louder. But she did not stir.

He hesitated, weighing his next move. Wake her, or carry her out of the office and drive them home? He doubted she’d appreciate being roused mid-dream. But leaving her here felt wrong. Too impersonal.

Decision made, he picked up her phone and keys, slipping them into his pocket alongside his own.

Gently, he sat Sakura upright and rolled her chair back a little. Then he crouched, slid one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back, and lifted. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he adjusted his grip, her breath warm against his neck.

It felt strangely natural—holding her like this. Familiar, somehow.

He stepped out into the corridor, adjusting his hold as Sakura shifted slightly in his arms. Her head remained nestled against his shoulder, breath slow and steady. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow, washing everything in sterile white.

His footsteps echoed softly on the linoleum floor. The hospital had quieted, the late hour thinning the usual bustle to a few distant murmurs and the occasional beep from a monitor.

As he passed the nurses’ station, a woman in scrubs glanced up from her clipboard. Her eyes flicked to Sakura, then to him. She didn’t speak, just offered a small nod—acknowledgement, maybe even understanding. He returned it with a faint tilt of his head and kept walking.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the weight of her in his arms, or how natural it felt. Like he’d done this before. Like he’d do it again.

They reached the exit, the automatic doors parting with a soft hiss. Outside, the air was cool, tinged with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. He paused for a moment, looking down at her face, half-hidden by her hair.

She looked peaceful. Vulnerable.

He tightened his grip just slightly and stepped out into the night.

The car was warm, the soft hum of the engine the only sound between them. Sakura remained curled against the passenger seat, her head tilted slightly towards the window, strands of hair brushing her cheek. She hadn’t stirred since he’d buckled her in.

Itachi kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The roads were mostly empty, streetlights casting long shadows across the tarmac. Rain threatened, the clouds low and heavy, but the night held.

He glanced at her briefly, then back to the road.

Her phone buzzed once in his pocket—then fell silent.

He didn’t check it.

Instead, his eyes flicked to the dashboard, then to the rear-view mirror, then back to her. She looked so different like this. Not the sharp, quick-witted woman who filled a room with her presence. Just... tired. Quiet.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the evening settling in his chest.

He didn’t know what this was between them. Not really. But he knew he didn’t want to leave her behind.

Not tonight.

The house was dark when he pulled into the driveway, the porch light casting a soft amber glow across the front steps. He cut the engine and sat for a moment in the hush that followed, then stepped out and moved around to the passenger side.

Sakura hadn’t stirred.

He opened the door gently, crouched, and lifted her into his arms once more. She shifted slightly, her brow creasing, but didn’t wake. Her head settled against his shoulder, as if it belonged there.

The key slid into the lock with a quiet click, and the door opened into shadow. Inside, the silence wrapped around them.

He nudged the door shut with his foot and moved through the hallway without hesitation. No need for lights—he knew every corner, every step. Past the living room, where his laptop still sat on the coffee table, cushions slightly askew. Her scent lingered faintly—lavender and something sharper, like citrus.

He stepped into his bedroom, moonlight spilling through the curtains in soft silver streaks. The space was usually immaculate—his preference. Everything in its place. But tonight, his eyes landed on a small pile of her clothes near her side of the bed. A jumper, a pair of socks.

Normally, it would have irritated him. But now, he felt... nothing. No flicker of annoyance. Just a quiet acceptance.

He lowered her gently onto the bed, careful not to wake her. Her hand slipped from his shoulder, falling softly onto the duvet.

He stood there for a moment, watching her breathe.

Then, quietly, he reached down and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Itachi crouched beside the bed, carefully slipping off Sakura’s shoes one at a time. Her foot twitched slightly, but she didn’t wake. He reached for the lapels of her jacket, easing it from her shoulders with slow, deliberate movements. The fabric slid down her arms and pooled beside her on the duvet.

She looked more comfortable now. Less weighed down.

He stood, crossed the room, and moved through his night routine with quiet efficiency—brushing his teeth, washing his face, folding the towel back into place. The house was still. Familiar. But tonight, it felt different.

When he returned, she hadn’t moved. Her breathing was soft, steady. He slipped into bed beside her, careful not to disturb the quiet. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight, and for a moment, he simply lay there—listening.

Her soft snores filled the space between them. Gentle. Rhythmic. He let them surround him, a sound he hadn’t realised he’d missed.

Then she shifted.

Rolled towards him in her sleep.

One hand draped across his chest, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. Light. Unthinking. But enough to make him aware of the space that no longer existed between them—a space they’d both carefully maintained since the day she moved in.

Her breath landed on his neck, warm and featherlight.

And then, barely audible, she murmured his name.

Itachi stilled.

The sound was soft. Unconscious. But it lingered.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Her breath was warm against his neck, soft and steady. The hand she’d draped across his chest shifted slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his collarbone, then settling again. Itachi’s body responded before his mind could catch up—a subtle tightening in his chest, a flicker of heat low in his abdomen.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to breathe past it.

This wasn’t new. Not entirely. There had been moments—glances held too long, silences that felt heavier than they should. But they’d both been careful. Deliberate. The space between them had been a boundary, not just physical but necessary.

And now it was gone.

Her fingers twitched against his shirt, and his skin prickled beneath the fabric. He could feel the shape of her—close, relaxed, unguarded. The scent of her shampoo lingered in the air, faint and familiar. His pulse ticked faster.

He told himself it was nothing.

Just proximity. Just instinct.

But his body didn’t listen.

Desire stirred, quiet but insistent. Not overwhelming, not reckless—just there. Present. A reminder of what he’d been ignoring for weeks.

He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, but the movement only brought her closer. Her leg brushed his, and her breath hitched softly, as if responding to him even in sleep.

Itachi stared at the ceiling.

Conflicted.

He didn’t want this. But the ache in his chest said otherwise.

He lay still, every nerve attuned to her presence, and tried to will himself back into calm. Into distance.

But the space between them was gone.

Itachi reached up slowly, his fingers brushing Sakura’s wrist. Her skin was warm, relaxed in sleep. He hesitated—just for a moment—then gently lifted her hand from his chest and placed it back on her side of the bed. She murmured something unintelligible, but didn’t wake.

He rolled over, facing the wall.

Distance. Space. Control.

But sleep didn’t come.

Instead, his mind betrayed him.

Images flickered behind closed eyes—her breath hitching beneath him, her fingers tangled in his hair, the soft curve of her mouth parting in a gasp. The way she might look at him if she weren’t half-asleep, if she weren’t unaware. If she wanted him.

He exhaled sharply, jaw tight.

He shifted again, pressing his forehead to the pillow, trying to will the thoughts away.

But they came anyway.

The way her voice might sound if she whispered his name with intent. The way her body might arch beneath his, not in sleep but in surrender. The way her eyes might darken, soften, open.

He clenched his fists beneath the covers.

He lay there, unmoving, while the night stretched around him.

And tried—unsuccessfully—to forget the way she’d felt against him.

---

Sakura stirred, blinking several times before her eyes adjusted to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. She took in her surroundings slowly—white walls, the large window hidden behind thick fabric. She knew this room. Had spent the last month here.

Her brow furrowed. She couldn’t recall how she’d gotten home.

She remembered being at work—buried beneath patient files, scribbling out prescriptions that needed to be handed off to the pharmacy. But the drive home? Blank.

She shifted slightly, and that’s when she felt it—an arm draped across her stomach, holding her.

She blinked again, reached out, and touched it. Her fingers stiffened when she realised it was real. Not imagined. Not a dream.

Slowly, she followed the line of the arm, gaze travelling upward until it landed on Itachi’s face. Peaceful. Familiar. A face she knew too well. A face she dreamt about, even if she refused to admit it.

She must’ve moved in the night. Shifted closer to him. But she couldn’t remember doing it.

A flicker of dread curled in her stomach.

What if we…?

The thought hit hard. She swallowed thickly, heart thudding. Carefully, she lifted the duvet, bracing herself for what she might find.

Relief flooded her.

She was dressed.

Her skirt had ridden up in the night, hugging the tops of her thighs. Her blouse was creased, rumpled with sleep. The same outfit she’d worn to work the day before.

How did I get here? Sakura blinked, her mind scrambling for an explanation, but nothing came.

Carefully, quietly, she tried to move Itachi’s arm—only for him to tighten his hold and pull her closer.

She bit back the squeal rising in her throat, swallowed hard, and took a steadying breath. On her second attempt, she managed to untangle herself. As she swung her legs round, Itachi stirred beside her.

He blinked a few times, his gaze landing on her. She was looking down at him, her face full of emotion and questions. He blinked slowly, then offered a soft smile before sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

“Uhh… good morning,” Sakura replied, hesitant. After a beat of silence, she added, “I don’t remember driving back yesterday.”

“You didn’t,” he told her around a yawn.

“What?” Her brows drew together. “Then how did I get here?”

“I brought you here,” he said simply.

She blinked at him, trying to process his words. “What?” she repeated, confusion etched across her face.

Itachi paused, considering how best to explain. He took a slow breath. “When you hadn’t come back by half eleven, I drove to the hospital and found you passed out in your office.”

Sakura nodded slowly, absorbing the information, waiting for him to continue.

“I tried to wake you, but you were out cold. So, I picked you up, drove you home, and put you to bed.”

He left the rest unsaid. He didn’t tell her how she’d murmured his name in sleep, or how his body had reacted to her closeness.

Sakura stared at him, stunned. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This man—this infuriating, maddening man who’d made it his mission to keep her uncomfortable in his house—had clearly worried enough to have gone to her work and brought her back to the house.

She looked at him properly now. His eyes held layers—emotion, restraint, something else she couldn’t name. But it called to her.

The silence between them shifted. Charged. Her breath caught, heart thudding, body suddenly aware of his proximity. She inched closer without realising, watched as he did the same.

She licked her bottom lip, and his eyes followed the motion—darkening as they took her in.

She was sure her own gaze mirrored his. As if answering a question neither of them had spoken aloud.

Her eyes drifted to his lips—full, firm, close. Her breath hitched.

Still, they moved closer. Their breaths mingled. She could feel the ghost of his touch.

If I move a little closer… just a little, she thought.

Then—

THUD THUD THUD.

The sound echoed through the house—distant but unmistakable. Someone was knocking. Hard.

Sakura flinched, the spell snapping. Itachi’s eyes flicked towards the bedroom door, his expression tightening.

More knocks followed, insistent. Then came voices—muffled by walls and distance, but recognisable.

“Oi, Itachi!” Shisui’s voice, barely audible but persistent.

“Open the bloody door already!” Kisame’s deeper tone rumbled faintly behind it.

Sakura sat frozen, heart hammering, the moment between them fractured but still lingering in the air. Her lips parted, breath shallow, her body still humming with the tension that hadn’t quite found release.

Itachi exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself. “They’re at the front,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “They’ll keep knocking.”

He stood, the movement deliberate, restrained. Sakura watched him go, her pulse still racing, her skin tingling with the memory of almost.

As the door clicked shut behind him, she pressed her fingers to her lips, unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed.

Itachi padded down the hallway, the knocks persistent but not urgent. He opened the door to find Shisui and Kisame standing there, freshly showered and dressed.

Shisui tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You missed the gym.”

Kisame grinned. “We waited. Even stretched out your mat.”

Itachi said nothing. His jaw tightened, shoulders rigid. He’d forgotten that they had planned to meet earlier.

Shisui’s gaze flicked over him—creased shirt, bare feet, the faint flush still lingering on his face. “You look like you’ve just rolled out of bed.”

Kisame chuckled. “Or like you didn’t sleep at all.”

Itachi stepped aside, letting them in without a word.

Shisui walked past him, glancing down the hallway. “Did we interrupt something?”

Itachi closed the door slowly, fingers lingering on the handle.

---

Sakura slipped out of the bedroom quietly, bare feet silent against the hallway floor. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her, and she leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed, breath shallow.

She turned to the mirror.

Her reflection stared back—eyes dark and heavy-lidded, lips parted, skin flushed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Her blouse was slightly askew, collar loose, and her hair had that telltale softness of fingers having passed through it.

She looked wanton. And she knew it.

Her cheeks burned. She splashed cold water on her face, pressed a towel to her skin, tried to scrub away the heat. But it lingered—on her throat, her chest, her mouth.

Get it together, she told herself.

She straightened her blouse, smoothed her skirt, and took one last glance in the mirror.

Sakura stepped into the kitchen, freshly composed but still carrying the warmth of the morning on her skin. Her blouse was neat, her hair smoothed—but the faint flush on her cheeks hadn’t faded.

Shisui spotted her first. “Morning, Sakura,” he said, voice light but unmistakably amused.

Kisame followed with a grin. “Morning Pinky.”

She nodded, offering a polite smile. “Morning.”

Their eyes lingered—not inappropriately, but knowingly. Like they’d walked into a scene halfway through and didn’t need the script to catch up.

Itachi stood by the coffee machine, already preparing her cappuccino. He didn’t speak, but his movements were deliberate. He placed a mug beneath the spout, added the sugar, and slid it across the counter toward her.

Their eyes met.

Just for a moment.

Then both looked away.

Sakura reached for the mug, fingers brushing his briefly.

Shisui’s lips twitched. “Domestic bliss,” he murmured, just loud enough.

Kisame chuckled. “Looks more like post-bliss.”

Sakura choked on her first sip, coughing into her sleeve as her cheeks flared crimson.

Kisame grinned, utterly unrepentant.

Itachi’s grip on his mug tightened. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking once before he turned away, silent.

Shisui, never one to leave well enough alone, leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. “Did we interrupt something sacred?” he asked, mock-solemn. “A moment of marital enlightenment?”

Sakura’s blush deepened. She stared into her cappuccino like it might offer her an escape route.

Kisame snorted. “More like a moment of marital combustion.”

Itachi turned slowly, eyes lifting to meet Shisui’s.

No words.

Just a look.

Flat. Cold. Final.

Shisui’s smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough to register the warning.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.”

Kisame chuckled, unfazed. “You say that every time.”

Sakura excused herself softly, voice barely audible over the hum of the coffee machine.

She didn’t wait for a response.

The hallway felt longer than usual, each step echoing with the memory of what hadn’t quite happened. She slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a breath she didn’t release.

Her eyes drifted to the bed.

The sheets were still rumpled. Her blouse had brushed against his chest there. His breath had ghosted her skin. Her fingers curled against her palm, the memory sharp and aching.

She bit back a moan, jaw tight, and crossed to the mirror—but didn’t look. She didn’t need to. She could still feel it. Him.

Back in the kitchen, Shisui was relentless.

“You remember when you said you couldn’t stand her?” he said, grinning. “Didn’t want to know her, didn’t want her near you?”

Kisame’s smirk ramped up. “Now you’re making her coffee like it’s foreplay.”

Itachi didn’t respond. His grip on the mug tightened, knuckles pale.

Shisui leaned in, eyes gleaming. “And that look you gave her? That wasn’t just longing. That was need.”

Kisame let out a loud, exaggerated holler. “Woooo! That look he gave her!”

Shisui laughed. “You used to say you’d drive her away from here!”

“Now you’re practically steaming milk with devotion!”

Itachi turned slowly, eyes cold.

“Out.”

Shisui blinked. “What?”

“Out,” Itachi repeated, voice low, final.

Kisame raised his brows, still grinning. “Oh, he’s serious.” They pushed away from the counter and straightened. Their smirks still present, still taunting.

They clapped Itachi on the shoulder as they passed, still laughing, still hollering, utterly pleased with themselves as they headed for the door.

Just before stepping out, Kisame hollered again, voice echoing down the hall. “Post-bliss, baby!”

Shisui joined in, cackling. “Domestic combustion!”

Itachi slammed the door behind them. Their laughter cut off mid-peal, swallowed by the street.

Silence settled.

He stood in the hallway, mug cooling in his hand, jaw clenched tight.

And then his eyes drifted.

Down the corridor.

To the bedroom.

To her.

He walked into the kitchen, emptied his cold coffee down the sink, and turned towards the bedroom. As he neared, he caught sight of Sakura slipping out, clothes bundled in her arms as she headed for the bathroom.

Their eyes met.

The moment between them had passed—but the embers remained. Waiting.

She gave him a small smile and disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. The shower hissed to life. She turned the temperature down, hoping the chill might cool her blood. Her desire.

What is happening? she asked herself.

After showering, she dried off and dressed—jeans and a loose-fitting top. Sakura stepped into the bedroom and found Itachi standing near the window, his posture still, gaze distant. He turned as she entered, and for a long moment, they simply looked at one another.

No words. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

The air between them was quiet, but charged. Her skin still tingled from the memory of his breath on her neck. His eyes held something—something restrained, something raw.

“I’m meeting my mother today,” she said softly, breaking the silence.

Itachi nodded once, the movement slow. He didn’t speak.

Instead, he crossed to the wardrobe, pulled out fresh clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Steam curled around him as the shower hissed to life. He pressed his palms flat against the tiles, head bowed, water cascading over his back.

His breath was shallow. Controlled.

But his body betrayed him.

The ache was there—low, insistent, undeniable. His muscles were tense, his thoughts tangled with the memory of her voice, her touch, the way she’d looked at him.

He groaned—quiet, guttural—his forehead pressed to the cool tile. The water coursed over him, relentless. He washed quickly, refusing himself the indulgence of release. Minutes later, dressed and composed, he stepped into the living room.

Sakura was searching for her bag, uncertain whether Itachi had picked it up last night or if it was still in her office. At the sound of soft footsteps, she looked up.

Her breath caught. “Have you got my phone?” she asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” Itachi said, his tone clipped but calm. He crossed to the coffee table, picked it up, and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking the phone carefully, her fingers avoiding his.

“I’ve added my number to your contacts,” he said. “In case you need to get in touch.”

She blinked, surprise flickering across her face. How did he get into my phone…?

A beat passed.

“Do you need a lift somewhere?” he asked.

“Oh… um…” Her mind caught up slowly. He’d brought her home. Her car was still at the hospital. “Could you drop me off there so I can get my car?”

He nodded. Without another word, he turned back to the bedroom, ran a brush through his hair, tied it up, slipped into his shoes, and joined her at the door, where she stood waiting with her jacket and bag.

The drive to the hospital was quiet. Not awkward—just charged. The silence between them felt like a held breath.

As they pulled up, Sakura turned in her seat. “Thanks,” she said, her voice soft.

She lingered, eyes on him a moment longer than necessary. He met her gaze, unreadable.

Then she stepped out, the door closing behind her with a quiet finality, as she walked towards her car, unlocked it, and got in. She sighed heavily and pressed her head against the head rest, closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down before she drove to her parents’ house.

Chapter 19

Itachi stood in the kitchen, already dressed for work. Shirt pressed, sleeves rolled, tie still hanging loose around his neck. He held his coffee without drinking it, fingers curled round the mug as he listened to the low hum of the machine and waited.

Sakura came in like she always did—half-ready, half-rushing. Hair damp, bag slipping off her shoulder, muttering under her breath as she scanned the room. Keys, probably. Or her ID badge. Something small and always misplaced when she was running late.

He didn’t speak. Just turned to the machine and started her cappuccino. It had become part of the morning now. Quiet, automatic. She never asked, and he never offered aloud. But she always took it.

Since that morning—when they’d nearly kissed, when the air between them had shifted and held—they hadn’t spoken properly. The moment had been quiet, tentative, charged. A breath apart, her gaze lifted to his, lips parted just enough to make him forget the hour. And then—noise in the corridor. Shisui’s voice. Kisame’s knock. The moment had broken, clean and sudden, like a thread pulled too tight.

They hadn’t found their way back to it since. One of them was always late home. The other already asleep. Mornings like this were the only overlap, and even then, it was brief. A glance. A nod. A coffee passed from hand to hand.

He placed the mug on the counter just as she spotted her keys beneath the post. She turned, startled, then softened when she saw the drink. Her smile was shy, sincere. The kind that lingered longer than it should.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, fingers brushing his as she took it.

He watched her sip, watched the way her shoulders eased for a moment. She didn’t look at him, not directly, but he could feel it—the same thoughts circling between them. The same ache of missed timing. Of something paused mid-breath.

Her phone rang—sharp, insistent. She glanced at the screen, sighed. “Hospital,” she murmured, already moving. She downed the rest of the drink in one go, set the mug in the sink, and grabbed her bag.

“See you later, have a good day at work,” she called out, halfway out the door.

He didn’t reply. Just stood there, coffee cooling in his hand, wondering if today would be any different. He finished the drink, grabbed his jacket, pocketed his phone, and slipped into his shoes. The door clicked shut behind him as he locked it, then headed to his car.

He’d only just stepped into the building when Izuku approached, several files clutched in her hands. A worried look was etched across her features.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“The contract we were working on,” she began, swallowing hard, “I think it’s about to fall apart.”

Itachi’s brow furrowed. He held out a hand for the files, which Izuku handed over without hesitation. She opened her mouth to say more, then paused—uncertain, as if weighing whether to soften the blow or just let it land.

He didn’t wait. Turned and started walking towards his office, the files tucked under one arm. Izuku followed, filling him in on what the client had said, her voice low and clipped.

He combed through the contract with military precision, leaving nothing unchecked. His jaw tightened as he read—small inconsistencies, vague clauses, things that should’ve been caught earlier. He didn’t speak, not at first. Just fired off an email to the client, asking what further assurances or amendments were needed for the contract to proceed.

Then came the calls. Nearly two hours on the phone with various contacts, trying to piece together a solution. His tone was calm, measured—but beneath it, frustration simmered. Not at Izuku. Not even at the client. Just at the timing. At how everything seemed to unravel when he least had the space for it.

He ended the final call with a clipped goodbye, the line going dead before he’d fully exhaled. The office was quiet now, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the distant shuffle of footsteps in the corridor.

Itachi leaned back slightly, eyes still on the screen but not seeing it. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, unmoving.

He thought of the morning. Of Sakura’s smile—soft, sincere, the kind that lingered longer than it should. Of the way her fingers had brushed his when she took the mug. That brief touch had stayed with him, more than it should have. More than he’d let on.

He wished they had time to speak. To clear the air. To ask the questions that had been sitting between them since that morning. But time hadn’t been on his side lately. Between late finishes, early starts, and everything in between, the space to talk had narrowed to nothing. Just glances. Just routine.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache pressing behind his eyes. It wasn’t just the contract. It was the timing. The way everything seemed to unravel when he least had the room to hold it.

There was a part of him—quiet, persistent—that wondered if she felt it too. If she replayed that moment in her mind the way he did. If she was waiting, like he was, for the right pause in the day that never came.

He turned back to the screen, jaw set. There was still work to do. But the silence between them was louder than it had been in days.

The office door swung open. Fugaku strode in, souring Itachi’s mood with nothing more than his presence. He watched his father cross the room and lean against the edge of the desk, casual and commanding.

“Did you fix your mistakes with the Uzushi?” he barked.

Itachi’s jaw tightened. Of course he knows.
“All sorted,” he said, clipped.

Fugaku looked down at him, eyes sharp. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one who doesn’t make mistakes?” he sneered.

Itachi didn’t rise to it. It hadn’t been his error—but he wasn’t about to throw Izuku under the bus either.

After a beat of silence, he asked, “Do you need anything else?”

Fugaku narrowed his eyes at the tone. “Watch it, boy!” he warned. His gaze swept the room—bare walls, no personal touches, just a single framed photo of Konoha. Everything in its place. Immaculate.

He pushed off the desk and walked to the door. One hand on the handle, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“You and Haruno’s brat are expected to join us tomorrow evening at the hotel.”

Itachi didn’t flinch. “What’s the occasion?”

“To celebrate the completion of one of our biggest contracts. You’ll be there. Dressed to impress. And make sure that wife of yours doesn’t look a state.”

He left with a slam of the door.

Itachi exhaled through his nose, staring at the wood. He hated these events—his father’s theatre of superiority, a stage for proving he was better than everyone else in the room.

He could already picture Sakura’s reaction. And he knew exactly what would happen if either of them failed to meet Fugaku’s expectations.

He checked the time: twenty past twelve. Locking his computer, he pocketed his phone and keys, left the office, then the building. Slid into his car and headed for the high-end boutiques his mother favoured whenever she needed a dress for some occasion or other.

---

Sakura’s shift had bled into overtime. The morning began with a touch-and-go operation—tense, precise, the kind that left her adrenaline humming long after it was over. From there, it was a blur: patients in and out, charts to update, vitals to check, questions to answer. She barely had time to breathe. The departmental meeting that followed dragged on, each agenda item stretching longer than it should, her focus slipping as the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

By the time she stepped through the front door, her body felt like it had been wrung out. No lights. No sound. Just the soft click of the door behind her and the low hum of the fridge.

She didn’t bother turning anything on. The quiet wasn’t unfamiliar—it had settled between them like dust, quiet and undisturbed.

She showered slowly, letting the heat ease the tension in her shoulders. Changed into soft cotton, tied her hair up loosely. In the kitchen, she made a small sandwich—just enough to take the edge off. No energy to cook. No appetite for anything more.

She ate standing at the counter, eyes drifting to the hallway. Still no sign of him.

Her phone sat on the table, screen dark. She picked it up, thumb hovering.
When will you be home? Are you okay?
It felt simple. Neutral. But still—something. She sent it before she could second-guess herself.

Later, curled up on the sofa with a book open in her lap, she tried to read. Her eyes skimmed the words, but nothing stuck. Her vision blurred, her thoughts drifting. The pages felt heavy in her hands, her focus slipping with each line.

She checked her phone again. No reply.

She closed the book, set it aside, and padded to the bedroom. The sheets were cool against her skin. She lay on her side, facing the wall, trying not to overthink. Maybe he was caught up. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

She drifted off slowly, the quiet pressing in like a weight.

---

Itachi came in just after midnight. The door clicked softly behind him, and he stood in the entryway for a moment, letting the stillness settle.

The day had started badly and never quite recovered. The run-in with his father that morning had soured his mood—sharp words exchanged under the guise of civility, the kind that lingered long after the conversation ended. From there, it had been a steady grind: emails piling up, each one demanding something. He’d spent half the afternoon fielding calls from workmen, trying to coordinate repairs without losing his temper. Then the contract—pages of legal phrasing and logistical knots that refused to untangle.

He was tired. Not just in his body, but somewhere deeper. The kind of tired that made everything feel slightly out of reach.

He moved through the house quietly, muscle memory guiding him. In the hallway, he glanced at his phone. Her message was there.

He paused.

It was brief. Unassuming. But it stayed with him. She’d thought of him. Reached out. Not out of obligation, but something quieter. Something gentler.

He hadn’t replied. There hadn’t been time. Too many voices. Too many pages. But he’d seen it. And it had mattered.

In the bedroom, she was already asleep. Curled on her side, breathing slow and steady. He brushed his teeth. Washed his face. The usual routine. The usual quiet.

When he slipped into bed, he lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The distance between them felt deliberate. Maintained. But not cold.

Just... careful.

Without thinking, he shifted slightly. Closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel the warmth of her body through the sheets. Enough to let it anchor him.

He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan to.

But the nearness soothed something in him. Something he hadn’t named.

Sleep came quickly after that.

Chapter 20

Sakura stirred slowly, the light filtering through the curtains soft and pale. She blinked, turned—and found the bed empty.

For a moment, she lay still, eyes on the rumpled sheets beside her. Had he come home last night? She thought so. She remembered the sound of the door, the faint creak of floorboards. But she hadn't woken properly. Hadn't checked. She reached for her phone and checked her messages, No reply from him. She stared at the screen for a moment, before locking it and placing it on the bed.

It didn't matter. Shouldn't matter. But the quiet hurt of him not replying back was there. She didn't allow herself to acknowledge the feeling.

It was the weekend. And for once, she had nothing planned. No shifts. No meetings. No obligations. Just quiet. She wanted to enjoy it—doing absolutely nothing.

She moved through her morning routine slowly. Shower. Hair tied up. Moisturiser. Lip balm. The usual rhythm. Comfortable. Familiar.

When she walked into the kitchen, she stopped.

Itachi was already there.

His hair was damp, pushed back from his face. He stood by the counter, coffee in hand, dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His scent lingered in the air—clean, sharp, something expensive and understated. It teased her senses, invited her closer.

He looked up and met her gaze, offering a small smile. It held more than it said.

She nodded, walked past him, and made herself a cappuccino. Pulled together a simple breakfast—cereal, nothing fancy. She sat at the table, the quiet stretching between them.

"We're expected at my father's function tonight," he said, voice low.

She frowned. "I didn't know anything about it."

"I only found out yesterday."

She knew from his words that this was a non-negotiable, they were expected, they had to go. checked the time. Ten thirty.

Her stomach dipped.

Of course, his father would expect her dressed to impress. Elegant. Immaculate. She stood abruptly and turned toward the bedroom, already bracing herself for the usual spiral. She walked into the room, emptied all her evening gowns on the bed, trying to find one that would fit the occasion, but none of them seemed to be right. None on them stood out.

She paced the room, trying to think of what to do. Not hearing Itachi's soft arrival in the room, or seeing his perusal of all the fabric that littered the bed. He could see the worry etched across her features.

"I've already got a dress for you," he told her, making her jump slightly.

She quickly turned to look at him, her eyebrows raised up in question to his words.

"After my father told me about the event, I went out and chose you a dress."

"You… chose me a dress?" she asked, her voice full of questions.

He nodded once. "I know what my father expects of both of us. And I had a feeling you'd want something that fit the occasion."

Sakura was taken aback. He'd gone out of his way to help her—far beyond what she'd expected, or even imagined. But in the quiet corner of her mind, a niggling thought stirred. What if he'd only done it to save face? To look good? To impress others?

The idea felt sour, ill-fitting. She shook it away before it could take root, unwilling to let doubt spoil the warmth blooming in her chest.

"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice barely more than breath. "Can I see it?" she asked a few seconds later, hesitant.

"It's still at the shop," he replied, his tone measured. "I asked them to hold onto it."

"Why?" Sakura furrowed her brow, a flicker of worry tightening her chest. What if the dress wasn't ready? What if something had gone wrong?

"They've agreed to get you ready there," he said, eyes flicking to hers. "Hair, makeup, and any adjustments if needed."

She stared at him, baffled. The boutique wasn't just holding the dress—they were preparing her. She couldn't understand why he'd gone so far out of his way. And she couldn't begin to imagine how much it had cost.

Her fingers curled into her palm. The gesture felt too grand, too generous. Too much.

She swallowed once before asking, "How much do I owe you for all this?"

Itachi's gaze snapped to hers, sharp and unreadable. "Nothing," he said, clipped.

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with finality.

"We're expected at the boutique by four at the latest." He turned and walked out of the room without glancing back, his shoulders rigid, his pace brisk.

Sakura watched him go, her heart thudding quietly in her chest. He hadn't done all this to get something in return. That much was clear. But then… why?

He'd done it because—because he didn't know why he'd done it either. Not really. Not in a way he could explain.

Frustrated, Itachi ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly through the strands. He stepped into his office and shut the door behind him, the soft click echoing like a boundary drawn. He didn't want to be thanked. He didn't want to be questioned. He just wanted the gesture to speak for itself.

---

The drive was quiet. The city passed in soft blurs, the sky overcast but bright. Sakura sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching the road. Itachi didn't speak, but his presence was steady—like a hum beneath the silence. She could feel his frustration lingering from her earlier question. She hadn't tried to reach out or explain herself, worried it would spiral into an argument. Something they hadn't had in a while—and if she was honest, she wanted to keep it that way.

When they arrived, the shop was discreet. No flashy signage. Just a glass door, a brass handle, and a name etched in cursive.

Inside, the space was warm and elegant. Soft lighting. Velvet chairs. A rack of gowns that looked like they belonged in a gallery.

A woman greeted them with a smile and led Sakura to the back. Itachi didn't follow.

"Would you like a drink, ma'am?" asked one of the women, dressed in all black.

Sakura gave a small smile and shook her head. Her stomach was too tense, rolling with thoughts of whether the dress would fit, whether she'd look good in it—and what his father would think.

"Would you like to choose a style for your hair?" the woman asked again.

Sakura hesitated. She knew what styles she preferred, but without seeing the dress, she'd be going in blind. "Have you seen the dress?" she asked.

"Yes," the woman beamed. "It's beautiful."

Sakura nodded, trying to smile through her nerves. "I'll let you decide on the hair, then."

The woman lit up. "You won't be disappointed."

They spent the next hour styling her hair, followed by another hour on her makeup.

By the time they were done, Sakura was stiff from sitting so long. She was relieved to stand as they led her to the changing rooms, where her dress waited—still in its bag.

They helped her into it, fussing over the skirts before zipping it up and guiding her to the mirror.

She didn't recognise the woman staring back.

The reflection was elegant, composed—otherworldly. And yet, somehow, it was her.

She was speechless.

She wore a black strapless evening gown of smooth, matte silk that clung to her form before flaring into a full skirt. Silver embroidery traced the bodice in a symmetrical laurel pattern, descending from the centre of her neckline like frost creeping across glass. A thigh-high slit revealed one long leg.

Her makeup was soft, deliberate. Smoky eyes framed in charcoal and taupe, lashes long and curled. Her lips were painted in muted rose. Her pastel pink hair was swept into a low, elegant bun at the nape of her neck, with a few wisps left loose to soften the sharpness of her cheekbones.

Sakura's eyes drifted back to the mirror, her gaze catching on the dress once more. She reached out, fingers brushing the fabric lightly—slow, reverent. It was soft beneath her touch, cool and smooth, the embroidery catching the light in delicate silver threads. The fit was perfect. Not just flattering, but precise. As though it had been made for her.

She tilted her head slightly, studying the way the bodice hugged her curves, the way the skirt fell just right. It was elegant. Sophisticated. And somehow… her.

That surprised her.

Her fingers lingered at the waistline, tracing the subtle dip where the fabric cinched in. She tried to imagine Itachi choosing this. Standing in a boutique, surrounded by gowns and velvet hangers. Did he come alone? Or was there someone with him? A woman, maybe. Someone who knew him. His taste.

The thought settled uneasily in her chest.

She turned slightly, voice quiet. "Was he alone? When he came in to choose this?"

The women exchanged a glance, then smiled.

"Oh, it was just him," Sofia said warmly. "He spent ages looking through the collection. Very particular. Very focused."

"He knew exactly what he wanted," Mako added. "Didn't even hesitate once he saw this one." She waved her hand towards Sakura.

Sakura blinked, lips parting slightly. Her gaze returned to the mirror.

Sofia stepped forward, carrying three velvet jewellery boxes. She opened them one by one, letting Sakura glimpse the contents before selecting each piece with care. Teardrop-shaped black gemstone earrings caught the light with every movement. A matching pendant rested just above the sweetheart neckline of her gown, its silver chain barely visible against her skin. A bracelet circled her right wrist, delicate and cool.

From a separate bag, Sofia pulled out a pair of black stiletto heels. She knelt gracefully, helping Sakura into them. The silver accents echoed the embroidery above, tying the look together with quiet precision.

"Gosh, don't you look amazing!" Mako and Sofia exclaimed together, standing back to admire their work.

"Your husband has a good eye—and he clearly knows you well, seeing as the dress fits perfectly," Sofia said.

"I wish my husband had an eye for detail like that," Mako cooed.

Sakura didn't answer right away.

She was still staring at the mirror, trying to reconcile the woman she saw with the one she'd always been. And wondering—quietly, deeply—how Itachi had known.

They helped her down from the pedestal and into the front of the shop, where Itachi was waiting.

He was speechless as Sakura entered the room. His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, taking in every inch of her. She was beautiful. Otherworldly.

Sakura blushed under his stare, heat blooming across her cheeks like a secret she couldn’t hide. Her gaze dropped, drawn irresistibly to the man before her. His suit—black as midnight and cut with ruthless precision—clung to his frame like it had been stitched in silence, for him alone. The matte silk lapels caught the low light, echoing the exact shade of her gown with uncanny synchronicity, as if fate had dressed them to match. Beneath the jacket, a black button-down shirt lay crisp and unyielding, collar sharp, the top button undone—just enough to hint at something unspoken.

His presence was magnetic, every movement deliberate, every detail designed to command attention without asking for it. The fabric moved with him like shadow, fluid yet composed, and the way the suit framed his shoulders, his lean torso, made her pulse stutter. He looked devastating. Controlled. Like danger dressed in elegance.

She couldn’t look away. Her breath hitched, shallow and quiet, as if even that might betray her. A shiver ran down her spine—light, involuntary, like the brush of cold silk—and settled low in her belly. She drank him in, every line, every contrast between silk and skin, every quiet threat in the way he stood. And in that moment, the room faded. There was only him.

He watched her cross the room, her movements quiet, composed. The gown clung to her like shadow, silver embroidery catching the light with every breath she took. Her hair was swept back, exposing the sharp line of her jaw, the vulnerable curve of her throat. She looked regal. Untouchable. And yet, her eyes searched his face. Waiting.

Something shifted in his chest. Not surprise. Not admiration. Something warmer. Sharper. A pull he didn’t welcome. It curled low and quiet, threading through restraint like smoke. He didn’t let it show—but it was there, undeniable. A flicker of heat stirred beneath his ribs, subtle and insistent, like the first whisper of a storm.

He was trying to suppress it—the ache to reach for her, to close the distance, to touch the place where silk met skin. The urge was irrational, intrusive. It clawed at the edges of his composure, whispering things he had no right to want. She was stunning. But it wasn’t just the dress. It was the way she stood—uncertain and proud all at once. The way she didn’t speak. The way she looked at him like she saw through the armour he wore and recognised something raw beneath.

He said nothing. But he felt everything. His fingers curled slightly at his side; breath held too long in his chest. The tension between them began to sizzle, quiet but relentless. The room felt warmer. Closer. They were lost in each other until someone cleared their throat, the sound sharp and jarring, dragging them back to the present like a snapped thread.

"We hope you have an amazing evening. You make a beautiful couple."

Sakura blinked, then turned to the two women. She gave them a shy smile, which they returned.

"Thank you—for everything," she said earnestly.

"It was our pleasure," they replied in unison.

"Shall we?" Itachi asked, holding out his hand.

---

Itachi parked in the crowded car park. He stepped out and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door and holding out a hand for Sakura.

She gave him a shy smile and placed her hand in his. She felt the callouses beneath her palm—something she hadn't expected, but somehow, it suited him. She stepped carefully out of the car and looked up at the large, imposing building ahead. It was built to impress. Everything about it screamed money. And she knew what Fugaku was like—he wanted everyone to know exactly how much he was willing to spend.

They walked quietly towards the entrance, one of Itachi's hands resting on her lower back. It felt like an anchor to him. A quiet claim.

The entrance hall was grand—vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and chandeliers that glittered like frost. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and polished wood. Voices echoed softly, laughter layered over polite conversation. It was the kind of place built to impress, and Fugaku had ensured every detail did exactly that.

Sakura hesitated just inside the doorway, her hand tightening around the small black clutch in her hands. She could feel the weight of eyes on her—curious, admiring, assessing. She stood taller, chin lifted, but her pulse ticked faster beneath her skin.

Itachi's hand shifted on her lower back, the pressure firmer now. Not controlling. Just present. Protective. Possessive.

He scanned the room with quiet precision, noting every glance that lingered too long. Men who looked at her like she was something to be claimed. Women who looked at her like she was something to be envied. His jaw tightened.

Sakura felt it. The way his body subtly angled toward hers. The way his fingers flexed once against her spine. She didn't look at him, but she knew. And something in her chest fluttered—not nerves, not fear. Something warmer. Sharper.

They moved together through the crowd, a quiet force. People parted for them without being asked. Conversations paused. Eyes followed.

A woman in emerald silk stepped forward, flute of champagne in hand. "Itachi," she said warmly, then turned to Sakura with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "And you must be Sakura. That dress is stunning; it suits you perfectly."

Sakura offered a polite smile, her fingers brushing the clutch. "Itachi chose it," she said, glancing up at him. Her smile was small, but it held something quiet and certain. "He has good taste."

The woman's eyebrows lifted slightly, her smile tightening. "Clearly."

Another couple approached, older, polished. The man extended a hand to Itachi. "You've done well," he said, glancing at Sakura. "Beautiful and poised. You two make quite the pair."

Itachi's grip on her back didn't shift, but his gaze flicked toward the man—cool, unreadable.

Sakura inclined her head. "Thank you," she said, voice even.

The woman beside him leaned in slightly, her voice soft but sincere. "Are you still at the hospital, dear? I read something about your work—was it surgical recovery?"

"Yes," Sakura replied, her expression brightening just a touch. "We're trialling a new post-op protocol—targeted cooling combined with early movement therapy. It's designed to reduce inflammation and speed up recovery." She paused, then added with quiet pride, "It's early days, but we're seeing results. It matters."

"Well," the woman said, clearly impressed, "brains and beauty. You're wasted on the private sector."

Itachi's lips twitched—something close to amusement, quickly gone.

Then a younger man approached, champagne in hand, his smile easy and just a touch too familiar.
"Ah, the best-dressed couple has arrived," he said, eyes sweeping over Sakura with slow appreciation. "You'll be turning heads all night."

His gaze lingered—not crude, but deliberate. Itachi saw it.

Without a word, his hand slid more firmly around Sakura’s waist, drawing her subtly closer. His posture remained relaxed, but his eyes met the man’s with quiet finality.

“My wife is beautiful,” he said, voice calm, but edged with something unmistakable—a quiet claim, cool and unyielding. “She doesn’t need to turn heads to be noticed.”

Sakura’s breath caught. The words—my wife—landed with a weight she hadn’t expected, low and warm, curling through her like heat beneath silk. There was something in the way he said it—not for show, not for the room. For her. Possessive, yes, but not suffocating. Protective. Grounding.

She felt the press of his hand at her waist like a tether, steady and deliberate. Her heart fluttered, pulse quickening beneath her skin. She didn’t speak, couldn’t. Her gaze flicked to his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet authority in his voice. Something in her chest tightened—an ache, a thrill, a rush of something she wasn’t ready to name.

The man blinked, smile faltering. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”

Itachi didn’t wait for the rest. He dipped his head politely, then turned, guiding Sakura away with effortless grace.

She didn’t resist. Her hand found his arm, fingers curling lightly around the fabric of his sleeve. The crowd shifted around them, but the moment lingered—sharp and intimate.

