Uhhh Hi

Y/N stepped out of the sliding doors, the cool, antiseptic scent of the clinic instantly replaced by the warm, dusty smell of the village in late afternoon. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the Hokage Rock in shades of burnt orange and gold.

"OKASAN!"

The shout shattered the calm Y/N turned.

He was already moving toward her, a small blur of dark blue fabric against the dusty road.

Kazuya.

He was running with a speed that probably came from his father, his sandals slapping hard against the earth.

Y/N smiled : a soft smile that reached her eyes and crouched down, opening her arms just as he launched himself at her.

He collided with her chest, a solid, warm weight. Kazuya pulled back just enough to look at her, his face flushed from the run. He had dark hair that lay flat and eyes like polished obsidian. But when he smiled, the intensity vanished. His eyes crinkled at the corners, soft and unguarded.

Then, as quickly as the burst of energy had come, it folded inward.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his small hands clutching the fabric of her medical robes. He went still, pressing closer, hiding himself from the world in the safety of her scent. He did not say anything else. He simply held on, demonstrating a quiet, clinging shyness that tugged at a memory in the back of Y/N’s mind.

It was like looking in a mirror across time. He had his father’s face, but in this quiet tender hesitation, he was entirely her.

"I am here," Y/N whispered against the shell of Kazuya’s ear, her hand coming up to cup the back of his head. Her fingers tangled in his short, dark hair, hair that was just like hers.

Kazuya let out a small, shuddering breath, his grip tightening on her sleeve. He did not speak, but the tension in his small shoulders began to bleed away, grounded by her touch.

Then, the air shifted.

It was not a sound, but a change in temperature, a sudden encompassing warmth that pushed back the evening chill. It smelled of woodsmoke and deep forests.

Y/N did not need to look up to know who it was, but she did anyway.

Madara stood a few paces away, his shadow stretching long against the dusty road. He was not wearing his full armor, just the high-collared blue robes of the clan head, the Uchiha fan stark against his back. But even without the plating, he was a mountain of a man : broad and imposing.

Yet, the mountain was currently being used as a pillow.

Naori was perched high in his arms, her small legs dangling over his forearm. She was clinging to him like a koala. Her face was buried in the curve of his neck, her breathing slow and even, a tiny fist gripping the collar of his robe.

Madara did not move to adjust her. He stood perfectly still, his free hand resting protectively over her back.

He was watching Y/N and Kazuya.

The habitual furrow between his brows, the one that had been etched there by decades of war was gone. His mouth was not a hard line, but soft, relaxed. His dark eyes moved over them : his wife crouching in the dust, his son safe in her arms.

He looked like a man who had finally put down a heavy load.

"Hn," he breathed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, gentle enough not to wake the girl in his arms. "He runs fast."

"Just like you Otosan !"

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The sun dipped lower, casting long, bruised shadows across the village streets as they walked. The heat of the day was finally breaking, leaving behind a comfortable, dusty warmth that smelled of cooling stone and distant cooking fires.

Madara adjusted his grip on Naori, her cheek pressed flat against his collarbone, a small damp spot forming on his dark blue robes.

Kazuya walked between them, his hand firmly enclosed in Y/N’s. He was quiet, his eyes scanning the path ahead with a seriousness that made Y/N’s chest ache with affection.

"The council meeting ran late," Madara said, his voice a low rumble that didn't disturb the sleeping child. "Tobirama insisted on reviewing the budget for the new barrier team. Again."

Y/N glanced up at him. "He is thorough."

"He is tedious," Madara corrected, though there was less venom in it than there would have been three years ago. "He counts ryō like an old merchant. I told him if he wants the barrier to hold against a Bijuu, we cannot use substandard seals. He argued. I stopped listening."

Y/N allowed a small smile to touch her lips. "And Hashirama?"

"Hashirama fell asleep."

"Of course." Y/N snorted while smiling

"With his eyes open," Madara added, "He nodded at all the right times. It was terrifying."

They turned the corner, the large, sprawling estate of the Senju coming into view. It was less a fortress and more a garden that happened to have a house in it. Trees spilled over the walls, and the sound of running water from Hashirama’s ridiculous number of koi ponds drifted into the street.

"And the hospital?" Madara asked, looking down at her. "Did the shipment from the Wind arrive?"

"It did," Y/N said, squeezing Kazuya’s hand as he stepped over a large tree root. "Though half of the antidote vials were cracked. I had to send a hawk to the Kazekage’s office. It will delay the new venom protocols by a week."

Madara’s jaw tightened slightly. "Incompetence."

"Accidents," Y/N corrected softly. "The roads are rough in the desert, you know that."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the scuff of sandals on dirt and the distant hum of the village winding down.

"Hikari’s hawk came just before I left the tower," Madara said suddenly.

Y/N’s head snapped toward him. "You said she was safe. Is she-"

"She is fine," Madara assured her quickly, his voice dropping to a soothing register he used only for his family. "More than fine. The mission report was... impressive."

"She is leading the team, is she not?"

"Technically, it is a joint command with the Sarutobi boy," Madara said, his expression darkening slightly at the mention of another clan. "But Hikari made different calls. They were tracking a group of rogues near the border. The enemy attempted an ambush in the ravine."

Y/N felt a cold spike of anxiety, but she forced herself to breathe. "And?"

"And Hikari sensed them two miles out," Madara said. There was no mistaking the pride now; it radiated off him, brighter than his chakra. "She used the terrain and did not engage directly. She collapsed the ravine entrance with a single Fireball Jutsu and trapped them until the Anbu arrived."

He looked at Y/N, his obsidian eyes gleaming.

"She did not take a scratch."

"She fought well," Y/N said, a fierce swell of love rising in her throat. "A few years ago, she would have tried to fight them all head-on to prove she was strong enough."

"She has learned," Madara acknowledged. "She realizes now that survival is a better proof of strength than martyrdom."

"She is barely sixteen," Y/N murmured, a wistful note in her voice. "She grows too fast."

"It is the way of things," Madara said, shifting Naori as she stirred in her sleep. "But she is strong. Stronger than I was at her age. She has something I did not."

"And what is that?"

Madara looked at the Senju gates ahead, then down at Kazuya, and finally at Y/N.

"She has a home to come back to," he said quietly. "She does not fight to survive."

They reached the gates. Before Madara could even reach for the knocker, the heavy timber doors groaned open.

"MADARA! Y/N-CHAN!"

Hashirama Senju stood there, grinning like a man who hadn't just spent six hours in a budget meeting, even thought he was sleeping. He was wearing casual robes that were already stained with potting soil, and his hair was a disaster.

"You’re late!" Hashirama boomed, ignoring Madara’s flinch. "Mito made tea! And I think she made those cinnamon buns you like, Kazuya!"

Kazuya, who had been hiding behind Y/N’s leg, peeked out. His eyes widened. "The sticky ones?"

"The stickiest!" Hashirama promised, crouching down. "But only if you can get past the guard dog."

He gestured vaguely behind him, where a very small, very round pug was sleeping on the porch.

"Hashirama," a calm, commanding voice floated from the house. "Stop shouting. You will wake the baby."

Mito Uzumaki appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on an apron. She looked as regal as ever, the diamond seal on her forehead gleaming in the twilight, but her expression was warm.

"Come inside," she called out, her eyes softening as they landed on Y/N. "The tea is hot, and my husband is loud. I need some sane company."

Madara sighed, a long, suffering sound, but he stepped over the threshold.

"I am only here for the tea," Madara muttered to no one in particular.

"And the cinnamon buns," Kazuya whispered seriously.

Madara looked down at his son, his lips twitching. "And the cinnamon buns."

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The sliding doors were left open to the garden, inviting the cool evening breeze into the warmth of the Senju estate. Inside, the air smelled of green tea and sweet bean paste.

Mito sat at the low table, her movements graceful as she poured tea from an iron pot. Across from her, Y/N accepted a ceramic cup with both hands.

Naori had abandoned her father the moment they crossed the threshold. She was now curled up in Y/N’s lap, her small head resting against her mother’s chest, fighting a losing battle against sleep. Her wild, spiky black hair, a direct inheritance from her father, tickled Y/N’s chin as she shifted.

Beside them, Kazuya sat with the solemn dedication of a monk in meditation. In his small hands, he held a cinnamon bun that was nearly as big as his face. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then looked up at Y/N, his cheeks bulging slightly. He didn't speak, but he leaned his shoulder against her arm, anchoring himself to her presence even while he ate.

Outside on the engawa, the two founders of Konoha watched the scene in silence.

Hashirama leaned against the wooden post, a cup of sake loosely held in his hand. He watched the children with a grin that threatened to split his face.

"It is funny, isn't it?" Hashirama murmured, his voice low enough not to disturb the peace inside.

"What is?" Madara asked, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on his wife and son.

"Genetic irony," Hashirama chuckled, gesturing with his cup. "Look at Naori. She has Y/N’s eyes, those gentle Hyūga eyes that see everything. But she has your hair, that wild mane. And yet... she is entirely her father’s daughter. A terrifying little princess who demands to be carried."

Madara gave a noncommittal grunt, though he did not deny it.

"And then there is Kazuya," Hashirama continued, his eyes crinkling. "He has your eyes, Madara : pitch black with an intensity that could burn a hole in a scroll. But he has Y/N’s hair : silky, straight, perfectly well-behaved."

Hashirama took a sip of his sake, shaking his head.

"And look at him. He is a mama’s boy through and through. He always searches for his mother approval, watching her as if she was the moon when you are more like the flame of the family."

Madara shifted his stance, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched Kazuya finish his bun and immediately wipe his sticky hands on a napkin Y/N offered, his movements neat and precise, just like hers. He saw Naori burrow deeper into Y/N’s robes, but her hand reached out, grasping for the empty space where her father usually was.

A rare, genuine softness broke the stoic mask of the Uchiha leader.

"It suits you," Hashirama said, his voice dropping the teasing tone. "Peace."

Madara watched his son offer Y/N the last bite of the cinnamon bun.

"Hn," Madara agreed, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It does."

The silence on the engawa stretched, comfortable and worn, like a favorite robe. The cicadas had finally ceased their rhythmic screaming, leaving the evening to the soft, wet sounds of the koi pond and the distant, muffled laughter from inside the house.

Hashirama swirled the dregs of his sake, his gaze lingering on the warm square of light where Y/N was wiping a smudge of cinnamon sugar from Kazuya’s cheek.

"I used to worry, you know," Hashirama said softly. His voice lacked its usual booming cadence.

Madara did not look at him. He was leaning against the wooden pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the back of his son’s head. "You worry about everything, Hashirama."

"I worried about the fire," Hashirama corrected, glancing sideways at his friend. "I worried that without a war to fight, without an enemy to burn... you would consume yourself. That the silence would be too loud for a man who has only ever known the roar of battle. I tried to help you back then.. but you would never accept my help."

He gestured vaguely toward the open door, toward the domestic scene that looked like a painting framed in gold.

"But I was wrong," Hashirama admitted. "I watch you now, Madara, and I do not see a weapon waiting to be drawn. I see a man who has finally found a place to sheath his blade, a family."

Madara stayed silent for a long moment. The wind rustled the maple leaves in the garden, a sound like dry paper.

Inside, Kazuya had finished his bun. He was now leaning fully against Y/N, his small hand playing with the long sleeve of her kimono, twisting the fabric. Y/N said something to him, inaudible through the glass, but Madara saw the way her eyes crinkled, the way her hand moved to smooth Naori’s wild hair where it spiked against her collarbone.

A feeling expanded in Madara’s chest.

It was not the adrenaline of combat. It was something heavier, denser. It felt like gravity. It felt like the stone foundation of a great tower.

He looked at Y/N, the woman who had taken his fire and not been burned, who had built a home inside a fortress of ash.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The morning light was not a disruption; it was a slow, creeping warmth that painted the tatami mats in stripes of pale gold and shadow. It was quiet.

Y/N drifted into consciousness. She was warm. It was a suffocating, wonderful heat that seeped into her bones, weighing her down into the mattress. She did not need to open her eyes to know the source.

Madara.

He was a solid wall against her back, his arm draped over her waist like a steel band, his large hand resting flat and possessive against her stomach. His breathing was slow, rhythmic, a deep rumble that vibrated against her spine.

Y/N blinked her eyes open, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of light.

It was late. Later than she usually allowed herself to lie in. The instinct to move, to be productive, twitched in her fingers.

She shifted.

It was a microscopic movement, a subtle redistribution of weight that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. She held her breath, sliding imperceptibly toward the cool edge of the futon, lifting the heavy weight of his arm just a fraction of an inch to slip free-

The arm did not lift.

Instead, it clamped down.

The muscle coiled instantly, pulling her back with a force that was gentle. Y/N gasped softly as her back collided with the hard wall of his chest, the air leaving her lungs in a startled puff.

"No," a voice rasped.

It was barely a word. It was a rough deep sound, scraped from the bottom of his throat, thick with sleep.

Before she could protest, Madara shifted. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin below her ear. His hair, a chaotic curtain of black silk, spilled over her shoulder, tickling her collarbone, warm and heavy.

He inhaled deeply, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to take in the scent of her skin, her soap, her sleep.

"Madara," she whispered, her voice wavering slightly. "The sun is up."

"Let it burn," he mumbled against her skin, his lips brushing the pulse point at her neck, hot and dry. His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against him, eliminating even the concept of space.

"You are not leaving."

Y/N surrendered to the weight of him, the tension bleeding out of her frame as she melted back into the mattress.

Her hand moved of its own accord, fingers trailing down the hard, roped muscle of his forearm. She traced the faint, white lines of old scars. His skin was hot, a stark contrast to the cool morning air.

Madara shifted.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his lips, warm and dry, pressed against the sensitive slope of her shoulder. He lingered there for a heartbeat before moving higher, grazing the soft, vulnerable skin of her neck.

The contact sent a jolt through her : a sudden, sharp chills that had nothing to do with the morning chill. It was a spark that traveled straight down her spine, curling her toes against the sheets. Her breath hitched, a small, audible sound in the quiet room.

He felt it. Of course he did.

Against her skin, she felt the corner of his mouth curve upward. It was a smirk she couldn't see, but she could feel the arrogance of it, the satisfaction of wringing a reaction from her so easily.

He kissed the pulse point below her ear, open-mouthed and slow, dragging a rough groan from his throat.

"The children are asleep," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that she felt in her chest as much as she heard.

His grip on her waist shifted, his thumb pressing possessively into the curve of her hip, pulling her flush against him until there was no air left between them.

"It has been..." Madara whispered, his breath hot against her ear, sending another wave of shivers cascading over her skin, "...a very long time since I had you to myself."

A sudden, traitorous heat flooded Y/N’s cheeks, turning the pale porcelain of her Hyūga skin a vivid, undeniable crimson that spread all the way to the neckline of her sleeping robe. The shiver his lips had sparked was still ghosting down her spine, warring with the deeply ingrained instinct of maternal duty.

"Madara," she breathed, the name coming out more like a plea than a reprimand. She placed her hands against the solid wall of his chest, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his sleeping yukata, though she didn't push. "The sun is fully up. Kazuya is an early riser. Naori will be hungry. They... they could walk in at any moment."

Madara did not retreat.

Instead, the mattress groaned under a shift of significant weight.

He moved with the predatory grace of a great cat, fluid and heavy, rising up until he was hovering directly over her. He braced his arms on either side of her head, caging her against the pillows. His long, dark hair fell forward like a curtain of black silk, creating a private, shadowed world where only the two of them existed.

Y/N looked up, her breath hitching in her throat. Above her, Madara was a landscape of sharp angles and softened expressions. His eyes, usually so guarded, were heavy-lidded.

He lowered himself slowly, deliberately, until his chest brushed against hers, the weight of him pressing her deeper into the futon, grounding her, trapping her in the best possible way.

"Kazuya is sensible," Madara murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration that she felt in her own ribs. "And Naori is loud. We will hear them."

He shifted one hand, bringing it up to cup her jaw. His thumb, rough with calluses from a lifetime of holding a gunbai, brushed over her lower lip, dragging it down slightly. The contrast of his rough skin against her softness made her eyelids flutter shut.

"Besides," he whispered, leaning down until his lips were hovering mere millimeters from hers, stealing the air from her lungs. "They have had you all week. They can wait."

The kiss was not gentle.

Madara lowered his head, capturing her lips with a hunger that had been simmering for days. It was deep and slow. His weight settled over her completely now, the heavy silk of his yukata sliding against her skin as he shifted, his knee nudging her legs apart just enough to press himself closer, stealing the last pocket of space between them.

Y/N gasped into his mouth, her hands sliding up to tangle in the thick, black mane of his hair, pulling him down. The friction, the heat, the sheer size of him enveloping her. It was a heady, dizzying rush.

Madara groaned low in his throat. His hand slid from her jaw down to the curve of her throat, his thumb tracing the pulse that was hammering against her skin. He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down the column of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just above her collarbone.

"Mine," he growled against her skin, his voice rough with intent.

"Mama?"

The small voice drifted through the paper walls like a bucket of ice water.

"Mama? Are you awake? Naori is eating the scroll!"

Madara froze.

He went completely still, his lips still hovering against her neck, his hand frozen on her waist. For a second, the most dangerous shinobi in history looked like he had been petrified.

Then, with a long, suffering exhale that deflated his entire frame, he collapsed.

He didn't move away. He simply dropped his forehead onto her shoulder, burying his face in the crook of her neck with a defeated, muffled groan. All the predatory tension left his body, leaving him just a heavy, grumpy weight on top of her.