Around them, laughter rose in polished bursts, glasses clinked, and the scent of champagne and expensive perfume hung thick in the air. A woman in sequins brushed past, her gaze flicking to Sakura with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Nearby, an older man whispered something behind his hand, and his companion glanced over, appraising. It wasn’t overt. But it was constant. Eyes followed them—curious, calculating, quietly intrusive.

Sakura felt it like static against her skin. The weight of being seen. Assessed. Judged. She stood straighter, but her fingers tightened slightly on Itachi’s sleeve.

She leaned in, her voice low. “Are these events always like this?”

He didn’t look at her. “Yes. It’s Father’s way of showing off. You’ve seen what their estate looks like, what it holds. These events tend to be worse. He gets to stand in the middle of people and lap up their compliments, while he throws sweet veiled insults at them.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. She’d been to enough events at her father’s behest. But never had she felt like this. Put on show for the world to see. On exhibit. She couldn’t imagine what it would have been like for Itachi growing up and being forced into these events. She wondered whether he rebelled. Somehow she could see him rebelling.

They reached the edge of the ballroom, where the music softened and the lighting dipped to a gentler glow. The crowd thinned slightly, giving them space to breathe. As Sakura scanned the room, her eyes landed on her parents. Mebuki waved, her smile bright and immediate, and Kizashi gave a small nod of recognition.

Sakura’s steps quickened. Mebuki pulled her into a hug, then leaned back to take her in properly, hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

“Sakura… You look stunning,” she said, eyes shining.

Sakura smiled. “Thank you.” She glanced at Itachi, a quiet flicker of gratitude passing between them.

Mebuki turned to him without hesitation, offering her cheek. He leaned in, brushing a polite kiss there before straightening to shake Kizashi’s hand. The older man clasped his warmly, no hesitation, no formality—just quiet respect.

“You both look wonderful,” Kizashi said, his tone easy. “The perfect pair. I still remember when Sakura used to roll her eyes at the idea of formal events.”

“She still does,” Itachi replied, and Sakura gave him a mock glare that made Mebuki laugh.

They chatted briefly—nothing heavy. Just the kind of conversation that filled space with comfort. Mebuki asked about the drive, Kizashi made a dry comment about the wine selection, and Sakura teased her mother about trying to match her jewellery to the table settings.

Itachi stood beside them, listening. Responding. But something in him stilled.

This is what it’s like, he thought. To be welcomed without performance. To be spoken to without strategy.

There was no edge in Kizashi’s voice. No veiled critique in Mebuki’s smile. No expectation that he prove himself. Just warmth. Familiarity. The kind of ease he’d never known in his own home, where every word was measured, every gesture weighed against legacy and reputation.

The Maître d’ called for attention, the music fading as the room quieted. “Please make your way to your seats. Dinner will be served shortly.”

“Where are you sitting?” Mebuki asked, turning to Sakura.

“We’re expected to sit with my family,” Itachi said, his voice steady.

Mebuki nodded. “Of course. We’ll find our table.”

She gave Sakura’s hand a gentle squeeze, then turned with Kizashi, their steps unhurried as they disappeared into the crowd.

Sakura watched as everyone started to settle, she felt Itachi gently usher her towards their table, where Fugaku and Mikoto were already sat. Both dressed in blue. Mikoto wore a simple, muted blue evening gown, while Kizashi wore a suit that seemed to scream money. Sakura gave them both a polite smile and nod.

Fugaku looked between them, assessing their attire. "At least you made the effort," he said with a snide.

Itachi pulled out the chair for Sakura, letting her sit, before tucking her in and taking his place beside her.

The clink of crystal and the rustle of silk filled the air as servers emerged in synchronised formation, trays shimmering beneath the chandeliers. The first course arrived with theatrical flair: gold-rimmed plates cradling delicate towers of lobster mousse, flecked with edible petals and drizzled with saffron foam. A single shard of sugar-glass arched over each dish like a crown.

Sakura blinked. It looked more like sculpture than food.

Around the table, soft murmurs stirred—polished voices discussing quarterly projections, a recent acquisition, someone's sabbatical. The kind of talk that filled silence without inviting intimacy.

Fugaku glanced down at his plate, then across the table with a satisfied smirk. "Presentation is everything," he said, voice low but deliberate. "The Hyūgas overcomplicate. The Aburames under-season. But this—" he gestured to the dish with a flick of his fingers "—this is restraint with taste."

Cutlery began to move. Conversation resumed in gentle waves. Fugaku turned his attention to Sakura.

"I imagine this is rather... elevated compared to what you're used to," he said, tone almost conversational. "The Harunos favour heartier fare, don't they?"

His gaze lingered, the smile on his lips mock-polite, honed to a point.

Sakura's fork paused mid-air. She didn't look at him directly, but the comment landed.

She tasted the mousse—rich, strange, the saffron lingering like perfume—and let the moment pass without comment. But her spine straightened, just a little.

She reached for her water, the glass cool against her palm, and let her gaze drift across the room—searching for something real beneath the polish.

Beside her, Itachi shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing hers in a way that felt deliberate. Under the table, his hand found her thigh, fingers warm and steady. A gentle squeeze. Then, a subtle tightening—his grip firming as Fugaku spoke, his posture stiffening.

She turned, just enough to meet his eyes.

He didn't speak. But his gaze was locked on his father, sharp and unblinking. A silent warning.

She hadn't expected comfort—not here, not from him—but it was there, tucked between gestures and silence.

She let her gaze linger on him a moment longer, then turned back to her plate. The mousse was half-eaten, the sugar-glass crown broken. But the taste had changed—less strange now, less distant.

The first course was cleared with silent efficiency, servers gliding between tables like shadows. Within moments, the second arrived—more ostentatious than the last. Crystal bowls cradled a velvety bisque, the colour rich and golden, topped with a swirl of truffle cream and a single, glistening pearl of caviar. A sliver of brioche, toasted to perfection, balanced on the rim like a flourish.

Fugaku picked up his spoon with deliberate grace, tasting the bisque before speaking. "Imported shellfish. Aged cream. The truffles were flown in yesterday morning." He paused, then added, "Not the sort of thing one finds in a Haruno kitchen."

He didn't look at her, but the jab was precise.

Itachi's hand tightened again, just slightly. His thumb brushed once against the fabric of her dress, then stilled. His jaw was set, his gaze flicking toward Fugaku with quiet intensity.

Sakura didn't flinch. She kept her face neutral, her posture composed. But beneath the table, she leaned into the warmth of Itachi's touch—an anchor in the rising tide of scrutiny.

The final course arrived like a performance.

A procession of waitstaff glided in, each bearing a single obsidian dome on chilled slate. The desserts gleamed under the chandelier light—mirror-glazed black sesame mousse, flecked with gold leaf, perched atop almond sponge soaked in yuzu syrup. A quenelle of white chocolate and sake ice cream sat beside it, melting slowly, deliberately.

Sakura blinked. It looked less like food and more like something locked behind glass in a museum gallery.

Fugaku didn't wait. He gestured to his plate with a flick of his wrist. "Imported citrus. Artisan glaze. I doubt anyone else would ever serve something so refined. So cultured," his gaze landed on Sakura, the jab thinly veiled.

The comment hung in the air, brittle and gleaming.

Itachi's hand remained firm on her thigh. His gaze didn't shift from his father, and though he said nothing, the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.

She didn't rush. The dome was too perfect for that—obsidian glaze catching the chandelier light like polished stone, gold leaf clinging to its surface like something ceremonial. Sakura angled her fork, pressed down gently. The glaze cracked with a soft resistance, mousse giving way to curd, sponge yielding beneath.

The black sesame hit first—smoky, grounded, almost bitter. It settled low on her tongue, earthy and quiet. Then the yuzu curd broke through, sharp and clean, citrus slicing across the richness. The sponge softened the edges. Almond, faintly floral.

Fugaku had grown quiet, perhaps bored of her refusal to rise. She finished the last bite with measured grace, placed her fork down, and excused herself from the table.

She needed air.

The garden was quiet, tucked behind the main hall and half-lit by lanterns strung between the trees. Sakura stepped into the cool night, heels muted against the stone path, the weight of Fugaku's jabs still sitting low in her chest. She didn't flinch from them anymore, but they lingered—like smoke in fabric.

She found a stretch of wall and leaned against it, letting the cold stone press into her spine. Her fingers curled loosely at her sides. She didn't want to be graceful right now. She just wanted to breathe.

"Didn't think the most beautiful woman in the room would be hiding out here," came a voice—male, unfamiliar, smooth.

She turned slightly. A guest. Older than her, well-dressed, confident in the way men are when they think charm is currency. His smile was polished, his posture relaxed, but his eyes lingered too long.

"I'd hoped for a chance to speak to you all evening," he said, stepping closer.

Sakura offered a polite smile, cool and brief. "I don't believe we've met."

He tilted his head, amused. "No, we haven't. But I've certainly noticed you."

Another step. Close enough now that she could smell the cologne—expensive, cloying.

"You don't belong in there," he said, voice low. "Too sharp for that crowd. Too beautiful."

"I'm not interested," she replied, calm but firm.

He smiled like he hadn't heard her. "Still—worth the risk."

His fingers reached out, grazing the bare skin of her arm, trailing lightly downwards.

She stiffened.

And then she felt it.

Itachi's presence arrived like a shift in pressure. No footsteps. No warning. Just the quiet certainty of him stepping into the lantern light.

His gaze landed on her first. Held. Then flicked to the man.

Without a word, he crossed the space and placed a hand at her waist, pulling her into his side—not roughly, but with a precision that left no room for doubt. His fingers settled with quiet authority, thumb brushing the curve of her hip like punctuation.

The man blinked, straightening. "Ah. I didn't realise—"

"You did," Itachi said, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.

The man's gaze flicked between them, faltering. "Well. Enjoy your evening." He walked away, throwing one last look at Sakura.

Itachi didn't speak. His hand remained at her waist, steady. Possessive. Not for show—just fact.

Sakura looked up at him, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just that—his gaze, her breath, the quiet between them.

Something unspoken passed between them. Not soft. Not sweet. Just sharp and certain.

Then the sound of footsteps. A voice calling from the garden entrance.

"Mr Uchiha, your father's about to begin the speeches."

Itachi dragged his eyes away from Sakura and towards the young, slight man who had disturbed them. He gave a curt nod, gaze lingering just long enough to make the boy falter before rushing off.

Sakura straightened. "Let's not keep him waiting."

Itachi nodded. His hand didn't drop. Instead, it slid from her waist to the small of her back, guiding her with quiet insistence as they walked towards the next room—a large ballroom.

The ballroom was unapologetically extravagant.

Vaulted ceilings arched high above, painted in soft gold leaf and constellations that shimmered under the chandeliers. Crystal light spilled across polished marble floors, catching on the edges of champagne flutes and sequined gowns. Every surface gleamed—mirrored panels, gilded trim, floral arrangements so meticulously curated they looked sculpted rather than grown.

At the far end, a raised stage dominated the room. Behind it, the orchestra sat poised in black formalwear, instruments gleaming under the spotlights. In front of them stood Fugaku Uchiha.

He didn't need to call for silence. The room quieted as he stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, posture regal. His gaze swept the crowd like a ledger being tallied.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice smooth and commanding, "it is with great pride that I announce the successful completion of our latest high-priority contract—one that not only demanded precision and discretion, but elevated our standing among global partners."

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of the word elevated to settle.

"We were, of course, the only firm capable of delivering on such terms. Others were considered. Briefly."

A ripple moved through the crowd—tight smiles, a few raised brows. The jab wasn't subtle. It wasn't meant to be.

Fugaku continued, tone clipped and deliberate. "This achievement marks another milestone in our legacy. One built not on sentiment, but on results."

The final note of Fugaku's speech faded, swallowed by polite applause and the soft clink of glasses. The orchestra shifted behind him, and then—her voice.

A woman stepped forward, spectral in black. Her presence was quiet, but commanding. The first note she sang was breathless and low, curling through the ballroom like smoke.

"I summoned you, please come to me…"

Sakura felt it in her chest first. A tightening. A pull. The melody wasn't loud, but it was everywhere—threading through silk and crystal, through breath and bone.

Itachi turned to her, hand extended. No words. Just that look.

She placed her hand in his.

He led her to the centre of the ballroom, where couples had begun to gather. The floor shimmered beneath them, polished marble catching the light like water. The music swelled—strings trembling, the rhythm slow and deliberate.

Itachi's hand found her waist again—warm, firm, and unyielding. His other hand held hers, fingers laced with quiet intent. He didn't ask if she was ready. He simply moved, and she followed.

They began to dance.

Not the stiff, formal kind expected at events like this. This was something else—fluid, intimate. Their bodies moved in synchrony, like tide and moon. Each step was a breath. Each turn, a heartbeat. Her body responded to his with instinct, not instruction.

His grip tightened slightly with each pass, guiding her with precision. Her breath caught as his hand slid lower, fingers pressing into the curve of her back, drawing her closer. The space between them vanished, replaced by heat and tension and the quiet hum of something dangerous.

"Don't bury thoughts that you really want…"

The lyric slipped through the air like a dare.

Sakura's hand curled against his shoulder, anchoring herself. Her gaze flicked up—his eyes were already on her. Dark. Focused. Unreadable.

They turned again, and this time his hand shifted—lower still, fingertips grazing the edge of her hip. Not accidental. Not rushed. Just deliberate enough to make her pulse stutter.

Then he dipped her.

One fluid motion—his arm braced behind her back, the other sliding down to anchor her thigh, exposed beneath the slit of her dress. His grip was steady, tight, possessive. Not controlling. Not cruel. Just the kind of hold that said: mine. Her breath caught as her body arched into the movement, silk brushing against his wrist, her leg hooked over his with instinctive trust.

He held her there for a beat too long—long enough for the room to vanish, long enough for her skin to hum beneath his fingers. Then he pulled her upright, slow, and deliberate, his hand lingering at her thigh before sliding back to her waist. The contact left a trail of heat; a memory pressed into skin.

She didn't speak. Didn't pull away.

The music wrapped around them, the singer's voice haunting and slow, like a spell cast over the room. But Sakura barely heard it now. Her world had narrowed to the press of Itachi's body, the way his hand held her like he knew exactly where she belonged.

"I'll grab you by the throat…"

The lyric landed like a whisper against her skin.

The final note of Middle of the Night faded into silence, leaving the ballroom suspended in breath.

Then came the shift.

A man stepped forward from the orchestra's shadows—tall, suited, his voice low and velvet-dark. The first notes of Feel It rolled out like smoke, slow and sensual, curling around the chandeliers and slipping between bodies.

"I feel it in your touch…"

Itachi didn't let go.

His hand slid from Sakura's back to her hip, guiding her into the next rhythm without pause. The music was slower now, heavier. Each beat felt like a heartbeat. Each movement between them—closer.

Sakura's breath hitched as he drew her in, their bodies aligned, the space between them reduced to heat and fabric. His hand was firm, possessive, fingers pressing into her side like he meant to leave a memory there.

They moved together, fluid and deliberate. Not performing. Not pretending. Just two people caught in something they hadn't named yet.

"I feel it when we touch…"

The lyric landed like a confession.

From the edge of the dance floor, a few heads turned. Acquaintances. Colleagues. People who knew them—but not like this. Not the way Sakura's hand curled against Itachi's chest. Not the way his gaze never left hers. Not the way they moved like they were made for this rhythm.

"I feel it in your kiss…"

Itachi's hand shifted again, sliding lower, fingers grazing the curve of her thigh through silk. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just enough to make her breath catch and her body lean into his.

Sakura didn't speak. Her pulse was loud in her ears, her skin electric beneath his touch. The music wrapped around them, and the world narrowed to this: his warmth, her breath, the slow, deliberate way they were falling into each other.

"I feel it in your soul…"

The lyric lingered as they turned once more, slower now, the dance becoming something else entirely. A promise. A question. A beginning.

From the crowd, Shisui watched.

He stood just beyond the edge of the floor, glass in hand, eyes fixed on the pair moving like gravity had chosen them. His brow lifted. A slow smirk tugged at his mouth—knowing, amused, and quietly impressed.

"They move like they've forgotten the world," someone whispered nearby.

The final notes of Feel It lingered like heat on skin, and the ballroom held its breath.

Then the lights dimmed further.

A single spotlight fell on the stage, illuminating both vocalists now—standing side by side, their silhouettes framed in gold. The orchestra behind them shifted again, strings sharpening, percussion deepening into something primal and slow.

They began to sing.

"I want you so bad it hurts…"

The lyric rolled out like smoke, thick and aching. The atmosphere didn't just shift—it tightened.

Itachi didn't release Sakura.

His hand remained at her hip, fingers pressing with quiet insistence. Their bodies moved again, slower now, more intimate. The music gave them permission. Or maybe it simply revealed what had already begun.

Sakura's breath caught as he drew her closer, their chests brushing, her hand sliding up to rest against the curve of his neck. His gaze held hers—dark, unreadable, but burning with something unspoken.

"You're mine, even when you run…"

The lyric landed like a claim. Like a threat wrapped in velvet.

Around them, more eyes turned. A few whispers stirred. But Sakura didn't notice. Not really.

She was too aware of the way Itachi's hand had slid lower, fingers grazing the top of her thigh through silk. Too aware of the way his breath brushed her temple, the way his body moved against hers like he knew every rhythm she hadn't yet admitted.

"I'll chase you through fire…"

The lyric curled around them like a promise. Or a warning.

Then the female vocalist joined him, her voice soft and aching.

"I'll burn just to feel you close…"

The harmony wrapped around them like heat. Like longing. Like surrender.

Sakura's fingers tightened at his collar. Her pulse was loud in her ears, her skin burning beneath his touch. The music wrapped around them, and the world narrowed again—to heat, to breath, to the slow, deliberate way they were falling into each other.

"I want you so bad it hurts…"

The final lyric lingered like a bruise. And the ballroom held its breath.

Then the applause began.

Scattered at first, then swelling—polite, admiring, oblivious. It broke the spell.

The music faded. The lights lifted. And the ballroom remembered itself.

Sakura blinked, breath catching as the world rushed back in. Her body was thrumming—heat low in her stomach, pulse loud in her ears. She was still in his arms, still close enough to feel the warmth of him, the shape of him, the echo of every step they'd taken.

They hadn't moved. Not really. Just stood there, suspended in the hush between music and meaning.

She looked up at Itachi.

And swallowed hard.

His gaze was still on her. Dark. Focused. Possessive. The kind of look that didn't ask—it claimed.

She bit back a sound. Not quite a moan. Not quite a breath. Just the edge of something she wasn't ready to name.

From the stage, the singer's voice drifted out—low, amused, and just audible over the applause.

"Beautifully done," he murmured. "You danced like you meant it."

Itachi didn't speak.

But his hand slid from her waist to her arm, fingers curling around her with quiet finality. He turned, guiding her toward the edge of the ballroom. Her clutch sat on a nearby table—he reached for it, tucked it under his arm, and kept walking.

They passed through the crowd.

Sakura offered a soft smile to someone she vaguely recognised. Then another—to a colleague, perhaps, or a friend of a friend. Each smile was shy, fleeting, a gesture of politeness more than connection. Her cheeks were warm, her breath still uneven. She wasn't sure if the smiles landed. She wasn't sure she cared.

Shisui stood near the bar, glass in hand, his smirk deepening as they approached. He didn't speak. Just watched them go, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and approval.

Fugaku stood near the stage, arms folded, gaze narrowed. He didn't move. Didn't smile. Just watched.

Others turned too—guests, acquaintances, strangers. Their eyes followed the pair as they moved through the room, silent and deliberate, like something inevitable.

Itachi didn't look back.

They stepped into the night.

The air was cooler now, the hush of the garden brushing against their skin. The hotel's lights spilled across the pavement in soft gold, but beyond that—quiet.

His car waited at the curb. Sleek. Black. Silent.

He opened the door.

And she stepped in.

The drive was quiet.

No music. No words. Just the hum of the engine and the weight of everything unsaid.

Sakura sat with her hands folded in her lap, her skin still tingling where he'd touched her. The silence wasn't awkward—it was thick, deliberate, like the air between them had learned to hold its breath.

Her gaze drifted toward him. His profile was sharp in the low light, jaw set, eyes forward. But then—he turned slightly. Just enough to look at her.

The glance was brief. Heated. Knowing.

She looked away, pulse stuttering.

Then his hand moved.

Itachi reached across the console, his palm settling on her thigh. Warm. Steady. Possessive.

She froze.

His thumb began to move—slow, deliberate circles against silk. Not rushed. Not teasing. Just enough pressure to make her breath catch and her spine straighten.

Sakura tried not to squirm.

Tried not to lean into it.

But her body betrayed her—heat blooming low in her stomach, her legs shifting slightly beneath his touch. She kept her eyes on the road ahead, jaw tight, fingers curling in her lap.

He didn't speak.

Didn't stop.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, thick with tension and the quiet hum of need.

When he turned into the driveway, the tyres crunched softly over gravel. The house loomed ahead—quiet, dark, waiting.

He shifted the car into park.

Neither of them moved.

The interior was dim, the dashboard casting a faint glow across their faces. Sakura turned toward him, breath shallow, gaze searching.

He was already looking at her.

They stared at one another in the hush, the space between them thick with everything they hadn't said. His hand was still on her thigh, thumb still moving in slow, possessive circles.

Her breath hitched.

Then he moved.

Itachi stepped out first, the door closing with a soft click. He circled the car, opened her door, and held out a hand.

She took it.

His grip was firm, grounding. He helped her out, the night air brushing against her skin like a second breath. He didn't let go.

Together, they walked toward the house.

Inside, the hush deepened. The soft thud of her clutch against the wood sounded louder than it should. Like punctuation. Like a promise.

He looked over at her, stood in the middle of the hallway. A sight to behold. Slowly, he walked toward her.

Not rushed. Not casual. Each step deliberate, measured—like a predator closing in. His gaze never left hers, and something in it made Sakura's breath catch.

She stepped back.

One step. Then another.

Until her spine met the wall.

She stopped. He didn't.

He reached her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne—smoke and cedar and something darker. But he didn't touch her.

Didn't speak.

Just stood there, watching her. His eyes were unreadable, but his silence was loud. Like he was holding himself back. Like he was deciding how far to go.

Sakura's heart pounded.

She looked up at him, lips parted, breath shallow. Her body was alive with tension, every nerve lit, waiting.

Still, he didn't move.

Not until the moment stretched too thin to hold.

Then—finally—his hand found her waist. The other braced against the wall beside her head.

And he leaned in.

Slow. Controlled. His lips brushed hers—just barely. A whisper of contact. A promise.

She didn't close the distance.

Neither did he.

They hovered there, suspended between restraint and surrender. Her hands curled at her sides, aching to reach for him. But she held.

Because this wasn't about rushing.

It was about choice.

And the moment he kissed her—truly kissed her—it would mean everything.

His breath was steady. Warm. Maddeningly close.

Her back pressed to the wall, body taut with anticipation. His grip at her waist tightened. His eyes searched hers—dark, unreadable—waiting for something. Permission. Surrender.

"What are you doing to me?" he asked, voice low, rough with need.

She didn't speak.

Didn't dare.

And then—he closed the distance.

The kiss was slow.

Not soft. Not gentle. But deliberate. Like he'd mapped it out a hundred times and was only now allowing himself the luxury of execution.

His lips brushed hers—testing, tasting—then again, firmer. Her breath hitched. Her hands rose instinctively, fingers curling into his shirt, grounding herself in him.

He responded with a low sound, barely audible. As if even that was too much to give away.

The kiss deepened.

Itachi's mouth claimed hers with quiet intensity. His control frayed, and Sakura felt it in the way his hand tightened at her waist, fingers pressing into the fabric like he needed to anchor himself.

Her own restraint shattered.

She reached for him—grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, fingers sliding to his shoulders, his neck, desperate for more. Her body arched into his, and he answered with a sound deep in his throat, like he'd been holding it back too long.

His hand slid from her waist to her hip, then up her spine, mapping her with deliberate pressure. The other stayed braced above her, holding the moment still, letting it burn.

Sakura's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling slightly, testing him. He leaned in harder, lips parting hers, breath hot and uneven. The kiss turned hungry—but not rushed. Like they were memorising the shape of each other's need.

Her back hit the wall with a soft thud. He pressed into her—chest to chest, heat to heat. Every movement a question and an answer—his grip, her gasp, the way their bodies fit like they'd been waiting for this exact collision.

Still, no words.

Just breath. Fabric. The aching rhythm of two people finally letting go.

His hand slid down, clasping her leg in a tight, almost bruising grip. He raised it, pressing closer, letting her feel the full weight of his desire.

He groaned low as she pressed herself against him. He lowered his mouth to her neck, kissing and biting as he went, stopping when he reached the area between her neck and shoulder. He bit down. Hard. Before licking away at the sting.

Sakura moaned loudly at the feel of his teeth, his tongue. She moved her head, giving him more access to her neck. Letting his mouth claim her. Her grip around his shirt tightened, pulling him closer to her as she pressed her core more firmly against his hard length.

Itachi pulled back just enough to look at her.

His gaze was unreadable, but his breath was uneven, and his hand lingered at her waist like he wasn't ready to let go. He pulled away slowly, taking her in. The red mark on her neck that he knew would bruise, a show of his claim on her.

He put her leg down and took her hand, as he moved through the house in silence, the soft sound of their footsteps against hardwood the only noise. The hallway was dim, lit only by the ambient glow from the street outside. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and the air felt heavier now—charged, intimate.

He led her into the bedroom.

No lights. No words.

Just the quiet click of the door closing behind them.

Sakura stood in the centre of the room, breath shallow, heart thudding. Itachi circled her slowly, like he was memorising her silhouette in the low light. His hand brushed her back as he passed, then her arm, then her hip—never lingering, never rushed.

She turned to face him.

And he stopped.

Their eyes met—no restraint, no hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of what came next.

He stepped forward.

She met him halfway.

Their bodies collided softly, mouths finding each other—deeper this time, hungrier. Her hands slid under his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor unnoticed.

His fingers found the zipper at her back, slow and deliberate. She shivered at the sound of it sliding down. The dress slipped from her body, silk whispering against skin, pooling at her feet. Cool air brushed her bare arms, her spine tingling with awareness.

Itachi's gaze didn't flicker.

He took her in—collarbone, breath, the subtle twitch of her fingers. His restraint was taut, but his eyes burned.

His hands found her waist, skin to skin now, and the contact sent a ripple through her. She reached for him, fingers sliding under his shirt, tracing the lines of his abdomen, the tension in his muscles. She undressed him slowly—buttons undone one by one, fabric pushed aside with reverent hands.

His shirt joined her dress on the floor.

They stood close, bare-chested, breath mingling, the silence thick with anticipation. Her fingers skimmed his shoulders, down his arms, grounding herself in the solidity of him.

Then his hand rose.

He reached behind her, fingers slipping into the pins of her updo. One by one, he loosened them, watching as her hair fell—soft, slow, cascading around her shoulders. She shivered at the sensation, breath catching as the strands brushed her skin.

He watched her.

Then kissed her again.

His mouth claimed hers with quiet intensity, lips parting hers, breath hot and uneven. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He responded with a low sound—half restraint, half surrender.

He guided her back onto the bed, his hands firm, gaze unwavering. Sakura lay beneath him, breath shallow, heart thudding against her ribs, her body already aching with anticipation. Every nerve felt exposed. Alive.

He knelt between her legs; hands braced beside her hips. His fingers curled around the waistband of her underwear, and slowly—agonisingly—he peeled it down, baring her to him. His breath hitched. A low groan escaped him.

Wet. Ready. Waiting.

His eyes lifted to hers, dark and consuming. Her lips parted, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. She was trembling. Needy. But still holding herself back.

He slid his arms beneath her thighs, hands gripping her hips, but didn't move further. He hovered, testing his control. Testing hers.

Then he leaned in and blew softly against her centre.

Sakura gasped, hips twitching. The sensation was maddening—cool air against heat, the promise of touch without fulfilment. Her fingers curled into the sheets.

She needed him.

"Please," she breathed, voice barely audible.

Itachi's gaze flicked up, his voice low against her inner thigh. "I told you you'd beg me to sleep with you." He kissed her skin, slow and deliberate. "Beg for me."

Sakura groaned, biting down on her lip. She refused to give in. Not yet.

His smirk was felt more than seen, his stubble grazing her thigh. "I can wait all night, princess," he murmured, voice like velvet over steel. He blew against her again—slower, more precise—then ran a single finger down her centre.

Her slickness coated him instantly.

"Mmm, so wet for me," he growled, bringing the finger to his mouth and sucking it clean, eyes locked on hers.

Sakura mewled at the sight, her body arching, desperate for contact. Her mind was a blur of need and defiance. "Please," she finally whispered, voice cracked and trembling.

Itachi's mouth traced a slow path along the inside of her thigh, his breath warm against her skin. "I didn't hear you," he murmured, voice low and teasing.

Sakura trembled beneath his touch, her body taut with anticipation. She shifted, trying to guide him closer to where she ached for him most, but he moved lower instead—deliberate, unhurried. The denial made her breath hitch, a frustrated sound escaping her throat.

Her fingers curled into the sheets as he reversed course, tongue trailing back up with maddening precision. Her breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, each movement stoking the tension between restraint and need.

She pressed her head into the mattress when his fingers ghosted over her centre—slow, deliberate, devastating. "Please," she gasped, voice cracking around the word. "Please… please…"

He smiled. "You beg so pretty." And finally, he lowered himself.

His mouth found her with precision—no teasing, no delay. Just heat and intention. Sakura gasped, hips jerking, fingers clawing at the sheets. The first sound was soft. The second, louder. Raw.

Her moans filled the room.

Every flick of his tongue, every shift in pressure, every pause that made her ache—he knew exactly what he was doing. Her fingers tangled in his hair, grounding herself in the rhythm he set.

Itachi didn't rush.

He played her body like a melody—slow, deliberate, devastating. Her thighs trembled. Her breath came in stuttering waves. Her voice cracked with need. When he wrapped his lips around the bundle of nerves and sucked, she shattered.

Her scream echoed through the room.

He licked her gently, coaxing her through the aftershocks, before rising to his feet. His gaze roamed over her—hair tousled, skin flushed, chest heaving. Unravelled.

She watched him unbuckle his belt, the slow slide of leather through loops making her pulse spike. He unbuttoned his trousers, eyes never leaving hers. The zipper lowered. Her breath caught.

He stepped out of his clothes, stripped down to nothing. Her gaze dropped—drawn, helpless—to the hard line of him.

Thick. Unyielding. Already slick at the tip.

Itachi saw the way her breath stuttered, the way her lips parted slightly before she bit down, trying to mask the hunger in her eyes. But it was there—undeniable. Raw. Her gaze lingered, not just curious, but reverent. Like she was trying to memorise him.

He fisted himself, stroking once—slow, deliberate. Her reaction was instant. A sharp inhale. Her teeth catching her bottom lip. Her thighs shifting, just barely.

Itachi’s chest tightened. Not from pride, but from something deeper. The way she looked at him—like she wanted him, needed him, feared him a little—unravelled something in him he didn’t know he’d been holding back. Her desire wasn’t performative. It was visceral. And it was for him.

He stepped closer, watching the tremble in her shoulders, the flush rising in her throat.

“Eyes on me,” he said, voice low, rough with restraint.

She looked up, trembling. Even after her release, her body throbbed with need—he could see it in the way she breathed, the way her fingers curled against the sheets.

“Itachi…” she whispered, eyes flicking down again. “You’re… I don’t think—”

“You can take me,” he interrupted, stroking himself slowly. “You will.”

He pulled her to the edge of the bed, one knee between her legs, the other braced against her thigh. His hand guided himself between them, then grabbed her leg behind the knee and hitched it to his hip.

Then, deliberately, he pushed the tip of himself into her.

Sakura gasped, her body stretching around him. Just the tip—and already she felt full. Her breath came in shallow bursts, eyes wide, lips parted. Her fingers gripped the sheets, knuckles white.

Itachi groaned, her heat pulling him in like a tide. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to hold back. Controlled. Measured. Every muscle in his body taut with restraint.

Another inch. Then another.

She moaned, head thrown back, hands reaching for him, her body trembling. Her thighs quivered against his hips, her chest rising in frantic rhythm.

"You're too big," she gasped, voice breaking, eyes glassy with need and disbelief.

"You'll take every inch," he growled, voice low and rough. "Like the good girl you are."

Her moan was pure need—raw, desperate. Her body urged him on, hips tilting, seeking more.

He pushed deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her. He held still, letting her adjust, even as his own restraint frayed like thread pulled too tight. His fingers dug into her thigh, grounding himself.

She blinked up at him, dazed. Her body trembled, but her eyes—hungry, reverent—never left his.

When she relaxed, he pulled out slightly and thrust back in—harder. Her moan was instant, her back arching. He set a rhythm, slow but firm, each thrust pushing her further into surrender.

The room filled with the sounds of their bodies—skin on skin, moans, gasps, the soft creak of the bed beneath them.

Sakura was lost. She’d never felt so full. So consumed. Every inch of him claimed her, stretched her, made her ache in ways she hadn’t known she could crave. His thrusts were relentless, precise—like he knew exactly how to unravel her.

His mouth found her neck, biting down, making her hips buck. She gasped, hands clutching at him, nails dragging down his back. He hissed, the sting grounding him, sharpening his focus.

Again. And again.

He grabbed her wrists, pinned them above her head, his grip firm but reverent.

"You’ll feel me here for days," he growled, thrusting deep. "With every step, you’ll remember who was inside you."

"Oh God!" she cried, voice cracking.

"God isn’t the one inside you," he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing her ear. "Who’s making you feel this good?"

Her moans were incoherent, her body trembling beneath him.

"Say it," he growled, thrusting deep. His hand slid down, fingers finding her clit, pressing, circling.

"Itachi!" she screamed, her orgasm tearing through her like a wave crashing over stone.

"Good girl," he praised, voice low, reverent, as if her surrender was a gift he’d earned.

He moved her leg over his shoulder, gave her one look—one warning—and began to thrust in earnest. Hard. Deep. Unrelenting.

"I can't! Not again!"

"You can. And you will. I'm not done with you."

His pace quickened, his finger and thumb against her clit. Pressure built. Sakura screamed his name through another release, her body clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

He thrust a final time, groaning as he spilled inside her.

They lay tangled, breathless. Hearts racing. Bodies slick and trembling.

The room was warm, heavy with the scent of sex and skin—salt, sweat, and something sweeter. The air clung to them, thick and still, the only sound their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the night beyond the window.

As their breathing slowed, Itachi gently lowered her leg, earning a soft moan. He kissed her as he pulled out, swallowing her cries, his mouth tender and unhurried.

He rose on unsteady legs and disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water echoed faintly, steady and inviting. When he returned, he didn't speak—just gathered her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly from the bed.

Sakura curled against him, her body pliant and humming with aftershocks. The warmth of his chest, the steadiness of his grip, grounded her as he carried her into the bathroom. Steam billowed around them, curling against the tiles and fogging the mirror.

Under the shower's gentle spray, Itachi moved with quiet reverence. He washed her hair first, fingers massaging her scalp with slow, rhythmic care. Her eyes fluttered shut, her breath soft and steady as she leaned into him.

When he reached for the soap, Sakura caught his wrist and took it from him. She lathered it between her palms, then began to wash him—slowly, deliberately—her hands gliding over his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath slick skin. She worked the lather across his shoulders, down his arms, over the ridges of his abdomen. Her touch was unhurried, reverent, as if grounding herself in the solidity of him.

He stood still beneath her hands, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. When she reached his back, he turned slightly, allowing her to trace the curve of his spine, the dip of his waist. The silence between them pulsed with something deeper than words—trust, closeness, the quiet aftermath of shared vulnerability.

When she finished, he took the soap back and lathered his hands again. This time, he washed her body—his touch gentle, unhurried, tracing the curve of her collarbone, the softness of her hips, the length of her legs. He moved as if memorising her, each stroke deliberate, each pause weighted with quiet devotion.

She watched him, gaze languid and unguarded, her fingers occasionally brushing his arm, her body pliant beneath his care. When he knelt to wash her calves, his hands moved slowly, reverently, as though grounding her back into herself.

As he reached the insides of her thighs, his movements slowed further—careful, deliberate. She felt the shift in his attention: the way he took extra care, how nothing about his touch was rushed or careless. Her breath caught, not from arousal, but from the intimacy of being tended to so completely.

He pressed a soft kiss to her thigh as he rose, towering over her. Then he leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss—deep and anchoring—his mouth warm and sure against hers, steam curling around them like a second skin.

Eventually, he reached past her to turn off the water. The silence that followed was thick with breath and closeness. He wrapped a towel around her, tucking the edges with care, then grabbed his own and dried off quickly.

Back in the bedroom, he guided her beneath the duvet, the sheets cool against their damp skin. He lay beside her, arm draped around her waist, drawing her close until her head rested beneath his chin.

He kissed the crown of her head, lips lingering in her hair, and murmured a quiet good night.

 

Chapter 21

Sakura stirred, the sheets cool against her skin as dawn crept in—greys softening into gold through the gap in the curtains. She blinked slowly, letting the quiet settle around her. Her body ached in places she hadn’t known could ache, but it wasn’t discomfort. It was memory. A moan curled low in her throat, unbidden, as she stretched. The ache between her legs was a reminder—intimate, possessive, tender. She felt sated. Changed.

Her lips curved into a small smile as her eyes opened fully.

Beside her, Itachi slept on—one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other reaching, almost touching her. His face was unguarded. No tension. No distance. Just peace. She watched him, her gaze drawn to the mouth that had undone her with a kiss. That had coaxed her apart with nothing more than breath and intention. Her stomach fluttered. She could still feel him—his hands, his voice, the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare.

She bit back the sound rising in her throat and sat up carefully, the duvet slipping from her shoulders. Her bare skin prickled in the morning air. She moved slowly, reverently, as if disturbing the quiet might undo the spell. Her body remembered everything. Every thrust. Every whispered word. Her toes curled, involuntarily.

She reached for the nearest item on the floor and slipped it on—his shirt. Black, soft, faintly creased from where it had lain. She buttoned it slowly, fingers brushing the fabric like it might still remember his skin. The collar brushed her neck, grazing the marks he’d left there. Her breath caught.

In the bathroom, her reflection startled her. Hair tousled, lips swollen, eyes too bright. She looked... undone. Marked. Claimed. Her gaze dropped to the red marks on her neck. She touched one, and a shiver ran through her. It wasn’t just the sensation—it was the memory of how he’d looked at her when he’d made it.

She stared at herself. Something in her expression had shifted. She’d had lovers before—some eager, some clumsy, none who’d made her feel like this. Like her body had been listened to. Like her silence had been heard. Itachi hadn’t asked what she wanted. He’d known. And that terrified her more than she wanted to admit.

She brushed her teeth, trying to shake the thoughts loose, but they clung. In the hallway, she found her clutch and checked her phone. Messages from Ino blinked up at her.

How did it go at the event?
What did your dress look like? Send me pictures!

She’d answer later. Right now, she needed coffee. And space to think.

As she stepped into the living room, she froze. Itachi stood in the kitchen, back to her, bare. Her eyes traced the tattoo, then the red marks trailing down his spine. Her marks. Her breath caught. The way his muscles moved—fluid, deliberate—made her throat tighten.

She was wearing his shirt.

Itachi’s gaze lingered, absorbing the sight with quiet intensity. The fabric hung loose on her frame, sleeves rolled halfway up, collar slightly askew. His shirt. On her. It did something to him—something primal and possessive, but also oddly tender. She looked soft in it. Real. Like she belonged in his space, not just his bed.

He swallowed the growl that rose instinctively, letting it settle low in his chest.

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with something she hadn’t named yet. Her fingers curled around the mug like she needed the warmth. Her voice—hesitant, breathy—told him more than her words did. She was still in it. Still feeling it. So was he.

He handed her the coffee, brushing her hair off her shoulder with deliberate care. His fingers grazed the mark he’d left there. She didn’t flinch. If anything, she leaned into it—barely, but enough.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Gentle.

She bit her lip. That same lip he’d kissed, bitten, worshipped. Her breath caught before she answered, and he saw it—the flicker of memory behind her eyes. She was remembering. So was he.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said, but her voice betrayed her.

He smiled, just slightly. Not smug. Not teasing. Just knowing. He could read her now. The way she held herself. The way her body betrayed the thoughts she hadn’t voiced. She was still processing. So was he.

He brushed a finger along her cheek, slow and deliberate. Her skin was warm. Alive. Marked by him, yes—but not claimed. Not owned. Just... known.

“Good,” he murmured, and turned towards the sofa.

He didn’t press. Didn’t push. He wanted her to come to him freely, not out of obligation or confusion. Last night had been more than sex. He knew that. He’d felt it in the way she’d looked at him afterwards—like something had shifted. Like something had settled.

But he also knew better than to name it too soon.

So, he sat, mug in hand, and waited. Not for her words. For her presence. For the moment she’d choose to close the space between them again—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

Sakura watched as he sat and took a sip of his drink. She followed suit, settling on the opposite sofa—keeping a safe distance, as if sitting too close might burn her. She took a small sip, letting the sweetness ground her in the moment.

When she looked up, his gaze was already on her. Intense. Possessive.

She squirmed under it; her body thrumming with need and want. Swallowing hard, she offered him a tentative smile.

“How… how are you?” she asked at last.

She mentally kicked herself. You had sex. Big deal. Stop acting like a teenager who’s just lost her virginity.

“I’m good, thank you,” he replied.

Sakura nodded, scrambling for something—anything—to say. But her mind was blank, replaying only the memory of their bodies tangled in sheets. She cleared her throat, hoping it would clear her thoughts too. Tapping her fingers against the mug, she took another sip, silently wishing for something to break the awkwardness hanging between them.

As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone rang—shrill in the quiet room. She jumped, nearly spilling her drink, and grabbed the phone from beside her. Ino’s name flashed on the screen. She swiped to answer.

“Ino… hi,” she greeted, breathless.

“Don’t hi me! Where are the pictures of the dress?” came Ino’s sharp reply.