"I am going to seal the door," he mumbled into her skin, his voice thick with frustration. "I am going to put a barrier on the hallway. A fortress-level barrier."

Y/N felt a bubble of laughter rise in her chest, the sound vibrating against him. She reached up, her fingers soothing through his messy hair.

"You have no one to blame but yourself, my love," she teased softly, her eyes dancing with mirth.

Madara grunted, refusing to lift his head. "I blame the sun. And the scroll."

"Oh, please," Y/N laughed, shifting slightly under his weight. "You were certainly not complaining about the process. In fact, if I recall correctly, you were quite enthusiastic about 'ensuring the Uchiha legacy.' You called me radiant. You said you couldn't keep your hands off me."

She tapped his nose lightly.

"You were very happy to make me pregnant, Madara Uchiha. Now, you must deal with the outcome."

Madara finally lifted his head. His hair was in his eyes, and he looked thoroughly put out, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You," he narrowed his eyes at her, though there was no heat in it, only affection, "are enjoying this too much."

"Go save the scroll from your daughter," she smiled, pushing him gently off her. "Father."

Madara stepped into the open living area, his dark blue yukata slightly rumpled and his hair a loose, chaotic curtain around his shoulders. The evidence of the crime lay abandoned on the tatami mat: a sealing scroll, unrolled and damp with drool, its intricate ink work smudged beyond recognition.

He opened his mouth, the stern lecture of a Clan Head rising to his lips : something about discipline, the sanctity of written knowledge, and the inadvisability of eating ink.

He never got the chance.

"PAPA!"

A small, frantic blur of energy launched itself from behind the low table. Naori did not walk; she charged, her small feet thumping rhythmically against the floorboards as she waddled toward. She skidded to a halt at his feet, crane her neck back until she was looking straight up at the tower that was her father.

"Up!" she demanded, raising her chubby arms high, opening and closing her small hands in a grabbing motion. "Papa! Up! Up!"

Madara looked down at the destruction of the scroll, then down at the wide, expectant lavender eyes of his daughter. He tried to summon a scowl.

Instead, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"What wouldn't I do for you," he grumbled.

He bent down, scooping her up in one fluid motion. Naori immediately cheered, smacking her hands against his chest before settling happily against his shoulder, her mission accomplished.

The sliding door to the hallway opened.

Hikari stepped in, looking fresh from a morning run, her chunin vest replaced by a simple, casual robe. Y/N followed a step behind her, her hair smoothed back into its usual elegant style, though her cheeks still held a faint, tell-tale flush of pink.

"Hikari-nee!"

Kazuya, who had been quietly observing the destruction of the scroll from the corner, stood up. He walked over to the older girl, offering her a rare, bright smile. He wrapped his arms around her waist in a quick, firm hug.

Hikari ruffled his hair, grinning. "Hey, little shadow."

Kazuya released her, satisfied, and immediately drifted past her to Y/N. He didn't say a word; he simply leaned his side against her leg, his hand finding the fabric of her robe, anchoring himself to his mother as if she was the only steady thing in the room.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

Miso soup, grilled fish, and bowls of white rice sat arranged on the low table, the scents mingling with the crisp morning air drifting in from the garden. Sunlight pooled on the tatami, catching the dust motes that danced around Naori’s wild hair.

She was currently perched on Madara’s lap. Madara, the fearsome leader of the Uchiha, was reduced to eating his meal one-handed, his other arm securely wrapped around her waist to prevent her from launching herself into the pickle dish. Every so often, he would pause to offer her a small piece of fish from his own chopsticks, which she accepted with the grace of a tiny imperious queen.

On the other side of the table, Kazuya sat wedged comfortably between Y/N and Hikari. His dark eyes moving back and forth between the adults as if he were memorizing the conversation.

"Madara mentioned a ravine," Y/N said, setting her tea cup down. Her gaze drifted to Hikari, soft but searching. "He said you led the unit."

Hikari paused, her chopsticks hovering over her rice. A bright, genuine smile broke across her face.

"It was the eastern pass, near the Lightning border," Hikari began, her voice animated. "The intel said it was a standard patrol, but the tracks were too heavy for merchants. I realized the terrain favored an ambush."

She used her chopsticks to draw a vague line in the air.

"The Sarutobi wanted to push through the center. But I remembered what you taught me about chakra conservation, and what Madara taught me about... well, burning things." She grinned. "So I flanked them. We collapsed the exit with a Fireball Jutsu and bottlenecked them until we could secure the perimeter. No one was injured."

Y/N watched her. She saw the way Hikari sat : spine straight, shoulders relaxed. She saw the chunin flak jacket hanging by the door, worn with pride. It was a stark contrast to the girl who had once stood in this very room, terrified that a new baby would mean she had no place in this family.

"You realized the trap before it was sprung," Y/N said softly.

Hikari flushed slightly, ducking her head, but she looked pleased.

"I just... didn't want anyone to get hurt," Hikari mumbled, poking at her fish. "Leading is harder than just fighting. You have to look out for everyone."

Y/N reached across the small space between them, resting her hand over Hikari’s. The contact was warm, grounding.

"And that is why you are a good leader," Y/N said firmly. "Because you understand the weight of the lives behind you. You have grown into a magnificent kunoichi, Hikari. I am so very proud of you."

Hikari looked up, her eyes shining. Beside her, Kazuya looked up too, nodding solemnly as if confirming the assessment.

"Very proud," Kazuya whispered, mimicking his mother’s tone perfectly.

Across the table, Madara placed a hand on Naori’s head to steady her, his eyes fixed on Hikari with a dark, silent approval that made the young girl beam brighter than the morning sun.

When breakfast finished, Naori ran outside to enjoy the sun.

Madara watched as Hikari stood up, offering a hand to Kazuya. The boy hesitated, looking up at his mother for permission. Y/N nodded, a small, encouraging smile gracing her lips, and Kazuya slid off the cushion. He took Hikari’s hand, though he looked back once, checking to make sure Y/N was still there, still anchored.

"Come on, little shadow," Hikari teased gently. "Naori is going to try to eat the koi fish in the pond if we don't stop her."

"I will help," Kazuya said seriously. "Fish are not food. Unless they are grilled."

"Exactly."

They disappeared into the garden, the sound of Naori’s delighted shrieking and Hikari’s laughter drifting back through the open doors.

The room grew quiet.

Y/N began to stack the bowls.

"Leave it," Madara said.

His voice was low, a rumble of thunder in the distance.

Y/N paused, her hands hovering over the lacquer tray. She looked up to find him watching her. He was leaning back on one arm, his dark yukata falling loose over his chest, his hair spilling over his shoulder in a cascade of ink. His eyes, usually so sharp they could dissect a jutsu in seconds, were heavy-lidded and focused entirely on her face.

"The staff will attend to it," he said. "Come here."

It was a command, but it lacked the bite of authority. It was a request wrapped in the velvet of possession.

Y/N abandoned the tray. She moved around the low table, the silk of her robe whispering against the floor mats. When she reached his side, she did not sit on the cushion. She sat beside him, leaning into the space he created for her.

Madara shifted, his arm coming around her waist instantly, pulling her flush against his side. He rested his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair : soap, morning air, and the faint, clean smell of chamomile.

They sat there for a long time, watching the sunlight creep across the floorboards. Outside, the leaves of the maple tree rustled, turning red at the edges, signaling the turn of the season.

"Do you remember?" Madara asked quietly.

"Remember what?"

" The first day you came here."

Y/N leaned her head back against his shoulder, looking out at the garden where their children were currently terrorizing the koi.

"I remember," she murmured. "I remember the cold. I remember thinking that this house was a tomb. And I remember you."

"I was a tomb," Madara corrected. "I was a ghost haunting my own life."

He took her hand in his. His palm was rough, calloused from decades of wielding a gunbai, scarred from a thousand battles. Her hand was smaller, pale and smooth, but strong.

He traced the line of her knuckles with his thumb.

"I tried to burn you out," he admitted, the words rough with a shame he only showed to her. "I tried to scare you away. I thought... I thought that if I let you close, you would break."

Y/N turned her hand over, interlacing her fingers with his. She squeezed, a firm, grounding pressure.

Madara looked at her. Really looked at her.

He saw the woman who ran the hospital with an iron will. He saw the mother who soothed Kazuya’s nightmares with a whisper. He saw the wife who had walked into his darkness not with a lantern, but with her own internal light, and refused to leave until he saw it too.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers.

"I have spent my life fighting," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I have conquered clans. I have redrawn maps. But this..."

He gestured to the garden, to the sound of Naori laughing as Hikari spun her around, to the peaceful village that lay beyond their walls, thriving under the protection of the leaf.

"This is the only victory that matters."

Y/N smiled, closing her eyes as she felt the warmth of him seep into her bones. She felt the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart against her side.

"We built it together," she said softly.

Madara nodded.

He kissed her then : slow, deep, and lingering. It was a kiss that tasted of tea and promises, of a future that stretched out before them, long and bright.

As she pulled back, Y/N looked at him. The fearsome Madara Uchiha, softened by the morning light, holding her hand as if it were the only anchor in the world. She thought of the legends they would tell about this era. They would speak of the wars, the treaties, the bloodlines. They would speak of the Ghost of the Uchiha.

But they would not know this. They would not know the quiet mornings. They would not know the heat of his skin or the way he looked at his children.

She remembered the old proverb her grandmother had whispered when she was younger talking about the rivality of the two clans. Fire and Ice cannot mix. The Moon and the Flame will destroy each other.

Y/N rested her head on his shoulder, watching the leaves dance in the wind.

They had been wrong.

It was not a destruction.

Madara tightened his hold on her, watching the same horizon, his soul finally, utterly at rest.

For in the end, it was simple.

When the moon dared to touch the flame, the world burned and bloomed all at once.

And from the ashes, they had grown a garden.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The retreat did not happen with the violence of a storm. It happened with the quiet, suffocating inevitability of a drought.

Madara woke from the nightmare of Y/N's death with a singular, terrifying resolve. His love was a target. His closeness was a danger. The logic of the Uchiha Curse was : to love was to lose. Therefore, to keep her safe, he had to stop loving her. Or at least, he had to stop acting on it. He began to rebuild the walls Y/N had spent months dismantling, brick by brick.

It started subtly.

The morning after the nightmare, Y/N woke to an empty room. She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing the tatami where his pallet usually lay. It was cold. Not just empty, but erased. The pallet was rolled and stored in the cabinet with military precision. There was no note. No lingering scent of tea. Just the empty space where he had slept.

When she went to the kitchen, she found Chiyo alone, scrubbing a pot with unnecessary vigor.

"The master has already eaten," the old woman said, avoiding Y/N's gaze. "He left before dawn for a security meeting. He said not to expect him for dinner."

Y/N accepted it. It was a busy time. The village was growing. She told herself it was just duty. She prepared the bento, wrapped it in the dark blue cloth, and left it on the counter for him to pick up later.

When she returned that evening, the house was silent. She checked the counter.

The bento was gone.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He had taken it. It was fine. Just a busy day.

But late that night, as she lay in the dark, she heard the front door open. She heard his footsteps in the hall. They were heavy, slow.

They stopped outside their door.

She waited for the slide of the shoji. She waited for him to enter. He stood there for a long time. Then, the footsteps moved away. Toward his study. He did not come to bed.

By the third day, the pattern was undeniable.

Y/N woke early, determined to catch him. She dressed in the dark and went to the kitchen. She made the tea. She prepared the bento, packing the grilled fish he liked. She stood by the counter, waiting.

The sun rose. The house stirred.

Madara did not come to the kitchen.

Instead, she heard the heavy thud of the main front door closing. He had bypassed the kitchen entirely. Y/N walked to the window. She saw his black armored figure striding toward the gate. He did not look back at the house.

She looked back at the counter. The blue-wrapped bento box sat there.

Untouched.

Abandoned.

A cold knot tightened in her stomach.

It wasn't work. It wasn't his duty as the police chief.

It was her.

He was retreating. He was ghosting her in their own home.

By the end of the week, the isolation was obvious.

He was sleeping in the barracks or his study. He was eating out. He was ensuring their paths never crossed.

Y/N felt like she was haunting her own marriage. The warmth of the festival, the intimacy of the desert, the shared tea, it all felt like a dream she had woken up from.

She walked the halls of the Uchiha compound, the ring heavy on her finger, feeling a loneliness sharper and deeper than anything she had felt when she first arrived.

Then, she had been a prisoner. Now, she was an exile. 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

Y/N fled the silence of the compound. The hospital was usually her sanctuary. Today, she used it as a shield.

She walked through the main doors with a stride that was perhaps too fast, her head held high.

She immersed herself in the work. She did not go to her office to review budget reports, she went straight to the trauma ward.

A construction worker had been brought in with a crushed foot, a heavy beam having fallen during the expansion of the Academy.

Y/N knelt beside the cot. She did not offer empty platitudes. She placed her hands over the mangle of flesh and bone.

For twenty minutes, while she took care of the man's foot, she did not think of Madara. She did not think of the cold stone floor. She thought only of the tensile strength of bone and the flow of blood.

But the moment the procedure was done, the moment the man was resting, the void returned. It rushed back in to fill the space her concentration had vacated.

She moved to the next patient. And the next.

She consulted on a difficult case of chakra exhaustion in the long-term care wing. She lectured a pair of apprentices on the proper ratio of antidote for scorpion venom, her voice sharp, brooking no questions, tearing apart their sloppy hypothesis until they were scrambling to rewrite their formulas.

"Sensei is scary today," she heard a young medic whisper to another as she swept past the nurses' station.

By mid-afternoon, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind a hollow, aching fatigue. She found herself standing in the supply closet, staring at a shelf of bandages. She had come in here for something. She could not remember what.

She stared at the white rolls of gauze.

White. Like the lilies he had placed on her mother's shrine.

White. Like the cloak he had bought her in the desert.

The silence of the closet pressed against her ears. She took a breath, forcing her heart rate to slow. She grabbed a box of supplies she didn't need and marched back out into the hall.

She went to her office. She pulled a stack of paperwork toward her. It was mindless administrative work. Requisitions. Duty rosters. Budget approvals.

She signed her name.

Hyūga Y/N.

She paused. She looked at the ring on her finger.

She crossed it out.

Uchiha Y/N.

She stared at the name. It felt like a lie. Was she an Uchiha? Or was she just a Hyūga staying in an Uchiha house?

She signed the next form. And the next.

"Y/N-sensei?" a nurse asked from the doorway, holding out a clipboard. "You have signed this three times."

Y/N blinked, looking down. The paper was inked with her signature, over and over.

"I am tired," Y/N said, her voice hollow. "That is all. Leave it."

She worked until the sun began to set. The light in the office turned from bright white to a heavy, golden orange, and then to a bruised, ominous purple.

Outside, the wind picked up. The leaves of the trees whipped against the window. The pressure in the air dropped rapidly.

A summer storm was coming.

The hospital emptied out. The day shift left. The night shift settled in. The halls grew quiet. Y/N sat at her desk in the dark office. She had no more work. She had no more excuses. She looked out the window at the village below. The lights were coming on in the houses. Families were gathering for dinner.

And on the edge of the village, the Uchiha compound sat in darkness.

She did not want to go back. She did not want to walk into that empty parlor. She did not want to see the closed door of his study. She did not want to sleep in the big bed alone while he slept in another room.

But she was the Okusan. She had a duty.

She stood up. Her legs felt heavy.

She walked out of the hospital and into the rising wind, heading toward the storm and the silence of her home.

The next day was a carbon copy of the previous one. The sun rose, indifferent to the cold silence in the Uchiha household. Y/N left before breakfast, her bento box once again untouched on the counter.

At the hospital, the atmosphere was brittle. The nurses walked on eggshells around the Director's office.

Haru stood at the end of the corridor, his arms crossed over his flak jacket. He was supposed to be on patrol, but he had taken a detour. He watched his sister stitch a laceration on a genin’s arm. Her face did not move.

"She looks like she did when Mother died," Haru said. His voice was low and tight.

Mina stood beside him, clutching a stack of patient files she had no intention of filing. She watched her friend wipe blood from her hands.

"Worse," Mina corrected quietly. "When your mother died, she cried. She leaned on us. Now she just works. She is trying to turn herself into stone."

Haru’s jaw clenched. "It is him. The Uchiha. I saw him at the gate this morning. He looked like a corpse walking. He did not even acknowledge me."

"They are destroying each other," Mina observed. "And they are doing it in silence."

She shoved the files into Haru’s chest.

"Hold these."

"What? Mina, I am on duty."

"Hold them," she ordered. She rolled up her sleeves. "I am going in."

Mina marched down the hall. She did not knock on the exam room door. She slid it open with a loud, cheerful bang that made the patient jump.

"Director!" Mina chirped. "Emergency consultation required."

Y/N looked up, her eyes dull. "What is it, Mina? Is it the triage unit?"

"No. It is a critical case of hypoglycemia in the senior staff," Mina declared. She stepped forward, hooked her arm through Y/N’s, and pulled. "Meaning you. You haven't eaten since yesterday. We are going to the roof."

"I am not hungry," Y/N protested, trying to pull back. "I have charts to review."

"The charts are boring. The sun is shining. And I bought the expensive dango ! Move."

Mina was not as strong as a Hyūga, but she was persistent. She dragged Y/N out of the ward, past a startled Haru, who gave his sister a look of deep concern, and up the stairs to the roof.