“I… umm…” Sakura glanced up just as Itachi stood and moved towards his office. She gave him a soft smile—a silent thank you for the privacy.

“Well? What?” Ino pressed, dragging Sakura’s attention back.

“I don’t think I have any pictures from last night,” Sakura admitted.

“How? You know what, I don’t even want to know. We’re meeting up in an hour—you can tell me then.”

“What? Ino, no, I don’t want—”

“I don’t care what you want or don’t want. We’re meeting. Usual spot.” Ino hung up before Sakura could protest.

Sakura sighed heavily at the phone. There was no way out of it, and maybe she should be grateful—Ino had just handed her an escape from the awkwardness that had settled between her and Itachi.

She finished her drink, rinsed the mug in the kitchen, then headed to the bedroom. She grabbed a pair of underwear and slipped them on, then her bra, followed by blue jeans and a soft jumper. Her eyes fell on the dress, and a smile tugged at her lips. She still couldn’t qu ite believe Itachi had chosen it so perfectly.

She picked it up—the fabric felt like water running through her fingers. Finding an empty hanger, she carefully folded the dress over it and placed it in the wardrobe.

When she turned, Itachi was standing in the doorway, watching her.

“I… I’m meeting Ino at the café,” she offered, by way of explanation.

“Have fun,” he said simply.

Sakura wished she could say something—anything—but nothing came to mind. Maybe I should say thank you, she thought, only to counter herself. Thank you for what? For sleeping with you? For making you come multiple times?

She shook her head, frustrated, and pocketed her phone. She grabbed her bag, checked for her car keys and house keys, and headed out of the room.

She moved past him, bag slung over her shoulder, phone tucked away, keys clutched like armour. Her steps were steady, but he could see the hesitation in her shoulders—the way she didn’t quite meet his eyes as she passed.

Itachi stood in the doorway, watching her go.

He could have stopped her. Just a word. A touch. Something to hold her in the moment a little longer.

But he didn’t.

She needed space. He understood that. He’d felt the same pull once—after moments that meant too much, too fast. So, he let her go, even though part of him wanted to reach out and ask her to stay.

The door clicked shut behind her.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, gaze drifting to the wardrobe where she’d hung the dress. The soft hum of her departure still echoed in the silence, but he didn’t chase it. He let it settle.

The dress hung there—delicate, fluid, almost luminous in the low light. He remembered the way it had looked on her, how it had skimmed her skin like it had been made for her alone. He hadn’t chosen it for the colour or the cut. He’d chosen it because he’d imagined her in it—and she’d matched the image perfectly.

She hadn’t said thank you. He hadn’t expected her to.

But she’d smiled at it. Touched it like it meant something. That was enough.

He stepped into the room, slow and deliberate, and reached out. His fingers brushed the fabric—cool now, but still holding the warmth of her touch. It felt like water, like memory.

He let his hand fall away.

She’d left in a rush, but not carelessly. Her movements had been precise. Controlled. Like she was trying not to unravel. He understood that. He’d felt it too.

He turned away from the wardrobe and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. The sheets were still rumpled. Her scent lingered. So did the silence.

He didn’t chase her. Didn’t call out. But he stayed in the space she’d left behind, letting it speak for both.

---

The café hummed with weekend rhythm—sunlight spilling across polished wood, the scent of espresso and almond pastries curling through the air. Sakura sat with her friend, her coffee cooling slowly between her hands.

“So, explain to me why you haven’t got any pictures of the dress Itachi picked out for you?” Ino asked, her tone bordering on interrogation.

“I didn’t get an opportunity to take any,” Sakura replied. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but not far off.

“Seriously?” Ino looked at her incredulously. “You called me yesterday, told me how Itachi mentioned the event, how he chose you a dress, paid for you to get all dolled up—and you didn’t think to take any pictures?”

Before Sakura could respond, Ino unlocked her phone and opened her browser. “Lucky for you, I happened to stumble across an article about the event.” She tapped her screen and brought up the images. “And there are pictures of you and Itachi together.”

Sakura frowned. “I didn’t see anyone taking pictures.”

“You two looked so damn hot next to each other. And that dress!” Ino sighed. “I can’t believe your husband of a month found you the perfect one.”

Sakura recalled how Itachi had looked at her when she stepped out of the changing room—how his eyes had taken her in, held her captive.

Ino passed the phone to Sakura, who flicked through the gallery. When she came across the photos of her and Itachi, her breath caught. The first showed them standing close, his hand resting on her lower back, his body angled slightly towards her. The second was of them dancing. Somehow, the photo had captured the tension between them—the way his hand gripped her hip, the way hers curled around his collar, and the look they shared. She swallowed.

Her thoughts drifted to what had happened after they’d returned to the house. How he’d slowly unzipped the dress, letting it pool around her feet. How his mouth had brought her untold pleasure, how his body had claimed hers. Heat pooled low in her core, and she bit back the small sound rising in her throat.

She hadn’t heard Ino’s question until her friend called her name sharply.

“What?”

Ino narrowed her eyes, assessing her. “I asked what happened at the event?”

“Oh,” Sakura sighed. “Fugaku gave a speech about how he’s the greatest, able to do the best things, yada yada yada… They served food that looked like sculptures. Tasted nice, but not something I’d order for myself.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Ino said sarcastically. “What else happened?” She smirked, clearly having seen the pictures. It was obvious from Sakura’s expression that something had.

“Nothing,” Sakura said quickly, handing the phone back.

“Hmmm?” Ino’s smirk widened. “That second picture doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It was just a dance,” Sakura replied, too fast. Her mind conjured the memory of Itachi guiding her across the floor, how they’d moved as one, like they’d practised the steps a thousand times.

“Just a dance?” Ino teased.

Sakura swallowed again. “Yeah.” She shifted, brushing her hair away from her neck.

Ino spotted the bruises and grinned. “What else happened then?”

Sakura reached for her drink, trying to collect herself. “Nothing else happened.”

“Hmm,” Ino nodded. “So explain the bruises on your neck—because they sure don’t look like nothing.”

Sakura choked on her drink, set it down, and quickly moved her hair to cover her neck. Her face flushed with heat.

“You finally did it!” Ino smirked, voice rising. “You finally got laid!”

“Shhhh!” Sakura hissed, cheeks burning. “Don’t be so loud.”

“Tell me everything!” Ino beamed, leaning in.

“What’s to tell?” Sakura murmured. “We had sex.”

She glanced down at her coffee—cold now, the steam long gone—but her cheeks still burned. Ino’s gaze drilled into her, waiting.

“It wasn’t planned,” Sakura said softly, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “It just… happened.”

Ino leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Was it good?”

Sakura hesitated, then snapped, “I am not discussing my sex life with you in a café full of families!”

“It’s never stopped you before,” Ino chuckled. “Must’ve been one hell of a lay if this is how you’re reacting.”

After a pause, Ino asked, “How are things between you two now?”

Sakura considered. “This morning was… awkward.”

“Awkward how? You saw each other naked, you smashed—and by the looks of it, the best smash ever.”

Sakura rolled her eyes. “Awkward because I didn’t know how to be around him. I felt like I’d just lost my virginity and didn’t know how to feel about it.”

“Okay… But let’s not forget, for as long as you’ve known him, you’ve wanted to kill him, maim him, and god knows what else. You’ve told me countless times how much he infuriates you. Now you’ve been under him. It’s bound to feel a little awkward.”

Sakura mulled over her friend’s words.

The café noise faded into a gentle hum. Outside, the sunlight had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the floorboards. The scent of roasted coffee and almond pastries lingered, warm and familiar.

They sat in silence, the clatter of cups and low conversation filling the space between them. Ino stirred her drink absently, then looked up.

“Are you falling for him?”

Sakura’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “No!” she said quickly—too quickly. “It was just sex…”

Ino raised an unimpressed brow. “Right. Because the best sex of your life usually comes with orchestras and emotional whiplash.”

Sakura opened her mouth, then closed it again.

She stared at her coffee, fingers tightening around the cup. Her mind tangled in the morning—how quiet it had been when she woke, how Itachi had looked at her like he wasn’t sure what came next. How she hadn’t known what to say.

“Do you still feel like killing him every waking moment?” Ino asked.

Sakura shrugged. “I don’t know how I feel anymore.”

“Okay,” Ino said slowly. “So maybe it wasn’t just physical. Maybe it was something neither of you knows how to talk about yet.”

Sakura exhaled, breath shaky. “I don’t even know what I want it to be.”

Ino leaned back, her expression softening. “Then figure it out. But don’t rewrite the story to make it easier.”

Sakura didn’t respond. Her mind replayed the way Itachi had looked at her—not just during, but after. How he’d guided her into the shower, his touch slow and deliberate as he washed the remnants of the night from her skin. How he’d wrapped her in a towel, carried her back to bed, and held her like he didn’t want the moment to end.

It hadn’t been rushed. It hadn’t been careless.

“Talk to him,” Ino said. “You deserve to know what it meant to him. And he deserves the chance to tell you.”

Sakura looked up and offered a small smile. “When did you become so good at relationship advice?”

“Working as a florist has its benefits,” Ino winked. She grabbed her bag and stood. “Go and talk to him,” she said again, more gently this time.

Sakura nodded. She picked up her own bag and stood. The women walked out of the café, hugged tightly, and went their separate ways.

As Sakura headed towards her car, her gaze drifted to the dango shop across the street. A smile tugged at her lips. She remembered sitting there with Itachi weeks ago, sharing their favourite desserts after that horrendous evening at his parents’. That had been the first time she’d seen him soften.

She crossed the street and stepped inside, the scent of sweet syrup and toasted rice flour wrapping around her like a memory. She ordered his favourite—hanami dango—and a portion of her own, anmitsu. After paying, she made her way back to her car.
 

---

Itachi stood in the kitchen, fingers curled around a cooling mug, though he hadn’t taken a sip. The silence wasn’t new, but today it felt different—denser somehow. Like it had shape. Like it was watching him.

She’d said she was meeting Ino at the café.

He’d told her to have fun.

It had come out steady, neutral. But the moment she turned away, something in him had shifted. Not panic. Not regret. Just a quiet, persistent ache.

He moved to his office, hoping the shift in space might help. The screen lit up obediently, emails blinking in the corner like they mattered. He opened one, skimmed it, closed it again. Nothing stuck.

His mind kept circling back—not just to last night, but to everything that had led to it. The glances. The pauses.

It hadn’t been sudden. It had built slowly, quietly. Tension threaded through every shared silence; every look held a beat too long. It had crackled between them, singed them both, until it finally broke.

But now he couldn’t tell if they were moving forward—or if they’d simply given in to the pressure for one night and nothing more.

He leaned back, eyes drifting to the window. Afternoon light was fading, bleeding into grey. Somewhere, she was with Ino, laughing over coffee. He could picture it—her fingers curled around a cup, her smile relaxed, her guard down.

She hadn’t smiled like that this morning.

He opened another email. Read the subject line. Nothing registered. His thoughts kept looping—her hesitation at the door, the way she’d looked at him like she wanted to say something but didn’t.

He hadn’t asked her to stay. He’d wanted to. Just a word. A touch. Something to anchor her here. But he hadn’t. Because he didn’t want her to feel cornered. He wanted her to choose him freely.

Was last night a beginning—or just a release?

The question sat heavy in his chest. Her silence hadn’t felt like regret. But it hadn’t felt like certainty either.

He rubbed his temples, exhaled slowly. This wasn’t like him. He was precise. Controlled. But she’d unsettled something in him, and now even the simplest task felt distant.

He clicked open a document, stared at the blinking cursor.

Nothing.

He stood, crossed to the bookshelf, pulled down a file he didn’t need. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to stop the ache of wondering whether they were still circling each other—or whether they’d collided, only to scatter again.

The silence didn’t ease. It pressed in, familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

The front door clicked softly.

He didn’t move at first. Stayed at his desk, eyes on the screen, though he hadn’t typed a word in over an hour. The cursor blinked, patient. Waiting.

Footsteps. Light. Hesitant.

She was home.

He heard the rustle of her coat, the quiet thud of her bag against the hallway wall. No words. Just the familiar rhythm of her moving through the space like she wasn’t sure she belonged in it.

He stood, slowly, and stepped into the doorway.

Sakura was in the kitchen, back to him, reaching for a glass. Her hair was slightly tousled; cheeks flushed from the cold. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or maybe she had and was pretending not to.

He watched her for a moment. The way her shoulders rose and fell with a breath she didn’t quite release. The way her fingers curled around the glass like she needed something to hold onto.

She turned.

Their eyes met.

Neither spoke.

The silence stretched, not heavy, but taut. Like a thread pulled tight between them. Her gaze flicked to the side, then back to him. There was something unreadable in it—uncertainty, maybe. Or something she hadn’t decided whether to say.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

“I brought dessert,” she said, setting the small box on the counter.

He glanced at it—then stilled.

Hanami dango.

Three soft dumplings, pastel-pink, white, and green. Familiar. Specific. Not something she’d picked at random.

His gaze shifted to her, quiet and searching.

“You remembered,” he said, low.

She gave a small, shy smile. “Of course I did.”

“Thank you,” he gave her a smile. He picked one of the skewers and brought it to his mouth, taking a small bite, enjoying the delicious subtle taste that filled his mouth. He glanced at Sakura, “would you like some?”

“No, thank you,” Sakura smiled, reaching into the bag and pulling out her dessert, “I bought myself one.”

She thought about saying something more, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she busied herself with her dessert, letting the delicate flavours of jelly, sharp fruit, and red bean paste anchor her.

He watched her, quietly.

Not for answers.

Just to see her.

When the desserts were finished, they exchanged a glance—soft, uncertain—and drifted apart, each occupying themselves for the remainder of the day.

But the silence between them had changed.

It no longer felt like distance.

It felt like waiting.

 

 

Chapter 22

Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft lines across the kitchen floor. Itachi stood with one hand curled around his mug, the other resting lightly on the counter’s edge. The hum of the fridge filled the silence, low and steady. Outside, sunlight streamed through the trees, casting dappled shadows that danced across the patio with quiet ease. The breeze stirred the leaves just enough to make them shimmer.

He glanced toward the closed bedroom door. No sound from inside. Sakura was likely still asleep. They’d exchanged a few words last night—careful ones, like stepping stones across unfamiliar ground. It wasn’t awkward, exactly. Just new. Tentative.

He took a sip, the warmth grounding him. His shoulders rolled back slightly, a breath released through his nose. The day ahead was meant to be uneventful. A few meetings. A report to finalise. Nothing urgent. Nothing that couldn’t wait.

Then his phone pinged.

Once. Twice. Then again—rapid, insistent.

He froze mid-motion, mug halfway to the counter. His fingers tightened around the ceramic before he set it down with deliberate care. The final ping echoed faintly in the quiet room.

He reached into his pocket, jaw already tensing. Message after message from Shisui lit up the screen.

You need to get your arse into the office now!
Shit is going down!
Your dad is on a war path.
Something to do with the event on Saturday.

Itachi’s grip on the phone hardened. His thumb hovered over the screen, unmoving. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He didn’t reply. Just pocketed the device and left the kitchen.

In the bedroom, he dressed quickly—charcoal suit, crisp shirt, tie knotted with quiet precision. His movements were fluid, economical. The jacket hung over the back of the chair, waiting.

Behind him, the duvet rustled.

Sakura stirred, blinking against the soft light. Her gaze found him as he adjusted his collar. She gave a small smile, sleep-warm and gentle. “Morning.”

Itachi paused, returning the smile with a quiet nod. “Morning.”

She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face, then padded off to the bathroom without another word.

A few minutes later, she stepped into the living room, towel in hand, still drying her hair. Itachi was standing near the window, phone in hand, posture stiff. His jaw was clenched, shoulders squared, one thumb pressed hard against the screen as if trying not to crush it.

Sakura hesitated. “You okay?”

He looked over, eyes sharp but distant. A beat passed before he gave a tense nod. “Just work.”

He reached for his jacket, scooped up his keys and bag, and crossed the room in three steady strides. The front door clicked shut behind him.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Sakura stood still for a moment, towel draped loosely around her shoulders, eyes on the closed door. Just work, he’d said—but his jaw had been too tight, his posture too rigid. That wasn’t how he usually left.

She lingered there, thoughts circling, then shook them off with a quiet breath. Whatever it was, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it was too early for that kind of honesty.

She turned and padded back through the bungalow, the soft thud of her footsteps the only sound. The morning unfolded in small, familiar motions—coffee, clothes, the brush of mascara, the tug of a zip. Routine. Steadying.

By the time she locked the door behind her, the sun had climbed higher, casting sharper shadows across the pavement. She didn’t look back.

---

Itachi pulled into the car park and looked up at the imposing building—one of his father’s pride and joys. He could already picture the expression waiting for him: that simmering anger that never quite left Fugaku’s face. The sharp words that always came easily, never once catching on his tongue.

He wasn’t thrilled to be here. He didn’t want to deal with his father’s mood. But there was no way around it.

He grabbed his things, got out of the car, and quietly made his way inside. In the foyer, he felt the weight of lingering eyes, hushed whispers trailing behind him like smoke. He glanced at a few of the onlookers—watched them scatter the moment his gaze met theirs—then continued towards his office.

“Finally,” Shisui said as Itachi pushed open the door.

“What’s happened?” Itachi asked, heading straight for his desk.

“You and Sakura. That’s what’s happened.”

Itachi raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your father thinks you two stole his thunder with your little dance. Says no one cared about his speech or his accomplishments after you disappeared into the night.” Shisui’s lips were pressed into a thin line, no trace of his usual smirk.

“He’s a grown man,” Itachi replied coolly. “He can deal with it—and stop throwing tantrums.”

He turned on his computer and clicked open his emails.

“I think it’s worse this time,” Shisui told him, sitting in one of the chairs. “Much worse.”

“I’ve handled his tantrums before; I’ll do it again.” Itachi waved off his concern.  

Before either could say anything, there was a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” Itachi called, not looking away from the screen.

“Sir,” Jugo, his father’s personal assistant was stood in the doorway, “both your presences have been requested in the board room.”

“Tell my father, I have to be on a call to a client, I will attend the meeting later.” Itachi told the man.

“This meeting takes precedence over everything else. See you in there,” with that the man turned and walked away.

Itachi clenched his jaw tightly. He stared at the open door, seething silently at his father’s blatant disregard for everyone else. He pushed away from the desk and stood up, his anger radiating off him in waves.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we can deal with it,” Shisui told him encouragingly as they made their way into the board room.

The room was already full of all the main members of the company. All the people who asked how high when his father said jump, people who believed the sun shined out of his backside and he could do no wrong. People who his father had bought. He sat down and watched as his father was busy speaking to some of the members, all laughs and smiles.

Several minutes later, the chatter died down as Fugaku stood and faced everyone.

“Thank you all for coming to the meeting with such short notice. I would like to begin with how well we are doing as a company, how we have amassed the most contracts, fulfilled them in great time and made sure that we always come first. We are, as I have always said, the best in Konoha. No other company can touch what we have. Not the Nara’s, the Aburame’s and not the Haruno’s.” The last words were spoken while looking at Itachi.

Itachi tensed in his seat, his gut tightening at his words.

“So, it is no wonder that we have now acquired another contract that will see us to new heights. My eldest son, Itachi,” Fugaku looked over at him, a sneer hidden behind the smile, “will be seeing this contract through for the next month in Iwagakure. He will be the face of the company, the liaison between us and ensure that the jobs start with no problem.”

There was a murmur in the room at the words, Itachi forced himself to not react to his father’s taunts. Instead, he nodded once, a sign that he agreed.

“That was all that I needed to say, thank you all for coming.” Fugaku sat back down and pulled his laptop towards him.

The members slowly started to rise and walked out of the room one by one, but Itachi stayed put. He waited until they had all left. When Shisu looked over at him and raised an eyebrow in question, Itachi shook his head once in answer. With the door shut behind him, Itachi rose from his chair and walked towards his father.

“What are you playing at?” He asked, his tone laced with his anger.

“Putting you in your place, boy,” Fugaku replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you have any idea how much you and that stupid Haruno woman embarrassed me at my own event!” Fugaku seethed as he pushed away from the table and stood up. “How all everyone wanted to talk about was the way you danced with her, looked at her like you were fucking her with your eyes!”

Itachi clenched his jaw at the hateful words, “you were the one who wanted us married, and now that we act like a married couple, your ego can’t take it.”

“DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT BOY!” Fugaku roared.

“Truth hurts, father,” Itachi replied with false calm.

“Just because that bitch can keep your dick wet-”

“Don’t you dare speak about my wife like that!” Itachi shouted, interrupting his father. “You will not disrespect her ever again.”

Fugaku looked at his son and laughed once without humour, “so, she finally let you fuck her and now you think she is your wife. Let me remind you that you didn’t want to be wed to her. Is she that good between her legs that you’ve changed your tune?”

“I’m warning you,” Itachi spoke through clenched teeth.

“What are you going to do?” Fugaku taunted. “You would not be here if it wasn’t for me. You will do as I say and I am telling you to go to Iwagakure and see the start of the contract for the next month!”

“Why? So, you won’t have to deal with people talking about anyone else? Your ego is that brittle that it can’t handle someone else getting a bit of attention over you? Talk about being pathetic.” Itachi spoke low.

Fugaku raised a hand but Itachi caught his wrist before he could hit him, “I am not a little child anymore that you can beat into submission,” Itachi pushed his father away. He turned to leave the room when Fugaku spoke.

“You leave today. The flight and hotel are already booked. I suggest you make yourself useful for once.”

The words landed like a slap. Cold. Final. Designed to strip away whatever pride Itachi had left.

Itachi didn’t respond. Not with words.

He looked over his shoulder and stared at his father for a long, loaded beat—jaw clenched, eyes unreadable. Then he turned, slow and deliberate, and walked to the door.

Shisui stood just outside, arms folded, watching. He didn’t speak either, but the look he gave Itachi said everything: I heard that. I’ve got you.

Itachi paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

---

Itachi slammed the office door behind him, the sound sharp and final. His breath came fast, shallow, his body coiled with fury. He didn’t hesitate—crossed the room in three strides and drove his fist into the wall. The impact was brutal. Plaster cracked, bone met resistance, and blood bloomed instantly across his knuckles. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at the damage. Pain was irrelevant.

Shisui stood frozen near the desk, eyes wide. “Itachi—”

“Don’t,” Itachi snapped, voice low and dangerous. “If I don’t walk out of here right now, I swear I’ll do something I can’t take back.”

Shisui hesitated, watching the blood drip onto the floor. “You want to fight him. I get it. But you know how that ends.”

Itachi turned away, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. His silence was louder than any scream.

The door opened again. Jugo stepped in, composed as ever, and placed a folder on the desk with clinical precision.

“Your flight details. Accommodation is sorted. You’re scheduled to leave in the next few hours,” he said, tone neutral, professional. He didn’t glance at the bleeding hand. Didn’t acknowledge the tension. Just turned and walked out.

Itachi stared at the folder for a long moment, then grabbed his coat and bag. Shisui followed, silent but close—like a shadow refusing to leave him alone.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Itachi walked straight to the bathroom, flicked on the tap, and shoved his hand under the cold stream. The sting was sharp, biting—but he barely blinked. Blood swirled into the basin, diluted and red against porcelain white. He wrapped the wound in a bandage, tight and efficient. No ceremony. No care.

Then he moved to the bedroom.

The scent hit him first—Sakura. Soft, floral, lingering in the air like a memory that refused to fade. Her clothes hung beside his in the wardrobe, delicate fabrics brushing against his darker ones. He reached out, fingers grazing a sleeve. A jumper. Something she’d worn recently. He let his hand linger, eyes closing for a moment. The ache in his chest was quieter than his rage, but deeper.

He grabbed his suitcase from the other wardrobe, threw it open, and began to pack methodically. He didn’t think—he just acted. Shirt grabbed, folded, and placed away. Again. And again. He gathered his washbag, filled it, zipped it shut, and stared at the suitcase. Then at the room.

His eyes landed on the bed—the bed he’d shared with Sakura. Images surfaced unbidden: tangled limbs, moans and gasps spilling from her mouth, the way her sleeping form seemed to reach for him even in dreams. He closed his eyes against the memory and sighed heavily.

Grabbing the suitcase, he made his way into the living room where Shisui was waiting.

“Why are you still here?” Itachi asked.

“Because I’m your friend,” Shisui replied calmly, “and I’m not letting you leave on your own. Not in the state you’re in.”

“I’m not in a state,” Itachi rebuked.

“Say that to your bleeding hand—and to the wall in your office,” Shisui pointed out. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“No. Not the airport,” Itachi said.

“Then where?”

“To the hospital. I need to see Sakura. Let her know I’ll be gone for a while.”

Shisui raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He knew better than to push. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The boot was loaded with the suitcase and laptop bag. The drive was quiet. Neither of them spoke.

The hospital was bright, sterile, and humming with quiet activity. Itachi stood at the desk, composed but taut—like a wire stretched too far.

“I’m here to see Doctor Sakura,” he said, voice low but firm.

The receptionist blinked, nodded, and picked up the phone. “One moment.”

He waited. No pacing. No sharp words. Just stillness. But his eyes never stopped moving—scanning the corridor, the doors, the people passing by.

Minutes later, Sakura appeared. Her expression shifted from surprise to concern the moment she saw Itachi and Shisui.

“Itachi,” she gave him a small smile, “what are you—”

Her eyes dropped to his bandaged hand. “Come with me.”

She guided them to an empty bed in the ward she was working on. Pulling the curtain around them, she led him to the sink. She grabbed a pair of gloves, a disposable container, and the items she needed. Her touch was gentle but insistent.

She unwrapped the bandage slowly, carefully—revealing the angry wound beneath. The skin was torn, swollen, still bleeding in places.

“What happened?” she asked calmly, washing his hand under the tap and gently drying it. No stitches needed—just torn skin and bruised knuckles. She led him to the bed and got him to sit so she could work properly.

Itachi was silent for a while, watching her work. He’d never seen her like this—focused, precise, completely absorbed in her task. She wiped away the blood, applied cream that made him hiss at the sting, then placed gauze and wrapped his hand in a clean, sterile bandage.

She looked up at him, the question still hanging between them. Her gaze flicked to Shisui, hoping one of them would speak.

Before she could ask again, Itachi said, “I punched a wall.”

Sakura raised both brows. “Did the wall deserve it?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

She could feel the anger simmering beneath his surface. The tension in his posture weighed him down. She peeled off her gloves, dropped them into the container, and tossed it into the contaminated bin. Hands washed, she gently held his hand.

“What’s going on, Itachi?” she asked quietly.

He sighed; eyes fixed on her fingers. “My father had a few things to say about us dancing on Saturday.”

Sakura frowned. “What?”

“He thinks we stole his limelight. That all anyone wanted to talk about was us—not him or his speech. Just... us.” He wrapped his fingers around hers, drawing silent strength from her touch.

“What happened then?” she asked after a pause.

“He’s decided I’m to go to Iwagakure for the next month. To oversee some contract, he’s acquired. It’s his way of controlling the narrative. Making sure the spotlight stays on him.” Itachi closed his eyes and exhaled. “I wanted to tell you in person. And to say goodbye.”

Sakura felt a lump rise in her throat. “But... surely there’s a way out?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve got my orders. And the papers.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Words failed her.

Shisui quietly slipped out, giving them space.

Itachi stood, gently pulled his hand from hers, and walked towards the curtain. Then he stopped. Turned. Walked back.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her—deep, slow, aching. He held her close, let the kiss deepen, then pressed his forehead to hers.

“Itachi...” Sakura whispered, pressing her body close to his. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. My father’s ego can’t handle anyone else getting attention.” He kissed her again, memorising the feel of her lips. “I have to go,” he said softly, pulling back. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Sakura nodded, afraid that if she spoke, the tears she was holding back would spill. She gave him a small smile and watched him leave.

Itachi found Shisui waiting outside the ward. Shisui gave him a quiet nod, and together they walked to the car.

The drive to the airport was silent. Heavy with shared understanding and everything left unsaid.

Shisui parked. Itachi grabbed his suitcase and laptop bag. Together, they walked into the busy terminal.

As they approached the check-in area, Kisame was waiting.

“Shisui called me. Filled me in,” Kisame said. “Came to see you off.”

Itachi gave the large man a small smile, checked in, handed over his suitcase, and turned to face them both.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You never need to thank me,” Shisui smiled, clapping him on the back.

“Can you do me a favour while I’m gone?” Itachi asked.

“Sure. What’s up?” they said in unison.

“Keep an eye on Sakura. I don’t trust my father not to go after her.”

They both nodded.

“We’ll look out for Pinky,” Kisame reassured him. “She’ll be in good hands.”

Itachi nodded his thanks.

An announcement rang out, calling passengers to the gate. He clapped his friends on the back, picked up his laptop bag, and walked away—towards the gate, towards Iwagakure, and everything waiting for him on the other side.

---

Sakura stood in the ward long after the curtain had stopped swaying. Her fingers still tingled where he’d held them, her lips still warm from the kiss. She blinked—once, twice—trying to clear the fog of emotion before it settled too deep.

The hospital noise returned slowly: beeping monitors, distant footsteps, the low murmur of nurses exchanging notes. She turned back to the sink and washed her hands again, slower this time. Ritual, not necessity.

A colleague passed by and gave her a nod. She nodded back—composed, professional. But her chest felt hollow, as if something had been scooped out and quietly taken with him.

She returned to her rounds, clipboard in hand, voice steady. She checked vitals, adjusted medication, offered smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes. But every time she passed the reception desk, her gaze flicked to the door. Just in case.

Later, in the break room, she sat alone with a cup of coffee gone cold. Her fingers curled around the mug—not for warmth, but for something to hold. Something to anchor her.

She drank it without tasting it, then washed out the cup. The rest of her shift passed in a blur. She didn’t try to think. Didn’t try to feel. By the time she was done, it was nearing nine. She stepped into her office, gathered her belongings, and made her way to the car.

The drive home was quiet. Finally, she allowed herself to cry—the tears she’d held back since Itachi had come to see her. It felt like something had been taken from her. Something she hadn’t yet had the chance to explore. She wiped at her eyes and sniffled as she pulled into the driveway.

She got out and unlocked the door. The house was dark and silent. It bore into her.

She turned on the hallway light and kicked off her shoes, then moved through the house on autopilot. Shower. Change clothes. Cook dinner. But she didn’t eat—her appetite gone. She decided to call it a night and went to the bedroom.

She lay down on her pillow and looked at Itachi’s side of the bed. Then she shifted over, resting her head on his pillow, breathing in his lingering scent as she fought for sleep to take her.

Chapter 23

Itachi was awake early. Sleep had eluded him the night before, chased off by thoughts that raced and tangled, never lingering long enough for him to make sense of them. He’d arrived in Iwagakure late in the afternoon the previous day, checked into his hotel, and gone straight to meet Taiseki—his counterpart for the contract.

Taiseki was tall, broad-shouldered, with a long neck and shoulder-length black hair. Stoic and straight to the point, which suited Itachi just fine. There was no need for small talk. No room for distraction.

The meeting had gone smoothly. Hours spent reviewing the contract, clarifying logistics, confirming timelines. Taiseki had been efficient, if a little stiff. Everything was in place. The work would begin today.

Itachi reached for his phone, unlocked it, and opened his messages.

When he’d returned from the meeting, he’d found two messages from Sakura. The first asked if he was okay and whether he’d arrived safely. The second contained instructions on how to care for his hand. She’d sent links to the ointment she’d used, explained what signs to look out for.

He’d smiled at the concern in her words—quietly touched by it. It was the kind of care that lingered. Not loud, not demanding. Just there. Present.

He remembered the way Sakura had tended to his injury: her fingers deft and gentle, her expression calm but focused. She hadn’t flinched at the sight of torn skin. Hadn’t hesitated. She’d cleaned the wound with care, applied ointment that had made him hiss, then wrapped it in gauze with a softness that had stayed with him. Not just on his skin, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere he couldn’t quite name.

He’d replied, letting her know he was okay—though he hadn’t gone into how he was really feeling. He’d thanked her for the instructions. It had felt easier to keep things simple. Safer.

He got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. The tiles were cold beneath his feet, the light too bright. He stepped into the small shower cubicle and let the warm spray envelop him. Steam curled around his shoulders, but his mind refused to settle.

The conversation with his father replayed in fragments—sharp words, quiet disappointments, the weight of expectation. It clung to him like damp fabric.

He had never been forced away before. Yet here he was—in a different part of the country, away from everything familiar.

Away from Sakura.

The thought caused something to stir in his chest. An ache that wasn’t painful. Just present. Like the memory of her touch. Like the silence between messages. Like the space she’d left behind.

He turned off the water, dried his body, and wrapped a towel around his waist. With another towel, he rubbed his hair dry, the motion brisk but unhurried. He dressed quietly, choosing another charcoal suit. His damp hair was brushed back and tied at the nape.

He gathered his phone and laptop and sat at the small table in the room. While the laptop loaded, he unlocked his phone and found a new message from Sakura. The corners of his mouth twitched.

He tapped the screen.

Good morning. I hope you’re doing well and had a good evening last night. Hope you have a good day today 🙂

He replied quickly.

Good morning, you’re up early. I’m okay, thank you. It’s been busy since I got here. How have you been?

He watched as three dots bounced on the screen—her reply forming in real time.

I couldn’t sleep… I’m okay, thanks.

He understood. The restlessness. The quiet hours that stretched too long.

He began typing a response, fingers hovering over the screen—when his laptop pinged, announcing the arrival of an email.

He locked his phone and set it beside the laptop, the message unsent. The moment folded in on itself.

The subject line read: Re: ID Code Discrepancy – Northern Perimeter

He clicked it open.

From: Ren Sakamoto, Project Coordinator – Uchiha Corp
To: Itachi Uchiha
Subject: Re: ID Code Discrepancy – Northern Perimeter
Time: 06:14

Morning, Itachi,

Quick heads-up—there’s been a mismatch flagged in the ID codes submitted for the northern perimeter. The local liaison says the clearance batch doesn’t align with the site registry.

Can you double-check the codes you received from internal ops yesterday? If they’re off, we’ll need to escalate before midday to avoid delaying the equipment drop.

Also attaching the updated site map. Note the shift in staging zones near the eastern ridge—looks like they’ve narrowed the buffer.

Let me know as soon as you can.

—Ren

Itachi exhaled slowly, the shift in focus immediate. He downloaded the site map, eyes scanning the new layout. The eastern ridge had been redrawn—narrower, more exposed. Logistics would need adjusting.

He busied himself for the next few hours—cross-referencing clearance codes, drafting responses, liaising with the project coordinator and local teams. His focus narrowed to the rhythm of logistics: numbers, maps, permissions. The ache in his chest dulled beneath the weight of precision.

But his reply to Sakura sat unfinished beside him. Still waiting. Still present.

Every so often, his gaze flicked to the phone. The screen remained dark. He didn’t unlock it. Didn’t touch it. But it pulled at him—quietly, insistently.

He told himself he’d reply after the next email. After the site map was confirmed. After the codes were verified. But the emails never stopped, followed by visiting the site, running through the figures with Taiseki.

---

Sakura sat at her desk, the morning light spilling across her notes. Her shift hadn’t started yet, but she’d come in early—hoping the quiet would help her focus. It hadn’t.

She glanced at her phone again. Still no reply.

He’d read the message. She knew that. But the silence that followed felt heavier than she’d expected.

She told herself he was busy. That he was working. That it didn’t mean anything.

But her fingers hovered over the screen anyway, as if she might send another message. Something light. Something casual. Something that wouldn’t sound like she was waiting.

She didn’t.

Instead, she opened the patient files and tried to concentrate. But her thoughts kept drifting—to the way he’d looked at her before he left. To the way he’d kissed her. To the way his hand had curled around hers, like he didn’t want to let go.

She hadn’t expected to miss him this much.

And she hadn’t expected the silence to feel so loud.

The ward began to stir around her—doors opening, footsteps echoing down the corridor, the low hum of conversation rising like steam. Sakura straightened in her chair, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she scanned the first file. A routine check-up. Nothing urgent. Nothing distracting.

She moved through the motions with practiced ease: notes updated, vitals checked, polite smiles exchanged. But her mind kept slipping sideways, back to him. Back to the message. Back to the silence.

By mid-morning, she was standing outside Room 12, clipboard in hand, waiting for the nurse to finish inside. Her fingers tapped lightly against the plastic edge, a quiet rhythm that matched the pulse in her throat.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t think about it during work. That she’d compartmentalise, like he did. But it was harder than she’d expected. Every pause in conversation, every lull in activity, felt like an invitation to remember.

When the nurse stepped out, Sakura nodded and slipped inside. The patient was asleep, monitors steady, sunlight pooling across the blanket in soft, golden folds. She adjusted the IV line, checked the chart, and paused.

Her phone buzzed faintly in her pocket.

She froze.

But it wasn’t him. Just a reminder. A schedule update. Something mundane and irrelevant.

Still, her heart had leapt.

She hated that.

By lunchtime, the ward had settled into its usual rhythm—steady, predictable, almost soothing. Sakura sat in the break room, her coffee cooling beside her, untouched. The others chatted around her—low voices, soft laughter—but she barely registered the words.

It wasn’t just the lack of reply. It was the space it created. A space where doubt crept in, quiet and persistent.

She thought back to yesterday.
To the way he’d kissed her.
To the way he’d pressed his lips against hers as if to memorise them.
To the way his hands had tightened around her, holding her close.

It had been slow. Deliberate. His hand at the back of her neck, his mouth warm and certain against hers. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he’d meant it. Like he hadn’t wanted to leave.

And then he had.

She took a sip of coffee. It had gone bitter.

Across the room, one of the junior nurses was scrolling through her messages, smiling at something on her screen. Sakura looked away, suddenly aware of how still she’d become.

She stood, rinsed her cup, and returned to the ward.

The afternoon passed in fragments—charts, conversations, the occasional emergency that pulled her fully into the present. But between tasks, her thoughts drifted. Not in dramatic waves, but in quiet eddies. A glance at the clock. A flicker of memory. The way his hand had curled around hers, like he hadn’t wanted to let go.

Just as she was about to sit down in her office, one of the nurses burst through the door.

“Doctor, we need you in Room 10. It’s an emergency!”

Sakura grabbed her lab coat and followed the nurse out, grateful—finally—for something that demanded her full attention.

The corridor blurred around her as she followed the nurse at a brisk pace, footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Room 10 was already busy—two nurses inside, one adjusting the oxygen mask, the other checking vitals. The patient, a middle-aged man, lay pale and sweating, his breathing shallow and erratic.

“Collapsed in the corridor,” one of the nurses said quickly. “History of arrhythmia. BP’s dropping.”

Sakura was already moving, her voice calm and clipped. “Get cardiology on standby. Push fluids. I want a full ECG and bloods—now.”

She slipped into the rhythm easily. The adrenaline sharpened her focus, cleared the fog that had settled over her thoughts all morning. Hands steady, mind precise. She asked questions, gave instructions, reassured the patient with a quiet firmness that steadied the room.

For a moment, everything else fell away.

The kiss. The silence. The message.

It didn’t vanish—but it receded, tucked into the edges of her awareness like a folded note she’d come back to later.

The patient stabilised slowly, colour returning to his face, breathing evening out. Sakura stepped back, peeled off her gloves, and nodded to the nurse beside her.

“Good work,” she said softly.

She left the room, the corridor quieter now, and walked back to her office. Her pulse had slowed, but something inside her still hummed—not just from the emergency, but from the clarity it had brought.

She sat down, reached for her coffee out of habit, then paused.

She didn’t have one.

She didn’t check her phone.

Not yet.

---

Itachi sighed as he sank into the corner booth of the hotel restaurant, the leather seat cool against his back. The space was dimly lit, all warm wood and muted brass, with the low murmur of conversation threading through the air. A waiter approached, polite and efficient, and Itachi ordered without much thought—grilled fish, steamed rice, miso soup. Something simple. Something familiar.

He handed back the menu and leaned into the quiet.

The day had been long. Site inspections in the morning, followed by hours in Taiseki’s office, poring over logistics and contingency plans. The man had talked too much, as always, and listened too little. By the time Itachi had returned to the hotel, his shoulders ached and his mind felt frayed at the edges.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

The screen lit up, casting a faint glow across the table. He opened his messages.

Her name sat there, waiting.

He’d read it. Of course he had. But he hadn’t replied.

Not yet.

He stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering near the keyboard, then set the phone down beside him. The silence between them wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate. Necessary. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

The waiter returned with a tray, setting the dishes down with quiet precision. Steam rose from the soup, curling into the air like breath. Itachi picked up his cutlery and began to eat, methodically, without hurry.

But the phone stayed within reach.

With dinner finished and paid for, Itachi made his way back to his room. The corridor was quiet, carpeted in a hush that softened his footsteps. Inside, the air was cool and still, the faint scent of linen and hotel polish lingering like a memory.

He peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. Steam rose quickly, curling around him as the hot water struck his skin. He stood there for a moment, letting the heat sink into his muscles, the day’s tension loosening with each breath. The water pattered against tile, steady and rhythmic, like a lullaby for the nerves.

After drying off, he pulled on sleep shorts and a soft cotton shirt, the fabric clinging slightly to his damp skin. The room was dim now—just the bedside lamp casting a warm pool of light across the desk and part of the bed. He picked up his phone, its cool weight familiar in his hand, and tapped on her name.

He began typing.

Sakura, I’m sorry I didn’t reach out today. It’s been busy, and I know that’s no excuse. How are you? How was work? I’ll try to keep in touch more regularly.

He glanced at the clock—twenty past ten. The silence in the room felt heavier now, like it was waiting. She was probably asleep. He added one last line.

I hope you have a better night’s sleep. Speak soon.

He hit send and locked the phone. The bed called to him—immaculately made, the sheets tucked with crisp precision. He pulled them back, the cotton whispering against his skin as he lay down. The mattress dipped gently beneath him, and the quiet wrapped around his body like a second blanket.

Sleep came slowly, but steadily, like a tide pulling him under.

 

 

 

Chapter 24

As the hours bled into days, and the days slipped into a week, Sakura found the silence in the house had become unbearable. It wasn’t just quiet—it was hollow. Each breath felt too heavy. Each moment, too much. The absence had a shape now, a weight that pressed against her chest and settled in her bones.