The sudden brightness of the midday sun made Y/N squint. The wind was warm, carrying the scent of pine and dust from the village below. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, chemical smell of the hospital.

Mina pushed her onto their usual bench and shoved a skewer of tri-colored dango into her hand.

"Eat," Mina commanded. "If you faint in my OR, I will draw whiskers on your face with permanent ink."

Y/N stared at the dango. Pink, white, green. Cheerful colors.

She took a small bite.

"I am fine, Mina," she said, her voice monotone.

Mina sat down beside her, ignoring her own food. She watched Y/N’s profile. "Talk to me, Y/N. And don't give me the 'I am tired' speech. What is happening? You two were... glowing. Last week, you looked like you were living a romance novel. Now you look like a widow."

Y/N lowered the dango. Her hand trembled. The facade cracked.

"It was good," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It was so good, Mina. In Suna... and after. We were talking. He held my hand. He drank my tea. We sat in the parlor and we laughed about Hikari."

She looked at the black ring on her finger. "He called me by my name. Not Okusan. Not Hyūga. Just Y/N. And the way he looked at me..."

Her breath hitched.

"I felt safe. For the first time in that house, I wasn't a prisoner. I wasn't just an asset. I felt... cherished. My heart would race just hearing his footsteps. I thought... I really thought we were building something. I thought he felt it too."

"And now... it is gone. Overnight. He won't look at me. He won't eat my food. He sleeps in his study or the barracks. He treats me like I am invisible. Like I am a mistake he is trying to erase."

She looked at Mina, her lavender eyes swimming with pain.

"It hurts, Mina. It hurts more than the arranged marriage. It hurts more than the fear. Because he showed me what it could be like... and then he took it away. It is breaking me."

Mina listened, her expression softening from fierce determination to deep sympathy. She reached out and wrapped an arm around Y/N's shoulders, pulling her close.

"Oh, sweetie," Mina sighed. "He is an idiot. A giant, emotionally stunted, Uchiha idiot."

"He hates me," Y/N whispered into Mina's shoulder.

"No," Mina said firmly. She pulled back and gripped Y/N's shoulders, forcing her to look up. "Listen to me. Hate is loud. Hate is shouting. Hate is what he feels for Tobirama. This? This isn't hate. This is fear."

Y/N blinked. "Fear?"

"Yes. Fear," Mina insisted. "He got too close. He felt something real, and because he is a tragic war hero with too much trauma, he panicked. He is pushing you away because he thinks it protects you, or him, or the village, or whatever nonsense logic he has cooked up in that brooding head of his."

Mina shook Y/N gently.

"You are the Head of Medicine. You diagnose problems and you fix them. You don't let a patient die just because they are stubborn about the treatment."

Mina's eyes blazed.

"Stop waiting for him to come back. He won't. He's stuck in his own head. You have to go in there and drag him out."

"Force the communication," Y/N murmured.

"Exactly," Mina said. "Go home. Find him. Corner him. Scream at him if you have to. But don't let him ghost you in your own marriage. Make him look at you."

Y/N took a deep, shaky breath. She looked at the village below, then at the Uchiha compound in the distance.

The despair in her chest shifted, hardening into something sharper. Something like anger.

She was done waiting.

"Eat the dango," Mina said gently. "Get your strength back. Then go handle your husband."

"You are right," Y/N said, her voice gaining a sliver of its old steel. "I am going home."

Y/N returned to the Uchiha compound with the fire of Mina's words burning in her chest. She was ready. She was going to corner him. She was going to demand the truth.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

She marched into the house, her steps echoing on the wooden floors. She lit the lamps in the parlor. She sat at the low table, her back straight, her hands clasped. She waited.

The sun set. The sky turned black. The crickets began their nightly chorus.

Y/N did not move. She listened for the heavy thud of the front gate. She listened for the clack of armor.

Hours passed. The oil in the lamps burned low. The fire in her chest began to cool, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

He did not come.

Midnight arrived and passed. The house remained silent as a tomb.

He wasn't just avoiding her inside the house anymore. He was staying away entirely. He was likely sleeping on a couch in the Military Police barracks, surrounded by subordinates, just to avoid sleeping under the same roof as his wife.

The realization extinguished her anger. It left her feeling small and foolish. She blew out the lamps in the parlor and retreated to their bedroom. The large bed looked like a vast, lonely island.

She changed into her sleeping yukata, her movements slow and heavy. She sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the empty space where his pallet usually lay.

Scratch. Scratch.

The soft sound at the shoji screen made her jump.

"Y/N-nee?"

The door slid open a crack. Hikari stood there, clutching a small pillow. Her hair was a mess, and she was rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, yawning.

"Is Nii-san back?" she mumbled sleepily. "I had a bad dream. I wanted to tell him."

Y/N felt a fresh crack in her heart. She looked at the child who adored her brother, who trusted him to always be there.

"No, Hikari," Y/N whispered. "He is not back."

Hikari blinked, looking around the empty room. "Oh. He is working late again?"

"Yes," Y/N lied. The lie tasted bitter. "he is working late again..."

Hikari looked at Y/N. She saw the sadness in the woman's posture. She saw the empty room.

She stepped inside and slid the door shut behind her.

"The dark is loud tonight," Hikari said, shuffling toward the bed. "Can I stay?"

Y/N didn't hesitate. She lifted the heavy quilt.

"Come here."

Hikari climbed in, curling up against Y/N's side. She felt warm and solid, a small comfort in the cold room.

Y/N wrapped her arm around the girl, resting her chin on the top of her head.

"Go to sleep, little one," she murmured.

Hikari was asleep in seconds, her breathing evening out.

Y/N lay awake. She stared at the ceiling. She held Madara's sister in Madara's bed, in Madara's house, and she had never felt further away from him.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The morning sun brought no warmth to the Uchiha household. Y/N woke with Hikari still curled against her, a small, trusting weight in the large, empty bed. She carefully extricated herself, dressing in her standard jonin uniforme, her hair tight in a hihg ponytail. She needed answers, and she was done waiting for them to come to her.

She bypassed the hospital entirely. Her destination was the Hokage building.

She marched through the village, her stride fast and clipped. The guards at the tower recognized her immediately. They saw the Uchiha crest. They let her pass without a word.

She climbed the stairs to the top floor and knocked once on the heavy oak door before sliding it open.

Hashirama was alone for once, staring out the window at the village below. He turned as she entered. A welcoming smile began to form on his face, but it died the moment he saw her.

She looked brittle. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed, and there was a frantic energy in her chakra that he had never felt from the usually calm Hyuga.

"Y/N-chan," Hashirama said softly. "You are here early."

"Where is he?" she demanded. No bowing. No pleasantries.

Hashirama blinked. "Madara?"

"He did not come home last night," Y/N said, her voice tight. "He has been avoiding the house for a week. But last night he vanished. Where is he, Hokage-sama?"

Hashirama sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate his shoulders. He walked back to his desk and sat heavily. He looked at the map spread out before him.

"He took a mission," Hashirama admitted. "A solo patrol."

"A mission?" Y/N repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. "We just returned from Suna. The southern border is secure. The Iwa treaty is signed. What patrol requires the Clan Head?"

Hashirama pointed to a jagged, red-inked line on the map. It was far to the northwest.

"He went to the Iwagakure border," Hashirama said gravely. "But not the trade route. He went to the jagged cliffs. The disputed zone."

Y/N felt the blood drain from her face.

"That area is not covered by the treaty," she whispered. "It is a no-man's-land. It is swarming with rogue ninja and mercenaries. It is a death trap."

"I know," Hashirama said, rubbing his temples. "I told him that. I told him it was suicide to go alone. But he insisted. He said he needed to verify the perimeter. He said he needed... a fight."

Y/N felt a cold, sinking sensation in her gut. He had run away. He had literally fled the village to throw himself into mortal danger just to get away from the quiet of their home.

"Why?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why is he doing this? Everything was good. We were fine."

Hashirama looked at her with sad, dark eyes. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands.

"He came to me," Hashirama said quietly. "Last week. On the cliff."

Y/N stepped closer to the desk. "What did he say?"

"He was agitated," Hashirama said, choosing his words carefully. "More than I have seen him in years. He talked about you."

Hashirama gave a small, wry, sad smile.

"But the way he said it was telling. He listed everything you do. The cooking. The training with Hikari. The way you smell."

Y/N flushed, confusion warring with hope.

"He said you were a distraction," Hashirama continued. "A weakness. He said he couldn't sleep because of you. He said he needed a solution."

"A solution," Y/N repeated numbly.

"I may have made a mistake," Hashirama admitted, looking guilty. "I told him the truth. I told him he was in love with you."

Y/N froze.

"And he panicked," Hashirama finished. "He looked terrified, Y/N. Truly terrified. Like he was back in the Warring States period. He fled then, too. Just disappeared."