She’d fallen into an old routine: wake up. Get dressed. Go to work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. It was mechanical, numbing. She clung to any excuse to stay late, unwilling to return to the stillness that waited behind the front door. Over the days that passed, she and Itachi had exchanged more texts—mostly work-related, polite pleasantries, and occasionally, if time allowed, a question or two. But even those felt like echoes. Typed words couldn’t hold warmth.

On the weekend, Sakura sat up in the empty bed. She’d taken to sleeping on Itachi’s side, letting his lingering scent wrap around her each night. It was faint now, fading. She pressed her face into the pillow, breathing in what was left, as if it might anchor her. It didn’t. It only made her ache.

She padded into the bathroom, used it, washed her hands and face, then brushed her teeth. Returning to the bedroom, she paused. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, discarded where she’d slipped them off. Her gaze lingered on them, and her chest tightened. Itachi would have said something—quiet, firm, maybe with that look that made her bristle. Her thoughts turned to the way he’d pinned her against the wall, caging her in with that quiet intensity, telling her to pick up her mess. She’d pushed back then, stubborn and sharp.

A small smile tugged at her lips. She’d tried hard since then to stay tidy. And yet, here she was, nearly a week on, slipping back into old habits. The smile faded. It wasn’t just mess—it felt like a visualisation of her mind, slowly unravelling.

Instead of curling up in bed with her phone, she decided to clean. She grabbed her phone, tapped on a playlist, and began tidying while singing softly to herself. It helped, a little. Movement gave her something to hold onto.

Clothes were sorted—either for the wash or hung up. Shoes and bags put away. Bed made. She moved through the living room, kitchen, and dining area, clearing surfaces and restoring order. Two hours later, with the house finally clean, she stood in the centre of the room, breathless. The silence returned, louder than before.

Her thoughts drifted back to Itachi. To Iwagakure. To the way he’d left—quiet, deliberate, unreadable. The kiss that had lingered, and the promise to keep in touch before his departure. She found herself wandering the house, searching for clues about him—a way to understand the man behind the silence. But like him, the house was personal yet guarded, offering few hints beyond the possessions Sakura had brought with her when they married.

She thought back to that day. The way they’d stared at each other in anger, silently blaming one another for their misfortunes. How they’d tiptoed around each other, slowly learning how to coexist. Her mind turned to the small gestures that had shown he was trying: the set of keys, the way he’d tucked her into bed after a late shift, the quiet drive home, and the night of the event—the reason he’d left against his own will.

Her chest tightened. She missed him. Not just his presence, but the tension, the friction, the way he made her feel seen—even when it hurt. As memories stirred, her body responded. Desire flared, low and insistent, making her groan aloud. She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing the thoughts away.

She needed distraction. She needed movement. She grabbed her gym bag—determined to give her mind something else to focus on.

---

She pulled into the slightly busy car park of Iron Shark Gym, watching from her car as a few people wandered inside. After a moment, she grabbed her belongings and followed suit. She paid for another day pass and entered, heading straight for the functional area. Finding a quiet corner, she laid down a mat, dropped her bag by the wall, and fished out her earbuds.

She let the music guide her through her stretches before moving onto the treadmill for a warm-up. She tried to keep her mind focused on the task—tried and failed to stop it from wandering. She told herself she only thought about Itachi because they’d lived together for the past month and a bit. That it was nothing more than that. She refused to give the ache in her chest a name.

Once warmed up, Sakura grabbed the weights she needed and worked through her routine, letting the burn in her muscles distract her, the sweat slowly sliding down her warm skin. Gradually, her mind quieted, offering a brief reprieve from the thoughts that had consumed her all week.

Across the gym, Shisui lowered the barbell with Kisame’s help. Sitting up on the bench, he wiped his face with a towel and glanced around—pink hair catching his attention. He stood, watching Sakura as she slammed a weighted ball to the ground, squatted to retrieve it, and threw it down again with force.

“Sakura’s here,” he said to Kisame.

Kisame followed his gaze, watching her move with precision, every action calculated. “How was she when Itachi went to see her before he left?”

“She was quiet. After she cleaned and bandaged his hand, they shared a moment. I saw myself out—I didn’t want to intrude.” He went quiet for a few seconds before adding, “we should go see her.”

Kisame nodded. “Finish your set first.”

Shisui smirked at the larger man. “Sure thing, boss.”

---

Sakura wiped sweat from her face and reached for her bottle, taking several long sips as she tried to slow her breathing. She stretched her neck from side to side, then paused when she saw the two men approaching—Shisui and Kisame. She’d seen them around before, watched how they teased Itachi but also stood firmly behind him.

As they stopped in front of her, she paused her music, removed an earbud, and looked between them.

“Hi,” she greeted, offering a small smile.

“Hey, Pinky,” Kisame grinned wide.

“Sakura,” Shisui returned her smile gently. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she replied with a practised smile. She was certain, as Itachi’s friends, they wouldn’t be interested in her thoughts. “You?”

“We’re good, thank you,” Shisui said, then added more softly, “How are you holding up?”

Sakura gave him another small smile. He’d been there when Itachi came to see her—she hadn’t noticed when he’d slipped away, but she was grateful for the quiet moment it had given them.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, forcing the smile to stay on her lips.

“You’re still favouring your left side,” Kisame commented after a beat of silence.

Sakura raised an eyebrow at the large man.

“Here, look,” he said, stepping beside her. “May I?” He gestured to the ball at her feet.

She nodded once.

“When you squat,” he explained, demonstrating as he spoke, “you lean more to your left when you push up.”

Sakura frowned, then tried another squat. He was right.

He smirked. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. How about we”—he gestured between himself and Shisui—“train with you for a while? Help you out?”

Sakura considered the offer. Part of her wanted to decline, to keep her distance. But it would give her what she needed—a chance to keep her mind occupied for longer than a few minutes.

“Yes, please.”

“Perfect.” Kisame’s smirk widened into a grin. “Let’s train.” He moved off to grab two more mats, weighted balls, and other equipment, laying them down beside hers.

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into,” Shisui said quietly, his smile still intact. “Kisame has a habit of pushing people harder than necessary. He doesn’t believe in limits.”

Sakura swallowed at the warning. “I’ll be okay.”

“We’ll see.”

---

Almost forty-five minutes later, Shisui lay sprawled on his mat, groaning. “What the hell, man?” he grunted, his legs aching.

“Someone’s been skipping leg day,” Kisame said dryly. “That’s on you.”

“I don’t skip leg days,” Shisui groaned, rising on shaky legs. “You’re just a monster to train with.”

“Pinky’s still standing,” Kisame pointed out, grinning. “And she’s not complaining.”

Shisui glanced at Sakura. “You’re just as weird as this stupid shark,” he muttered. “Please tell me we’re done.”

“For all your whining, I should make you do another round—really push you. But I know how fragile you are,” Kisame said, flashing a grin. “Let’s cool down.”

Five minutes later, stretched and breathing easier, Sakura reached for her things. She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to face the men.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You never need to thank us,” Kisame replied with a wink. “We’re always here if you need anything.”

“Speak for yourself,” Shisui grumbled, grabbing his own gear. “I’m never coming back here.”

“Great—saves me my sanity,” Kisame chuckled, then turned back to Sakura. “Seriously, if you ever need anything, we’re here.”

Sakura smiled between them, thanked them again, then began putting her equipment away before heading towards the exit. Just as she reached the door, Kisame jogged over.

“You don’t need to buy another day pass,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a card. “Use this next time.”

Sakura looked at the card. “Thanks, but I can’t accept it.”

“Itachi would kill me if he knew I made his wife pay when she could use his membership while he’s out of town,” Kisame chuckled. “Besides, it’ll be pretty boy footing the bill.”

She hesitated, then took the card when Kisame nudged it under her nose again.

“I’ll see you again, yeah?” he asked, grinning.

“Yeah,” Sakura smiled. “Thank you again.”

“No need to thank me, Pinky. It’s fun training with someone who doesn’t bitch as much,” he said with a wink.

“I heard that!” Shisui shouted from across the gym.

“You were meant to!” Kisame yelled back.

Sakura laughed again and stepped outside, making her way to her car. The late morning sun cast soft light across the pavement, and for the first time in days, she felt lighter. She was glad she’d come.

---

Itachi had just finished his run on the treadmill in the hotel gym. The space was limited—just a few cardio machines, some free weights, benches, and two multi-functional weight stations.

He moved to the small functional area, grabbed a bench and a set of weights, and spent the next hour working through his routine. When he was done, he wiped his face with a towel, stretched, and made his way back to his room.

Showered and dressed in casual wear, he powered up his laptop. Most of the week had been spent in Taiseki’s office. Together, they’d ensured everything ran smoothly, avoiding any further issues that might delay the start of construction.

Beside him, his phone pinged several times. He glanced at it briefly, then returned to the email he was drafting. When it pinged again—more insistent this time—he picked it up, unlocked it, and found several messages from Shisui and Kisame in their group chat.

He skimmed through the thread. Kisame and Shisui were arguing about a gym session, claiming Sakura had proved she was stronger than Shisui. His eyes caught on her name. Without hesitation, he fired off a reply:

How was Sakura when you saw her?

He watched the three dots bounce on the screen, then Kisame’s reply appeared:

Pinky looked a little lost at first. But once we got her all sweaty, she lightened up. Your wife is one hell of a woman!

Itachi felt his lips twitch at Kisame’s text.

She’s a monster! came Shisui’s reply. I’ve never seen anyone other than you keep up with this stupid shark!

His phone pinged again. Another message. He tapped it open and saw Sakura’s name. He smiled and read her words:

Hi, how are you? What are you doing today?

He didn’t reply with a message. He wanted to hear her voice.

The hotel room was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning. A faint scent of eucalyptus lingered from the shower, sharp against the stillness. He hit the call button, pressed the phone to his ear, and listened to the dial tone.

It connected.

“Hi,” came Sakura’s breathy voice.

It made him smile—soft, involuntary.

“Hi. How are you?” he asked, voice low.

“I’m okay, thanks. How are you?”

He leaned back against the chair, gaze drifting to the ceiling. The light was muted, the kind that made everything feel slower. He could hear the slight hitch in her breath, the way she was trying to sound casual.

“I’m alright,” he said. “Better now.”

He could hear Sakura’s smile through the phone—soft, unguarded. “That’s good. How are things going?”

“They’re fine. I heard from Kisame and Shisui about your gym session with them.”

“Oh,” she chuckled lightly. “Yeah, they saw me in the gym and offered to work out with me.”

He shifted slightly, the fabric of his shirt brushing against the back of the chair. “Kisame was full of praise—said you beat Shisui on your reps.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he said it.

“It wasn’t that many more than Shisui,” Sakura replied softly. He could hear her embarrassment in her voice.

“Kisame isn’t one to hand out praise to just anyone,” Itachi told her, his smile stretching slightly.

There was a pause. Not awkward, just quiet. He let it stretch, listening to the subtle rustle of movement on her end. The sound grounded him more than it should.

He stood up out of the chair and moved towards the bed, sitting against the headboard, the phone warm against his ear. Her voice was steady now, casual. Light.

“I was tidying up earlier,” she said, voice light. “Your wardrobe’s very... monochrome.”

He let out a quiet breath, amused. “Is it?”

“Mhm. Black, charcoal grey, dark grey. A few shirts that might pass for navy, but only in sunlight.” She paused. “I’m guessing your favourite colour is black.”

He smiled, slow and silent. “It’s practical.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s close enough.”

Sakura laughed lightly.

Itachi tilted his head, a playful glint in his eye. “Seeing as you know my preferred colour, tell me about yours.”

“When I was younger, I loved the colour pink,” she replied. “But as I’ve gotten older, I don’t really favour one colour in particular. I do prefer bright colours, though.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “You do have quite a few clothes that are black.”

“I did say I don’t favour one colour more than another,” she chuckled.

Just then, his laptop beeped, announcing an incoming call. He stood and moved to the desk, the screen flashing with a group call between both companies. He sighed.

“I take it you have to go?” Sakura’s voice cut through the noise in his head.

“I do, unfortunately. I’ll talk to you later.”

She hesitated, her voice softer now. “Okay… It was nice hearing your voice again.” A pause. “Have a good day.”

He lingered for a moment, his hand hovering over the screen. Her words settled in the quiet between them, gentle and unassuming. Something in the way she said it—soft, almost hesitant—made him want to stay.

“You too,” he said quietly.

He ended the call and accepted the one on his laptop. The screen filled with faces—some familiar, some not—and voices began to flood the room. A senior manager from the partner company launched into a summary of the agenda, but Itachi’s gaze drifted to the corner of the screen, unfocused.

He could still hear her voice in his head. That quiet “It was nice hearing your voice again”—not dramatic, not demanding, just... sincere.

“Mr Uchiha?” someone prompted.

He blinked, registering the question a beat too late. “Yes—sorry. Could you repeat that?”

There was a pause, then the speaker continued, but Itachi barely registered the words. He responded when needed, his tone measured, his expression unreadable—but his replies came a fraction slower than usual. Not enough to raise concern. Just enough to suggest his mind was elsewhere.

The meeting wrapped with the usual pleasantries and muted goodbyes. Itachi clicked out of the call, the screen returning to its idle glow. Silence settled around him—not unwelcome, but not quite neutral either.

He leaned back slightly, gaze unfocused. The conversation with Sakura replayed in fragments—her laugh, the way her voice softened near the end, that quiet “It was nice hearing your voice again.”

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way they lingered. The way they slipped past his usual defences and stayed.

He hadn’t expected that. Not from a brief exchange. Not from her.

He sat still, letting the quiet stretch. His thoughts circled back to her—not with urgency, but with a kind of pull he couldn’t ignore. A warmth that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and he’d only just noticed.

She hadn’t asked for his attention. But she had it.

Her voice had faded, but the feeling hadn’t. It lingered, quiet and persistent, like something half-remembered but impossible to forget.

 

Chapter 25

Since his call with Sakura, Itachi had woken each morning to a message from her—always something light, curious, and quietly intimate. Questions about his favourite food, the music he listened to when he couldn’t sleep, the films that lingered in his mind long after the credits rolled. Books, too. She wanted to know him—not just the surface, but the quiet corners he rarely showed anyone.

He found himself looking forward to her messages more than he’d expected. They were the first thing he reached for, even before coffee. Her words had a way of softening the edges of the day, of making the sterile hotel room feel less like a holding cell and more like a space tethered to something real. To her.

He counted down the days until he could return home. Return to her.

The thought had unsettled him at first. That she had begun to mean more to him in their time apart than she had when they’d shared the same house. It wasn’t just the absence—it was the way she filled it. Quietly. Persistently. With questions that made him think, and answers that made him feel.

He missed the way she filled a room without trying. The soft hum she carried under her breath when she thought he wasn’t listening—half a tune, half a comfort. Sometimes it was a melody he recognised, sometimes not. But it stayed with him. Like the echo of something gentle and familiar.

He missed the way her laughter curled at the edges, low and warm, like something private meant only for him. It wasn’t loud or showy. It was the kind of laugh that made him want to say something just to hear it again.

He missed the way she moved through the house, barefoot and unhurried, her hair tied up messily, strands falling loose around her face. The way she’d glance at him over her shoulder when she was cooking, or reading, or doing nothing at all—and how that glance lingered, like she saw something in him he hadn’t quite recognised yet.

He missed her lips. The way they felt against his—soft, certain, and unguarded. The way she’d whispered his name in the dark, voice thick with want and something deeper. Something that had stayed with him longer than he’d expected. He hadn’t meant to remember it so vividly. But he did.

He hadn’t realised how much that mattered to him until now.

Each message from her chipped away at the distance. Not just the miles, but the emotional scaffolding he’d built around himself. She was getting in. Slowly. Quietly. And he was letting her.

He didn’t know when it had started—this shift from familiarity to something more. But he felt it now, in the way his chest tightened when he saw her name on his screen. In the way he reread her messages like they held secrets he hadn’t caught the first time. In the way he imagined her voice when he read her words.

One morning, her message had read:
“What do you miss most when you’re away?”

He’d stared at the screen longer than usual, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The answer had come too quickly, too easily. You.
But he hadn’t sent it. Instead, he’d typed something safer—“Home. Quiet mornings. Decent coffee.”
She’d replied with a laughing emoji and a teasing comment about his taste in coffee, but the moment lingered. The truth had almost slipped out, and he wasn’t sure what that meant.

Work offered little distraction. He spent nearly every day in the office with Taiseki, overseeing the construction site with a growing sense of weariness. The place was a cacophony of clanging metal, shouted instructions, and the low, constant hum of machinery. Dust hung in the air, gritty on his skin, and the scent of concrete and sweat clung to everything.

He kept the teams aligned, smoothed over disputes when tempers flared, and tried to inject some semblance of cooperation into a crew that seemed determined to pull in opposite directions. The job had become a grind—tedious, loud, and emotionally draining.

More than once, he’d found himself staring out of the window, watching the cranes swing like slow, deliberate gestures against the sky. Longing for silence. For stillness. For the kind of quiet that only existed in her presence.

He turned his attention back to his laptop, rereading the email he had drafted earlier to his father, explaining how the job was going. As much as he wanted to ignore his father’s emails, he knew better. Knew what the consequences would be to push the man further. After all, he was sent here because of what had been typed up about him and Sakura on the night that was supposed to be all about his father.

He skimmed the article.

Fugaku’s name dominated the headline, of course. A night of celebration, another contract secured, another victory for Uchiha Corp. The usual praise—how he’d taken over at eighteen, how he’d built the company by crushing competition. All of it predictable.

But then the tone shifted.

Photos of the guests. Then of him and Sakura.

They’d called them the King and Queen of the evening. Dressed in black. Turning heads. The writer lingered on their dance—how he’d held her close, how they’d moved like one. How the room had watched them, as if they were the main event.

He felt the heat rise behind his eyes.

The article speculated about their marriage. Was it love? Strategy? A union brokered by Sarutobi to keep the Uchiha and Haruno families from tearing each other apart? No one knew. That was the point.

They’d stayed private. One appearance. One night. And now the press was already whispering about pink and blue banners.

He closed the tab and leaned back, the glow of the laptop casting sharp lines across his face. Outside, the Iwagakure skyline was already dark, the mountains silhouetted against a bruised sky. Most of the office had emptied hours ago. The silence suited him.

He stayed late. Every night.

Not because anyone asked him to. But because he couldn’t afford mistakes. Not here. Not now.

He reviewed the logistics report again, eyes scanning for inconsistencies. The numbers blurred slightly, but he didn’t blink. He’d already cross-checked the supplier contracts, restructured the team’s workflow, and rewritten the client pitch to make it sound like something Fugaku would approve of—efficient, ruthless, impressive.

But it wasn’t Fugaku’s name on the project. It was his.

He worked longer hours than anyone else on the team. Arrived first. Left last. Took meetings others would’ve rescheduled. Smoothed over tensions before they reached upper management. He made sure everything ran seamlessly, because if it didn’t, the blame would land squarely on him—and Fugaku would be the first to say he’d been right to send him away.

It wasn’t just about proving he could handle it.

It was about proving he could do it better.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, the ache settling deep into his shoulders. The office lights flickered slightly overhead, motion sensors unsure whether he counted as movement anymore.

He didn’t mind the solitude. It was easier to think when no one was watching.

But sometimes, when the silence stretched too long, he wondered if Sakura was still awake. If she’d notice the timestamp on his next message. If she’d read between the lines.

He stepped out of the office into the cool night air, the streets of Iwagakure quiet, save for the hum of distant traffic and the occasional flicker of neon. The corner store was still open. He ducked inside, grabbed a bottle of water and a pre-packed meal—something bland, something quick. The cashier didn’t look up as he paid.

Back at the hotel, he let himself into the room, the silence greeting him like an old friend. He dropped the bag on the desk, loosened his tie, and sat on the edge of the bed. The food sat untouched.

His phone buzzed.

Sakura.

He glanced at the time. Late. Even for her.

He answered. “You’re up late.”

A pause. Then her voice, soft and steady. “So are you.”

He let out a breath—something between a sigh and a laugh. His shoulders dropped, the tension of the day loosening just slightly. “Long day.”

“I figured. You sound tired.”

“I am.” He rubbed at his temple, thumb pressing into the ache behind his eye. “Still had things to finish.”

“You always do.”

He didn’t reply. Just shifted against the headboard, one arm draped loosely across his chest, phone cradled near his ear. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—just familiar.

Then, quieter than before, almost like she hadn’t meant to say it aloud, “I miss you.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just smiled—small, tired—the kind that softened the lines around his eyes. His fingers brushed the edge of the pillow, absently tracing the seam. “I miss you too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just full.

Then she added, voice lighter now, teasing at the edges of the quiet, “Do you miss all the mess I make?”

He let out a low laugh, the first real one all day. His hand dropped to his lap, palm open. “Yes. I miss all the mess you make.”

“Even the shoes by the door?”

“Especially the shoes by the door.”

She hummed, pleased. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t. Your reputation’s safe.”

She yawned softly, the sound barely audible through the speaker.

He glanced at the time again, then shifted, legs stretching out beneath the covers. “It’s late. You should sleep.”

“I’ve tried,” she murmured. “It’s not working.”

He leaned back, head resting against the wall now, the cool plaster grounding him. “Want me to stay on the line?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “But I want to.”

A pause. Then, softly, “…You do?”

He smiled, just a little. “Of course I do.”

She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice had shifted—gentler, touched. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

“Only for you.”

“Lucky me.”

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“I already have.”

“That’s a good girl.”

She chuckled, breathy. “You’re full of praises too.”

He smiled again, letting the sound of her laughter settle something in him. His hand drifted to the wall beside him, fingers brushing the surface. “Only when they’re earned.”

Her voice dipped, softer now. “You always say the right thing?”

“Not always,” he murmured. “Just with you.”

She hummed again. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like you really miss me.”

“I do.”

The silence that followed pulsed with something quieter, deeper. Her breathing shifted, slower now.

“I wish you were here.”

His grip on the phone tightened. He turned his head slightly, cheek grazing the wall. “Me too.”

“You’d be complaining about the shoes by the door again.”

“I’d still let you leave them there.”

She laughed again—low and warm—and the sound curled around him like a blanket.

Then, her voice softened further, barely above a whisper. “You know what I miss most?”

He didn’t answer. Just waited, eyes half-closed, fingers still resting against the wall.

“The way you pin me against the wall,” she said slowly, like she was tasting the memory. “The way you kiss me so deeply I almost forget my own name.”

She sighed—quiet, involuntary. The kind that slipped out when the body remembered more than it should.

His breath caught. He pressed his palm flat against the wall now, grounding himself in the texture. Not the same. Too smooth. Too sterile. But the memory was there—her back against the hallway wall, his hand firm at her waist, her breath warm against his mouth.

“I think of it too,” he said.

“I think about it,” she murmured. “More than I should.”

The silence that followed was thick with everything unsaid. Her breathing shifted again—heavier now.

Then came the yawn—long, unguarded—pulling them gently back from the edge.

He waited for her to finish, then spoke, quiet and steady. “Bed, Sakura.”

“I’m already in it.”

“Then sleep.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Until you do.”

She didn’t argue. Just settled deeper into the quiet, her breathing softening with each passing moment.

He stayed on the line, eyes closed, fingers still resting against the wall. And slowly, without meaning to, he drifted off—lulled by the sound of her breath and the echo of everything he hadn’t said.

---

He woke slowly, the phone still warm in his hand, his fingers curled loosely around it. The wall was cool against his knuckles, and for a moment, he didn’t move—just lay there, eyes half-open, letting the silence settle.

Her voice lingered.
I miss you.
Soft. Unassuming. But it had stayed with him, threading through sleep like a whisper.

He shifted, rolled onto his back. The hotel ceiling stared down at him—blank, impersonal. He reached out again, brushing the wall with his fingertips. Not the same. But it helped.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

He rose, slow and deliberate. The room was dim, curtains drawn against the morning light. He moved through his routine with quiet precision—coffee first. Steam curled up from the cup as he stood by the window, watching the city stir.

Her shoes by the door.
Her laughter in the quiet.
The way she said “You’re full of surprises tonight” like she hadn’t expected him to stay.

He dressed without rush, each movement thoughtful. Shirt. Watch. The familiar weight of his coat over his shoulders. He paused by the mirror, adjusting the collar, then stopped—his reflection catching something in his eyes he hadn’t seen in a while.

Warmth.

He didn’t name it. Just let it be.

Before leaving, he glanced at his phone again. No new messages. But her last words still sat there, quiet, and steady.

I miss you.

He slipped the phone into his pocket, the smile still faint on his lips, and stepped out into the day—carrying her with him, in the quiet spaces between thought and breath.

Chapter 26

The morning had started like any other—clinical rounds, clipped greetings, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Sakura moved through the ward with quiet efficiency, her clipboard tucked under one arm, her mind already sorting through the day’s cases.

She paused at the nurses’ station, scanning the board. Amari, one of the senior nurses, approached with a file in hand.

“New admission,” she said, voice low. “Young woman. Twenty-three. Depressive episodes followed by manic highs. Psych team’s full—she’ll be transferred once a bed opens.”

Sakura took the file, flipping it open. “I’ll oversee her until then.”

Amari nodded. “She’s lucid now. Cooperative. But fragile.”

Sakura offered a quiet thanks and continued down the corridor, her heels clicking against the linoleum. She wanted to meet the patient with more than clinical detachment. Empathy mattered. Especially here.

She reached her office, stepped inside, and sat down. The file lay open in front of her, notes scrawled in tight handwriting. She was halfway through the intake summary when the door slammed open.

She looked up. Her stomach dropped.

Fugaku Uchiha.

The man who made her life—and Itachi’s—a calculated misery.

He stepped inside without invitation, his gaze sweeping the room with disdain before settling on her. She closed the file slowly, deliberately, and met his eyes.

She didn’t stand. Didn’t offer respect he hadn’t earned.

“What do you want?” she asked, voice clipped.

“Is this how you show respect to your superiors?” he sneered.

“I don’t recall you being mine,” she said evenly.

His lip curled. “Hmph.”

He sat opposite her, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes roamed—messy hair, rumpled scrubs, no makeup. Not the polished elegance he preferred. Her jaw tightened. Let him see it.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“There’s nothing you, a Haruno, can do for me,” he said, letting the disgust show.

“Then why are you here? In my office? Wasting my time?” Her tone rose with each word, anger bleeding through.

“You’ve got some nerve speaking to me like that, girl!” he snapped. “You’ve spent too long around my insolent son, thinking you can mouth off to me!”

“We’re married. Spending time together tends to happen,” Sakura said, voice steady despite the heat rising in her chest.

“Watch your mouth, you stupid little bitch! Just because you opened your legs to Itachi and let him use you doesn’t mean you get to speak to me like this!”

Her jaw clenched. She refused to rise to it.

“Let me guess,” he sneered. “You couldn’t wait to let him fuck you.”

“GET OUT!” Sakura’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Fugaku stood, looming. “Did your father not teach you manners? Teach you how to speak to those better than you?”

“My father taught me how to stand up for myself. I told you that last time I was in your estate. He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be. And so is Itachi.” She stood, spine straight. “Now get out of my office. I have patients to care for, not time to waste on your bruised ego.”

She walked to the door and opened it, waiting.

Fugaku’s face twisted in rage. Eyes blazing. Teeth bared. Fists clenched. He stalked toward her.

“You’ll only ever be good for one thing to Itachi,” he spat. “What you’ve got between your legs. But he’ll get bored soon. Throw you out on the kerb where all you Harunos belong.”

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Sakura slammed the door behind him.

Her hands trembled. Not from fear. From fury.

She wanted to scream. To throw something. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

She marched to her desk, grabbed her water bottle, and drank deeply. Cold liquid. Cold rage.

She breathed. Once. Twice. Again. Until the red faded.

Then she picked up the file and walked out of her office. She had a patient to see.

---

The hospital was quieting down, but Sakura wasn’t.

She sat at her desk, elbows planted on the surface, eyes locked on the closed door as if expecting it to open again. Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago, but she hadn’t moved.

The patient file lay untouched beside her. Her hands were still trembling.

She’d held it together. Through the rounds. Through the check-ins. Through the polite smiles and clinical detachment. But now, in the hush of her office, the fury pressed against her ribs like a scream she couldn’t release.

Her jaw ached from clenching. Her nails dug half-moons into her palms. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile. She hated how calm everything looked—how normal.

She drove home in silence. No music. No calls. Just the hum of the engine and the echo of Fugaku’s voice in her head, each word replaying with surgical precision. Cold. Calculated. Cruel.

She walked into the house, dropped her bag on the table, and kicked off her shoes with more force than necessary. The quiet was unbearable—too still, too loud. It pressed in from all sides, amplifying every breath, every heartbeat.

She grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and gulped it down. Then again. Fugaku’s words still echoed, taunting her, curling around her spine like smoke.

She shook her head sharply, as if she could dislodge them. Sat down on the sofa, fists clenched in her lap, letting the silence wrap around her like a vice.

She hadn’t let him win in her office. She’d kept her voice steady, her posture firm. But now? Now her mind wouldn’t quieten. Her body buzzed with adrenaline, her thoughts looping in jagged spirals.

She couldn’t stay here. She needed motion. Noise. Something to burn through the rage.

She changed into her gym gear without thinking—tight black leggings, a cropped hoodie, trainers. Hair pulled back into a rough ponytail, strands escaping around her face.

She grabbed her keys and drove to Iron Shark Gym.

---

The gym was dimly lit and industrial, the air thick with sweat, metal, and the low hum of machinery. The scent of rubber mats and disinfectant clung to the walls. Sakura didn’t speak to anyone. She walked straight to the back corner, grabbed the weight ball, slipped in her earbuds, and tapped a playlist without looking.

Music exploded in her ears—heavy bass, aggressive lyrics, fast and furious. She didn’t care what it was. She just needed it loud.

She slammed the ball down. Squatted. Picked it up. Slammed it again—harder. Again. And again. Each time faster, more forceful.

Her arms burned. Her legs protested. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. But she didn’t stop.

Each slam was a word she hadn’t said. Each grunt a scream she hadn’t let out.

Across the gym, Kisame was wiping down the cable machines, checking bolts, adjusting tension. He liked things orderly. Clean. Safe. His gym was his sanctuary, and he kept it that way.

He spotted her—his favourite pinkette.

Paused.

Watched the way she moved. Relentless. Punishing. Like she was trying to break something that refused to break.

He walked over slowly, towel slung over one shoulder.

“You planning to crack the floor open or just scare off the newbies, Pinky?” he joked, voice light.

Sakura didn’t answer. She looked up once—just once—and the look she gave him stopped him cold.

He raised both hands in surrender, took a step back, and waited. He knew that look. He’d worn it himself once or twice.

She kept going. Ten more slams. Then fifteen. Until her arms shook and her breath hitched.

Finally, she dropped the ball and sat on the edge of the mat, elbows on her knees, head bowed, sweat dripping from her brow.

Kisame approached again, slower this time.

“You alright?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her chest rose and fell, music still pounding in her ears.

Then she nodded once, barely.

“Fugaku came to my office,” she said, voice raw. “Said things I wouldn’t repeat. Not even to Itachi.”

Kisame sat beside her—not too close. Just enough.

She brushed at her face—quick, angry swipes. But the tears had already fallen.

“I didn’t let him get to me. Not properly. But I’m so fucking angry.”

Kisame didn’t speak. He reached out, wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and pulled her into a hug. Not tight. Not patronising. Just steady.

She let herself lean into it. Just for a moment.

“He’s a bastard,” Kisame said quietly. “Always has been. I’ve had my share of run-ins with him. But Itachi... Itachi’s had it worse. Being his son? That’s a whole different kind of hell.”

Sakura nodded, throat tight.

They sat like that for a while. No rush. No pressure. Just the thrum of music and the distant clang of weights.

“You should let Itachi know,” Kisame said, his tone gentle.

Sakura shook her head.
“No. He doesn’t need to know about this.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Pinky,” Kisame smiled at her. “Itachi would want to know.”

She didn’t reply.

Kisame continued.
“Before Itachi left, he asked me and Shisui for a favour. He asked us to look out for you.”

Sakura turned to him, eyes wide.
“…What?”

“I know you two haven’t exactly been sunshine and roses since the whole arranged marriage shit, but that man cares for you. It’s obvious.”

Sakura didn’t know what to say. Her throat felt tight again, but this time it wasn’t just anger.

When she finally stood, Kisame helped her gather her things. He walked her to her car, opened the door, and waited until she was inside.

“You did good,” he said. “You didn’t let him win.”

She gave him a tired smile. One that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

As she drove off, Kisame pulled out his phone and sent a message to Itachi.

She’s okay. But your father went to her office. Said some vile shit. She didn’t break, but she’s hurting. Thought you should know.

---

The message came through just after ten.

She’s okay. But you father went to her office. Said some vile shit. She didn’t break, but she’s hurting. Thought you should know.

Itachi stared at the screen. The words were sharp, but something inside him dulled.

He was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, the room dimly lit, quiet in that sterile way only hotels could be. The air smelled faintly of fabric softener and filtered water. Too clean. Too impersonal.

His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked beneath his cheekbone.
He set the phone down slowly, deliberately, as if it might detonate.

Then he stood. Too fast.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. Breath shallow. Controlled.
He paced once across the room, then again—like a caged thing trying not to rattle the bars.

Fugaku.

Of course it was him.

Itachi’s chest tightened. His father’s voice echoed in memory—sharp, cold, always calculated. But this? This was something else. Something aimed at Sakura. And that made it different.

Worse.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.
He needed to stay calm. Needed to think. But the fury was rising, slow and hot, like water about to boil.

He picked up the phone again. Stared at her contact.
Then tapped it.

The line rang once. Twice.

“Itachi?” Her voice was quiet. Tired. But steady.

He swallowed hard.
“I know.”
A pause.
“Kisame told me.”

Silence.

“I’ll deal with it.” His voice was low, clipped. Controlled—but only just.

“No.” Sakura’s reply came fast. Firm. “You won’t.”

He blinked. “Sakura—”

“If you do anything,” she said, voice tightening, “then he’s won. That’s what he wants. To get under your skin. To make you react. I didn’t let him win in my office, and I won’t let him win now.”

Itachi exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. He turned toward the window, the view outside a blur of city lights and distant mountains. “It’s not okay. What he did. What he said.”

“I know.”

“Then tell me.” His voice cracked slightly. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

A long pause.

“No.” Her voice was softer now. “Nothing good will come from repeating his words.”

Itachi closed his eyes. His fists unclenched, then clenched again. He sat back down on the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

“I should’ve been there.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should’ve known he’d go after you.”

“He didn’t get to me,” she said. “Not properly. I was angry. I still am. But I didn’t break.”

He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. His throat felt tight.

“I hate that he made you feel unsafe.”

“He didn’t,” she said. “Not really. I was furious, not afraid. There’s a difference.”

Itachi let the silence stretch. Her voice grounded him. Her steadiness. Her refusal to let Fugaku take up more space than he deserved.

“You’re stronger than he’ll ever be,” he said quietly.

“We both are.”

He smiled faintly. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was real.

“I’ll back off,” he said. “For now.”

“Thank you.”

“But if he ever comes near you again—”

“Then we’ll deal with it. Together.”

That stopped him.
He looked at the phone, at her name glowing on the screen.

“Together,” he repeated.

---

Itachi didn’t sleep.

He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound. The room was too quiet. Too still. His thoughts moved like shadows—Fugaku’s voice, Sakura’s steadiness, the way her words had held him together when he felt like splintering.

He turned onto his side. Then his back. Then sat up again.

The clock read 2:17.

He rubbed his face with both hands, fingers pressing into his temples. His chest felt tight, like something was coiled there, waiting. He reached for the phone once, thumb hovering over her name. Then stopped.

She’d said together.
She’d meant it.
But not tonight.

---

 

Itachi dressed with mechanical precision.

Charcoal suit. Crisp shirt. Tie knotted tight. His movements were fluid, practiced—but there was no ease in them. Just control. Just containment.

As he passed the office mirror, he paused.

The man staring back looked composed. Professional. But his eyes were darker than usual, and the skin beneath them told a different story. His jaw was tight. His mouth a line. He looked like someone holding something back. Something sharp.

He turned away.

The office was quiet, tucked into the top floor of the Iwagakure administrative building. Pale light filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the desk. A ceramic cup of untouched coffee sat cooling beside his laptop. The air smelled faintly of stone and paper—neutral, forgettable.

He sat, spine straight, fingers steepled loosely as the screen flickered to life.

Faces appeared one by one—executives, advisors, regional contacts. Then Fugaku.

Itachi’s gaze locked onto his father’s face. Just for a moment. That same impassive expression. That same quiet authority. But now it felt like a provocation.

Fugaku spoke first. “Progress in Iwagakure?”

Itachi’s voice was calm. Precise. But colder than usual. “Steady. The infrastructure proposal passed without resistance. Local officials are cooperative.”

“Efficient,” Fugaku said. “You’ve handled it well.”

Itachi’s lips barely moved. “I handle what’s mine.”

A pause. Just long enough to register.

Fugaku’s eyes narrowed slightly. No one else seemed to notice.

Another board member asked about budget allocations. Itachi answered smoothly, but his tone was clipped, his phrasing exact. No excess. No warmth.

Then Fugaku again. “I trust you’ve kept distractions to a minimum. Iwagakure requires focus. Personal entanglements tend to cloud judgment.”

Itachi didn’t blink. “My judgment is clear. And I don’t confuse loyalty with distraction.”

A beat of silence.

Fugaku’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.

The meeting continued. Polite, professional. But beneath the surface, the air between father and son was razor-thin.

Itachi didn’t look at him again. But every word was chosen. Every syllable sharpened.

When the call ended, the screen went dark. Itachi sat still for a moment; fingers curled loosely against the desk.

He reached for the coffee. Took a sip.

It was cold. Bitter. He set it down without another.

Then he stood. Loosened his tie. Stepped outside.

The rooftop was quiet, high above the hum of Iwagakure’s morning traffic. The city below moved in soft fragments—buses groaning at intersections, distant voices rising and falling, the occasional bark of a street vendor setting up for the day. A breeze stirred the air, cool and dry, carrying the scent of stone and rain-soaked concrete.

Itachi leaned against the railing, the metal cool beneath his palms. His shirt was rumpled now, tie loosened, top button undone. He looked out across the skyline—mist clinging to the hills in the distance, rooftops glinting under the pale sun. The mountains beyond were barely visible, like ghosts pressed against the horizon.

His chest felt tight. Not from exertion. From restraint.

The meeting had gone as expected. Efficient. Controlled. But Fugaku’s words still echoed.

“Personal entanglements tend to cloud judgment.”

It hadn’t been a direct attack. Not quite. But Itachi knew the shape of his father’s blade. Knew how it cut without drawing blood. That comment hadn’t been about professionalism. It had been about Sakura.

And Itachi had answered without flinching. “I don’t confuse loyalty with distraction.”

He hadn’t backed down. Hadn’t let it show. But now, alone, the weight of it pressed harder.

He exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the edge of the skyline. His thoughts drifted—unbidden—to her.

Sakura.

She’d messaged him early that morning. Just a few words.

I’m okay. Don’t worry. Don’t let him get to you.

He’d stared at the screen for longer than he should have. Her steadiness. Her clarity. Even after everything. It grounded him. And it made him ache.

He pulled out his phone. Typed a message.

Thanks for letting me know. I’m grateful you’re keeping an eye on my wife.

He was about to hit send when the screen lit up—Kisame calling.

Itachi answered without a word.

“Your wife, huh?” Kisame’s voice came through with a grin. “Listen to you. All formal and domestic. Should I start sending anniversary reminders?”

Itachi didn’t smile, but his grip on the phone eased. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Too late,” Kisame said. “I’m already picturing you with a calendar and colour-coded sticky notes.”

Itachi exhaled through his nose. “I’m hanging up.”

“Relax,” Kisame chuckled. “I’m just proud. You sound like someone who’s got something worth protecting.”

Itachi looked out over the city. “I do.”

There was a pause. Then Kisame’s voice softened. “She’s stronger than she looks, you know. Didn’t flinch. Not once.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” Kisame said. “She held her ground. Didn’t let him rattle her. I’ve seen seasoned operatives crack under less.”

Itachi’s throat tightened. “She messaged me this morning. Told me not to let him get to me.”

“Smart woman.”

“She always is.”

Another pause. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at his collar.

“I’ve got both your backs,” Kisame said. “Always.”

Itachi nodded, though Kisame couldn’t see it. “I know.”

“Good. Now go do something useful. Preferably something that doesn’t involve brooding on rooftops like a tragic novel character.”

Itachi hung up without ceremony. But the silence that followed felt different. Less heavy.

He looked out across the skyline again. The day was beginning.

Chapter 27

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Itachi left, and Sakura was beginning to feel the emptiness his absence created. Yes, the nightly calls helped—but they weren’t the same as having him beside her. Feeling his presence: strong, protective. Sometimes possessive.

She thought back to the night she’d told him she missed him—how the words had slipped out before she could stop them. His quiet admission of missing her too had made her stomach double-flip. She remembered how the conversation unfolded, how it had slowly begun to heat up, only for her to yawn and him to order her to bed. Even with thousands of miles between them, he still managed to boss her around.

The memory made her smile, faint and involuntary.

She padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles, the floor cool against her skin. The mug in her hands was warm, the scent of coffee grounding her in the moment. Outside, the morning light filtered through the blinds in soft stripes, casting pale shadows across the countertop.

The house felt too quiet. Not lonely—just missing something. His shoes weren’t by the door. His coat wasn’t slung over the back of the chair. The air didn’t carry the faint trace of his cologne, the one that clung to him no matter how long he’d been gone.

She moved through the space slowly, fingertips grazing the edge of the table as she passed. Her body knew the rhythm of him—where he stood when he made coffee, how he leaned against the counter when he was thinking, the way he’d gently tucked her hair behind her ear. She missed that. The casual intimacy. The weight of him in the room.

Her gaze drifted to the hallway wall, and her breath caught. That was where he’d once pinned her—firm, deliberate, mouth warm against hers. She could still feel the press of his hand at her waist, the way her back had arched into him, the sound of his breath tangled with hers.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memory settle. It wasn’t just the physical closeness she missed—it was the way he made her feel. Seen. Wanted. Claimed.

Her fingers tightened around the mug.
I miss you, she thought.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced down, thumb brushing the screen.
Itachi.

Did you sleep well? x

She blinked.
The “x” sat there—quiet, unfamiliar.
He never signed off like that.

Her thumb hovered, not replying yet. She stared at the screen, wondering if it was a mistake. A slip. But it didn’t feel accidental. Not from him.

She typed back, cautious.

I slept eventually.

The reply came quicker than she expected.
I miss you, especially when I wake up and you’re not there. X

There it was again.

Her breath caught.
Butterflies stirred low in her stomach, fluttering up through her chest. She bit her bottom lip, the smile spreading before she could stop it. That simple “x”—small, deliberate, his—had undone her.

She replied with a smile.

I miss waking up next to you too.
It’s not the same without your warmth. x

She hesitated, then sent it before she could second-guess herself.

The message delivered instantly, the screen shifting to that familiar silence that followed. It hadn’t been read yet, but it was out there now, and that alone made her heart beat a little faster.

She set the phone down and walked to the window. The early-morning light spilled across the garden in soft, golden streaks. The air was still, the quiet stretching around her like something tangible.

She folded her arms, the shirt she’d picked up from the bed still clutched in one hand. It was creased, familiar, and faintly scented with him. She hadn’t meant to hold onto it. Not like this. But it had become a comfort—something she reached for without thinking, something that made the silence feel less empty.

She closed her eyes, letting the memory settle. The way he’d held her. The way he’d kissed her. The way he’d made her feel like she belonged.

She opened her eyes again. The message was still unread. The “x” still sitting there like a quiet promise.

She didn’t know what he’d say back, or if he’d say anything at all.
But she knew what she’d said was real.
And somehow, that felt like enough.

---

She dressed slowly for her shift, the work clothes feeling oddly impersonal against her skin—thin, clinical, nothing like the warmth of the shirt she’d clutched earlier. It lay folded on the bed now, untouched but not forgotten. Her fingers had lingered on it longer than she meant to, brushing the fabric like it might answer back.

She moved through her routine in silence. Brushed her hair. Tied it back. Applied a little concealer beneath her eyes, though it did little to hide the tiredness. She didn’t bother with mascara. No one would notice. No one would look at her the way he did.

Her phone sat on the dresser, screen dark. She picked it up, checked the message thread again. Still unread. The small “x” at the end of her reply stared back at her—quiet, hopeful, unresolved.

She slipped the phone into her bag, grabbed her keys, and stepped out into the late morning light. The air was cooler now, the sun climbing higher but offering no warmth. She didn’t turn on the radio. Didn’t want music. Didn’t want sound.

The drive to the hospital passed in a blur of muted colours and half-formed thoughts. She parked, walked in, nodded at a few colleagues, and let the rhythm of the day take over. Patients. Charts. Emergencies. The steady hum of fluorescent lights and the low murmur of voices in the corridor.

But beneath it all, she carried the quiet ache of missing him.
The shirt. The message. The way her body still moved like it expected him to be near.

---

Sakura was glad her shift was over. She slumped back in her office chair with a heavy sigh. It had been a relentless day—several emergencies that needed all hands, and helping other doctors caught up with patients to complete routine checks.

She hadn’t managed a proper lunch break; she was lucky to have grabbed ten minutes to scoff down a wrap and sip lukewarm coffee.

She reached for her bag on the floor, tossed in her phone and keys, then stood with a groan. Her feet ached. Her body ached. Her head felt heavy.

The thought of going back to the house made her hesitate. It would be dark by now, cold. Still. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but pressed in from all sides. She could already picture the hallway—how it echoed without him. How the rooms felt hollow, like they were waiting for something that wouldn’t return.

She missed him. Not just his voice or his touch, but the way his presence had filled the space. The way he’d made the house feel like a home, like something shared. Now it felt like a shell.

And after the day she’d had, she didn’t want to be strong. Not tonight. She didn’t want to hold herself together or pretend she was fine. She just needed someone else to take over for a while. To care for her, even if only for a few hours.

She decided to visit her parents. Let them fuss over her. Let herself be small, just for a bit.

The drive was quiet. She didn’t want music. Didn’t want sound.

She pulled into the driveway, got out, bag in hand, and knocked on the door. She heard soft footsteps against the wooden floor, the clicks of locks being unlatched, and then the door opened—warm light spilling across the porch.

“Sakura…?” Her mother looked at her, eyes flickering with worry. “What’s happened?”

“Hey, Mum,” Sakura offered a weak smile. “Can I come in?” she asked, her voice weary.

Mebuki stepped aside quickly, letting her pass. “Are you okay?” she asked, locking the door behind them and following Sakura into the house.

“I’m… fine,” Sakura replied. “I’m just tired, Mum. So tired. And I… I feel so alone in the house.” Her words caught, choked with unshed tears.

“Alone…? What do you mean alone?” Mebuki asked, rounding her, concern etched across her face.

Before Sakura could answer, her father appeared in the hallway.

“Fugaku’s sent Itachi away,” he said quietly to his wife. He walked over and pulled Sakura into his arms. “How are you holding up, darling?”

Sakura finally let the tears fall in her father’s embrace. She couldn’t imagine being angry at him anymore—not when he held her like this. She wrapped her arms around his broad frame.

“Dad, I… miss him,” she said between sobs.

Kizashi rubbed gentle circles on her back. “I know.”

He let her cry until her shoulders stopped shaking and her breathing slowed. Then he pulled back and gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“I know,” he said again, softer this time.

Sakura offered him a watery smile and huffed out a laugh. She wiped at her eyes. “I wasn’t supposed to cry.”

“A good cry never hurt anyone,” Kizashi replied kindly.

“Have you had anything to eat, dear?” Mebuki asked, pulling Sakura into her own arms.

“No,” Sakura murmured, returning the hug. She pressed her head against her mother’s shoulder, drawing silent strength from her.

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” Mebuki said, pulling back slightly. “You’re going to go to your room, shower, and put on something comfortable. Your father and I will make your favourite foods.”

Sakura’s bottom lip wobbled. “Thanks, Mum.”

Mebuki cupped her cheek gently. “No need to thank me. It’s our job to make you feel safe and cared for.”

Sakura smiled and stepped out of her mother’s arms. She toed off her shoes by the door and made her way upstairs.

She started the bath running, added her favourite bubble bath, then walked into her childhood bedroom.

She opened the wardrobe and found a long t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and—luckily—some underwear. She gathered them and returned to the bathroom, now filled with delicate floral scents and soft steam.

Sakura stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the bath, hissing softly as the warm water stung her skin. She lowered herself slowly, the heat wrapping around her like a weighted blanket. Steam curled upward, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of the room. Her muscles, tight from the day, began to loosen as she sank deeper into the warmth.

She rested her head against the edge of the bath, closed her eyes, and let herself be still. The water lapped gently at her collarbones, her breath rising and falling in quiet rhythm. For a moment, the silence felt sacred.

Her thoughts drifted to Itachi. To the way his voice had sounded earlier. To the way she’d admitted she missed him—his presence, his steadiness. Three weeks ago, she wouldn’t have believed she’d feel this way. Two months ago, she would’ve killed for space. And now, here she was, aching in the quiet.

She didn’t understand how he’d wormed his way so deeply into her mind. Where had the desire to hurt him gone? To maim him? She couldn’t imagine ever laying a hand on him now. She thought back to everything they’d been through—the hateful glances, the bitter words, the anger. And now… in its place was this ache. This slow-burning, unnameable ache.

She sighed, the sound barely audible over the soft ripple of water.

Eventually, she pulled the plug and stepped out, the cool air brushing against her damp skin. She dried herself with a soft towel, dressed slowly, and headed downstairs. Her stomach grumbled at the aromas wafting from the kitchen. She padded in and smiled at the sight of her favourite dish—yakisoba chicken noodles.

“Thank you, Mum. Dad,” Sakura said.

“Come, sit and eat,” Mebuki smiled, removing her apron and hanging it up.

They sat together at the small kitchen table, eating in comfortable silence. The warmth of the food, the quiet presence of her parents—it grounded her.

After dinner, Sakura helped tidy up before they all retired to the family room. She curled up beside her father, letting him wrap an arm around her shoulders as she tucked herself into his side.

“Dad… has Itachi’s father always been like this?”

Kizashi nodded. “Yeah. He’s a ruthless businessman who doesn’t let anyone stand in the way of his success. And as you’ve seen—not even his own son.”

“I don’t understand why,” Sakura said quietly. “Itachi hadn’t done anything wrong. All we did was dance.”

Kizashi smiled and kissed the top of her head. “You did more than dance that night.”

Sakura felt her cheeks warm.

“Fugaku meant that event to be his moment—to look down on the rest of us, especially me. But when you and Itachi stole the show, no one cared about his bitter speeches. They were watching the couple who moved like they had nothing to prove.”

Sakura nodded slowly.

“I must say, Hiruzen had a good eye pairing you two together. You really do make a wonderful couple.”

Sakura smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I take it things are better between you now?” he asked gently.

She looked up at him, her smile stretching. “Yes, Dad. Things are better.”

“Because the way you two were dancing…” He wriggled his eyebrows.

Sakura scrunched her nose. “Dad, no!”

Kizashi laughed. “Got you smiling, didn’t I?”

Sakura shook her head, laughter bubbling in her throat.

“Sakura,” Mebuki called as she entered with a tray of mugs filled with hot chocolate, “you’re staying the night.”

“Mum, no, it’s okay—”

“No ifs or buts. You’re staying. We’ve still got some of your clothes here, so you can go to work from here in the morning,” Mebuki declared.

“I wouldn’t argue with your mother if I were you,” Kizashi mock-whispered, reaching for his mug.

Sakura laughed at the look on her mother’s face. “Fine, I’ll stay the night.”

---

Later, Sakura walked into the bathroom and went through her nightly routine—face washed, teeth brushed—before heading into her old bedroom. Her bag lay on the bed. She fished out her phone and found a message from Itachi.

I miss being with you x
How are you? How has your day been? Work? x

She smiled at his words and replied, letting him know how her day had gone, how she’d ended up at her parents’ house and was staying the night. As soon as she sent the message, her phone began to ring. Itachi’s name flashed on the screen.

“Itachi, hi,” Sakura said, pressing the phone to her ear.

"How are you? Are you okay?"

Sakura smiled at the worry in his voice. “I’m okay, Itachi. I was just feeling a little low.”

"I’m sorry I’m not there with you," he said quietly after a pause.

“No, Itachi, you have nothing to be sorry about,” she reassured quickly.

"But if I was there, you wouldn’t have felt like this."

“It’s not your fault, Itachi,” she said softly. “I couldn’t bear going to your house tonight. I’m sorry.”

"Sakura, you don’t need to apologise at all. I’m glad you had someone to go to for support. How was work?"

Sakura smiled. “Busy. Nonstop, you know. How about you, Itachi? How are you doing?”

"Better now that I’ve heard your voice."

She bit her bottom lip at his words.

"I can hear you smiling," he added, his tone softening.

“I’m not smiling,” Sakura lied, her smile stretching further.

"Has no one told you it’s bad to lie?"

“Hmmm… No, no one has,” she chuckled.

"Maybe it’s about time someone teaches you then."

Sakura bit back the soft moan that threatened to escape at the low tone in his voice.

“Who’s going to teach me that lesson?” she asked, breathily.

"You’ll have to wait and find out."

She groaned. “You’re such a tease.”

"Only for you."

Her heart thudded harder against her chest.

"It’s time for bed, Sakura. Sleep well."

“You too,” she replied quietly. “Good night, Itachi.”

"Good night, Sakura."

She ended the call and hugged the phone tightly to her chest, her cheeks aching from all the smiling.

She lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. Her childhood posters still clung to the walls, faded but familiar. The silence wrapped around her again, but this time it felt different—less lonely, more full.

She thought about the way Itachi had spoken to her. The softness. The care. The way he’d known she was smiling without seeing her. It was maddening. Comforting. Terrifying.

She didn’t know what this feeling was, but it was growing. Quietly. Steadily. Like roots beneath the surface.

---

Meanwhile, Itachi pulled up the group chat between him, Kisame and Shisui. He fired off a message.

I need you guys to take Sakura out to dinner tomorrow and buy her some flowers. Make her feel special.

Three dots bounced on the screen before Kisame replied.

What’s up, pretty boy?

Sakura’s feeling a little low. I want you guys to look after her—for me.

Sounds like someone’s caught the feels. We’ll treat her like a princess.

Thank you.

He locked his phone and set it down. The room around him felt too quiet. Too still. He wished the hours would rush by—just so he could hold her again. Kiss her. Feel her soft body beneath his. He groaned at the desire pooling low in his core.

 

 

 

Chapter 28

The morning light in Iwagakure was pale and clinical, slicing through the blinds in sterile slats. Itachi sat unmoving at the desk, the silence around him not peaceful but suspended—like breath held too long.

"I just felt a little low, that’s all."

Sakura’s voice from the night before lingered, quiet and unguarded. She hadn’t asked for comfort, hadn’t leaned into vulnerability with expectation. She’d simply offered it, like a truth she didn’t want to carry alone. And he’d responded the only way he knew how—by messaging Kisame and Shisui. By asking them to take her out after her shift at the hospital. Dinner. Flowers. Familiar warmth. A soft landing.

He hoped it would help. Hoped she would smile.

But now, something else gnawed at him. A delay in the site reports. A rerouted shipment. A discrepancy in the approval logs. Nothing overt. Nothing loud. But it was there—like a thread pulled just enough to fray the edge of the fabric.

He opened the project database and began to comb through it. Line by line. Timestamp by timestamp. He compared requisition forms against delivery manifests. Cross-referenced internal memos with external authorisations. The deeper he went, the more the inconsistencies began to align—not as errors, but as intent.

A subcontractor approval had bypassed standard protocol. The name wasn’t unfamiliar—an old partner firm with legacy ties to Uchiha Corp. But the timing was precise. The reroute had triggered a cascade of delays, each one subtle, each one just enough to justify extending his stay.

He leaned back, fingers steepled, eyes narrowing. This wasn’t a mistake. It was a design.

He opened the archived communications. There it was: a quiet suggestion from a senior board member, nudging for “oversight continuity” in Iwagakure. The phrasing was neutral. The intent wasn’t.

Itachi recognised the rhythm of it. The language. The signature of someone who knew how to manipulate timelines without leaving fingerprints.

His father.

Not directly. Not in any way that could be proven. But the pattern was too familiar. Too deliberate.

He initiated a secure video call with the senior board.

One by one, the screens populated. Shisui appeared first, brows drawn tight. Then the logistics lead, the finance director, the regional coordinator. And finally, Fugaku Uchiha.

Itachi didn’t wait for pleasantries.

“I’ve identified a series of discrepancies in the Iwagakure project,” he said, voice clipped. “Approval chains that don’t match the original contract. Reroutes that were never flagged. If we don’t act today, we risk breaching the terms and losing the account.”

The logistics lead frowned. “You’re saying someone tampered with the schedule?”

“I’m saying someone engineered it,” Itachi replied. “Subtly. Precisely. Enough to justify extending oversight without triggering alarms.”

The finance director leaned forward. “Do you have names?”

“I have patterns,” Itachi said. “And I have a corrective strategy. I’ve drafted the measures. If we implement them now, we can stay within the original timeframe and avoid escalation.”

A pause. Shisui’s gaze flicked to Fugaku’s screen, then back to Itachi. “Who benefits from the delay?”

Itachi didn’t answer immediately. He looked at his father.

Fugaku’s expression was unreadable. Controlled. But there was a shift—a fractional tightening of the jaw, a flicker in the eyes. Not surprise. Not denial. Just calculation.

Itachi held his gaze. “I’ll submit the report formally. But I wanted the board to hear it directly.”

Fugaku spoke at last, his tone even. “You’ve done well to catch it.”

Itachi didn’t blink. “I always do.”

The silence that followed was taut. The board members exchanged glances. The logistics lead cleared his throat. “We’ll review the measures immediately. Thank you, Itachi.”

The call ended with formalities. Gratitude. Promises to act. But the tension hadn’t dissipated—it had simply shifted.

Itachi sat back, the weight of the morning settling into his shoulders. He’d protected the contract. Preserved the timeline. And, in a way, drawn a line in the sand.

He sat in the quiet that followed, the screen now dark, the room unchanged—but something inside him had shifted.

Fugaku had orchestrated the delay. Not with orders, but with suggestion. Not with force, but with influence. And Itachi had seen it. Had traced every thread back to the source. But outing him wouldn’t change anything. The board wouldn’t act. Not against the man who had built Uchiha Corp into what it is today. The man who turned legacy into empire. They’d nod, thank him for his vigilance, and quietly file the truth away.

Itachi knew that. And it burned.

The phone rang. He didn’t need to check the screen.

Fugaku Uchiha.

He answered without ceremony.

“You’ve been thorough,” his father said. No greeting. No apology.

“I had to be,” Itachi replied. “You made sure of that.”

A pause. “You think I did this to inconvenience you?”

“I think you did it to keep me here. To remind me who holds the leash.”

Fugaku’s tone sharpened. “You’re part of the board whether I wanted it or not. And you need to remember your place, boy. I put you where you are. I can take it all away too.”

Itachi didn’t flinch. “Then do it.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” Itachi said. “I’m tired. Of being positioned like a pawn in a strategy I didn’t agree to.”

“You’re not a pawn. You’re a tool. One I expect to function without complaint.”

Itachi’s jaw tightened. “Then consider this my final report. The issue’s resolved. The timeline holds. I’ll be back in Konoha by the end of the month.”

Fugaku’s voice dropped to something colder. “You think you’ve won something?”

“I think I’ve reminded you I’m not yours to move.”

The silence that followed was taut. Not the kind that waited for resolution, but the kind that acknowledged a fracture too deep to mend with words.

“You’ve made your point,” Fugaku said finally.

“I didn’t make it for you.”

The call ended without farewell.

Itachi stared at the phone for a moment longer, then set it down with deliberate care. The room was still quiet, but the silence had changed. It wasn’t suspended anymore—it was sharpened. Like the edge of something waiting to be used.

He leaned back in his chair, spine straight, hands resting lightly on the armrests. Then, slowly, he drew in a breath. Held it. Let it out. Not to relax—he wasn’t sure he could—but to stop the tension from consuming him whole.

The pressure in his chest didn’t ease, but it settled. Coiled. Contained.

He turned back to the screen.

There was still work to do—reports to finalise, correspondence to clean up, a dozen small fires to extinguish before they sparked into something larger. He welcomed it. The precision. The structure. The quiet logic of tasks that didn’t lie or manipulate or demand more than he was willing to give.

He lost himself in it.

Hours passed unnoticed. The light shifted across the floor. Notifications blinked and were dismissed. His fingers moved with mechanical efficiency, his mind narrowing to the rhythm of data and decisions. No distractions. No emotion. Just the clean, clinical clarity of control.

And for now, that was enough.

---

The bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle as Shisui stepped inside, Kisame trailing behind with a look of mild suspicion. The moment they crossed the threshold, the air shifted—warm, humid, and saturated with scent. Lavender, eucalyptus, jasmine. It was like walking into a perfume bottle that had exploded.

Kisame blinked hard. “Smells like spring threw up.”

Shisui didn’t answer. He was already scanning the shop, eyes narrowing with purpose. Petals in every shade spilled from shelves and hanging baskets—blush pinks, creamy whites, deep violets. Some blooms looked so vivid they bordered on surreal, like they’d been painted rather than grown.

From behind the counter, Ino glanced up, secateurs in hand. Her blonde fringe was tucked behind one ear, and she wore a soft green apron dusted with pollen. “Morning. Looking for something romantic?” she asked, voice light. “Have a browse—if you need help, I’m here.”

Shisui gave a polite nod. Kisame muttered, “Romantic, she says,” under his breath, and wandered off toward a wall of pastel arrangements.

They circled the shop like two men lost in a maze, pausing every few seconds to squint at labels or argue over colour palettes.

“She likes strong colours,” Kisame said, pointing at a bunch of deep red tulips.

“She’s not a vampire,” Shisui replied. “That’s aggressive. We’re trying to lift her mood, not summon a blood moon.”

Kisame snorted. “Fine. What about these?” He gestured to a cluster of yellow chrysanthemums.

“Those say ‘cheer up’ like a sympathy card from your dentist.”

The shop was quiet, but not still—leaves rustled under the ceiling fan, ribbons fluttered from hooks, and somewhere in the back, a small radio played soft jazz. Kisame looked like he was trying not to sneeze.

Eventually, they turned back to the counter, defeated.

“What would you recommend,” Shisui asked, “for someone who’s feeling down? Not heartbreak, exactly. Just... low.”

Ino tilted her head, considering. “Depends. Is it for your girlfriend?”

Kisame barked a laugh. “Shisui? Single AF.”

Shisui rolled his eyes. “So are you, big guy.”

Ino raised a brow, amused. “Alright, alright. No judgement. Just helps to know the tone.”

Shisui hesitated, then said, “It’s for Sakura. Itachi asked us to check in on her.”

That shifted the air. Ino’s hands paused mid-reach, her expression softening. “Sakura?” She blinked, thoughtful. “I spoke to her a few days ago. She seemed... alright.” Her voice dropped, almost to herself. “I should’ve checked in properly.”

“She’s been... off,” Kisame said, more gently now. “Itachi said she’s not herself. Wanted us to take her out, lift her spirits.”

Ino nodded slowly, already moving to gather flowers. “She likes lisianthus. And lavender. Something soft, but not fragile.”

As she worked, the bouquet began to take shape—gentle pinks, whites, a touch of green. Thoughtful, but not mournful.

“You’ve got plans for dinner?” she asked, not looking up.

“Not really,” Kisame admitted. “We were arguing about it before we came in.”

“She has a favourite place,” Ino said. “Little restaurant near the river. She goes there when she needs quiet.”

Shisui nodded. “That sounds perfect.”

“You should come,” Kisame said, surprising them both. “She’d love to see you. And we won’t feel like awkward bodyguards.”

Ino smiled, tying the bouquet with a ribbon. “Alright. I’ll meet you there.”

---

Sakura finished updating the patient files and handed them to the lead nurse.

“Make sure Ami is given the correct dose of Ondansetron every four hours. We also need to monitor her nutrient levels—I've requested full blood work, so we should know soon. If she’s not absorbing enough, we’ll need to supplement, either with vitamin tablets or injections.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Ayame nodded, flicking through the pages.

“If there are any complications, please call me.”

Ayame smiled. “I’m sure we can handle it, but”—she held up a hand—“if anything comes up, we’ll let you know.”

Sakura returned the smile. “Thank you.”

“Go and enjoy your weekend. You deserve it.”

Sakura shook her head slightly, chuckling. “Thanks.” She turned and made her way to her office, gathered her things, and headed out to her car.

The drive home was quiet. As she pulled onto the driveway, she noticed another car parked outside—a sleek, unfamiliar one. Her brows furrowed. She parked, stepped out, and walked towards the front door, watching as two figures exited the vehicle.

Kisame and Shisui. Both dressed casually. Kisame was holding a large bouquet of flowers.

“Hey, Pinky,” Kisame greeted with a grin.

“Hi…” Sakura replied, eyes flicking between the men and the bouquet. “What’s going on?” she asked, unlocking the door and stepping inside. Kisame and Shisui followed.

“We’ve come to take you out for dinner, m’lady,” Kisame said with a theatrical flourish, placing the bouquet on the dining table.

“What?” Sakura turned to face them, confusion written all over her face.

“What this big dumb idiot means,” Shisui said, nudging Kisame aside, “is that Itachi asked us to take you out. He wants to spoil you a bit. Hence the flowers.” He gestured toward the bouquet.

Sakura stared at the bouquet on the table, then back at the two men. Her shoulders tensed slightly, the weight of the day still clinging to her like damp clothes.

“I’m fine,” she said, though it came out thinner than she meant.

Shisui stepped forward, his voice gentle. “Itachi’s worried about you. Because he cares.”

That landed differently. Her breath caught, just for a moment. She blinked, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t the words themselves—it was the certainty in Shisui’s voice. The ease with which he said it. Like it was obvious.

Kisame leaned against the wall, arms folded. “We’ve seen how he looks at you. How he is around you. It’s not subtle, Pinky.”

Sakura felt something flutter inside her chest—unexpected, light. A warmth that spread slowly, like sunlight through fog. She looked down at the bouquet, fingers brushing the edge of a petal.

“I didn’t realise he’d said anything,” she murmured.

“He did,” Shisui said, offering a small, kind smile. “And we’re here because we care too.”

Before she could reply, Kisame clapped his hands together. “Right then. Get ready, your chariot awaits.”

Sakura let out a laugh—short, surprised, but real. “Chariot?”

“Metaphorical,” Kisame said, gesturing toward the front door with a flourish. “But it’s got wheels and a heater, so close enough.”

Still smiling, Sakura nodded and disappeared down the hallway. She changed into something soft and comfortable—jeans, a loose jumper—and pulled her hair back with a clip. Her work bag sat heavy on the chair; she dug out her phone and tucked it into a smaller shoulder bag.

Before heading back out, she paused. Opened her messages. Typed quickly.

Thank you for the flowers and dinner. It means more than I can say.

She hesitated, then added:

I’m going. I’ll let you know how it goes xx

She hit send, then stepped back into the hallway.

The men were still mid-discussion about whether the restaurant would serve anything Kisame considered “real food.”

Before they could resume the debate, Sakura stepped forward.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

They both turned.

“For the flowers. For coming. For... this.”

She hesitated, then stepped in—arms wrapping around Kisame first. He blinked, startled, stiff for a moment before his posture softened and he returned the hug with a warm pat on her back.

Then Shisui. She paused, just long enough for him to notice, then leaned in. Her arms around his shoulders, his hand resting lightly between her shoulder blades. It was brief, but something passed between them—unspoken, but understood.

Neither of them said anything, but the silence felt full.

“Alright,” Sakura said, pulling back and adjusting her bag. “Let’s go.”

They stepped out together, the door clicking shut behind them.

---

The restaurant was tucked into a quiet part of the city, nestled beside the river where the water bubbled gently over smooth stones, catching the glow of lanterns strung along the bank. Warm lighting spilled through the windows, casting golden reflections across the pavement. Inside, polished wood and soft jazz gave the space a calm, unhurried feel.

Sakura stepped in between Kisame and Shisui, her shoulders relaxing the moment she spotted Ino waving from a booth near the back.

“Ino!” Sakura’s voice lifted, surprised, and touched.

Ino stood, arms already open. “You’re late. I’ve been charming the waiter and ordering your favourite drink to keep myself entertained.”

Sakura laughed and hugged her tightly. “You didn’t have to—”

“I absolutely did,” Ino said, pulling back with a grin. “And I took a wild guess on drinks for your friends. Hopefully I didn’t offend anyone’s refined palate.”

Kisame raised an eyebrow as he slid into the booth beside her. He turned to face Shisui, his grin slowly spreading. “See, even blondie here thinks I’m refined. A man of great taste.”

Shisui rolled his eyes. “Says the man who once paired grilled squid with bubble tea.”

“It was fusion,” Kisame scoffed.

“It was a crime,” Shisui countered. “And let’s not forget—you ordered something called ‘The Kraken’s Kiss’ last time.” He settled in across from him. “It came in a glass shaped like a tentacle.”

“And it was delicious,” Kisame said proudly. “Besides, you drank half of it.”

“I was tricked,” Shisui said, deadpan. “It had glitter in it.”

Sakura settled in beside Shisui, her drink already waiting—cool, citrusy, with a sprig of mint. She took a sip and sighed. “You really do know me.”

“Obviously,” Ino said. Then, more softly, “Sakura, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sakura furrowed her brows as she took another sip. “What are you sorry about?”

“I should’ve checked in with you more. Should’ve visited. I’m sorry I didn’t know you were feeling low.” Ino gave her a small smile.

Sakura smiled at her friend and reached over, resting her hand on Ino’s. “How were you supposed to know? I didn’t know myself either. I guess… I guess I was just starting to feel a bit lonely in the house by myself. Without Itachi there.”

“Ooooh,” Kisame cooed from beside Ino. “Sounds like Pinky here has caught the feels for pretty boy while he’s been away.”

Sakura blushed at Kisame’s teasing. “Have not!” she countered.

“Say that to your face—it’s bright red.”

“I… uh…” Sakura hesitated, trying to think of something to say.

“It’s fine, Pinky. Your secret’s safe with us,” Kisame winked at her.

“I wouldn’t trust Kisame with any secrets,” Shisui said. “He’s got the biggest mouth in Konoha.”

“I can keep things quiet. If I want!”

Ino laughed, took a sip of her wine, and turned to Sakura. “Now tell me everything. And I mean everything.”

Kisame leaned in conspiratorially. “She hugged us.”

Ino’s eyes widened. “Voluntarily?”

“Voluntarily,” Shisui confirmed. “I think I’m still recovering.”

Sakura rolled her eyes, cheeks warming. “It was a thank-you hug.”

“Sure,” Kisame said, smirking. “But you lingered.”

“I did not linger.”

“You lingered,” Shisui said, sipping his drink. “It was a very meaningful linger.”

Ino laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. “You two are something else.”

“We’re the best,” Kisame corrected. “You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

The conversation flowed easily after that—stories, teasing, laughter that echoed softly through the restaurant. Outside, the river murmured on, a gentle counterpoint to the warmth inside. Sakura found herself smiling more than she had in days, her chest lighter, her thoughts less tangled.

At one point, Kisame tried to convince the table that he’d once wrestled Mizuki the Menace, the infamous swan of Tetsu Grounds. Shisui countered with a tale about Kisame getting chased across the rope bridge by a flock of angry ducks.

“They were vicious,” Kisame insisted. “One of them had murder in its eyes.”

“You tripped over a child’s scooter,” Shisui said. “And screamed.”

“I was protecting the child,” Kisame said with dignity. “Heroically.”

Sakura laughed until her sides ached.

As the laughter began to fade and the last drops of wine were savoured, Ino flagged down the waiter with a smile. “Can we get the bill, please?”

Sakura reached for her purse, but before either woman could speak, Shisui handed his card over with quiet efficiency.

“Wait—Shisui,” Ino protested, eyebrows lifting.

Sakura leaned forward. “You don’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “It was a good evening. We all needed it.”

Kisame placed a hand over his heart. “And you’re welcome, by the way. Without me, this would’ve been a very dull affair. I am, after all, the life of the party.”

“You’re the noise of the party,” Shisui muttered.

“The chaos,” Ino added, grinning.

“The glitter in the Kraken’s Kiss,” Sakura said, deadpan.

Kisame beamed. “Exactly. Irreplaceable.”

They gathered their things, the warmth of the evening lingering like the scent of citrus and wine. Outside, the air was cooler, the river still murmuring beside them.

Ino pulled Sakura into a tight hug. “Call me next time, okay? For anything. Even if it’s just to complain about Kisame’s drink choices.”

Sakura smiled, her arms wrapped around her friend. “I will. Promise.”

Kisame and Shisui walked her to the car, the drive quiet but companionable. When they pulled up outside her house, Sakura turned to them with a soft smile.

“Thanks again. For everything.”

“Anytime,” Shisui said, his voice low but sincere.

Kisame gave her a mock salute. “Sleep well, Pinky. Dream of glitter and tentacles.”

Sakura rolled her eyes, laughing as she stepped out. She paused at the door, glanced back once more, then slipped inside.

The house was quiet, but it didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.

Sakura pulled out her phone and found a message from Itachi.

I hope you have a wonderful evening Sakura. You deserve it x

Followed by:

If Shisui and Kisame don’t behave, you have the right to beat them up. I won’t tell anyone x

Sakura smiled at the messages. She was touched by his care—how he’d asked his friends to spend the evening with her, just to make sure she didn’t feel alone.

She moved through her routine, a quick shower, teeth brushed. Her body still hummed with the warmth of laughter and wine. As she stepped into the bedroom, naked, she reached for her pyjamas—but her eyes landed on Itachi’s shirt. The same one she’d been hugging close each night.

She picked it up, fingers brushing the fabric, and slipped it on. It hung loose around her frame, soft and familiar. Just as she settled onto the bed, her phone lit up. Itachi was calling.

Her lips curved into a smile as she answered. “Hi.”

“Hey,” came his voice—low, velvety, grounding. “How was your evening?”

Sakura tucked herself deeper into the duvet. “It was lovely. Ino was already waiting at the restaurant. She’d ordered my favourite drink. Kisame and Shisui were ridiculous, but in the best way. I laughed so much.”

“Good,” he said softly.

“Thank you, Itachi. You didn’t need to arrange all that.”

“I know I didn’t,” he replied. “But I wanted to. I know you needed a laugh. Needed to let go for a bit. If I’d been there, I would’ve taken you out myself. Looked after you.”

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at his words. Her fingers curled around the edge of the duvet.

“What would you have done?” she asked, voice quieter now.

There was a pause. Then his voice returned, thoughtful and low.

“I’d have brought you flowers. Got you to dress up. Taken you somewhere special—somewhere quiet, just us. I’d spend the night listening to you, enjoying your company. And then… I’d wait to see where the night went.”

Sakura’s breath caught. Her heart thudded softly in her chest.

“I’m wearing your shirt to bed,” she whispered.

There was a beat of silence. Then she bit her bottom lip, fighting the smile that threatened to spread across her face. She arranged herself on the bed, lifted her phone, and snapped a picture—his shirt draped over her bare skin, her eyes soft, her expression shy but bold.

She opened the message app and sent the photo to Itachi.

Sakura’s heart thudded at the sound of his voice—low, deliberate, threaded with heat.

“You look good in my shirt,” he said.

She let out a soft hum, teasing. “I think it would look better on the floor.”

“I’m sure it would,” he replied, voice dropping like velvet dragged across skin.

Her breath caught. She pressed her thighs together, a quiet moan slipping out before she could stop it.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Sakura.”

“I miss your touch,” she murmured, fingers grazing her neck, tracing the curve of her collarbone. Her hand drifted lower, cupping her breast through the soft cotton of his shirt. She sighed, the sound low and needy.

“What do you miss exactly?” he asked, voice rougher now.

“The way you make my skin tingle with the slightest touch. The way you look at me like I’m yours.”

On the other end of the line, Itachi exhaled sharply. She could hear the shift in his breath, the tension behind it.

“Undo the buttons,” he said, voice tight. “Let the shirt fall open.”

She obeyed, one by one, until the fabric hung loose, exposing her bare skin to the cool air.

“Now,” he continued, slower this time, “cup your breasts. Squeeze them. Tease your nipples until they’re aching—just like I would if I were there.”

Sakura’s breath hitched. Her fingers obeyed, palms pressing in, thumbs circling, coaxing sensation until her body arched slightly. A soft moan escaped her lips, unguarded.

“Good,” he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. “Now slide your hand lower.”

She did, trailing her fingers down her stomach, slow and deliberate. Her skin buzzed beneath her touch; nerves lit with anticipation.

“How wet are you?” he asked, voice strained.

Sakura’s breath trembled. “Enough that it’s coating my fingers.”

He groaned, the sound raw. “If I were there, I’d take my time. I’d feast on you until you couldn’t say my name without shaking. I’d make you come on my tongue again and again until you begged me to stop.”

Sakura gasped, her fingers faltering for a moment.

“Don’t stop,” he said, voice cracking. “Push your fingers in. Slowly.”

She obeyed, breath catching as she did, her body responding with a soft, broken moan.

“That’s it,” he whispered, barely holding himself together. “Just like that.”

Sakura groaned as she pushed her fingers into her core. “Itachi…” she moaned.

He groaned again, the sound raw, almost involuntary. “If I were there, I’d push into you slowly at first. Just enough to make you gasp.”

Sakura pumped her fingers inside her, her pace quickening to Itachi’s words, her moans tumbling out.

“I would take my time with you,” Itachi groaned low. He pressed his hand against the growing, aching bulge in his trousers, hissing at the sensations coursing through him. He unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, pulled them and his boxers low on his hips, letting his hard length spring free. He grasped it, gently squeezed, and groaned again. “I’d tease you until you couldn’t take it anymore. And then—only then—would I finally push into you. Hard.”

Her body arched at the words, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her fingers moved again, deeper this time, and she shuddered under her own touch.

“I’d push so far into you that you’d forget your own name. That you’d only feel me in you for days to come.” He pumped his hand around his length, groaning at the sight of the beads of precum sliding down, coating his palm.

He cursed softly—a sound she’d never heard from him before. Rough. Broken. Real.

Their breathing tangled through the line, ragged and uneven. She could hear the shift in his voice, the way it caught, the way he was losing himself.

Sakura’s body trembled, her moans growing softer, more urgent. Her fingers moved with rhythm now, chasing sensation, chasing him.

“Let go. I want to hear you.” He ordered roughly as he started to stroke himself faster, chasing the sensations that had started to pool low.

She did. Her body arched, her breath fractured, and she came with a quiet cry, her skin flushed, her fingers trembling.

On the other end, Itachi groaned—low, guttural, undone. He squeezed harder as he came, spurts of release shooting from the tip, coating his fingers, his trousers, and the bottom of his shirt. He shuddered.

Silence followed. Not empty, but full. Their breaths were rough, uneven. Both of them covered in a light sheen of sweat, hearts thudding, the line between them pulsing with what they’d shared.

Sakura lay back, her chest rising and falling, her fingers still resting against her skin. She blinked up at the ceiling, stunned by her own boldness.

“I’ve never done that before,” she said softly, almost shy.

“Neither have I.”

She smiled, a small, breathless thing. “Good night, Itachi.”

“Good night, Sakura.”

The line clicked silent, but the warmth lingered—between them, within her, in the quiet dark.

Sakura stared up at the ceiling, letting her body slowly come down from the high. Her skin still tingled, her breath shallow, her pulse echoing in her ears. She bit her bottom lip at the thought of what she’d done—what they’d done. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling, but she knew one thing for certain: it wasn’t embarrassment.

She shook the thoughts away. No point in dwelling. She rose from the bed, padded into the bathroom, and turned on the tap. Cool water rushed over her fingers as she washed her hands, grounding herself in the sensation. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror—dishevelled, her hair a tousled mess around her shoulders, cheeks flushed with desire, lips slightly parted.

She quickly buttoned up the shirt, fingers fumbling slightly, then turned off the light and made her way back into the bedroom. The sheets were still warm. She lay down, pulled the duvet over her shoulders, and closed her eyes. Sleep tugged at her gently, and Itachi’s velvety voice followed her into her dreams.

---

Itachi placed the phone on the bed and walked into the bathroom. He stripped out of his clothes, turned on the shower, and stepped beneath the spray without waiting for it to warm. The cold water hit his skin like a jolt, but he didn’t flinch. He braced his hands against the tiled wall, letting the water cascade over him, plastering his hair to his shoulders, back, neck, and forehead.

He’d been honest when he told her he’d never done that before—never engaged in phone sex, never had a romantic partner who could unravel him with nothing but a breath and a picture. But Sakura… she consumed him. The moment she’d sent that photo—his shirt, his bed, her body—he’d been hard in seconds. Then came her voice, her moans tumbling down the line, the image of her fingers moving in time to his words. It had undone him.

Already, his length was stirring again, hardening at the mere thought of her pleasuring herself to his voice. He growled low, the sound reverberating in his chest. He washed quickly, deliberately, refusing to give in to the ache that pulsed through him. Not now. Not like this.

No—he would wait. Wait until he was back in Konoha. Back in her arms. The next release would be with her. In her.

 

Chapter 29

As the week passed, Sakura and Itachi made sure to catch up every night—either through a call or a quiet exchange of texts. It had become their rhythm, a thread of connection woven through the hours they spent apart.

Since the night Sakura had pleasured herself to the sound of his voice, she’d tried to keep things calm during their calls. As much as she craved that low, velvety tone—the one that gave her quiet commands and made her body hum—she hadn’t allowed her mind to wander too far. Not again. Not yet.

Tonight was no different. Itachi had called her at half eight on the dot, his timing as precise as ever.

“When do you come back?” Sakura asked, once they’d spoken about their day.

“Miss me that much?” he teased, his voice warm with amusement.

“No,” she replied, sighing dramatically. “I’m just counting down the days until I’m forced to share this massive bed again.”

“I’ll remember that when you ask me to sleep with you,” he said, dryly.

Sakura bit her lip, trying to stop the smile from spreading. “Seriously. When?”

She could hear the faint rustle of papers on his end, the soft clack of keys. “If everything goes smoothly, I should be back by the end of the week.”

Sakura smiled in earnest. “Three more nights to go.”

“Yeah. Just three more nights.” He shuffled more papers, then resumed typing.

She frowned slightly. “Why are you still working, Itachi?”

There was a pause. She could hear the soft tap of keys, then the faint sigh he tried to mask.

“I just need to finish a few things,” he said, voice low.

“You’ve been saying that every night,” she replied gently. “You know you’re allowed to rest, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately. She imagined him sitting at that desk, shoulders tense, eyes scanning lines of text he probably wasn’t absorbing.

“Itachi,” she said, softer now. “Talk to me.”

“It’s about everything,” he admitted. “The project. The team. You.”

“Me?” Her voice softened.

“I don’t like leaving things unfinished. I keep thinking... if I don’t stay on top of it all, something will slip. And I can’t afford that.”

He paused, then added, quieter now, “I want to come home on time. I don’t want to give anyone a reason to keep me here longer than they need to. I’ve already spent enough time away from you.”

Sakura’s chest tightened—not because he doubted himself, but because he carried so much without complaint.

“You’re not going to drop anything,” she said. “You’re allowed to breathe.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not,” she agreed. “But you don’t have to do it all alone. You can come back and just... be with me. No deadlines. No pressure.”

There was silence again, but this time it felt softer. Less guarded.

“I’ll shut the laptop,” he murmured.

“Good,” she said, smiling. “Now lie down and talk to me like you’re not trying to outrun yourself.” Sakura heard the soft rustle of fabric as Itachi shifted, the ambient hum of his room filtering faintly through the line.

“Are you lying down now?” she asked, voice already thick with sleep.

“Mm,” he murmured. “I am.”