Hashirama looked out the window again.

"It is like he has reverted," he said softly. "The Madara I saw this morning was the Ghost again. Cold. Shut down. He looked at me like a stranger. He took the mission scroll and left without a word. He seemed distracted, yet terrifyingly serious. He is trying to kill the part of himself that feels. Because he thinks feeling is what gets people killed."

Y/N stood there, the pieces finally clicking into place. The nightmare. The distance. The fear.

He wasn't rejecting her. He was rejecting the vulnerability of loving her. He was terrified that if he loved her, the universe would take her away, just like it took Izuna.

He was trying to save her by erasing himself from her life. He was throwing himself into a high danger zone because that was the only place he knew how to exist without fear.

It was incredibly, infuriatingly stupid.

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. The despair that had been drowning her evaporated, boiled away by a sudden surge of determination.

"He is an idiot," she stated flatly.

Hashirama blinked, startled. "I beg your pardon?"

"He is a dramatic, self-sacrificing idiot," Y/N said, her voice gaining strength. "He thinks he can just decide? He thinks he can unilaterally cancel a marriage because he had a bad dream? He thinks he can go die in a ditch in Iwa just to avoid a conversation?"

She turned to the map on the wall. She looked at the red line. The danger zone.

"How long is the patrol?"

"Three days," Hashirama said. "Maybe four. If he survives."

"Fine," Y/N said. She adjusted her medical pouch. "Let him have his tantrum in the woods. Let him freeze out there alone."

She turned back to the Hokage, her eyes blazing with a cold fire that rivaled any Uchiha's.

"When he comes back," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "he is going to find that his solution has failed. I am not going anywhere. And I am done being patient."

She bowed, a sharp, quick jerk of respect.

"Thank you, Hokage-sama."

She turned and marched out of the office, leaving a stunned Hashirama staring after her.

"Wow," he whispered to the empty room. "Tobi was right. She really is terrifying." 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The disputed zone between the Land of Fire and the Land of Earth was a graveyard of jagged rock and gray mist. It was a place where treaties did not reach and where the only law was strength. The wind howled through the narrow canyons, carrying the scent of ozone, dust, and fresh blood.

Madara moved through the landscape like a wraith. Behind him, twelve rogue shinobi lay broken on the stones. They had been mercenaries, deserters from Iwa who thought numbers and terrain would protect them from a single man. They were wrong. They had been little more than kindling for his fire.

He did not even pant. His armor was untouched, gleaming dull black in the overcast light. His gunbai rested lightly on his shoulder as he stepped over a fallen enemy without breaking his stride. This was his element. This was where he made sense. Here, there were no complications. There were no tea ceremonies, no whispered conversations, no soft hands brushing against his. There was only the enemy, the strike, and the silence that followed.

He had come here to find that silence. He had come to drown the noise of his own heart in the familiar, cold clarity of battle. He sought the simplicity of violence to purge the chaos of affection.

It was not working.

He scanned the ridge line, his Sharingan spinning slowly, tracking a heat signature a mile away. His analytical mind broke down the threat: three men, likely scouts, moving in a standard defensive wedge. Easy prey.

But as he analyzed the threat, his mind betrayed him. It superimposed another image over the gray rocks.

He saw Y/N.

He saw her sitting in the sunlight of the training yard, laughing with Hikari, her head thrown back, her throat exposed and vulnerable. He saw the way she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture so simple it made his chest ache. He saw the pale curve of her neck in the moonlight of Suna, the way the silk dress clung to her form.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching from the tension. He forced the image away.

But she returned.

He smelled the metallic tang of blood on his gauntlet, but his memory conjured the scent of honey and almonds from her kitchen.

It was maddening, like a poison.

She was a ghost he could not exorcise. She had infiltrated his defenses so thoroughly that even here, in the middle of a war zone, she was with him. She was in the wind. She was in the silence. She was in the very beat of his own heart.

"Focus," he growled to the empty canyon. His voice was rough, unused.

He had to kill this feeling. It was a weakness. It was a target painted on his back. Hashirama’s words echoed in his mind: You love her.

No. He refused.

If he loved her, he would lose her. That was the rule. That was the Uchiha Curse. Every time he opened his heart, the world reached in and tore something out.

He would not let it take her. He would rather she hate him from a distance than die because he held her too close.

He gripped the handle of his fan until the leather creaked. He needed more enemies. He needed a fight loud enough to drown out her lullaby. He needed to be exhausted, broken, bleeding, anything to stop the constant, looping reel of her smile.

He sensed movement ahead. A patrol. Larger than the last one. Twenty men. Chakra signatures that felt heavy, earth-based.

Good.

He would burn the world down if it meant he didn't have to feel the warmth of her hand in his again.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The three days of Madara's absence stretched over the village like a shroud of gray fog. For Y/N, they were a test of endurance. She woke up alone. She worked until her hands cramped. She slept, fitfully, in a bed that smelled of him, holding a pillow that offered no warmth.

She was angry, she was terrified, but mostly, she was resolved.

At the edge of the village, the sun began its descent on the third day. The sky turned a bruised purple, casting long, stretching shadows across the main road leading to the gates.

Haru stood at his post. He had requested the gate duty specifically. He told his captain it was for the overtime pay. In reality, he was waiting. He needed to see the man who had broken his sister's heart. He needed to see if the Ghost of the Uchiha would return, or if Y/N was about to become a widow.

Then, he saw it.

A solitary figure emerged from the tree line.

It was not the crisp, imposing silhouette that had marched out three days ago. The figure moved with a heavy, mechanical rhythm. Every step looked deliberate, as if the ground were trying to pull him down and he was refusing, out of sheer spite, to fall.

Madara Uchiha had returned.

He was a ruin.

His armor, usually polished to a black mirror sheen, was dull and coated in a thick layer of gray rock dust. There were deep gouges in the chest plate, scratches that revealed the silver steel beneath the black lacquer. His cloak was gone, likely lost in some ravine. His hair was matted with sweat and dried mud.

As he drew closer, Haru stiffened. His Byakugan was not active, but he didn't need it to see the dark, wet stain on Madara's left side. It soaked the fabric of his undertunic and seeped between the plates of his armor.

He was bleeding. And he was not bleeding a little.

Madara reached the gate : he did not look at the guards, he did not look at the village. His gaze was fixed on a point a thousand miles away. He looked like a man who had fought a war single handedly and won, but lost his soul in the process.

Haru stepped forward, blocking the path.

"Uchiha-sama."

Madara stopped. He blinked, slowly, as if pulling himself back from a great distance. He looked down at the young Hyūga.

His eyes were black voids. The fire was gone.

"Open the gate," Madara rasped. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together.

Haru did not move. His gaze dropped to the injury on Madara's side. The scent of copper and old blood was sharp in the air.

"You are injured," Haru stated. It was an accusation. "That is not a scratch. You are bleeding heavily."

"It is benin" Madara said. He took a step forward, expecting Haru to move. "Stand aside."

Haru held his ground for a second longer. He looked at the man who had fled his sister's love to go find pain in the wilderness. He saw the physical toll it had taken. Madara had gotten what he wanted. He was exhausted. He was numb.

Haru felt a surge of anger, but it was quickly eclipsed by a cold, practical urgency. Y/N needed to know.

Haru stepped aside.

"You look terrible," Haru said, his voice low. "She is going to kill you."

Madara did not respond to the taunt. He didn't even seem to hear it. He walked past Haru, his boots dragging slightly in the dirt, leaving a trail of dust and the faint scent of iron in his wake. He headed not toward the hospital, but toward the Uchiha compound. He was going to hide. Again.

Haru watched him go. He waited until Madara turned the corner, vanishing into the shadows of the village streets.

Then, Haru abandoned his post.

He signaled the junior guard to take over.

"I have an emergency," Haru lied smoothly. "Cover me."

He did not run to the Hokage Tower. He ran to the hospital.

Y/N was in her office. The lamps were unlit, the room filled with the gray light of dusk. She was not working. She was sitting at her desk, her hands clasped tightly on top of a stack of unsigned paperwork.

The door slid open with a bang.

Y/N jumped, her heart leaping into her throat.

But it was not Madara.

It was her brother.

He stood in the doorway, breathless, his jonin vest dusty, his face was grim.

Y/N stood up slowly. The look on his face stopped her heart cold.

"Haru?" she whispered. "Is it... is it him?"

Haru nodded. He stepped into the room and closed the door.

"He is back," Haru said.

"Is he...?" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"He is alive," Haru said quickly, seeing the panic flare in her eyes. "He walked through the gate on his own two feet."

Y/N let out a breath that was half-sob. "Thank the gods." She moved to grab her cloak. "I have to go home. I have to-"

"Y/N, wait."

Haru's voice stopped her. He looked uncomfortable. He looked angry on her behalf.