“Good.” Her words slurred slightly, the weight of the day tugging at her. “Just stay with me a little longer.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me something quiet. Something boring.”

He chuckled softly. “The air conditioning’s humming. There’s a stack of papers on the desk I’m ignoring. And I can hear the neighbour’s singing very out of tune two floors down.”

“Mmm. That’s nice,” she whispered.

There was a pause, then the faint sound of her breathing deepened, slow and steady. He waited, listening. Her silence stretched, peaceful and unbroken.

“Sakura?” he asked, gently.

No reply.

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet settle around him. Then, barely above a whisper:

“I love you.”

He stayed there a moment longer, listening to the rhythm of her sleep. Then he ended the call, the screen dimming to black.

---

The house was quiet, washed in pale morning light. Sakura stood barefoot in the kitchen, one hand curled around a mug, the other tugging Itachi’s shirt over her shoulder. It was too big, the sleeves swallowing her wrists, the hem brushing her thighs.

She didn’t wear it often. Only when she missed him enough that her chest ached.

She took the photo without thinking—just her hand, the mug, the edge of the shirt. No face. No caption. Just the kind of intimacy that didn’t need explaining.

She stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over send. Then tapped.

And waited.

But the hours passed. Her shift at the hospital blurred into meetings, rounds, paperwork. By the time she got home, she’d changed out of the shirt, folded it carefully, and tucked it away.

Still no reply.

She didn’t take it personally. She knew his schedule. Knew how he compartmentalised. But still—she’d wanted him to see her. Like that. Just for him.

She finished the last of her coffee, placed the mug in the sink and walked into the bathroom and started the shower. She carefully took off his shirt and folded it, setting it aside on the counter before she stood under the shower spray.

She dressed quickly, black trousers, pink blouse. Her hair tied up in a messy bun. She chucked her phone into her work bag and walked to the front door. Keys in hand as she slipped into her shoes, she made her way to work.

---

y lunchtime, Sakura was already feeling worn out. She’d been asked to cover another doctor’s patients at the last minute, so not only did she have her own rounds to complete, but someone else’s as well. She didn’t mind—she was used to the chaos—but she was grateful for a brief window to herself, a quiet lunch before being swept back into the madness.

Just as she sat down with her sandwich, her phone rang. Ino’s name flashed across the screen.

“So much for a bit of peace and quiet,” Sakura muttered, answering the call.

“Hey, pig! What can I do for you?”

“We need a catch-up!” Ino shouted.

“Can’t I just have a quiet night in?” Sakura grumbled, taking a bite of her sandwich.

“You can. But Tenten and I are joining you tonight.”

“You don’t have to,” Sakura said, mouth half-full.

“Relax. I’ll bring dinner, Tenten’s got snacks, and you can sort the drinks. We’ll have a snack-and-bitch night!”

Before Sakura could protest, Ino had hung up.

“So much for a peaceful night alone,” Sakura sighed, finishing her lunch and heading back to work.

---

Sakura pulled into the driveway and spotted Ino and Tenten already waiting, each lugging oversized bags.

“Where are the drinks?” Ino demanded, eyes narrowing.

“They’re here,” Sakura replied, pulling a bag from the boot and handing it over. She unlocked the door and let them in.

Ino dropped her bags on the kitchen counter, glanced around the open-plan living space, and whistled. “This is fancy.”

Sakura nodded, setting her own bag down and disappearing into the bedroom to change out of her scrubs and into something soft and oversized.

Back in the kitchen, she grabbed three plates and set them on the counter. “What’s for dinner, pig?”

“Pizza,” Ino beamed. “A night full of carbs and zero guilt.”

“Says you,” Tenten muttered, placing down the snacks. “I’ll be feeling it tomorrow.”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, we feast!” Ino declared, opening the boxes and letting everyone choose their slices.

After dinner, Sakura tidied away the boxes and plates, then handed around the drinks.

“Well, look at you putting things away,” Ino teased. “Married and a domestic goddess.”

“Shut up, pig,” Sakura laughed, sinking into the sofa.

---

The last of the daylight had faded, leaving the office bathed in a soft amber hush. Outside, the village had quietened—footsteps thinning, voices dimming, the sky deepening into indigo. Inside, the air was still, steeped in cedar polish and the faint metallic scent of ink.

Itachi stood near the window, hands loosely clasped behind his back. The blinds cast long, slatted shadows across the floor. The building had emptied, but he remained, the silence pressing in like a held breath.

Taiseki leaned against the desk, coat folded over one arm, his expression unusually relaxed. “You’ve done good work here. Better than I expected.”

Itachi inclined his head. “The issues stemmed from miscommunication. Once that was addressed, the rest followed.”

“You handled it with meticulous care. Kept everyone on track. Not once did I see you falter. You’re a machine, man.” Taiseki smiled.

Itachi returned the smile. “It was nothing. Just timekeeping.”

Taiseki chuckled. “You make it sound simple. But you’ve earned their trust. And mine.”

He paused. “Come out tonight. No politics, no paperwork. Just dinner. You’ve spent a month untangling our mess—you deserve a break.”

Itachi considered. His instinct was to decline, to retreat into solitude. But Taiseki was more than a colleague now—he was a potential ally. And Itachi understood the value of maintaining that.

“I’ll come,” he said. “It’s worth solidifying.”

“Good man. I’ll make sure it’s somewhere quiet. No speeches. Just food and decent company.”

At the door, Taiseki turned. “Forgot to mention—since the first part of the project’s done, the council, company, and workmen are gathering for a small celebration tomorrow night. We’d like you to join.”

Itachi offered a small smile. “Thank you for the invite, but I’ll have to decline.”

Taiseki raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning to do tomorrow?”

“I’m leaving early. Mid-morning flight back to Konoha.”

The older man smirked. “Got someone special waiting back home?”

“Something like that,” Itachi said, giving nothing away.

Once the door clicked softly shut, Itachi finally reached for his phone. He hadn’t checked it since early morning.

A message from Sakura sat at the top.

It was a photo—her hand curled around a mug, his shirt draped over her shoulder. The fabric hung loose against her skin. Her expression was soft, unguarded.

He stared at it for a long moment. Then tapped the screen.

It rang once. Twice.

“Sakura.”

Her voice was warm, familiar. He could hear the soft murmur of voices in the background, the clink of dishes, laughter.

“You finally saw it.”

“I did.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d get a chance today.”

“It’s been… relentless.”

“I figured.”

He paused. “You looked beautiful.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“You never have to.”

A quiet beat passed. He heard her shifting, maybe stepping into another room.

“Just so you know, I’m claiming that shirt as mine now.”

He chuckled. “I figured. You do seem to favour it.”

Another pause. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it pulsed with something unspoken.

“I miss you,” he said.

“I miss you too.”

“Even when I’m laughing,” she added softly. “Even when I’m busy.”

His breath caught. “Same.” He heard rustling in the background. “I’ll leave you to your evening. Talk to you later.”

“Okay,” Sakura replied. “Have a good evening. And Itachi?”

“Yes, Sakura?”

“Make sure you take time for yourself. Get some sleep tonight. No more working late.”

Itachi smiled at the care in her voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I promise I’ll stop early tonight. Talk soon.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

He waited for her to hang up, then looked at his phone. His words from last night lingered on his tongue, aching to be said. He shook his head, grabbed his things, and headed to the hotel to prepare for his evening with Taiseki.

---

The house was warm with the scent of takeaway and the low hum of conversation. Tenten sat cross-legged in the armchair, still in her work blouse, her hair pulled into a loose bun. Ino sprawled across the rug, one hand buried in a bag of crisps, the other scrolling through her phone.

Sakura curled up on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, a cup of coffee warming her hands. The week had been long, but this—this felt like breathing again.

“I swear,” Tenten said, popping a piece of mochi into her mouth, “if one more student hands in an essay written entirely by AI, I’m assigning handwritten poetry.”

Ino snorted. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“It is,” Tenten replied. “To me.”

Sakura laughed softly, the sound easing out of her chest. It felt good—normal.

They drifted into easy chatter—work, gossip, the latest drama at the hospital and the academy. Then, as the conversation lulled, Ino glanced up, eyes narrowing with mischief.

“So, what did your dear husband want? And why did you have to excuse yourself when you answered? What couldn’t you say in front of us?”

“Nothing,” Sakura replied coolly, taking a sip of her drink.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” Tenten added, eyeing her from across the room.

Sakura bit the inside of her cheek. The memory of his voice—low, deliberate, threaded with quiet intent—flickered through her. He’d said things he’d never voiced before, not even in the hush between kisses. Her stomach fluttered, heat blooming beneath her skin. She could still hear the way he’d paused before the last sentence, like he was weighing the risk of saying it aloud.

Ino leaned in. “Wait. You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are,” Tenten said, grinning. “What did he say?”

Sakura shook her head. “Nothing. It was just a call.”

Ino narrowed her eyes. “Bet you two have phone sex on the regular now.”

Sakura choked on her coffee.

Tenten shrieked. “Oh my god, look at her face!”

Sakura buried her face in her hands. “You’re both awful.”

Ino cackled. “Spill. I want details. Juicy ones.”

“No,” Sakura groaned. “Absolutely not.”

They laughed for ages—the kind of laughter that left them breathless and leaning on each other, limbs tangled and cheeks aching.

Eventually, Ino sat up with sudden purpose. “Right. Tomorrow night. We’re going out.”

Tenten raised her cup. “Hell yes. We deserve it.”

Ino grinned. “And if your husband wants to haul you out of the club again, he can take a number.”

Sakura groaned. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope!” Ino chuckled. “It’ll be a story to tell your grandkids.”

Sakura grumbled at her friends, though her lips tugged into a reluctant smile. As the evening wound down, they helped her tidy up—stacking plates, folding blankets, gathering empty wrappers—before heading to the front door.

“Remember,” Ino said, turning back with a pointed finger, “we are going out tomorrow. No ifs, no buts. I’ll be over to help you get ready, especially since you’ve got no sense of what goes with what.”

“I’ll have you know, I can dress myself.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Ino teased. “Also, I’ve invited Shisui and Kisame.”

Sakura blinked. “How do you have their numbers?”

“A girl’s got secrets,” Ino winked. “They said they’d love to join us. Want to see how we get down.”

Sakura groaned at the phrasing. “I’m already not looking forward to this.”

“You’ll enjoy it,” Ino said brightly. “Love you. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow. Love you too,” Sakura replied, hugging them both tightly.

She shut the door behind them and leaned against it, groaning aloud at the idea of going out tomorrow. Her head thudded gently against the wood. She already knew Ino wouldn’t take no for an answer.

She turned off the lights, the house dimming to soft shadows. In the quiet, her phone buzzed once—a message. Just his name on the screen. No punctuation. No emojis. Just:

Two more nights. I miss you xx

Sakura stared at it, her breath catching. Simple. Unadorned. But it landed like a stone in her chest, soft and heavy. She could hear him in it—the quiet certainty, the way he never wasted words unless they mattered.

She didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, she padded to the kitchen, rinsed her cup, and stood for a moment at the sink, staring out into the dark. The garden was quiet, moonlight pooling across the patio. Somewhere out there, she imagined him—watching, waiting, always a step ahead. The thought made her pulse skip.

She replied to him.

I miss you too, I can’t wait for you to come back xx

She locked her phone, placed it on the bedside table, and went through her nightly routine. Her lips still pulled in a smile as she got into bed with nothing other than his shirt on.

Chapter 30

Itachi had already packed his clothes into the suitcase; each item folded with methodical care. He was just starting on his laptop—disconnecting cables, closing tabs—when a soft knock sounded at the hotel room door.

He glanced up. He hadn't ordered room service.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

Crossing the room, he opened the door to find Raiseki standing there, dressed more casually than Itachi had seen him in the entire month he'd been stationed here. No blazer, no tie—just a linen shirt rolled at the sleeves and a relaxed expression that didn't quite suit the man's usual formality.

"Raiseki," Itachi greeted, stepping aside without ceremony.

"You sure I can't convince you to stay for the celebrations tonight?" Raiseki asked, stepping inside with the easy familiarity of someone who'd earned it.

"I'm sure," Itachi replied, placing his laptop into its case and zipping it shut.

Raiseki nodded, accepting the answer. "She's a lucky woman to have you."

"I'm the lucky one to have her," Itachi said simply, without hesitation.

Raiseki smiled at that—genuine, not just polite. "I wanted to take the opportunity to thank you again, Itachi. It's been a pleasure doing business with you this past month."

"Don't mention it," Itachi said, waving off the sentiment as he reached for his suitcase.

"You accomplished in weeks what would've taken months. And the way you got all the teams to cooperate… it was something to witness. The Uchiha legacy in action."

Itachi's jaw tightened slightly at the word legacy. He knew what Raiseki was implying—his father's reputation, the weight of expectation, the shadow he'd never quite stepped out of. He offered a small, measured smile.

"Thank you for your hard work too."

He lifted his bags and headed for the door, Raiseki trailing behind.

"I hope we have the pleasure of working together again," Raiseki said, extending a hand.

Itachi took it, firm, and brief. "I'm sure we will."

He turned towards the lift, descending to the reception desk to check out.

"Sir, you're checking out two days early…?" the receptionist asked, fingers tapping at her keyboard.

"I'm aware," Itachi replied. "If there's a fee, send it to my father. He paid for the stay."

The woman hesitated, then offered a tentative smile. "Of course. Did you enjoy your time here?"

"It was satisfactory," he said, fingers drumming lightly on the counter.

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "All done."

"Thank you."

Itachi stepped out into the warm, muggy morning. The air clung to his skin, thick with humidity and the scent of traffic and damp concrete. He spotted a vacant taxi and climbed in, giving the driver the airport address.

The ride was quiet, which suited him. It gave him space to think.

He hadn't told Sakura he was coming home early. He wanted it to be a surprise. He imagined her reaction—wide eyes, that soft intake of breath, maybe even a laugh. The thought made his lips curve.

Maybe I'll finally tell her I love her.

Itachi paid the driver as he pulled into the airport's short stay carpark. He grabbed his belongings and made his way into the airport. The airport was already humming with movement when Itachi arrived—suitcases rolling, announcements echoing overhead, the scent of coffee and disinfectant lingering in the air. He checked in quickly, declining the offer to upgrade, and made his way through security with practiced ease.

Once seated in the waiting area, he pulled out his phone and typed a message to Shisui.

Landing in Konoha later this afternoon. Don't mention anything to Sakura—I want it to be a surprise.

He paused, thumb hovering over the screen, then added:

Hope everything's been quiet.

He hit send and slipped the phone back into his pocket, gaze drifting to the departure board. His flight was on time. Good.

The moment of calm didn't last.

His phone buzzed again—this time with a call. He didn't need to check the screen. He already knew.

He answered with a clipped, "Father."

"You've checked out already? What the hell are you playing at?"

"I've completed the job," Itachi replied evenly. "There's no need for me to stay longer."

"You were scheduled to remain until Sunday. There are still meetings on the calendar."

"I've briefed Raiseki. Everything's been handed over."

There was a pause, then a low curse hissed through the line.

"You think you can just walk away when you feel like it? You'll come into the office the moment you land. No delays."

Itachi's jaw tightened. "Fine."

The line went dead.

He stared at the phone for a moment longer before slipping it away again. A dull ache had begun to form behind his eyes, creeping slowly across his temples. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had settled there like a weight.

Around him, the airport continued its rhythm—families chatting, business travellers tapping at laptops, the occasional child tugging at a parent's sleeve.

Itachi leaned back in his seat, eyes half-lidded, letting the noise blur around him.

Just a few more hours.

The plane boarded on time. Itachi took his seat by the window, stowed his bag, and fastened his belt with mechanical precision. He didn't bother with the in-flight magazine or the complimentary drink. As the engines roared to life and the aircraft began its ascent, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The cabin was quiet—just the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of plastic cups. It suited him. He didn't want to talk. Not after the call.

His father's voice still echoed in his mind, sharp and unforgiving.

"You think you can just walk away when you feel like it?"

Itachi exhaled slowly through his nose.

He knew what was coming. The moment he stepped into the office, Fugaku would be waiting—arms crossed, tone clipped, eyes already scanning for faults. There'd be questions, accusations dressed as concerns, and the inevitable comparisons to how he would have handled things.

Itachi began rehearsing answers in his mind.

The teams are aligned. Raiseki has the final reports. The implementation schedule is ahead of target.

He imagined Fugaku's response.

"You should've stayed to oversee the final phase. You left it incomplete."

"I delegated. The groundwork is solid."

"Delegation isn't leadership. It's avoidance."

Itachi's jaw flexed.

He ran through every possible angle, every justification. He knew the facts were on his side—but facts rarely mattered when his father had already decided the narrative.

The seatbelt sign pinged off. A flight attendant passed by, offering drinks. He declined with a shake of his head.

Outside the window, clouds drifted past in slow, indifferent swells. The sky was pale and endless.

He thought of Sakura then—not as a counterpoint to his father, but as something quieter. A presence that didn't demand, didn't measure. Just… existed. Warm. Steady.

He let that thought settle in his chest, grounding him.

The flight continued in silence.

The plane touched down with a soft jolt, tyres skimming the tarmac before settling into a steady roll. Itachi remained still, watching the landscape shift beyond the window—low hills in the distance, the familiar outline of Konoha's skyline, and the muted gold of afternoon light stretching across the runway.

As passengers began to stir, reaching for bags and jackets, he waited. No rush. He preferred the quiet after the landing—the moment where everything paused before life resumed.

Once off the plane, he stepped into the arrival's terminal, the automatic doors parting with a hiss. The air hit him immediately—warm, dry, and tinged with the faint scent of pine and concrete dust. He took a slow breath, letting it settle in his lungs. Home. Or something like it.

The terminal buzzed around him. Families reunited with hugs and chatter, business travellers striding towards exits, the occasional child darting between legs with a squeal. A woman nearby was arguing with a taxi driver over a fare. Somewhere behind him, a suitcase toppled with a thud.

Itachi ignored it all.

He pulled out his phone and switched off airplane mode. A moment passed, then the screen lit up with notifications. One stood out immediately.

Sakura.

A photo—just her hand holding a cup of coffee, fingers curled around the ceramic, her thumb brushing the rim. Beneath it, a message:

Long day. Wish you were here xx

His lips curved, soft and involuntary. He stared at the image for a moment longer than necessary, then typed a reply:

Not long now. I miss you xx

He hesitated, then added:

I'll call you tonight xx

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and made his way to baggage claim. His suitcase arrived quickly—black, scuffed at the corners, the tag still bearing the hotel's address. He lifted it with one hand and headed for the exit.

Outside, the light was bright but mellow, the sun still high enough to cast sharp shadows across the pavement. The air was cooler than expected, stirred by a breeze that carried the scent of distant rain and hot stone. A row of taxis idled near the kerb, engines humming. Travellers clustered around benches, checking maps or making calls.

And there, parked just beyond the designated pickup zone, was one of his father's cars.

Black, sleek, and unmistakably corporate. The windows were tinted; the body polished to a mirror sheen. A driver stood beside the passenger door, tall and impassive in a dark suit, hands clasped behind his back.

Itachi's steps slowed.

The driver inclined his head slightly as he approached. "Mr Uchiha. Your father sent me."

Of course he did.

Itachi nodded once, expression unreadable, and handed over his suitcase. The driver opened the door without a word.

Inside, the car was cool and silent. Leather seats, faint scent of cologne and polish, the hum of the engine barely audible. Itachi settled in, gaze fixed on the passing scenery as the car pulled away from the airport.

The city blurred past—familiar streets, familiar tension.

He knew exactly where they were headed.

The car turned off the main road and into the private drive that led to Uchiha Corp. The building loomed ahead—glass and steel, sharp-edged and immaculate, its façade catching the light like a blade. Itachi remained still in the back seat, watching the familiar structure approach.

He didn't rush to get out.

The driver pulled into the underground car park, the tyres humming against the polished concrete. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the bonnet. The car came to a smooth stop, and the driver stepped out, opening the door with quiet efficiency.

Itachi emerged slowly, the air cooler down here, tinged with oil and stone. He adjusted the strap of his laptop bag and walked towards the lift, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

Inside the lift, he pressed the button for the executive floor. The doors closed, and he was alone again—just the hum of machinery and the faint scent of leather and polish. He didn't check his phone. He didn't rehearse his words. He simply stood, letting the tension settle into his shoulders.

The lift chimed softly as it reached the top floor.

He stepped out into the corridor, greeted by the muted hush of carpeted floors and recessed lighting. The receptionist glanced up, startled by his arrival.

"Mr Uchiha… we weren't expecting you until Sunday."

"I'm aware," Itachi said, voice calm. "Is my father in?"

"Yes, sir. But—" She hesitated, then stood. "Actually, the board would like a word with you first. They're in the conference room."

Itachi followed her down the hall, past glass-walled offices and closed doors. The boardroom was at the end—large, sleek, and already filled with voices.

The door opened, and he stepped inside.

Several senior board members turned toward him, their expressions bright with approval. The room smelled of coffee and expensive cologne, the table polished to a mirror shine. At the far end sat Fugaku, arms folded, eyes cold. He didn't speak. Didn't move.

"Itachi," one of the directors said warmly, rising from his seat. "We weren't expecting you so soon. But what a pleasant surprise."

Another chimed in. "Your work this month has been exceptional. The reports from Raiseki are glowing. You've exceeded every expectation."

Itachi nodded politely, offering a quiet "Thank you."

"You've done Uchiha Corp proud," said a third, smiling. "Your father must be thrilled."

Fugaku's jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

The praise continued for several minutes—effusive, formal, the kind of compliments that came with handshakes and nods of approval. Itachi accepted them with quiet grace, his gaze flicking occasionally to his father, who remained silent, unmoving.

Eventually, the board members began to gather their things.

"Well," one said, clapping Itachi on the shoulder, "we'll leave you to it. Enjoy your weekend—you've earned it."

Another added, "Don't let Fugaku rope you into more work. You deserve a break."

Fugaku's eyes narrowed, but he still didn't speak.

The room emptied slowly, the door clicking shut behind the last director.

Silence settled.

Itachi turned to face his father.

Fugaku stood, slowly, deliberately. His expression was carved from stone.

"You think this is how things are done?" His voice was low and sharp. "You walk in early, unannounced, and let them fawn over you like some golden child?"

Itachi didn't flinch. "I completed the job. I came back when it was done."

"You came back when it suited you."

Fugaku stepped closer, the air between them taut.

"You undermined the schedule. You ignored protocol. You made me look like a fool."

Itachi's voice remained steady. "I made you look like someone who hired the right person."

Fugaku's eyes narrowed, the lines around them deepening like cracks in polished stone. "Don't get clever with me."

Itachi didn't flinch. His voice was quiet, measured. "I'm not. I'm being direct."

The air between them felt thick, like the hush before a storm. Fugaku stepped forward, the soft thud of his shoes against the hardwood floor the only sound in the room. "You think one successful month makes you untouchable?"

"I think results speak louder than scheduling preferences."

Fugaku's jaw tightened. His gaze swept over Itachi's face, searching for something—defiance, guilt, weakness. He found none. "You were supposed to stay until Sunday."

"I stayed until the work was done."

A muscle ticked in Fugaku's cheek. "You don't get to decide when things are done."

Itachi's eyes didn't waver. "I do when I'm the one doing them."

The silence that followed was sharp-edged. Fugaku's shoulders squared, his posture rigid with control. He looked like a man used to being obeyed, and Itachi—calm, still, unyielding—was the exception he hadn't accounted for.

"You've always had a problem with authority," Fugaku said, voice low and clipped.

"No," Itachi replied. "I have a problem with inefficiency. And with being treated like a liability when I've proven otherwise."

Fugaku's lips pressed into a thin line. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, the only sign of restraint. "You think you're above this company?"

"I think I'm not beneath it."

The words landed with quiet finality, like a door closing.

Fugaku turned his head slightly, as if to dismiss the moment, but his eyes lingered on his son. There was something unreadable there—pride, perhaps, buried under layers of expectation and control. Or maybe just the recognition that the boy he'd raised had stopped asking for permission.

"You'll be in the office first thing Monday," Fugaku said. "No delays. No excuses."

Itachi gave a single nod. "Understood."

Fugaku studied him for a moment longer, then walked past without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound oddly loud in the stillness.

Itachi remained where he stood, the polished table reflecting the overhead lights, the scent of coffee and cologne still lingering in the air. His shoulders eased, just slightly, as if releasing tension held too long.

He exhaled slowly, the breath controlled, deliberate.

Let him seethe, he thought. I didn't come back early for him.

---

 

Sakura stood in the bedroom, arms folded loosely, watching as Ino tore through the wardrobe like a woman possessed. Hangers clinked, fabric rustled, and with each discarded outfit came either a sharp sigh or a muttered insult to Sakura's taste.

"Ino, if you let me, I'm sure I'll find something I can wear," Sakura said, leaning against the doorframe, her voice edging toward exasperation.

"I don't trust your judgement when it comes to clothes," Ino replied without looking up. "You'd wear a hoodie and call it minimalist."

Sakura rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She knew better than to challenge Ino in her element.

Then, at the very back of the wardrobe, Ino paused. Her fingers curled around a hanger and she pulled it free with a slow, deliberate motion, holding the dress up to the light like it deserved reverence.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, this is it."

Sakura stepped forward, brow furrowing slightly. The dress shimmered in the low light—black mesh layered over a fitted bodice, flecked with tiny sequins in indigo, silver, and deep violet. The sheer sleeves caught the glow from the bedside lamp, and the skirt, midi-length with a subtle slit, moved like smoke.

Sakura hesitated. "Isn't it a bit... much?"

Ino turned, eyes wide with disbelief. "Much? Sakura, this looks like the night sky decided to wrap itself around you."

Sakura's fingers brushed the fabric. It was lighter than she expected, cool and soft, like water against her skin.

"It looks like you're about to ruin someone's life—in the best way," Ino grinned. "Try it on. Now."

Sakura took the hanger with quiet reluctance, disappearing into the bathroom. Her heart ticked faster than she'd admit, palms slightly clammy as she slipped into the dress.

When she stepped out, Ino gasped—hands to her mouth, eyes wide with delight.

"Oh my god. You're going to cause a scene!"

Sakura glanced at herself in the mirror. The dress clung and flowed in all the right places. Her hair, still loose from the day, fell in soft waves over her shoulders. She looked... different. Not like someone trying too hard. Just someone who'd stopped apologising.

She turned slightly, catching the shimmer of the overlay in the light. Her throat tightened, just a little.

"I don't know," she murmured. "It feels like I'm pretending."

Ino stepped behind her, resting her chin lightly on Sakura's shoulder. "Then pretend until it feels real."

Sakura sat on the edge of the bed, the Midnight Galaxy dress hugging her frame like it had been made for her. Ino was already in motion, sleeves rolled up, makeup brushes fanned out like weapons of war.

"Don't move," Ino said, pinning Sakura's knees between hers. "I'm about to make you look dangerous."

"I thought the dress already did that," Sakura murmured.

Ino smirked. "The dress is the warning. Your face is the threat."

She started with the eyes—smoky, but not heavy. A wash of deep plum blended into charcoal at the outer corners, catching the shimmer of the dress without competing. Ino's fingers were deft, precise, her focus absolute.

"Close," she said, and Sakura obeyed.

A sweep of highlighter along the cheekbones, subtle contouring to sharpen the jaw. Ino dabbed a soft rose gloss onto Sakura's lips, then paused, tilting her head.

"Not red," she said. "Too obvious. This is better. Like you're not trying, but somehow still ruin lives."

Sakura gave a quiet laugh, but her fingers curled slightly in her lap.

Then came the hair. Ino gathered it up, twisting and pinning with a speed that suggested she'd done this a hundred times. Loose waves were coaxed into a low, textured bun at the nape of Sakura's neck, with a few tendrils left to frame her face.

"There," Ino said, stepping back. "Soft. Strategic. Like you could whisper someone's name and they'd follow you home."

Sakura turned to the mirror. The woman staring back looked... composed. Not masked, not overdone—just distilled. Like someone who'd stopped shrinking herself to fit.

She reached up, brushing a fingertip over the shimmer at her temple.

"I look—"

"Like you," Ino said. "But the version that doesn't apologise."

Sakura sat on the edge of Ino's bed, the plum shimmer still fresh on her lids, the hem of her dress grazing mid-thigh. Her phone lay face-up beside her, screen glowing softly in the low light. She picked it up, angled it toward the mirror, and snapped a quick photo—her reflection framed from the waist up, green eyes vivid beneath the plum shadow, the dress hugging her like a secret she hadn't meant to share.

She stared at the image for a moment, thumb hovering. Then typed:

Kidnapped by Ino. Send help. Or don't. I look too good to be rescued tonight.

She attached the photo and hit send.

Itachi replied almost instantly.

Where are you going?

Sakura smiled, biting the inside of her cheek. Her fingers danced across the screen.

Konoha Lounge. She's armed with lip gloss and bad intentions.

No reply for a beat. Then:

Text me when you get there.

She stared at the screen a moment longer, thumb resting against the edge. Then locked it and stood.

Outside, the air was crisp—the kind that clung to bare shoulders and made you grateful for the coat you didn't bother to button. Sakura stood beside Ino on the driveway, her phone tucked away, her pulse still ticking from Itachi's last message.

A sleek black car turned the corner and pulled into the driveway beside them, headlights slicing through the dark. The engine purred low, polished body catching the glow of the streetlamp. Kisame leaned across the passenger seat, window down, elbow propped casually, one hand still on the wheel.

He gave a slow, appreciative whistle. "You two planning to start a war or just break hearts?"

Ino grinned, tossing her clutch into the back seat. "Bit of both. Depends who's in the blast radius."

Kisame's gaze flicked to Sakura, lingering—not inappropriately, but with the kind of pause that registered everything. The plum shimmer on her lids, the way the dress hugged her frame like it had been poured on, the quiet confidence in her posture.

"Damn," he muttered, unlocking the doors. "I should've worn something stab-proof. I'm gonna spend the whole night fending off casualties."

Sakura raised an eyebrow as she slid into the back seat, her coat pooling around her thighs. "You're assuming they'll get close enough."

Kisame chuckled, catching her eyes in the rearview mirror. "Fair point. Still, I'm keeping the engine running. If things get messy, I'm dragging you both out by your heels."

Ino climbed in beside Sakura, already adjusting her lipstick in the mirror. "Relax, Kisame. We're just going to make a few people nervous. Maybe ruin a couple of egos."

He snorted. "You say that like it's not a full-time job."

The car pulled away from the kerb, slipping into the rhythm of the city. Inside, the atmosphere was warm, the windows fogging slightly from the contrast in temperature. Sakura leaned her head back, watching the blur of lights pass by, her heart still humming from the earlier message.

The drive to Konoha Lounge was quiet, save for Ino's occasional commentary on the playlist—mostly critiques, occasionally praise—and Kisame's dry retorts that landed like well-aimed darts. He didn't say much, but when he did, it stuck.

"Who picked this?" Ino asked, skipping a track. "Sounds like heartbreak in a blender."

Kisame didn't glance away from the road. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

She rolled her eyes. "It's a mood killer."

He smirked, eyes flicking to Sakura in the mirror. "Depends on the mood."

Sakura smiled faintly, her gaze drifting to the city lights blurring past the window. The tension from Itachi's message hadn't left her—it had just settled deeper, like a thread pulled taut beneath her skin.

When they pulled up, the bass from inside was already pulsing through the pavement, a low throb that vibrated through the soles of their shoes. The building loomed sleek and shadowed, its entrance framed by velvet ropes and a bouncer who looked like he could bench-press the car.

Kisame stepped out first, adjusting his jacket with the ease of someone who'd walked into far worse places and come out grinning. He gave the bouncer a nod—nothing flashy, just enough weight to shift the air.

The man barely glanced at them before waving them through. Whether it was Kisame's presence or the way Sakura looked tonight, it was hard to say. Probably both.

Inside, the Lounge was velvet and shadow, all low lights, and high stakes. Music pulsed like a heartbeat, and the scent of expensive perfume hung in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of ambition.

The moment Sakura stepped in, the temperature shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough.

Eyes turned. Not all at once, not obviously. But they did.

The plum shimmer caught the light again, and her green eyes sharpened like glass. Her dress—elegant, understated—suddenly felt louder in the hush between beats. She didn't flinch from it. She let it happen.

Kisame leaned in slightly, voice pitched low. "You want me to start a tab or start a fight?"

Ino snorted. "Start a tab. We'll handle the rest."

Sakura scanned the room, not looking for anyone. But part of her hoped someone might already be looking.

Kisame lingered a step behind, eyes sweeping the crowd with the casual precision of someone who noticed everything. "Stay close," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Pinky's got gravity tonight."

Kisame didn't linger in the crowd. He tilted his head toward the staircase tucked behind the velvet curtain, the kind of entrance that didn't need signage—just recognition.

"This way," he said, voice low but firm. "Same spot as last time."

They followed him past the main floor, where bodies moved like smoke and the music thickened with bass. The bouncer at the foot of the stairs gave a nod, stepping aside without a word. Kisame didn't break stride.

Upstairs, the Lounge shifted. Less chaos, more control. The lighting was cooler; the air tinged with citrus and money. Booths lined the walls like private stages, and in the far corner—half-shadowed, half-lit—Shisui was already waiting.

He stood as they approached, one hand resting on the edge of the table, the other holding a drink he hadn't touched. A tray of cocktails sat ready, condensation beading on the glass.

"Well," he said, eyes sweeping over them with a grin that curled at the edges. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you came here to start a riot."

His gaze lingered on Sakura's dress, then flicked to Ino's heels, then back to Kisame with mock accusation. "You brought weapons. And didn't warn me."

Kisame shrugged, sliding into the booth. "Consider yourself warned now."

Sakura smiled, soft but sharp. She reached for her phone, thumb hovering for a beat before she typed:

At the club. Kisame and Shisui are here too xx

She hit send, then locked the screen, her pulse ticking just a little faster.

Ino returned from the bar, balancing a tray full of shots like a seasoned saboteur. She set it down with a flourish, the glasses clinking softly against each other.

"No more phones," she said, plucking Sakura's from her hand and placing it face-down on the table. "Tonight, we drink. Tomorrow, we regret."

She passed the shots around, one for each of them, then raised hers with a grin. "To chaos. And good lighting."

Shisui lifted his glass, eyes still dancing. "And to whatever trouble you two are about to cause."

Kisame didn't toast. He just drank, eyes scanning the room like he was already calculating exits.

Sakura hesitated for half a breath, then raised her glass too. "To gravity," she murmured.

Several shots and drinks later, Sakura began to loosen up. The music pulsed through the Lounge like a second heartbeat, and the warmth in her chest had nothing to do with alcohol. She let Ino tug her toward the dance floor, laughing as they wove through the crowd.

The space was packed—bodies moving in sync with the beat, lights flickering overhead in shades of violet and gold. Ino spun once, her hair catching the light, and Sakura followed, letting herself fall into the rhythm. They danced through two, three songs, their laughter rising above the bass.

Then someone brushed against Sakura's back—deliberate, not accidental.

She turned.

The man behind her was average-looking. Short blonde hair, clean-shaven, dressed in a fitted shirt and dark jeans like half the men in the room. Nothing about him stood out, but his eyes lingered too long, and his smile didn't reach them.

Sakura gave a polite nod and shifted closer to Ino.

He followed.

A hand slid around her waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of her dress as he pulled her subtly away from her friend.

"Where are you running off to, beautiful?" he murmured, voice low against her neck.

His breath was warm and sour, and Sakura shuddered—not from the words, but from the entitlement in them. She stepped back, jaw tight.

"I'm trying to have a good time with a friend," she said, voice clipped.

"I can be your friend," he replied, reaching out and grabbing her wrist.

Sakura yanked her arm free. "I'm not interested."

She turned to walk away, scanning the crowd for Ino, but the man grabbed her again—rougher this time, his fingers digging into her bare arm.

"I'll tell you when you're done being interested," he hissed, voice sharp and close.

Sakura's breath caught. Her jaw clenched as she pulled away, louder this time. "Stop!"

A few heads turned. The music didn't falter, but the mood around them shifted.

"I'm telling you to stop!" she snapped, voice rising above the beat.

She pushed into the crowd, grateful for the bodies that swallowed her up. Her heart was thudding now—not from the music, but from the adrenaline. She turned, scanning the dance floor, but Ino was nowhere in sight. Just a sea of strangers moving to the rhythm, oblivious.

---

 

Itachi was glad to finally be home. Not just back in the country—but back in his own space, where everything was familiar and quiet. He stood in the hallway for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. The soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint scent of Sakura lingering in the air—it was grounding.

He stepped further inside, fingers brushing the edge of the console table as he passed. Her presence was everywhere. A scarf draped over the back of the sofa. A half-read book on the armrest. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the subtle trace of her perfume anchor him.

She'd messaged earlier to say she was already at the club. He was relieved Shisui and Kisame had gone with her. Still, the moment she'd told him, he'd made up his mind to surprise her.

First, a shower. He wanted to feel fresh before heading out again. As he towelled off and dressed, he messaged Shisui.

Where are you?

The reply came almost instantly.

VIP level, same as last time. And before you ask—I've got an eye on Sakura. She's fine. She's dancing.

Itachi pocketed his phone and keys, then headed out.

The club was already packed. He slipped past the queue, nodding to the bouncer who recognised him, and stepped into the heat and pulse of the music. Bodies pressed close, the air thick with sweat and perfume and bass. He moved through it with quiet precision, climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge.

Shisui spotted him first and broke away from the railing, clapping him on the back.

"Welcome back!" he shouted over the music. "Good to see you."

"You too," Itachi said, voice low but steady.

"Could've told me you were coming home, pretty boy," Kisame grinned, appearing behind him and pulling him into a rough hug.

Itachi allowed it, a small smile tugging at his mouth. The familiar banter, the thrum of the club, the scent of Sakura somewhere in the crowd—it was all beginning to feel real again.

Itachi leaned against the railing, eyes scanning the crowd below. The dance floor was a blur of movement—flashes of sequins, limbs, and coloured lights strobing across faces. But no sign of Sakura.

His brow furrowed.

He turned to Shisui, voice low but sharp. "Where's Sakura?"

Shisui frowned, following Itachi's gaze. "She was just there," he said, eyes narrowing as he searched the crowd. "She was dancing with Ino."

Itachi's jaw tensed. "You were meant to look out for her."

Before Shisui could respond, Itachi pushed past him and descended into the crowd.

The music was louder here, the press of bodies more suffocating. He moved with purpose, weaving through dancers, ignoring the occasional shoulder bump or curious glance. His eyes flicked from face to face, searching.

Then—pink.

A flash of hair, unmistakable even in the chaos.

Itachi exhaled, just barely, and followed.

But something was wrong.

Sakura wasn't dancing. She was moving quickly, head down, pushing through the crowd. And behind her—a man with a nasty gleam in his eyes, his movements predatory and intent.

Itachi's gaze sharpened. He saw the moment Sakura faltered, the way she turned and tried to slip away, only to be caught and shoved against a column near the edge of the dance floor.

Itachi went rigid.

His breath stilled, his body already moving before thought could catch up. The protectiveness surged first—sharp and instinctive—followed by something darker, possessive, curling low in his chest.

His eyes locked on the man's grip, the way Sakura's shoulders curled inward, defensive.

And then he was there.

Sakura's spine slammed against the cold marble column, the impact jarring through her ribs. The music throbbed around her, bass pulsing like a second heartbeat, but the crowd had shifted—too far, too indifferent. No one saw. No one heard.

The man leaned in, breath hot and sour against her cheek, his arm caging her in. His other hand slid around her waist, fingers splaying with a familiarity that made her stomach turn.

She shoved at his chest, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. "Get off me!" she snapped, voice low and sharp.

He didn't move. His grin widened, teeth yellowed, eyes flicking down her body with slow, deliberate intent. "You dress like that," he murmured, "you're asking for attention."

His hand dipped lower, grazing the curve of her hip, thumb pressing into the bare skin above her waistband.

Sakura twisted, trying to duck under his arm, but he caught her wrist mid-motion, grip tightening like a vice. Her pulse spiked. Not fear—rage. She kicked at his shin, tried to claw free, but he had the angle, the weight, the smug confidence of someone who thought he'd already won.

"No ring!" he sneered. "So don't pretend you're taken!"

Her skin crawled. She bared her teeth. "I'm not yours!"

Then—

A blur.

The man was ripped away from her with such force that his feet barely touched the ground. He staggered, slammed into a nearby table, knocking over glasses and sending ice skittering across the floor.

Itachi stood between them, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something primal. His voice was low, lethal.

"Keep your filthy hands off my wife!"

The man blinked, dazed, then scoffed, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth. "She doesn't have a ring. And dressed like that? She's practically begging for it!"

Itachi didn't hesitate.

His fist connected with the man's jaw in a brutal, clean arc. The crack of bone echoed through the music, silencing the nearest conversations. The man reeled, clutching his face, blood dripping between his fingers.

Itachi stepped forward again, jaw clenched, fists still raised.

Sakura moved fast.

She wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her body flush against his back, her cheek against the rigid line of his shoulder blade. "Itachi!" she whispered, breath shaky. "I'm okay!"

He didn't move.

She slid around to face him, hands rising to cup his face, her palms warm against his skin. "Look at me!" she said softly, grounding him. "I'm okay."

His eyes flicked to hers, still blazing, still tracking the man as he stumbled backward.

Kisame appeared, cutting through the crowd like a blade. His gaze swept the scene, then landed on the bleeding man. "Shit!" he muttered, voice low and dangerous. "You need to leave! Now!"

The man opened his mouth, but Kisame didn't wait. He shoved him hard, sending him stumbling into the crowd, which parted with a mix of curiosity and unease.

Itachi's gaze followed him, jaw tight, shoulders still taut with fury.

Sakura pressed closer, her fingers brushing his cheek, her voice steady now. "I'm safe. You found me."

He blinked, the tension in his body slowly unwinding under her touch.

And finally, he looked at her.

His eyes were still wild—not with confusion, but with the kind of rage that came from imagining her hurt. His fists were trembling, not from exertion, but restraint. Sakura could feel it in the way his breath stuttered, the way his chest rose and fell too fast beneath her hands.

She pressed closer, her forehead resting gently against his. "Itachi," she murmured, voice barely above the music. "I'm really okay."

His hands hovered at her waist, unsure, like he didn't trust himself to touch her without shaking. She reached up, took one of them in both of hers, and pressed it flat against her ribs—right where her heartbeat thudded, steady and strong.

"See?" she whispered. "I'm here. I'm safe."

Itachi's gaze locked onto hers, wild and unrelenting. His chest heaved, fists still trembling from the force of restraint. Sakura could feel the heat radiating off him, the storm barely contained beneath his skin.

Then he moved.

He leaned down and kissed her—deeply, fully, without hesitation. The world around them blurred, the music, the crowd, the lingering tension—all drowned beneath the weight of his mouth on hers.

His kiss wasn't gentle. It was fierce, claiming, threaded with possession and the raw panic of almost losing her. His hand gripped her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, anchoring her to him. The other slid behind her neck, firm and steady, holding her in place as his lips parted hers with a hunger that stole her breath.

Sakura gasped softly against him, her hands rising instinctively to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He walked her back, step by step, until her spine met the column again—this time not with fear, but with the grounding weight of him pressed against her.

The marble was cool against her back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body. His breath was ragged, mixing with hers in the space between their mouths. She could hear it—sharp inhales, soft exhales, the faint hitch in his throat when her fingers brushed his jaw.

When he finally pulled away, it wasn't abrupt. His lips lingered, trailing once more over hers like he couldn't quite let go. Then he rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breath uneven.

They were both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync, the air between them thick with adrenaline and something deeper—something that pulsed beneath the surface like a second heartbeat.

Sakura's voice came out on a shuddering breath, barely audible over the music. "I'm okay."

Itachi didn't speak. He just stayed there, forehead pressed to hers, his grip still firm at her waist, as if letting go would undo everything.

And for a moment, the world held still.

A few feet away, Kisame slowed to a stop, arms folded, gaze sweeping the scene like he'd just walked into a soap opera mid-climax. His boots crunched faintly over shattered ice and glass, the remnants of the man's stumble scattered across the floor.

He raised a brow at the sight of Itachi pinning Sakura gently against the column, their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the hush between them. Her hands were still curled around his shirt, his grip firm at her waist, the air around them thick with heat and aftermath.

Kisame exhaled through his nose. "Well," he drawled, voice dry as sandpaper, "that escalated quickly."

Neither of them moved.

He stepped closer, eyeing the bloodied man now slinking through the crowd with a hand over his jaw and a limp in his step. "Guy's lucky you didn't break his spine," Kisame muttered, half to himself. "Though I wouldn't blame you if you had."

Itachi didn't respond. His eyes were still closed, forehead resting against Sakura's, his body taut with the effort of restraint.

Kisame tilted his head, watching them for a beat longer. "You two good?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Sakura nodded slowly, her voice soft but steady. "We're okay."

Kisame's gaze lingered on her for a moment—assessing, respectful—then flicked back to Itachi. "You want me to make sure he doesn't come back in?"

Itachi's voice was low, almost a growl. "If he does, I'll finish what I started."

Kisame smirked faintly. "Noted."

He turned, shoulders relaxed but eyes sharp, and disappeared into the crowd with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew exactly how to make a problem vanish.

The music swelled again, bass vibrating through the floor, but the space around Sakura and Itachi remained untouched—like the world had bent around them for just a moment longer.

Itachi's voice was low, rough around the edges. "I'm taking you home."

Sakura opened her mouth to argue, but the look he gave her stopped her cold—eyes dark with heat, jaw tight with restraint, something raw and unspoken flickering just beneath the surface. It wasn't anger. It was longing. Possession. Fear.

She swallowed hard, her breath catching. Then she nodded once.

He guided her through the crowd, one hand at the small of her back, protective and firm. The club's air was thick with sweat and bass, but outside, the night was cool and quiet, a balm against the chaos they'd left behind.

Without a word, Itachi shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric was heavy, warm from his body. He stepped in close, zipping it up slowly, deliberately—his fingers brushing her collarbone, his gaze never leaving hers. The gesture wasn't just protective. It was possessive. Final.

She felt hidden. Sheltered. Owned.

He raised a hand and hailed a taxi. When it pulled up, he opened the door, helped her in, then slid in beside her. The door shut with a soft thud, sealing them in.

His hand found her knee.

Warm. Steady. His thumb began to move—slow, mindless circles on her bare skin, each stroke sending a ripple of heat up her spine. She didn't speak. Neither did he. But the silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.

When the car pulled up outside the house, he paid without looking, then helped her out, his hand never leaving hers. The door clicked shut behind them, and the quiet of the hallway wrapped around them like a held breath.

Sakura slipped off his jacket and hung it carefully on the hook. She turned, started down the hallway—

But he was there.

Itachi caught her wrist, pulled her back, and pinned her gently but firmly against the wall. One hand gripped her waist, the other slid up to her throat—not choking, just holding, claiming, his thumb resting against the pulse at her neck.

His breath was hot against her ear, but it wasn't just desire that made it tremble—it was something rawer. Unspoken. Still bleeding beneath the surface.

"Do you know what I felt when I saw him pin you like that?" he whispered, voice low, frayed. "I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I just saw you—trapped—and him touching you like he had any right."

Sakura's breath hitched. She turned her head slightly, enough to brush her lips against his jaw. "You were there," she murmured. "You got to me. You stopped him."

His grip tightened, not painfully, but like he needed the contact to anchor himself. "I keep replaying it. The way you looked. The way he had you against that column. I should've—"

"You did," she said firmly, cutting through his spiral. "You were there, Itachi. You saw me. You got me out."

He was silent for a beat, his chest rising against hers, breath uneven.

Then he leaned in, lips grazing her skin. "No one touches you," he said, voice rough. "No one lays a hand on my wife."

The word landed like a brand—searing, protective, absolute.

Sakura's fingers curled around his wrist, grounding him. "I'm yours," she said softly. "But not because you own me. Because I choose you."

His eyes met hers—dark, intense, still flickering with the remnants of fury. But beneath it, something else. Relief. Need. Love, twisted with fear.

He nodded once, jaw tight. "You're my wife," he repeated, quieter now. "And no one touches my wife."

Then he kissed her.
Brutal. Fierce. His mouth crushed hers, all restraint burned away. His hand tightened at her waist, the other still at her throat, anchoring her to the wall as if he needed to feel every inch of her against him.

When he finally pulled back, both were breathing hard. His thumb traced her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on hers.
"Do you know how much I missed your lips," he murmured, "your smart mouth?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't.

Instead, he dipped lower, hands sliding down her sides, gripping her thighs with sudden purpose. She gasped as he lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The motion pressed them together—heat against heat, friction sparking where their bodies met.

They both moaned, the sound muffled by another kiss. Her fingers tangled in his hair, his grip tightening beneath her thighs. Every shift of movement sent a jolt through them, a desperate press of skin and fabric, a shared ache to get closer, to ease the fire coursing between them.

He didn't break the kiss. Didn't speak. Just carried her—her legs locked around him, her breath hot against his cheek—down the hallway. The door to the bedroom swung open, then shut with a soft click behind them.

He crossed the room in a few strides, lowering her gently onto the bed. Her hair fanned across the sheets, her dress shimmering in fractured glints beneath the amber glow of the bedside lamp.

Then he leaned over her, arms braced on either side of her head, his body hovering just above hers.

His gaze was molten.
And she was his.

She didn't dare speak. Didn't dare move. Not with the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room worth breathing for. The air between them was thick, humming with tension and heat.

Sakura swallowed, her breath deepening with each heartbeat, her chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate rhythm.

Itachi's gaze roved over her body, slow and possessive. The dress clung to her curves, catching the light like starlight on silk. Yes, it was beautiful. It made her stand out. But he wasn't sure he ever wanted anyone else to see her in it again. Not like this. Not with her flushed and breathless and waiting. Only him. Only for his eyes.

He leaned in, lowering his mouth to her jaw, and placed featherlight kisses along the line of it—soft, reverent, maddeningly slow.

"Do you have any idea how I felt when I saw you in this dress?" he murmured against her skin, voice rough with restraint. "You were flushed. Breathless. That silk clinging to you like it was made to drive me mad."

His lips brushed her jaw, then trailed lower, grazing the curve of her neck.

"I saw the way they looked at you," he continued, voice darkening. "Like they thought they had a chance. Like they didn't know you were mine. And all I could think about was getting you out of that dress—peeling it off inch by inch. Or tearing it, if I had to. Just to see you bare beneath it."

Sakura's breath hitched, her chest rising sharply with each kiss he placed. Her skin tingled beneath his mouth, her body already responding to the heat of him.

"I wanted to feast on you," he said, voice low and hungry. "To press you against the nearest surface and make you forget every other man in that room. I imagined your legs wrapped around me, your nails digging into my back, your voice breaking as I made you come apart."

His lips moved lower, trailing down the column of her neck. He licked a slow line along her throat before biting down on the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder—sharp, claiming.

She moaned, her body arching at the sting of pain, melting into the pleasure of his tongue soothing the mark he'd left behind.

"I thought about the sounds you'd make for me while I was away," he said, voice dark and fraying, his mouth now at the other side of her neck. "Thought of all the ways I could pull them from you. The way your breath catches when I bite you. The way you moan when I whisper your name against your skin. The way you tremble when I take my time."

He bit down again, harder this time, before chasing the sting with slow, deliberate licks.

"I imagined you begging," he whispered, lips brushing her ear. "Not with words. With your body. With every gasp. Every arch. Every time you reached for me like you couldn't bear the space between us."

Sakura's fingers curled into his shirt, her body already trembling beneath him. Her eyes fluttered closed, lips parted, breath shallow.

And Itachi—he was barely holding on.

Sakura groaned, her hands rising instinctively to reach for him, needing to anchor herself to something solid. But before she could touch him, he caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head, pressing them into the mattress. Her chest lifted with the motion, her breath coming faster.

"Tonight," he warned, his voice a growl, "I get to touch you however I want."

His mouth moved lower, trailing over the exposed skin of her breasts—biting gently, teasing. Then lower still, over the fabric of her dress, his lips dragging across the silk as he descended between her legs.

"Sakura," Itachi said, his voice low, dripping with need, "do you want this?" His eyes searched her face for any hesitation, any regret. He needed her certainty—needed it to silence the storm inside him.

Sakura nodded; she didn't trust her voice.

"I need your words, Sakura," he growled, jaw clenched, the effort to stay composed etched into every line of his body.

She bit down on her bottom lip. "Yes," she whispered.

Itachi didn't move. He stayed kneeling between her legs, his breath uneven, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped the sheets. He was the one in control here. He had to be. But her voice—soft, pleading—cut through him like a blade.

"Please, Itachi," Sakura murmured, her voice thick with longing. "I need you. Please."

His restraint shattered.

Her need, so raw and trusting, undid him. He grabbed her under one knee and threw her leg over his shoulder, then did the same with the other. The dress bunched around her waist as he lifted the hem, revealing her soaked, black lace underwear.

He growled at the sight—a sound low and primal—and ran a single finger slowly over her clothed sex. His breath hitched. The heat of her, the way she trembled beneath his touch, made something inside him unravel.

Sakura gasped, her hips jerking at the contact. Desire surged through her, sharp and immediate. She moaned, her body already trembling.

"So wet for me already," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction—but beneath it, something else. Awe. Reverence. A flicker of fear at how deeply he wanted her.

Without hesitation, he hooked his fingers around the band of her underwear and tore them off, the fabric giving way with a soft rip. He peeled the remnants aside, exposing her completely.

He groaned at the sight—glistening, open, waiting. His control was gone, burned away by the fire between them. But even now, he hesitated for a breath, his mouth hovering just above her.

This wasn't just lust. It was need. It was her.

Then he lowered his mouth to her core, tongue spreading her lips before he sucked hard on the bundle of nerves—his restraint forgotten, his emotions laid bare in every desperate, reverent touch.

Sakura cried out, her back arching at the sudden rush of sensation. His tongue was relentless—flicking and circling, teasing her opening before returning to suck again, harder this time. He devoured her like a man starved, like he'd been dreaming of this moment for weeks.

"Mmm," he groaned against her, voice muffled by her skin. "I've missed the taste of you."

He flicked his tongue again and again, dragging it down, then back up, lips closing around her with precision. When he wrapped his mouth around her clit and sucked, Sakura shattered—her body convulsing, her voice breaking as she screamed his name.

But he didn't stop.

He pressed down on her hips, holding her in place as she writhed beneath him, feasting on her again and again, pulling wave after wave of pleasure from her until she was breathless, boneless, undone.

When he finally looked up, his mouth glistened, his smirk lazy and satisfied.

Sakura lay sprawled across the bed, dishevelled and glowing. Her hair fanned around her head; some strands stuck to her damp forehead and neck. Her breathing was fast, shallow, her chest rising in uneven bursts.

And he hadn't even started yet.

Itachi didn't give her time to recover. His hand slid between her thighs, fingers slick from her release, and he pushed one finger inside her—slow, deliberate.

He groaned at the feel of her tensing around him, her walls fluttering in response. The sound was low, guttural, like it had been dragged from the depths of his chest.

The room was quiet save for the sound of her breathing—shallow, erratic—and the wet, rhythmic glide of his finger moving in and out of her. The lamp's glow painted golden streaks across her flushed skin, highlighting the tremble in her thighs and the sheen of sweat beginning to form along her collarbone.

When his finger was coated, he slid in another, stretching her gently. Her body arched, hips lifting off the bed, and he leaned closer, his voice a dark whisper against her ear.

"Is this what you imagined I'd do when you pleasured yourself down the phone to me?"

Sakura moaned, her head falling back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. The memory of that night—her voice breathless, his commands low and cruel—flooded her senses. She could feel herself climbing again, the pressure building fast.

Before she could speak, before she could beg or warn him, he pressed his thumb against her clit and rubbed in tight, deliberate circles.

She exploded around his fingers, her body convulsing, a cry torn from her throat as pleasure ripped through her.

But he didn't stop.

His fingers kept moving—relentless, coaxing her through the aftershocks and into another climb. Her body trembled, hips twitching, breath catching in her throat.

When he tried again, pushing deeper, faster, she screamed, "I can't!"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned down and kissed her inner thigh—soft, reverent, a stark contrast to the roughness of his fingers.

"Yes you can, baby," he murmured against her skin. "Give me one more. I want you stretched," his voice rough with restraint, "before I finally fuck you."

His fingers pumped harder, faster, his thumb circling her clit with ruthless precision. Her body bucked beneath him, the sheets twisting under her fists, and she shattered once more—louder, messier, her voice raw as she cried out his name.

Only then did he slow. He pulled his fingers out, glistening with her release, and brought them to his mouth. He licked them clean, eyes locked on hers, groaning at the taste.

"You're perfect like this," he said, voice thick with hunger. "Ruined. Mine."

He stood, his movements fluid and purposeful, and made quick work of her dress—unzipping, peeling, discarding it like it offended him. His own clothes followed, falling to the floor in a quiet heap.

Then he was on her again, leaning down, capturing one of her nipples in his mouth. He teased it with his tongue, then bit gently, just enough to make her gasp. He moved to the next, lavishing it with the same attention, his hands roaming her body like he was memorising every inch.

The room was heavy with heat, the scent of sex and sweat and longing thick in the air. And he hadn't even claimed her fully yet.

Itachi didn't loosen his grip. He kept her pinned beneath him, her body trembling from the aftershocks, her skin flushed and damp. His breath was hot against her shoulder.

With a firm grip on her hips, he guided her onto her knees. Her body obeyed, pliant and aching, her thighs trembling as she braced herself against the mattress.

Then he thrust into her—hard.

Both of them groaned, the sound raw and guttural, echoing through the room. The slick slide of his length inside her was obscene, her body yielding around him, tight and wet and perfect. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to lose himself completely in the heat and rhythm of her.

His hand slid up her spine, fingers threading into her hair. He yanked her upright until her back arched against his chest, her breath catching as she rose to meet him. Her skin was slick with sweat, glowing under the low light, and the curve of her body fit into his like a lock to its key.

Their bodies moved together, rhythm sharp and relentless. Each thrust drove a moan from her lips, her body rippling with the force of him, her muscles tightening and releasing in sync with his pace. The scent of sex and sweat hung thick in the air, intoxicating.

He looked down, eyes burning as he watched himself buried deep inside her. The sight undid him. Her body took him so completely, so beautifully, that he growled—a sound torn from somewhere primal, somewhere vulnerable.

"Look how well you take me," he snarled against her ear, voice dark and reverent. "You take every inch like such a good girl."

His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers finding her clit. He pinched—just enough to make her cry out—and her body shattered again, convulsing around him, her voice breaking as she moaned his name.

She slumped forward, panting, her arms trembling as she tried to hold herself up. He didn't let her fall. One arm wrapped around her waist, holding her steady, grounding her even as his own restraint frayed beyond repair.

"I'm not even done yet," he warned, voice low and dangerous.

He eased her down onto her back, her body limp and trembling. Then he moved between her legs, throwing one over his shoulder, lining himself up with ruthless precision.

And then he pushed in—hard.

She gasped, her body arching, breath catching as he filled her to the hilt. He groaned—a deep, possessive sound—his hands gripping her thighs like he needed to hold her together, like letting go would mean losing himself.

His thrusts were rough now, relentless. Each one drove deeper, harder, claiming her with a force that bordered on desperation. Sweat slicked his skin, his breath ragged against her throat, and still he didn't let up.

"Who do you belong to?" he growled, voice sharp, each word punctuated by the snap of his hips.

Sakura moaned, her voice caught in her throat, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

"Say it," he snarled, leaning closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Say my name. Say who owns this body. Who makes you fall apart like this?"

Her voice broke. "You," she cried. "You, Itachi!"

He groaned at her words, the sound torn from somewhere deep and raw. His eyes dropped to where their bodies met—to the way she stretched around him, took him so completely. The sight made him growl again, low and guttural.

"Look at you," he whispered, reverent and wrecked. "Look how well you take me. Like you were made for this—for me."

His pace quickened, hips snapping against hers with brutal precision. "You're mine, Sakura. Every inch of you. Every sound you make. Every time you come undone beneath me."

She moaned again, her body convulsing, her voice cracking as she screamed his name.

"Good girl," he breathed, voice trembling now. "So perfect for me. So fucking perfect."

He leant down and sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, biting just hard enough to make her gasp, her back arching, pushing her chest into him.

"So greedy for me," he murmured against her skin, his grip tightening on her hips. He thrust again—deep, hard, claiming. Her body welcomed him, slick and trembling, the stretch familiar and overwhelming.

"I missed this," he growled, voice low and ragged. "Missed being inside you. Missed feeling you come all over me."

His rhythm grew frantic, hips slamming into hers with growing urgency. The sound of their bodies meeting echoed through the room—wet, rhythmic, relentless. Her thighs trembled, her breath came in broken gasps, and he didn't let up.

His hand found her clit again, fingers rough and precise. He pinched, rubbed, circled—until she shattered beneath him, her body convulsing, her voice breaking as she screamed his name.

He followed.

With a final thrust, he buried himself deep, groaning as he spilled inside her, his release pulsing through him in waves. Their bodies trembled together, locked in the aftermath—breathless and undone.

And even then, he didn't let go. His arms wrapped around her, possessive, protective, as if holding her was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He leaned down, kissed her softly—slow and reverent—and gently lowered her leg from his shoulder. His breath was still uneven, chest heaving, but his eyes searched her face with sudden urgency.

Sakura lay beneath him, panting hard, her body trembling. Her lips were parted, her skin flushed and damp, and in the low light, he saw it—unshed tears glistening at the corners of her eyes.

He stilled.

The sight pierced through him, sharp and unforgiving. His stomach twisted. Too rough. Too far. The possessiveness that had driven him moments ago now felt like a blade turned inward.

"Shhhh," he murmured, voice barely audible, as he reached up and brushed her damp hair off her face. His thumb caught a tear before it could fall. "It's okay," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her lips—gentle, grounding, nothing like the hunger that had consumed him before.

"You did good, baby," he said softly, voice thick with emotion. "You did so good."

She blinked up at him, eyes glassy, lips trembling. Her body was still humming, nerves frayed and oversensitive, but she didn't pull away. She let him hold her gaze, let him see her undone.

Gently, he gathered her in his arms—still joined—and carried her to the bathroom, cradling her like something fragile, something precious.

The tiles were cool beneath his feet, the air damp with steam. He turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water ran warm, then stepped them both beneath the spray.

Sakura hissed at the sensation, her body too raw, too tender. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, grounding herself.

Itachi hushed her, pressing a kiss to her temple. His arms tightened around her as he slowly, carefully pulled out of her, every movement deliberate, reverent.

He didn't speak again—not yet. He just held her beneath the water, letting it wash over them, letting silence do what words couldn't. And in that quiet, he made a silent vow: next time, he'd be gentler. Next time, he'd listen to the tremble in her breath, the tears in her eyes, before they fell.

She sagged against him, legs too shaky to hold her weight. He held her close, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist, the other braced against the wall to steady them both.

His gaze dropped, darkening at the sight of their release trailing down her thighs, swirling into the drain. A low growl rumbled from his chest—possessive, primal—and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, lingering there like he could brand her with his mouth.

He reached for her shampoo, lathered it gently into her hair, fingers massaging her scalp with slow, deliberate care. Not rushed. Not distracted. Just present. Then her shower gel—his hands gliding over her skin, washing away the sweat and the remnants of their night with reverence. Every stroke was a promise: I see you. I cherish you.

He was careful. Tender. But still possessive in every touch. His hands claimed her softly, like she was his to protect, not just to hold.

He washed himself quickly, then turned off the water. The silence that followed was thick, intimate—like the steam had sealed them inside something sacred.

He wrapped a towel around her, then one around himself, and helped her dry off—his hands steady, his gaze never leaving hers. Not once.

He carried her back to the bedroom, bare skin against bare skin, the warmth of the shower still clinging to them. Her damp hair brushed his chest, her breath soft against his collarbone. He laid her down gently, the sheets cool beneath her, and followed her down, settling beside her without a word.

Just skin and silence.

He leaned in and kissed her—deeply, fully, gently. His mouth was warm, unhurried, reverent. When he pulled back, his lips barely brushing hers, he whispered:

"I love you."

Sakura stilled.

Her eyes searched his, wide and unguarded, and for a moment, she looked younger—not in age, but in vulnerability. Like the words had cracked something open inside her, something she hadn't realised she'd been protecting.

She didn't speak right away.

Her gaze dropped, and a faint flush crept across her cheeks. Her fingers reached for him slowly, brushing his jaw, then trailing down to rest against his chest. Her touch was light, almost tentative—like she needed to feel his heartbeat to believe the moment was real.

She leaned in, pressed her forehead to his, and closed her eyes.

Then, barely audible—like she was afraid the moment might vanish if she spoke too loudly—she whispered:

"I love you too."

Itachi didn't move. Didn't speak. But his breath hitched, just slightly, and the way his arms tightened around her said everything.

She stayed close.

And when he kissed her again, it was slower this time. Not claiming. Not urgent. Just full of quiet reverence, like he was memorising the feel of her, the sound of her voice, the truth of her words.

 

Chapter 31

The morning light was pale and diffused, slipping through the curtains in soft streaks that painted the sheets in muted gold. The air was warm, still, and faintly scented with sleep—clean skin, lingering shampoo, and something unmistakably intimate. Outside, the world stirred gently: distant birdsong, the low hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves against glass. But inside, everything felt suspended.

Sakura lay quietly, limbs heavy with sleep and the lingering ache of the night before. The bed cradled her, and beside her, Itachi's body was a steady presence—bare, quiet, unmoving.

She didn't open her eyes. Not yet.

Instead, she listened. To the rhythm of his breathing. To the hush of the room. To the way her own heart felt—full, fragile, and strangely calm.

Her thoughts drifted, slow and unhurried, to the night before. To how he had claimed her with mouth, hands, and body—possessive, unrelenting, pushing her to the edge again and again until she thought she might shatter. His words had teased and taunted, but it was the way he'd cared for her afterwards that lingered longer. The way he'd wiped away the tears when her body could no longer take what he gave. The way he'd held her, showered her, whispered to her like she was something precious.

Their words from last night still hung in the air.

I love you.

I love you too.

He'd kissed her then—softly, without urgency. Just lips against lips, like a promise. And when she'd curled into him, he'd held her close, his arms steady around her as sleep pulled them under.

Now, in the quiet light of morning, that memory sat between them. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just there. Real.

She could feel the shape of it in the silence. Like a held breath. Like something settled.

And she remembered the way the words had slipped from her mouth—unplanned, unguarded. How they’d felt right the moment they left her lips. Like her heart had known before the rest of her did.

There’d been no fear. No hesitation. Just truth, rising and spilling out, as natural as breath.

She hadn’t needed to think. She’d simply known.

Her cheek brushed the pillow as she turned her head slightly, eyes fluttering open—and found him watching her.

His gaze was steady, unreadable, but warmer than she’d ever seen it. No tension. No guardedness. Just quiet affection.

She blinked slowly, her breath catching. Then, with a soft shift, she lifted herself slightly from the pillow, her head rising just enough to meet his eyes properly. Her hand moved instinctively, brushing his jaw before cupping his cheek, her thumb grazing the edge of his stubble.

His skin was warm beneath her palm. Familiar. Real.

“I’m sorry for being so rough last night,” he whispered, voice low and thick with remorse.

Sakura’s fingers lingered at his cheek, her touch feather-light. “You don’t need to apologise, Itachi,” she said, voice soft but steady, eyes never leaving his.

“But I hurt you,” he murmured, jaw tightening beneath her hand.

“You didn’t,” she said gently, brushing her thumb across the curve of his cheekbone. “I wasn’t in pain. I was overwhelmed. And I liked it.”

He didn’t speak. Just watched her—eyes dark, searching—for any flicker of discomfort.

Sakura shifted closer, pressing her forehead to his collarbone, her breath warm against his skin. Her arm slid around his waist, fingers splaying across the small of his back. Skin met skin—bare, familiar—and he welcomed her without hesitation, his body curving instinctively to hers.

“I enjoyed it a lot, Itachi,” she murmured against his chest, lips grazing his skin with each word. “I enjoyed watching you lose control. Enjoyed how you didn’t hold back. And I’m fairly certain everyone down the street knows just how much I enjoyed you last night.”

He exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the curve of her hips, then drifting lower, reacquainting himself with the memory of her.

“But you were crying,” he said quietly. “How can you say you enjoyed something when you ended up in tears?”

“Because you overwhelmed me,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the centre of his chest, where his heartbeat thudded beneath her mouth. “I’ve never felt the way I did last night. Never had my body pushed so far, or been given that much pleasure all at once. You shattered me—in the most exquisite way. My body, my mind… you unravelled me completely.”

She kissed the edge of his jaw, slow and deliberate. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. It means I enjoyed it so much, I couldn’t contain it. And I wouldn’t mind being undone like that again,” she added, her voice barely audible, breath warm against his skin. “I love your rough side. But I love this side too—the way you hold me, the way you look at me like I’m something precious.”

Itachi closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him like a weight released. His shoulders softened, tension melting away.

“I love you,” he said quietly, pressing his lips to her forehead.

Sakura smiled at his words and nestled her face against his neck. “I love you too.”

They lay like that for a while, wrapped in the kind of quiet that only comes after truth has been spoken and accepted.

Sakura shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the curve of his ribs, her breath warm against his chest. He responded in kind—his hand sliding up her spine, slow and steady, until his palm settled between her shoulder blades.

Their eyes met again. No words. Just a look—soft, unguarded, full of something that felt like peace.

He leaned in and kissed her shoulder, lips barely grazing her skin. Not possessive. Not hungry. Just present.

She exhaled slowly, her body melting into his, the ache of last night still humming faintly beneath her skin. It wasn’t discomfort. It was memory—etched into her muscles, her bones, her breath.

His fingers traced idle patterns along her back, not seeking, just lingering. She let her eyes close again, her cheek resting against him, and felt the quiet thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

Everything that mattered had already been said.

Everything that mattered had already been said.

Itachi’s hand slid from her back to her waist, fingers curling with quiet intent. He guided her gently, drawing her closer until she was straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips. She moved without hesitation, settling into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He sat up slowly, his chest brushing hers, arms wrapping around her with a kind of reverence. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the hush between them.

Then he kissed her—soft, unspoken, lingering. His mouth moved with quiet devotion, like he was relearning her, savouring the closeness. Sakura responded with equal softness, her fingers curling lightly at the nape of his neck, her body melting into his.

Time slipped by unnoticed.

Then—

A knock.

Sharp. Invasive.

They both stilled.

Itachi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just pressed his lips to hers again, slower this time, as if the interruption didn’t exist.

Sakura was already straddling him, her knees bracketing his hips, her body warm and pliant against his. The kiss deepened, her breath catching as his hands slid to her thighs, then up to her waist—adjusting her, guiding her with quiet intent. She felt the hard press of him beneath her, the heat of him, and the ache low in her belly pulsed in response.

She shifted slightly, deliberately, and the friction made her gasp—soft, involuntary. His grip tightened, reverent and restrained, as he began to pull her down onto him, slow and deliberate. The sensation stole both their breath—groans slipping from their lips, low and unguarded—as their bodies aligned, the promise of closeness crackling between them.

Then the knock came again. And again. Sharp. Persistent.

Itachi broke the kiss with a low growl, his mouth trailing to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. He pressed a kiss there—firm, possessive—and muttered against her skin, voice rough with sleep and irritation, “I’m going to kill whoever’s disturbing us.”

Sakura let out a breathless laugh, her fingers threading through his hair, her body still humming with want. She kissed him gently, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw, her voice low and teasing. “Let’s go and find out who it is.”

He exhaled, forehead resting briefly against hers, his hands lingering at her hips before he eased her carefully off his lap and stood—his body tense, his desire barely banked.

She watched him as he crossed the room, the muscles in his back shifting with each step. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of shorts and a shirt, tugging them on with slow, deliberate movements.

Sakura bit her bottom lip, eyes tracing the line of his spine, the curve of his shoulders, the way his hair fell messily around his face and neck. Even dressed, he looked like something carved from a dream.

And she was wide awake.

She listened as he threw open the bedroom door and stalked down the hallway, his footsteps purposeful but unhurried. A soft click echoed as he unlocked the front door, followed by the low murmur of voices—too quiet to make out, but unmistakably real.

The morning air was cool against his skin as he opened the door, the scent of dew and distant traffic brushing past him. Shisui stood there, casual as ever, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket. Kisame loomed beside him, takeaway mug in hand, already smirking.

“Morning,” Shisui said, far too cheerful for someone who’d barely slept.

Kisame’s eyes swept over Itachi, pausing with deliberate amusement. “We came to check on you two. After last night at the club, figured you might need a wellness visit.”

Itachi didn’t respond immediately, just stepped aside to let them in, jaw tight, body still thrumming with the echo of interrupted intimacy. The fabric of his shorts did little to hide the evidence of that interruption.

Kisame’s gaze dropped, then lifted again with a grin. “You’re pitching a tent so obvious I’m tempted to salute it.”

Itachi gave him a flat look. “I was enjoying my wife,” he said coolly, voice low and edged with irritation. “Until you decided to knock like bailiffs.”

Shisui snorted into his coffee. “We did knock. Several times. You just didn’t answer.”

“Because I was busy,” Itachi said, folding his arms, his tone clipped. “Very busy.”

Kisame took a slow sip from his mug, clearly enjoying himself. “Well, you look like a man who was halfway to heaven and got dragged back by two idiots with caffeine.”

Itachi didn’t dignify that with a response. He just leaned against the back of the sofa, arms folded, eyes sharp.

Sakura smiled to herself, lips pressed together. She couldn’t quite believe how things had worked out. How something that had once felt impossible now felt… inevitable.

She slowly sat up, the sheets slipping from her shoulders in a whisper of warmth. Her body ached in the best way—sated, loose-limbed, unhurried. She reached for Itachi’s shirt, crumpled on the floor, and slipped it over her head. The fabric was soft, oversized, and carried his scent—clean skin, faint spice, something unmistakably him.

She found her pyjama shorts and tugged them on beneath the shirt, then padded quietly to the bathroom, bare feet whispering against the cool floorboards.

The bathroom was softly lit by the spill of morning light through the frosted window. She used the toilet, then turned to the sink, washing her hands before reaching for her toothbrush. As she brushed, her gaze lifted to the mirror—and paused.

The woman staring back looked different.

Her eyes were bright, almost luminous. Her skin held a flush that hadn’t faded, and her lips were still slightly parted, still pink. Her hair was a mess of loose waves, tangled from sleep and touch, falling around her shoulders with a kind of effortless softness.

There was something raw and real in her reflection—something open. Something claimed.

She looked… undone. In the best way.

Sakura smiled at herself, a quiet, knowing curve of her lips. Then she rinsed, spat, and stepped out into the hallway, the scent of morning and memory trailing behind her.

As she rounded into the living room, the soft pad of her bare feet barely registered against the floorboards. The space was bathed in morning light, spilling through the windows in golden streaks that warmed the hardwood and cast long shadows across the furniture.

Shisui and Kisame stood casually against the kitchen counter, mugs in hand, mid-conversation. Itachi was leaning against the back of the sofa, arms folded, his posture relaxed but alert. She caught the tail end of his sentence.

“…the job was completed to perfection, but you know my father—no one can outdo him.”

At the sound of Sakura's footsteps, Itachi turned. His gaze landed on her—his shirt draped over her frame, sleeves hanging past her wrists, hem brushing her thighs. A low growl rumbled in his throat, quiet but unmistakable. Something about seeing her in his clothes tugged at something primal in him. He wanted to haul her over his shoulder and take her back to bed. But he reined it in.

Instead, he pushed away from the sofa and crossed the room in a few slow strides. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her close. He dipped his head and kissed her—soft, unhurried, lips brushing hers like a secret.

"I like you in my shirt," he murmured against her ear, voice low and rough with affection. Her breath caught, goosebumps rising along her neck. He kissed her cheek, then straightened, keeping her tucked into his side.

Kisame let out a low chuckle. "I didn't realise we were getting front-row seats to an adult film. Should've brought popcorn."

Itachi didn't miss a beat. "I didn't ask either of you to come," he said coolly, his fingers tightening slightly on Sakura's hip.

"I only came to return Sakura's things," Shisui said, gesturing to the bag on the dining table. "Your coat, bag, and phone are in there."

"Thank you," Sakura said warmly, offering him a smile.

"Are you okay?" Shisui asked, his voice gentler now.

"I'm fine," she replied.

"No, I mean after last night. That guy at the club—I'm sorry I didn't notice him trailing you…" His voice dropped, guilt threading through the words.

Sakura shook her head. "It's not your fault, Shisui. That man… he didn't do anything, so it's fine."

"But it's not," Kisame said sharply, his teasing tone gone. "No one has the right to make you feel uncomfortable. Or to touch you without consent."

Sakura's chest tightened at the sincerity in their voices. She offered them both a grateful smile. "I appreciate your words. And I'm thankful you were there last night. But I'm okay. Itachi made sure of it."

She looked up at him, her smile stretching wide, soft, and certain.

Kisame's grin returned. "Looks like he made sure you were more than okay. You two can't seem to keep your eyes—or hands—off each other."

Shisui laughed. "Do you remember all the death glares and silent threats? I thought one of you was going to snap and throw a knife or something."

"Now they're throwing clothes off instead," Kisame added with a wink. "Honestly, it's impressive. From mutual loathing to mutual undressing in record time."

Sakura rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed but smiling. "We didn't loathe each other."

Shisui raised his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced. "Do I need to remind you what you said on your very first night here?"

Sakura laughed, the memory surfacing with a groan. "Oh god, I remember."

"What did you say?" Itachi asked, his voice low, already half-smiling.

She pressed her lips together, cringing. "I told Shisui you were probably a psychopathic serial killer with torture rooms built into your house."

Shisui chuckled, and Kisame howled with laughter, nearly spilling his coffee.

"She knows you, pretty boy!" Kisame wheezed, slapping the counter.

Itachi raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping into something darker, teasing. "Is that what you want? For me to build a torture room for you?"

Sakura's cheeks flared red. She elbowed him gently in the ribs, but her smile lingered. He caught her gaze then—steady, unreadable, but warm. Something passed between them in that quiet beat: a shared memory, a silent promise, the kind of look that said I see you. I'm here.

He shifted closer, his hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back, fingers splaying gently. She leaned into him without thinking, her body responding before her mind caught up.

"We didn't exactly have the smoothest start to our marriage," Itachi said, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

Kisame grinned. "Well, you've got the rest of your lives to make up for it. Might want to soundproof the house though—no one needs to hear how you use those torture rooms."

"Oh my god, Kisame, shut up!" Sakura groaned, burying her face in her hands as the others burst into laughter.

Shisui didn't join in immediately. He watched them quietly, his smile softer now. There was something in the way Itachi held her, the way Sakura leaned into him without hesitation. Two months ago, they'd barely tolerated each other. Now, they moved like two halves of the same rhythm.

"Right, we're going to leave you two now that we know you're alive and well," Shisui said, grabbing his things. He turned to Kisame. "Let's go."

"What? No, come on, let's stay and tease them a bit more," Kisame grumbled.

"If you want to hang around and watch them reacquaint themselves all over the house, be my guest. I'm leaving," Shisui warned, already heading for the front door.

Kisame chuckled. "I love you both, but I'm not staying for the show. Just remember to soundproof the place—for the torture dungeons."

Sakura groaned at their retreating forms. "Seriously, guys!"

"You're the one who's a freak, not us, Sakura," Kisame barked out with a laugh, opening the front door as Shisui stepped out first. He turned back to face them one last time.

"We'll see ourselves out. You two do what freaks do."

He shut the door behind him, his laughter echoing down the driveway.

Sakura exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing as the house settled into stillness. She turned to Itachi, catching his gaze. He was already watching her—calm, unreadable, but with that flicker of heat behind his eyes that never quite went away.

Her lips curved, soft and knowing. "They're exhausting."

Itachi's mouth twitched. "They're observant."

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his wrist, then curling around it. "You didn't deny the torture dungeon."

"I didn't," he murmured, voice low. "But I'd only ever build it for you."

Sakura rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. She leaned into him, her forehead resting lightly against his chest. His arms came around her without hesitation, anchoring her there.

For a moment, they just stood like that—no teasing, no noise, just the quiet hum of morning light and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.

“What would you like to do today?” Sakura asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper as the quiet settled around them.

Itachi’s hands rested on her hips, warm and steady. “I can think of a few things,” he murmured, voice low and threaded with suggestion.

Sakura squirmed at his tone, heat blooming low in her belly. Her breath hitched, the ache from the night before stirring beneath her skin—echoes of their earlier interruption still lingering. She hoped he wanted to continue. She was still aching for him, the throb between her legs a slow, insistent pulse, desire slick against the insides of her thighs.

“But,” he added, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her hips, “you’re probably sore. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He paused, his lips brushing her hair. “How about I run you a bath first?”

“I’m fine,” Sakura pouted, her eyes bright with want, fingers curling lightly at the hem of his shirt.

“I’m sure you are,” he said, kissing her gently. “But I’d like to look after you.”

He kissed her again—slower this time—before stepping away and heading towards the bathroom. The sound of running water followed, soft and steady. He plugged the tub, then moved to the cupboard, retrieving a box of bath salts and a bottle of bath soak. He poured them into the water, the steam rising with the delicate scent of petals and warmth.

"It'll be ready soon," he said as he returned to the living room.

Sakura was leaning against the sofa, her posture relaxed but her gaze anything but. "Why don't you join me?" she asked, voice low and sultry, her fingers trailing along the edge of the cushion.

Itachi clenched his jaw, biting back the groan that threatened to escape. "If I join you," he said, stepping closer, "you won't get to relax. And I won't be able to keep my hands off you."

"And why is that an issue?" Sakura asked, her fingers drifting to the buttons of his shirt—the one she wore—and slowly beginning to undo them, one by one.

Itachi closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out to still hers before she could go further. "As much as I'd love to lose myself in you again, Sakura," he said, voice low and rough, "I don't like the idea of you sore and in pain."

He leaned in, capturing her lips in a deep, lingering kiss. His forehead pressed gently against hers, breath mingling.

"Have a bath," he whispered against her mouth. "And we'll see later what we can do."

Steam curled in soft spirals around Sakura's shoulders as she sank deeper into the bath, the warmth wrapping her like a cocoon. Petal-scented soak clung to the air—rose, jasmine, a hint of citrus—and she let it settle into her lungs with each slow breath. Her skin tingled where the heat met the faint soreness from the night before, not painful, just present. A reminder of how fiercely he'd wanted her. How gently he'd held her after.

Her gaze drifted to the shower across the room, half-veiled by mist. The memory came unbidden—Itachi's hands in her hair, the water running warm over her back, his touch reverent as he'd washed her. No words, just silence and care. She'd leaned into him, boneless and quiet, letting him rinse away the ache with fingers that moved like devotion.

She blinked slowly, the image lingering. That moment had stayed with her more than the heat of their bodies. It was the way he'd looked at her—like she was something fragile and fierce all at once.

Her head tipped back against the porcelain, eyes half-lidded. Her fingers skimmed the surface of the water, trailing through the foam in lazy arcs. The silence wasn't empty—it was full of him. The way he'd kissed her forehead. The way he'd stopped her hands with such care. The way he'd said, I'd like to look after you.

In the next room, Itachi moved with quiet purpose. He'd left the bathroom door ajar—not enough to intrude, just enough to listen. The occasional splash, the shift of water, the soft hum of her breath. He didn't want to rush her. Today wasn't about urgency.

He stood by the kitchen counter, mentally sketching out the shape of their day. A walk through the park, where the trees had just begun to turn—amber and russet creeping into the leaves. He'd bring her scarf, the plum one with the tiny embroidered stars. After that, coffee, and lunch at the rooftop café above the bookshop. He knew she had a love for books and assumed that she loved the quiet there, the way the city felt distant and soft from above. Maybe they'd browse the shelves after, let her fingers wander across spines until something caught her eye. He'd watch her choose, knowing she'd read the first few pages before committing, always searching for something that felt like truth.