"He did not go to the hospital," Haru said. "He went straight to the compound."

"He is tired," Y/N said, defending him instinctively. "He has been on patrol for three days."

"He is not just tired," Haru said, his voice hard. "He is hurt."

Y/N froze. Her hand hovered over her medical pouch.

"What kind of hurt?" she asked, her voice dropping to the clinical tone of the Head medic of Konoha.

"I saw his side," Haru reported. "There is a wound. It is deep enough to soak his armor. He is pale. He is moving slowly. And he looks..." Haru paused, searching for the word. "He looks like he doesn't care that he is bleeding."

The color drained from Y/N's face.

He was injured and he had walked past the hospital. He had walked past her. He was going home to bleed in the dark rather than let her heal him.

The resolve that had sustained her for three days hardened into something unbreakable. It was no longer just about love. It was about survival, it was about saving him from his own colossal stupidity.

"Thank you, Haru," she said. Her voice was ice cold.

She grabbed her medical kit. She grabbed her cloak.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The house was silent when Y/N entered. Hikari was not running in the halls; she was likely already asleep or hiding in her room, sensing the storm that had just walked through the front door.

Y/N went straight to the study.

The door was closed, asliver of light leaked from beneath it.

She did not knock, it was her house afterall. He was her husband, the time for polite distance was over.

She slid the door open with a sharp movement.

Madara sat at his desk. He had removed his chest plate, leaving him in his black under-tunic. The fabric on his left side was matted and dark, clinging wetly to his skin. He was hunched over a scroll, a brush in his hand.

He did not look up, he kept writing, the brush scratching against the paper. He was trying to pretend she wasn't there. He was trying to be the Clan Head, busy with reports, too important to be interrupted.

Y/N stepped into the room. She closed the door behind her, walked to the center of the room and stood there, her medical kit heavy in her hand.

She stared at him. She stared at the way his hand shook slightly as he wrote,the gray pallor of his skin, the blood soaking into the tatami mat beneath his chair.

"You are injured," she stated. Her voice was flat, devoid of the warmth he was used to.

Madara's brush paused. He dipped it into the inkstone.

"It is superficial," he rasped. His voice was a wreck, dry and unused. "A scratch from a rock slide. It does not require attention."

Y/N scoffed. It was a harsh, incredulous sound that cut through the dim room.

"A rock slide," she repeated. "Do not insult my intelligence, Madara. I can smell the iron from here. I can see the way you are favoring your left side. You are bleeding out."

She dropped her kit onto the floor with a loud thud.

"And you are writing a report."

"It is my duty to write one, the village needs it," he muttered, still refusing to meet her eyes. He made a stroke on the paper. It was crooked.

"The village needs a Clan Head who is alive," she snapped.

She crossed the remaining distance in three strides. She reached out and slammed her hand down on the scroll, right over his writing.

"Stop."

Madara froze. He looked at her hand on his work, the black ring on her finger was smeared with fresh ink.

Slowly, reluctantly, he looked up.

His eyes were dark, hollowed out by exhaustion and pain. But behind the fatigue, there was a wall. A high, cold wall of stubbornness.

"Leave me, Y/N," he growled. "I am working."

"No," she said. She leaned over the desk, invading his space, forcing him to acknowledge her presence. "You are bleeding out. Slowly, stupidly, and stubbornly. And I am not going to let you."

She reached for the collar of his tunic.

"Take it off."

Madara caught her wrist. His grip was weak, his hand cold.

"I said no."

"And I said I am your wife," she hissed, her face inches from his. "I am the Head medic of this village."

She ripped her wrist free from his grasp.

"Take it off, Madara, or I will cut it off."

The silence in the study was heavy, broken only by the sharp, metallic snip of Y/N's scissors cutting through the ruined fabric of his tunic. Madara sat rigidly in the chair, his jaw set, staring at the far wall. He had stopped fighting her, but he had not yielded. He was enduring her care like he endured a necessary evil.

Y/N peeled the blood-soaked cloth away from his skin. The wound was ugly, a jagged, deep laceration running along his ribs. It wasn't a rock slide. It was a blade wound, likely poisoned, though his own potent chakra was fighting the toxin, leaving the edges of the cut angry and inflamed.

Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. Seeing his body broken like this, knowing he had sought out this pain just to escape the intimacy of their life together... it was a physical ache.

Her hands glowed green with healing chakra. She began to clean the wound, her touch precise and gentle despite her anger.

"You are irresponsible," she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly.

Madara didn't flinch as the antiseptic stung, he didn't speak.

"You think because you are Uchiha Madara, you are invincible," she continued, her hands working steadily. "You think you can just walk into a war zone alone because you are the strongest. Because you are a god among men."

She paused for a second.

"But you are not a god. You are a man. You bleed like a man."

She looked at his face, at the dark circles under his eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth.

"People count on you," she whispered. "The village counts on you. Your clan counts on you. I count on you."

He didn't react.

"Hikari was terrified," Y/N said, her voice catching. "She came to my room the night you left. She had a nightmare and you weren't there. She asked where you were, and I had to lie to her. I had to tell her you were working, when I knew you were out there trying to get yourself killed."

She finished sealing the deepest part of the wound and began to bandage his torso.

"You are not protecting anyone by running away, Madara. You are just scaring the people who love you."

She tied the bandage off, her hands resting for a moment on his chest. She could feel his heart beating beneath her palm : slow, steady, stubborn.

He still didn't answer. He just stared at the wall, lost in his own fortress of solitude.

"It was working," Y/N said, her voice tight and trembling with a rage she had suppressed for seven long days. She finished tying off the bandage around his ribs with a sharp tug, but she was not done.

She grabbed his left arm. The fabric of his sleeve was shredded, stiff with dried blood. She didn't bother rolling it up. She took her scissors and sliced the ruined silk open, exposing a nasty, jagged gash that ran from his elbow to his shoulder. It was packed with grit and gravel from where he must have slammed into a canyon wall.

"We were working," she hissed. She grabbed a bottle of strong antiseptic. She didn't warn him and poured it directly onto the raw flesh.

Madara’s hand clenched into a fist on the desk, his knuckles turning white, but Y/N did not stop. She picked up a coarse sponge and began to scrub the debris from the wound.

"Do you remember when I first arrived? Your clan looked at me like I was a disease. They looked at me like I was a spy who had infiltrated the walls. I walked down these halls and felt the weight of their hatred on my shoulders every single day."

She scrubbed harder. The water in the basin turned pink, then red.

"But we changed that. I changed that. I cooked for them until my hands were blistered. I healed them until my chakra was drained. I taught your sister how to breathe. They stopped staring and started smiling. The children call me Princess. The elders bow to me, even Chiyo smiles."

She grabbed a needle and thread. She didn't use chakra to numb the area, she wanted him to feel it. She pierced the skin, pulling the thread tight.

"I found a family here, Madara. In this cold, stone fortress that you call a prison, I found a home. I thought I had found a place where I belonged. I thought I had found a partner."

She stitched with angry, jerky movements.

Up. Down. Pull.

"We were moving forward. You held my hand in Suna. You drank my tea. We were partners, we were finally standing on the same side of the line."

Her voice cracked, the anger giving way to a raw, bleeding hurt.

"And then, the moment it became real, the moment it became good, you decided to step back. You decided that happiness was a threat. You decided to throw yourself off a cliff just to avoid standing on solid ground, you decided to abandon me again."

She reached the end of the wound. She tied the knot and snapped the thread with her teeth. Then she grabbed a roll of bandage and began to wrap the arm, pulling the linen tight enough to cut off circulation.

Madara hissed.

The air sucked through his teeth in a sharp sound of pain. His body jerked involuntarily, his muscles seizing under her hands as she wrenched his injured arm. He tried to pull away, his instinct to retreat kicking in.

"Stay still," Y/N snapped.

She slammed her hand down on his shoulder, pinning him to the chair. The contact was electric, skin on skin, but there was no tenderness in it.

"If you are going to act like a child, I will treat you like one," she declared, her eyes blazing with lavender fire. "Do not move until I am finished. You do not get to run away from this. You do not get to bleed in peace while I pick up the pieces."

Y/N clipped the final metal clasp on the bandage with a decisive snap. She dropped her hands, letting them fall to her sides. They were trembling, not from exertion, but from the adrenaline of her fury.

The silence returned to the room, heavy and suffocating.

Madara did not move to put his tunic back on. He sat there, his chest wrapped in white linen, his arm bound tight. He did not look at his injuries. He looked at her. His dark eyes were fixed on her face, watching the way her chest heaved, watching the flush of anger on her cheeks. He saw the cracks in her mask.

"It hurt me," Y/N whispered. The anger drained out of her voice, leaving only a stark, brittle honesty. "When you stopped eating. When you stopped coming to bed. When you looked through me like I was a ghost in my own home."

She picked up her medical kit, her movements slow and heavy.