He folded the scarf and placed it on the dining table. Then he prepared her cappuccino perfectly and set the cup on the side table, ready for when she emerged.

Back in the bath, Sakura shifted slightly, letting the water lap higher against her collarbones. Her thoughts drifted to him, to the way he always seemed to know what she needed before she did. Not just physically, but emotionally. He didn't push. He didn't assume. He offered.

She reached for the sponge and ran it slowly down her arm, watching the water bead and slide away. Her body felt like hers again—tender, alive, cherished. She wasn't just recovering. She was remembering.

She didn't know what the day held, but she trusted him to make it gentle. And that, more than anything, made her feel safe.

Sakura stepped out of the bath, steam clinging to her skin as she wrapped herself in a towel. The air felt cooler now, but her body was loose, warm, and humming with quiet contentment. She padded into the living room, hair damp and curling at the ends, and paused.

The cappuccino sat waiting on the side table, its surface still frothy, the scent rich and familiar. By her cup, her plum scarf lay folded neatly, the tiny embroidered stars catching the light. She blinked, then looked at him. He was already dressed. Jeans, shirt, and jacket.

Itachi stood nearby, watching her with that unreadable softness in his eyes. She raised her eyebrows, a smile tugging at her lips.

"You planned something," she said, voice low and amused.

"I did," he replied, stepping closer. "Nothing extravagant. Just… gentle."

She tilted her head, waiting.

"A walk through the park," he said, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. "Coffee and lunch at the rooftop café. Maybe a book or two, if you're in the mood."

Her smile deepened, eyes glowing with quiet affection. "You really do know me."

"I try," he murmured. "Take your time. I'll wait."

She dressed slowly, choosing soft layers and pulling the scarf around her neck. When she returned, he was already by the door, holding it open. She slipped her hand into his without a word, and he laced their fingers together like it was second nature.

They walked through the park beneath trees just beginning to turn, the leaves whispering overhead in shades of amber and rust. The breeze was light, brushing against her cheeks, and he adjusted her scarf gently when it slipped. They didn't speak much—didn't need to. His thumb brushed over her knuckles now and then, grounding her.

At the rooftop café, the city stretched out below them, softened by distance and late summer haze. They sat at a table tucked in the corner, surrounded by potted herbs and climbing ivy. The scent of coffee mingled with rosemary and mint.

Sakura sipped her drink, eyes half-lidded, content. Itachi watched her, his gaze steady.

"I love you," he said quietly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She looked up, lips parting slightly, then smiled—soft, radiant, glowing from somewhere deep inside.

"I know," she said, reaching for his hand again. "I love you too."

The bookshop was quiet, tucked beneath the rooftop café like a secret waiting to be discovered. The air inside was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of old pages and polished wood. Sakura stepped in first, her fingers brushing the edge of the doorway as if greeting the space. Itachi followed, his hand still loosely entwined with hers.

They wandered slowly between the shelves, the hush around them feeling sacred. Sakura's gaze moved over the spines—some worn, some pristine—pausing now and then to tilt her head and read a title. She didn't rush. She never did. Itachi watched her with quiet admiration, noting how her fingers lingered on the covers, how she read the first few lines before deciding whether to move on or stay.

He picked up a slim volume of poetry, the cover soft and faded. "This one's about longing," he murmured, offering it to her.

Sakura took it, her thumb brushing his as she did. She opened to a random page and read a few lines aloud, her voice low and steady. The words hung between them, delicate and aching.

"I like it," she said, glancing up at him. "It feels… honest."

He nodded, his gaze steady. "So do you."

She smiled, soft and private, and tucked the book under her arm.

They left with two selections—hers a novel with a quiet, aching romance; his, the poetry book she'd read from. Outside, the sun had dipped slightly, casting long shadows across the pavement. He adjusted her scarf again, fingers brushing her jaw, and she leaned into the touch without thinking.

Back home, the house was warm and quiet. Itachi made their drinks while Sakura changed into something soft—an oversized jumper and leggings—and when she returned, he was already curled into the corner of the sofa, waiting.

She joined him without a word, settling into the space beside him, her legs tucked beneath her. He pulled the blanket over them both and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close until her head rested against his chest.

They sat like that for a while, the silence companionable. Their drinks steamed gently on the table, untouched for now. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, but inside, everything felt still.

"I don't think I've ever felt this… balanced," Sakura said quietly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his shirt.

Itachi looked down at her, his expression soft. "You ground me," he said. "You make the quiet feel full."

She smiled, eyes half-lidded. "You make me feel seen. Not just wanted. Known."

His thumb brushed her shoulder, slow and deliberate. "We fit," he said simply.

She nodded, her heart full. "We do."

They stayed like that, curled together beneath the blanket, the books resting nearby like quiet witnesses. No urgency. No noise. Just the steady rhythm of breath and the warmth of being exactly where they were meant to be.

Evening settled over the flat like a soft blanket, the light dimming to a golden hush. The books they'd brought home lay on the coffee table, untouched for now, their spines casting long shadows in the lamplight. Sakura curled deeper into Itachi's side, her head resting against his shoulder, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest through the fabric of his shirt.

He shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to her temple. She turned her face toward him, eyes half-lidded, her expression open and quiet.

"I don't want this day to end," she murmured.

"It doesn't have to," he replied, voice low, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek.

She leaned in, her lips brushing his—soft, tentative, then firmer. He responded in kind, his hand sliding to the small of her back, drawing her closer. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, their breaths mingling. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, seeking warmth, connection.

They moved together in silence, rising from the sofa and drifting toward the bedroom like a shared thought. The door clicked shut behind them, the world narrowing to the hush of sheets and skin.

Sakura lay back against the pillows, her hair fanned out, eyes searching his. He hovered above her, one hand braced beside her head, the other trailing down her side with reverence. His touch was gentle, deliberate—fingertips grazing the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the softness of her thigh.

She reached up, cupping his face, her thumb brushing the edge of his mouth. "I want you," she whispered, not with urgency, but with certainty.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his body lowering to meet hers. Their clothes fell away slowly, piece by piece, until there was nothing between them but warmth and breath and the quiet thrum of want.

He entered her with care, his movements slow and measured, his gaze never leaving hers. Her legs curled around him, drawing him closer, anchoring him. Each thrust was gentle, deliberate, a rhythm that spoke of devotion more than desire. She arched beneath him, her fingers gripping his shoulders, her breath catching in soft gasps.

He murmured her name against her skin, lips brushing her collarbone, her jaw, the hollow of her throat. She responded with quiet moans, her body rising to meet his, her heart full.

When they came together, it was quiet—no crescendo, no urgency. Just the soft collapse of breath and the press of skin, the kind of release that felt like coming home.

After, he stayed above her for a moment, forehead resting against hers, their breaths syncing. Then he rolled gently to the side, pulling her into his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin.

"I love you," he whispered again, voice rough with emotion.

She smiled against his chest, her fingers tracing the steady beat of his heart. "I know, I love you too" she said softly. "I feel it in everything you do."

They lay like that, tangled and warm, the night stretching around them in quiet devotion. Neither spoke again for a while. They didn't need to.

Chapter 32

Two years later…

Itachi couldn't have asked for a better life.

He lay still for a moment, watching Sakura's bare form curled beneath the soft linen sheets, her breathing slow and steady in sleep. His wife. His world. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across her skin. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of her before slipping quietly out of bed.

He dressed in silence, pulling on a soft cotton shirt and loose joggers, then padded barefoot down the hallway to their daughter's room.

Sarada was fast asleep, her tiny body curled into a nest of blankets. Her black hair—so unmistakably his—fanned out across the pillow like ink spilled on parchment. He smiled, heart swelling, and bent to kiss her cheek. She stirred, blinking open her beautiful onyx eyes, and gave him a sleepy smile.

"Dada," she cooed, lifting her arms towards him.

He scooped her up gently, cradling her against his chest. "Good morning, my precious," he whispered, pressing another kiss to her cheek. Her small fingers curled into his shirt as he carried her to the changing table, humming softly while he changed her nappy.

Downstairs, the house was quiet, wrapped in the hush of early morning. He settled Sarada into her high chair and began preparing breakfast—pancakes, mashed banana, and slices of fresh strawberries. The scent of vanilla and warm batter soon filled the kitchen, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from the machine he'd set on a timer.

He could still remember the day Sakura told him she was pregnant—just over ninteen months ago now.

It had been a quiet Sunday morning, the kind they'd come to treasure. Rain tapped gently against the windows, and the scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air. He'd been in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes while humming under his breath.

Sakura had walked in barefoot, her hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of his shirts that hung loose around her frame. She held something in her hand, her fingers curled tightly around it, knuckles pale.

"Itachi," she'd said, voice trembling slightly.

He turned, spatula still in hand, and saw the look in her eyes—wide, uncertain, brimming with something fragile and electric.

She opened her palm slowly, revealing the test. Positive.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. The world narrowed to her face, her breath, the tiny plastic stick between them. Then he crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into his arms, holding her like she might vanish.

"We're having a baby?" he whispered, voice thick.

She nodded against his chest, laughter and tears mingling in her throat. "We're having a baby."

He'd been ecstatic. Overwhelmed. Terrified in the best way. From that moment on, he'd thrown himself into preparing—researching, planning, fussing over her every move. To the point where she'd started hiding things just to avoid his overprotective streak. She'd teased him, called him insufferable, told him she was pregnant, not porcelain. But he hadn't cared. She was growing their child, and he wanted her to rest, to feel cherished.

They'd bought this house not long after the announcement. His old place had been built for solitude—a quiet retreat for a man who preferred silence to company. But he wasn't that man anymore.

This house had felt right the moment they saw it. Nestled deep within a canopy of trees, it offered privacy and peace, shielded from the noise of the outside world. A winding gravel path led to the front door, framed by climbing ivy and soft lantern lights that glowed at dusk. The double-storey structure was warm and inviting, with wide bay windows and a wraparound porch where they sometimes sat with mugs of coffee, watching the rain fall through the leaves.

Inside, the kitchen was spacious and modern, with pale oak cabinets, brushed steel fixtures, and a central island where Sarada now banged her spoon with delight. The coffee machine was non-negotiable—both of theirs sacred morning ritual. The dining room held a long wooden table, hand-sanded and stained by Itachi himself, surrounded by mismatched chairs that somehow worked together. It could seat ten easily, and had already hosted more than a few noisy dinners with friends and family.

The living room was their sanctuary. Painted in soft greys, with plush furniture in deeper charcoal tones, it was bright and airy thanks to the skylights overhead. Photographs lined the walls—candid shots of laughter, quiet moments, and the three of them together. Smiles greeted you the moment you stepped inside.

Upstairs, five bedrooms branched off the landing. One had been transformed into Itachi's home office, lined with bookshelves and a desk that overlooked the garden. Two others served as a guest rooms, modest but welcoming.

Their master bedroom was a sanctuary in itself—spacious and serene, with soft taupe walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the room in morning light. The bed was large, dressed in crisp white linen and layered throws in muted greys and blush tones. A pair of armchairs sat beneath the window, where Sakura often curled up with a book while Itachi worked nearby. The en-suite was generous, with a walk-in shower, a deep soaking tub, and twin basins set into a marble counter. It was a space designed for quiet moments, for shared routines and whispered conversations before sleep.

Sarada's room was a gentle blend of warmth and whimsy. Painted in soft lavender with delicate star decals scattered across one wall, it held a white child's bed nestled beside a plush armchair where Sakura had spent countless nights rocking her to sleep. Shelves lined with picture books and stuffed animals added colour and charm, while a mobile of paper cranes hung above the bed, swaying gently in the breeze from the open window. Her name was stitched into a framed embroidery above the door—Sakura's handiwork, a quiet touch of love.

He remembered the birth vividly. Sakura had been fierce, determined. She'd gripped his hand, sweat beading on her brow, and pushed through the pain with a strength that left him in awe. And then, the quiet cry of their daughter had filled the room, fragile and perfect.

He'd fallen in love with Sakura all over again that day. And with Sarada, who had stolen his heart the moment he held her.

They'd spent the first few months cocooned in their little bubble, wrapped in warmth and wonder. Eventually, they'd opened their doors to friends and family, who came bearing gifts and love, eager to meet the newest Uchiha.

Itachi had tried to convince Sakura to extend her maternity leave, but she was resolute. She missed her work, her purpose. So, for the past month, Sarada had been spending her days at Sakura's parents' house, doted on by her grandparents while Sakura returned to the hospital.

Every evening, Itachi would pick her up, bring her home, and prepare dinner—something simple, something warm. And every night, they'd sit together, the three of them, sharing stories and laughter beneath the soft glow of the dining room lights.

It was quiet. It was ordinary. It was everything he'd ever wanted.

It would be their two-year anniversary in a few days, and this time, Itachi was determined to celebrate it properly.

Last year had been swallowed by renovation dust and late-night planning sessions, the two of them elbow-deep in transforming their house into a home. Between stripped wallpaper and mismatched furniture deliveries, the day had passed unmarked—no dinner, no flowers, just a shared glance and a tired smile over takeaway boxes. It had been worth it, but still, he hadn't forgotten.

This year, he wanted more for them. Something deliberate. Something beautiful.

He'd been planning it for months, quietly threading together the pieces of a day that would belong to them alone. With Ino's help—her knack for logistics paired with a fierce loyalty to Sakura—he'd set the wheels in motion. Their wedding day had been rushed, shaped by compromise and circumstance. It hadn't reflected who they were. So, he'd decided to recreate it—not as a do-over, but as a gift. A day that honoured their love, their journey, and the life they'd built together.

The first step had been asking Sakura's father.

Itachi had approached Kizashi one evening, over a quiet dinner at the Haruno house. He'd explained his plan, his hopes, and asked—softly—if they might use the family's hotel for the event. Kizashi had listened, eyes warm, then smiled with a kind of pride that made Itachi's chest tighten.

"You don't even need to ask," he'd said, voice thick with emotion. "You and Sakura deserve the day you were meant to have. Whatever you need, it's yours."

From that moment, everything began to fall into place.

The hotel's rooftop garden would host the ceremony—a secluded space framed by climbing roses and soft lanterns, with views that stretched across the city skyline. Itachi had visited it often in the past weeks, sometimes alone, sometimes with Ino, sketching out the layout, testing the lighting, choosing the flowers. He wanted it to feel like a secret tucked above the world. Quiet. Intentional.

Their friends had rallied around him.

Shisui had been the first to show up, sleeves rolled and grin wide, ready to help string lights and rearrange furniture with the kind of energy only he could bring. Kisame had taken charge of the music, curating a playlist that balanced sentiment with subtlety—no cheesy ballads, just songs that felt like them. He'd even promised a live acoustic set, if Itachi wanted it.

Tenten had offered to help with the décor, her eye for symmetry and detail proving invaluable. She'd sourced soft linens, delicate centrepieces, and had even found a way to incorporate Sakura's favourite peonies into the arrangements without overwhelming the space.

Together, they worked late into the evenings, laughter echoing off the rooftop walls, the city lights flickering below like distant stars. Itachi watched it all unfold with quiet gratitude. Every petal, every chair, every whispered plan was a thread in the tapestry he was weaving—for Sakura, for Sarada, for the life they'd created.

Everything was ready. Almost.

He'd managed to find the perfect dress for Sakura too. He hadn't expected to find it so quickly. The boutique was quiet, tucked away on a cobbled side street Ino had recommended, its windows framed with soft lace and climbing roses. He'd stepped inside with a vague idea—ivory, full gown, something simple but not plain. Something that felt like Sakura.

And then he saw it.

The dress stood alone on a raised platform, bathed in soft light. Layers of ivory tulle cascaded from a fitted bodice, each one whisper-light, catching the air as if the gown itself breathed. The sweetheart neckline was softened by an illusion overlay—delicate lace that traced the collarbone and formed cap sleeves so fine they looked spun from morning mist.

Floral embroidery bloomed across the bodice and scattered down into the skirt, subtle and organic, like wildflowers caught in a breeze. There was no glitter, no heavy beading—just texture, movement, and quiet grace. A satin ribbon cinched the waist, tied in a soft bow at the back. It was a detail he knew she'd love: understated, but intimate.

He stepped closer, fingertips grazing the edge of the fabric. It was soft. Warm. Romantic without being fussy. Strong without being loud.

This was the dress.

It didn't demand attention—it earned it. Just like her.

The dress had been the heart of it—but Itachi knew the details mattered too. The finishing touches. The things Sakura would notice not because they were extravagant, but because they were chosen with her in mind.

He'd spent weeks searching for the right jewellery. Not diamonds. Sakura wasn't one for glitter or grandeur. She liked things that felt personal. Meaningful.

He found a pair of earrings first—delicate drop studs with soft ivory pearls suspended from rose gold vines. The metal had a warm blush tone, subtle against the skin, and the pearls reminded him of the way she looked in the morning light: quiet, luminous, untouched by anything harsh. They were elegant, but not showy. Just enough to catch the light when she turned her head.

The necklace came later. A fine rose gold chain with a single pearl nestled in a leaf-shaped setting. It sat just below the collarbone, where he imagined her fingers would rest when she was nervous or moved. It was simple. Intimate. A whisper of beauty rather than a shout.

The shoes had taken longer. He wanted her to feel comfortable, but still radiant. He chose a pair of ivory satin heels with a low block heel—practical, but graceful. The toe was rounded, the sides gently scalloped, and a tiny embroidered blossom sat just beneath the arch, hidden unless you looked closely. A secret detail. Just for her.

Ino had helped him store everything. She'd cleared a space in her spare room, tucked the boxes beneath a gauzy cover, and labelled them with quiet precision. Dress. Shoes. Jewellery. Veil. She'd even added a sprig of lavender to the drawer, so the fabric would carry a soft scent when Sakura opened it.

It wasn't just a gift. It was a promise. That this time, their wedding would be theirs.

He heard the soft creak of the stairs before he saw her.

Sakura padded into the kitchen, barefoot and wrapped in his shirt—her hair tousled from sleep, cheeks still warm with the flush of morning. The hem of the shirt skimmed her thighs, sleeves rolled haphazardly, and yet to him, she looked effortlessly radiant.

Her cappuccino was already waiting on the counter, just the way she liked it—three sugars, the top full of froth and strong enough to wake the dead. She smiled as she crossed the room, eyes still heavy with sleep, and he met her halfway, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

"Good morning, beautiful," he murmured.

Sakura kissed him back, her smile soft against his mouth. "You always say I'm beautiful," she teased, voice husky, "even when I'm wearing your shirt and my hair looks like I've fought a hurricane."

"If you want," he said, voice low and teasing, "we can take off the shirt and find exactly what I think is beautiful about you."

She bit back a moan, fingers curling briefly into his chest. "No," she whispered, lips brushing his jaw. "You'll make me late for work."

She kissed him again—quick, warm, lingering just enough to make him want more—before turning toward their daughter.

Sarada was perched at the breakfast table, legs swinging beneath her chair, a plate of pancakes in front of her and syrup smeared across one cheek. She looked up as Sakura approached, eyes bright.

"Mama!" she chirped, holding up a torn piece of pancake with sticky fingers.

Sakura crouched beside her, brushing Sarada's hair back from her face before kissing her syrupy cheek. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, accepting the offering and popping it into her mouth. "Mmm, yummy!"

Sarada giggled, clearly pleased with herself, and reached up to pat Sakura's face with her syrup-coated hand. Sakura laughed, catching her wrist gently and kissing her palm.

"You're a little menace," she said fondly, wiping Sarada's fingers with a napkin. "But you make mornings worth waking up for."

She stood and reached for her mug, taking a slow sip of her perfectly made coffee. A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and she glanced over at Itachi, her expression softening.

"Are you still busy on Saturday?" she asked, voice casual but tinged with hope.

Itachi moved beside her, picking up his own mug. "I am. I can't get out of this meeting," he said, regret threading through his tone.

Sakura nodded. She understood. She always had. Itachi had worked tirelessly to prove himself at his father's company—his dedication unquestioned by everyone except his father. In the two years they'd been together, that relationship had remained strained, distant. And Sakura had long made peace with having little to do with the man who barely acknowledged his own granddaughter.

They had tried, early on. A quiet visit when Sarada was born. A photo sent with a note in Itachi's handwriting. Fugaku had responded with silence. No call. No visit. Not even a message passed through Mikoto. Itachi hadn't brought it up again, and Sakura hadn't asked him to.

Mikoto, at least, came when she could. She brought soft blankets and tiny socks, held Sarada with a quiet reverence that made Sakura ache. She never spoke against her husband, but her presence was gentle and deliberate—an offering, perhaps, for what Fugaku refused to give.

She knew what it would cost Itachi if he missed the meeting. His father would hold it against him, as he always did.

"I know it's not ideal," he said, reaching for her hand. "Especially with it being our anniversary. But we'll celebrate in the evening. Maybe go out for a meal?"

Sakura nodded, squeezing his fingers. "Yeah. That sounds good."

"Aren't you meeting Ino in the morning?" he asked, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

Sakura groaned, dropping her head back dramatically. "Don't remind me! I love her, but she's made it her personal mission to remind me every single day that we're meeting early on Saturday. I've told her it's our anniversary, but does she care? No!"

"What's the plan?" Itachi asked, chuckling into his mug.

"Apparently," Sakura said, rolling her eyes, "she's signed me up for a bridal photoshoot at my dad's hotel. I don't even know why! I'm already married. I have zero interest in dressing up like a bride and being told to stand here, sit there, tilt my head like this—ugh!"

She groaned again, burying her face briefly in Itachi's chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head. "It'll be fun," he said gently.

"You're not the one being forced into a corset and heels," she muttered against his shirt.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "True. But you'll look stunning. You always do."

Sakura sighed, half exasperated, half amused. Sarada called out from the table, waving another piece of pancake in the air, and Sakura turned with a smile, already moving to join her.

While Sakura disappeared upstairs for a quick shower, Itachi scooped Sarada into his arms, careful not to smear syrup across his shirt. She squealed in delight, her sticky fingers grabbing at his collar as he carried her toward the bathroom.

"Time to wash off the breakfast battlefield," he said, tickling her belly.

Sarada responded with a high-pitched giggle, kicking her legs and babbling something that sounded suspiciously like "da-da-da!" as he lowered her into the warm bath.

He knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and gently rinsed the syrup from her cheeks and fingers. She splashed happily, sending droplets across the tiles, her chubby hands slapping the water with glee.

"Hey, hey—easy," he chuckled, shielding his face from a rogue splash. "This is a bath, not a swimming pool."

Sarada gurgled in reply, grabbing her rubber duck and chewing on its head with great concentration. Itachi watched her, heart full, as she babbled and kicked, her curls dampening into soft ringlets.

Once she was clean, he wrapped her in a fluffy towel and carried her back to the nursery. She clung to his neck, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, thumb slipping into her mouth as she began to settle.

He dressed her in a soft cotton onesie with tiny clouds printed across the front, then pulled on her leggings and brushed her hair gently, tying it back with the pink ribbon Sakura had laid out. Sarada blinked up at him sleepily, her thumb still tucked in, one hand loosely clutching her stuffed rabbit.

Downstairs, Sakura was already dressed—black trousers, crisp white blouse, her damp hair swept into a low bun. She moved with quiet efficiency, placing bottles of milk into Sarada's bag, along with snacks, nappies, and a change of clothes. She checked the temperature of the milk, zipped the bag shut, and set it by the door.

Her own bag was next—phone, planner, keys, and a half-eaten protein bar she'd abandoned earlier. She glanced up as Itachi entered the room with Sarada in his arms, the baby now clean, dressed, and content.

"Perfect timing," Sakura said, smiling. "She looks adorable."

"She's clean," Itachi said proudly. "And she's declared war on ducks."

Sakura laughed, reaching for Sarada and kissing her cheek. The baby responded with a soft coo and reached for Sakura's necklace, fingers curling around the chain.

"Ready to see Grandma and Grandpa?" Sakura asked gently, brushing Sarada's curls back from her face.

Sarada babbled in response, her voice high and musical, and kicked her legs in excitement.

"She knows what that means," Itachi said, handing over the baby bag. "Snacks and cuddles all day."

Sakura slung her own bag over her shoulder, gave Sarada one last kiss, and together, the three of them stepped out into the morning light. The air was crisp, the sun just beginning to warm the pavement, and for a moment, everything felt quietly perfect—just the three of them, heading into the day.

The drive into the city was slow and sun-drenched. Itachi rolled the window down halfway, letting the warm breeze stir through the car. The air smelled of cut grass, sun-warmed asphalt, and the faint sweetness of honeysuckle from roadside hedges. Summer in full bloom.

He parked outside the Haruno Hotel, the pavement shimmering faintly in the heat. The concierge offered a nod and a chilled towel—Itachi accepted it with a quiet thank you, pressing it briefly to the back of his neck before stepping into the lift.

The rooftop was already alive with movement.

Tenten stood beneath the pergola, her hair twisted up and sunglasses perched on her head, arranging centrepieces with the precision of a field medic. The tables were dressed in soft linen, fluttering slightly in the breeze, and the peonies she'd chosen were full and lush—coral, blush, ivory—nestled among sprigs of rosemary and trailing jasmine.

"You're early," she said, not looking up. "Good. I need someone with taste to tell me if this looks like a wedding or a garden centre."

Itachi stepped closer, the scent of the flowers mingling with suncream and lemon water. "It looks like her."

Tenten paused, then smiled. "That's the goal."

The rooftop had been transformed. White chairs with pale grey cushions were arranged in neat rows, shaded by parasols. The arch was half-draped in gauze, waiting for the final layer of blooms. Fairy lights were strung across the trellises, their bulbs catching the sunlight like glass beads.

Shisui arrived with a box of lanterns and a grin that said he'd already been up to mischief. "I brought extras," he said, setting them down. "Because I know you. You'll want symmetry."

Itachi raised an eyebrow. "I want balance."

"Same thing," Shisui said, already unpacking.

They worked in quiet rhythm, sweat beading at their temples, shirts sticking slightly to their backs. Kisame was downstairs, apparently threatening to sing unless someone gave him a task. Tenten had wisely sent him to test the sound system.

Itachi paused at the edge of the rooftop, looking out over the city. The skyline shimmered in the heat, rooftops and steeples softened by golden haze. Somewhere below, a child laughed. A car horn blared. Life moved on.

He imagined Sakura standing here. The dress. The veil. The way her eyes would widen when she realised what he'd done. Not just the flowers or the music or the setting—but the thought. The care. The love.

This time, it would be theirs.

Shisui was adjusting the lanterns along the railing, squinting against the sunlight. "Do you think she suspects anything?"

Tenten looked up from her centrepieces, one brow raised. "Sakura? Please. She's too busy letting Ino bully her into fake bridal poses to notice anything."

Itachi gave a quiet smile, brushing a speck of dust from the arch's frame. "She still thinks I'm stuck in a meeting."

Shisui snorted. "Classic."

"She said Ino was dragging her to a bridal shoot," Itachi continued, voice low and amused. "She was already bracing herself for flower crowns and champagne flutes. I told her I'd try to make it back in time for dinner."

Tenten grinned. "You're cruel."

"I'm careful," he said simply.

There was a pause. The breeze stirred the gauze draped over the arch, lifting it like breath. Somewhere below, a car horn blared, then faded.

"She's going to lose it," Shisui said, stepping back to admire the symmetry of the lanterns. "In the good way."

Itachi didn't answer immediately. He looked out over the city, the rooftops bathed in golden light, and imagined her walking through the rooftop doors. The way her breath would catch. The way her fingers might tremble, just slightly, before she reached for his.

"She deserves something that's hers," he said finally. "Not borrowed. Not rushed. Just… hers."

---

The sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the bed. Sakura stirred, reaching out instinctively—but the other side was cool. Empty.

She blinked, then sighed, rolling onto her back. The silence was familiar, but today it felt heavier. She turned her head and spotted a cream envelope resting on her bedside table, her name written in Itachi's elegant hand.

Sitting up, she reached for it, fingers brushing the edge with quiet reverence. Inside was a card—thick, textured, and beautifully illustrated with soft watercolours of peonies and wisteria. She opened it slowly.

His words were simple, but they wrapped around her heart like silk.

"To my wife,
You are the calm in my chaos, the light in my quiet.
Every day with you is a gift I never take for granted.
Thank you for loving me, for choosing me, for giving me our daughter.
Happy anniversary, my heart.
—Itachi"

Sakura pressed the card to her chest, hugging it tightly. Her eyes stung, but she smiled. She reached into the drawer and pulled out the card she'd hidden days ago—soft pink, with pressed cherry blossoms. She traced the edge, then stood.

Downstairs, she found him.

Itachi stood near the kitchen island, dressed in a charcoal suit, his tie a muted grey-blue. He was on the phone, voice low and clipped, but his eyes lifted the moment she appeared at the top of the stairs.

He smiled.

She descended slowly, barefoot, card in hand. He ended the call and crossed the room in a few strides, reaching for her.

"Happy anniversary," he murmured, kissing her deeply.

She melted into him, fingers curling into his lapel. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

"I'm sorry I can't be here today," he said softly. "But I've made a reservation for us tonight. Just us."

She nodded, pressing the card into his hand. "I wrote this days ago. I didn't know if you'd be home to read it."

He opened it, reading in silence. His eyes softened. He leaned in again, kissing her slowly, whispering against her lips, "I love you."

Another kiss. Then he was gone.

Sakura exhaled, lingering in the quiet. The house was still, save for Sarada babbling in her high chair, cheeks sticky with banana and fingers busy squishing the last slice.
"Come on, sweetheart," she said, lifting her daughter with a soft grunt. "Let's get you cleaned up."

She bathed Sarada slowly, letting the warm water soothe her own nerves. Dressed her in a soft cotton romper, tucked her into the playpen with her favourite plush crow, and stepped into the shower. The water ran hot, washing away the ache of missing him—the weight of days spent pretending she didn't.

She was towelling her hair when the knock came.
Insistent. Familiar.
Sakura groaned. "That'll be annoying aunty Ino," she muttered to Sarada, scooping her up.

She opened the door to find Ino already reaching for the baby. "There's my favourite Uchiha!" Ino cooed, cuddling Sarada close. "Right, bags. Let's go."

"Ino—what?"

"No time. Photoshoot. You promised."

Sakura blinked as Ino ushered her toward the car, buckling Sarada into the seat she kept in the back. The boot clicked open, revealing garment bags, shoeboxes, and a velvet case.

"Ino…"

"Trust me."

They arrived at the Haruno Hotel. Sakura grumbled the whole way, carrying Sarada as she followed Ino into one of the suites.

Inside, her mother, Hinata, and Tenten were already waiting.

Sakura raised an eyebrow. "Why are you all here?"

Hinata smiled gently. "To help you get ready."

"For the photoshoot," Tenten added, too quickly.

Ino brought in the boxes. Meibuki took Sarada, cooing and bouncing her gently. The others began unpacking.

The dress was breathtaking—soft ivory with delicate embroidery, a silhouette that hugged and flared in all the right places. Sakura stared at it, heart thudding.

"This is… this is exactly what I would've picked."

Ino winked. "Of course it is."

They helped her dress, fastening the bodice, smoothing the skirt. Ino did her makeup—soft, romantic tones—and styled her hair into a loose updo with tendrils framing her face.

Tenten and Hinata slipped away to change, returning in soft pink dresses that mirrored the ones they'd worn years ago. Meibuki brought Sarada back in a matching gown, her hair adorned with a tiny flower clip.

Sakura frowned. "Okay, what is going on?"

Ino waved her off. "It's all part of the shoot. Just go with it."

Jewellery. Shoes. Perfume. Then they were walking.

Sakura's heels clicked softly against the polished floor as they approached the rooftop doors. Her heart was beginning to race—tight in her chest, fluttering in her throat. She could feel the weight of something shifting, something real.

Her father stood waiting, dressed in a smart suit. His eyes welled up the moment he saw her.

"You look beautiful," he whispered, hugging her tightly.

She clung to him, suddenly breathless. Her fingers trembled against his lapel.

He took her arm. The doors opened.

Music poured out—soft strings, familiar and aching. The rooftop was transformed. Guests stood, turning. Flowers bloomed in every corner. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze.

And at the end of the aisle stood Itachi.

Charcoal suit. Tie matching the bridesmaids' dresses. Shoulders squared, hands clasped. But it was his eyes—dark, steady, unwavering—that stole her breath.

Her heart stilled. Her lungs forgot how to work.

He looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever made sense.

The world narrowed to just him. The breeze, the music, the crowd—all faded. There was only the man who had once been a stranger, now the centre of her gravity.

Kizashi walked her forward, step by step, until they reached the arch. He placed her hand in Itachi's.

"Look after my baby girl," he said, voice thick.

Itachi nodded. "With all my heart. With all my being."

Hiruzen stepped forward, suit jacket rustling, eyes warm.

"Love is not always born in ease. Sometimes, it begins in friction—in misunderstanding, in silence, in the slow unfolding of trust. What matters is not how it starts, but how it grows.

Today, we stand witness to a love that has grown in the quiet moments. In the shared glances across crowded rooms. In the way two people learn each other's rhythms, fears, and hopes. Sakura and Itachi have shown us that love is not just passion—it is patience. It is choosing each other, again and again, even when the world pulls in other directions.

They have built a life not just of beauty, but of depth. A home filled with laughter, with gentleness, and with the fierce protectiveness that only true love brings. And in Sarada, they have created something even more extraordinary—a living testament to their bond.

Today is not a beginning, but a reaffirmation. A promise renewed. A celebration of everything they have already built, and everything they will continue to grow together."

He turned to Itachi, nodding gently. "Itachi, if you're ready."

Itachi reached into his jacket pocket, unfolding a piece of paper with careful hands. His voice was low, steady, but thick with emotion.

"Sakura…

We didn't start with ease. We clashed. We misunderstood. We guarded ourselves. But somewhere in that chaos, you saw me. Not the name, not the legacy—but me.

You challenged me. You softened me. You taught me that love isn't something you earn—it's something you give. Freely. Fiercely.

You are the calm in my storm. The fire in my silence. You are the reason I wake up with purpose, and the reason I sleep with peace.

You gave me a home. You gave me your heart. And you gave me our daughter—our beautiful, stubborn, brilliant Sarada. I look at her and see you. I look at you and see everything I never knew I needed.

I am the luckiest man in the world because you chose me. Because you stayed. Because you love me.

And I vow, with every breath I have, to love you back. To protect you. To honour you. To never take a single moment of this life for granted."

He looked up, eyes locked with hers. "You are my everything."

Sakura was crying, her hand trembling slightly in his. When Hiruzen turned to her, she laughed softly through her tears.

"I didn't know I was getting married again today," she said, voice thick with emotion. "So, I didn't write anything down."

She turned to Itachi, her eyes shining.

"But I can tell you this. You make me feel loved every single day. You make me feel seen. Safe. Cherished. You are the one who holds me when I fall apart, and the one who never lets me forget who I am.

I'm not the lucky one because you're perfect. I'm the lucky one because you're real. Because you're mine. And because somehow, you love me back."

She reached up, brushing his cheek. "I love you, Itachi. With everything I am."

The rooftop was hushed, the air warm with midsummer light. Hiruzen's voice, steady and rich, carried through the space.

"By the love you've spoken, the promises you've made, and the life you've already begun together… I now pronounce you husband and wife."

A soft swell of music rose behind his words. Sakura's breath caught as Itachi leaned in, his hand cradling her cheek, and kissed her—slow, reverent, full of everything he hadn't said aloud.

Applause rippled through the crowd, gentle and joyful. Sarada squealed from Meibuki's arms, her tiny hands clapping with delight.

Itachi rested his forehead against Sakura's, eyes closed. "You're mine," he whispered.

Sakura smiled through her tears. "Always."

---

The sun dipped low, casting golden light across the rooftop. Lanterns flickered to life, strung between trellises and ivy-covered beams. Tables were dressed in soft linen, scattered with petals and candles. The scent of peonies and jasmine lingered in the air, mingling with laughter and the clink of glasses.

Sarada clung to the edge of a low table, pink gown bunched around her knees, one sock sagging like a flag of defiance. She let out a determined grunt, pulling herself upright with the tenacity of someone scaling Everest in formalwear.

Shisui crouched beside her, one hand hovering like a safety net, the other wielding a spoonful of mashed mango. "She's going vertical," he whispered, reverent. "Organic. No preservatives. No betrayal."

Sarada turned, spotted the spoon—and squealed. Her fingers shot out, smearing mango across Shisui's cheek with gleeful abandon. He blinked, frozen, as the fruit dripped toward his collar.

"She's marking her territory," Kisame muttered, arms folded like a nightclub bouncer. A toddler sneezed three tables over and he visibly tensed. "That sneeze sounded suspicious."

Sarada giggled, babbling nonsense as she tried to shove the spoon into Shisui's mouth. "Bah-bah-bah!" she chirped, triumphant, mango now streaked across both of them like war paint.

Then she spotted Kisame.

Her arms reached out, fingers grasping the air with unmistakable intent.

Kisame's expression shifted instantly—from stoic sentinel to delighted uncle. He scooped her up with surprising gentleness, cradling her like a priceless artefact. "Look at this masterpiece," he announced, holding her aloft like she'd just won a medal. "Limited edition. One of one."

Someone reached out, cooing, trying to touch her hand.

Kisame stepped back like they'd triggered a security alarm. "Nope. No touching. She's on lockdown."

Kisame clutched her like a priceless artefact, dodging Tenten's outstretched arms with the agility of a seasoned bodyguard. "You had her during soundcheck," she argued, trying to pry Sarada free. "I saw you. She was asleep on your shoulder like a koala."

"That was tactical bonding," Kisame countered, backing away. "You can't count naps."

"She's not a limited-edition action figure," Tenten snapped, lunging again.

"She's absolutely a collector's item," Kisame replied, spinning to avoid her grasp. "And I'm the curator."

Shisui, still mango-streaked and crouched nearby, sighed. "Can we all agree she's the most popular person here?"

That's when Ino stepped in—calm, smiling, armed with a flower clip and the kind of confidence that didn't ask for permission. "Sarada baby," she cooed, holding out her arms. "Come dance with me, sweetheart."

Sarada squealed, reaching for her without hesitation.

Kisame froze, betrayed. "She didn't even hesitate."

"She knows who's got rhythm," Ino said sweetly, plucking Sarada from his arms with practiced ease. Tenten looked smug. Kisame looked wounded.

Sakura laughed quietly, settling beside Itachi, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. She toasted with Tenten, whispered with Hinata, and watched her daughter twirl in circles with Ino, flower clip now nestled in her hair.

"She's got two uncles, a tactical response unit, and now a custody dispute," Sakura murmured.

"She'll never know peace," Itachi replied, deadpan—but his gaze lingered on Sarada's face, her laughter, the way Ino held her like something precious.

And Sakura thought, not for the first time, that chaos had never looked so much like love.

A hush fell over the rooftop as Kisame stepped forward, nodding to Itachi. The first notes of Can't Help Falling in Love drifted into the air—gentle, timeless, full of quiet devotion.

Itachi stood and offered his hand. "Dance with me?"

Sakura nodded, her fingers slipping into his. The music wrapped around them like silk.

They moved to the centre of the rooftop, lanterns glowing overhead, casting soft halos across the tiles. Below, the city lights blinked like distant stars, but up here, everything stilled.

He pulled her close—one hand at her waist, the other cradling hers—and they began to sway, slow and steady, as if the world had narrowed to just this: the warmth of skin, the rhythm of breath, the quiet thrum of love.

Wise men say, only fools rush in…

But I can't help falling in love with you…

Sakura rested her head against his chest, her eyes fluttering shut. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek, steady and sure, syncing with hers like a promise.

Like a river flows, surely to the sea…

Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be…

He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her temple, then her cheek, then—softly, reverently—her lips. His breath was warm against her skin as he whispered, "I love you. I always have."

She smiled into the kiss, her fingers tightening around his.

The music faded, but they didn't move. Not yet.

Around them, the rooftop held its breath. Lantern light flickered softly, casting golden shadows across their skin. Itachi's forehead rested against Sakura's, his whisper still warm on her lips. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to the moment.

Then—

A soft thump. A squeal. The unmistakable sound of palms and knees slapping against tile.

Sarada crawled into view, pink gown trailing behind her like a cape, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with delight. She babbled as she moved, a string of joyful nonsense, her little body rocking with each determined push forward.

She reached them and planted herself between their feet, one hand grabbing Sakura's ankle, the other reaching up toward Itachi with gummy insistence.

"Da!" she chirped, then again, louder: "Da-da!"

Sakura laughed, crouching to scoop her up. Sarada squealed, pressing her face into Sakura's neck, then twisting to reach for Itachi, fingers grasping at his collar until he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

For a moment, Sakura held them both—Itachi's hand on her back, Sarada nestled against her chest—and felt the world tilt. The rooftop, the city lights, the music… it all faded into the background.

She looked out over the skyline, the hush of night pressing in, and thought: This is rare.

Not the quiet. Not the beauty. But the stillness inside her. The sense of being exactly where she was meant to be.

"I wish we could stay like this," she murmured, voice barely above the breeze.

Itachi's gaze met hers, steady and soft. "We will. As often as we can."

Sarada yawned, her head drooping against Sakura's shoulder, one fist still tangled in her mother's necklace. The rhythm of the dance lingered—not in the music, but in the way their bodies leaned into each other, in the breath they shared, in the promise unspoken.

They didn't need the song anymore. They had this.

Later, when the guests had drifted home and Sarada had fallen asleep in her grandmother's arms, Itachi and Sakura stood at the edge of the rooftop, the city quiet beneath them.

She leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.

"How did you pull all this off?" she asked softly, her voice full of wonder.

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "I started planning months ago. Ino helped with the dress. Your father gave us the rooftop. Tenten and Hinata handled the flowers. Kisame threatened to sing until I gave him the playlist."

Sakura laughed, eyes shining.

"I wanted you to have the wedding you deserved," he said, voice low. "The one that was just for us. No compromises. No distractions. Just love."

She turned in his arms, cupping his face. "I have everything I could ever deserve," she whispered. "And more. In you."

He kissed her deeply, slowly, like the world had stopped turning.

And for a moment, it had.