"I thought we had built something. I thought I was a partner, but you treated me like a liability you could just... discard."

She snapped the kit shut and stood up straight, meeting his gaze with a look of profound disappointment.

"If this is how you want to live, Madara, then fine. Be the Ghost. Be the monster everyone fears. Sleep in the dirt and bleed in the dark."

She turned toward the door, her hand resting on the frame. She looked back at him one last time.

"But do not lie to yourself. This is not protection. You are not saving anyone by acting like this. You are just drafting people away. You are just ensuring that when the end comes, you will be completely, utterly alone."

She slid the door open.

"And you are ensuring that I will be alone, too."

She stepped out into the hallway, sliding the door shut behind her, leaving him in the dim light of the study with the smell of antiseptic and the echoing truth of her words.

Madara sat in the silence she left behind. The scent of antiseptic was sharp in his nose, overpowering the smell of ink and old paper. He looked down at the fresh white bandages wrapped tight around his chest and arm. They were a physical manifestation of her care, and they felt like chains.

Drafting people away.

The words echoed in the empty room. He felt a surge of heat in his chest that had nothing to do with the fever of the wound. It was anger. A hot, roiling, shapeless anger that made his hands clench into fists on the desk.

He was angry at her for entering without knocking. He was angry at her for speaking to him with that tone of command. He was angry at her for dismissing his judgment, for calling his tactical retreat a "tantrum."

But beneath that surface rage, there was something else. A harder, denser knot that he could not untie.

He was the Uchiha Clan Head, he made the hard choices. He sacrificed his own happiness for the safety of others : that was his duty, his burden. She had looked at that burden, at the weight he carried to keep her alive, and she had called it cowardice.

She had told him he was making her alone.

He slammed his uninjured hand against the wood of the desk, the pain rattled up his arm, satisfying and sharp.

He wanted to believe that his distance was noble.

But her voice kept ringing in his ears : You are not protecting anyone. You are just scaring the people who love you.

He stood up. The movement pulled at his stitches, a reminder of her needle, of the way she had hurt him to heal him.

He looked at the door. Through the hallway, down the corridor, was the master suite. The soft bed and the woman who had stitched him back together.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The roles reversed with the rising sun.

For a week, it had been Madara leaving the house before the dawn could touch the roof tiles, escaping the warmth of a wife he was terrified to love. He had been the ghost, sliding out of doors and vanishing into the fog of duty.

But when he woke up in his study, his neck stiff from the high backed chair and his side throbbing with a dull, persistent ache, the house was already silent.

He pushed himself up, gritting his teeth against the pull of the stitches. He walked to the kitchen, expecting the usual routine, he expected to see her back turned to him as she brewed tea. Madara expected the silent, heavy tension of two people trying to ignore each other.

The kitchen was empty.

The stove was cold.

There was no tea, no bento wrapped in blue cloth. There was only Chiyo, chopping vegetables .

"Where is she?" Madara rasped.

Chiyo did not look up. "The Okusan left an hour ago."

Madara blinked. "It is barely dawn."

"She said the hospital required her immediate attention," Chiyo reported, her voice dry. "She also left instructions for you."

The old woman pointed a knife at the counter. A piece of paper sat there, weighed down by a small bottle of pain medication.

Madara picked it up :

Bed rest. Five days. Do not leave the compound. Do not train. If I find that you have strained the stitches, I will ensure the next dressing change is memorable.

It was a threat from the woman who knew exactly where every nerve ending in his body was located.

"She also said," Chiyo added, finally looking at him with eyes that judged his very soul, "that she would be late. She has taken a mission assignment."

Madara crumpled the note. "A mission? She is the Head medic. She does not take patrol missions."

"She does today," Chiyo said. "She has volunteered to supervise a Genin team on a herb gathering run in the Forest of Death. She said she needed the fresh air."

Madara stood frozen in his own kitchen.

She wasn't just working; she was finding reasons to be anywhere but here. She was taking D-rank babysitting missions just to avoid the possibility of seeing him.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

Two days passed in a gray, suffocating blur.

The house, which had briefly known the warmth of laughter and the scent of honey, had reverted to a tomb.

Madara sat at the low table in the parlor. His side throbbed with a dull, constant ache, a reminder of the stitches that pulled tight every time he moved. He was following her orders.

Across from him sat Hikari.

She was pushing her rice around her bowl with her chopsticks. Her shoulders were slumped. Her usual bright energy was extinguished.

There was a third cushion at the table. It was empty. The tea in the cup beside it was cold.

"She is late again," Hikari mumbled, staring at the empty spot.

Madara did not need to ask who.

"She has duties," he rumbled. "The hospital is busy."

"It wasn't busy last week," Hikari countered, her voice bordering on a whine. "Last week she was here. She helped me with my reading. She watched me practice. Now she just leaves before I wake up and comes back when I'm asleep."

She dropped her chopsticks onto the table with a clatter. She looked at her brother, her dark eyes filled with accusation.

"First it was you," she said. "You stopped eating with us. You stopped sleeping here. You ran away to the border."

She pointed at the empty cushion.

"And now she is doing it too."

Madara stopped eating, the rice turned to ash in his mouth.

"She is unhappy," Hikari whispered. "She used to smile when she looked at you. Now she looks like she is getting ready for a funeral. Is she going to leave for good, Nii-san? Is she going to go back to the Hyūga because we are too sad?"

The question hit Madara harder than the poisoned blade had.

He looked at his little sister. He saw the fear returning to her eyes, the same fear she had lived with before Y/N arrived. The fear of abandonment, the fear of the empty house.

He looked around the parlor. It was impeccable, Chiyo kept it perfect. But without Y/N, it was just wood and paper.

His attempt to save her life was destroying his family.

Madara clenched his hand on his knee. The pain in his side flared, sharp and grounding.

He realized, with a sickening clarity, that the Uchiha Curse was not just about death. It was about this self-inflicted isolation

He looked at Hikari's tear-filled eyes.

"Eat your rice," he said. His voice was rough.

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat," he commanded softly. "She will return."

He stared at the empty cushion.

He had created this void, and he was the only one who could fill it.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The midnight bell tolling from the village watchtower had faded into silence hours ago. The Uchiha compound was a world of stillness, the heavy, wooden bones of the house settling into the cool night.

Madara sat on his futon, he wore a simple, dark gray sleeping yukata, the fabric soft and worn. His hair was loose, falling around his face, framing the sharp angles of his jaw and the dark circles that had taken permanent residence under his eyes.

He was waiting.

He sat in the center of the room, his legs crossed, his hands resting on his knees, breathing slowly, deliberately, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his side where the stitches pulled tight against his skin.

The shoji screen slid open.

Y/N stepped inside. She moved like a ghost, her steps silent, her presence muted. She was dressed in her white medical robes, still wearing the dust of the day. Her shoulders were slumped with exhaustion.

She reached for the lamp to extinguish it, expecting the room to be empty.

Then she saw him.

Her hand froze in mid-air. Her eyes widened, losing their dull glaze for a fraction of a second. She stared at him sitting there, occupying the space he had abandoned for a week.

She did not smile. She looked at him with the wary, guarded expression of a soldier encountering an unexploded bomb.

"You are here," she whispered. The words were flat.

"I am," Madara replied. His voice was gravelly, low in the quiet room.

She lowered her hand. She looked at the door to the hallway, then back at him.

"Are you not sleeping in your office tonight?" she asked.

It was not a sarcastic question. It was a genuine one. She had become so accustomed to his absence that his presence was the anomaly. She was asking if she needed to leave, if she needed to make space for his ghost.

Madara looked at her pale face. He saw the way she held herself, rigid and protective.

"No," he said. "I am not."

He did not offer an explanation or an apology. Not yet. He just held his ground.

Y/N stared at him for a long heartbeat. Then, she gave a small, stiff nod.

"I see."

She turned away. She did not engage. She moved to the wardrobe, gathering her sleeping clothes and her toiletries with mechanical efficiency. She treated him like a piece of furniture, something to be navigated around.

She slid the door to the bathing room shut.

Madara was left alone in the main room, but he was no longer in the void. He was in her orbit.

He heard the sounds of her routine, the rustle of fabric dropping to the floor, the splash of water and the clink of a porcelain jar.

And then, he heard it.

At first, it was just a breath. A vibration in the air.

Then, a melody.

She was humming.

It was the lullaby. Her mother's song.

The sound was soft, unconscious, a reflex of comfort she offered herself because no one else was offering it.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. The sound wrapped around him, dragging him backward through time.

He remembered the first night. The wedding night.

He remembered the smell of jasmine and fear. Him sitting on this exact floor, listening to this exact song. He had been a stranger then. He had listened to her hum and wondered if she was plotting his death or mourning her own life. He had felt nothing but a cold, grim satisfaction that the alliance was secured.

He had been so arrogant. He had thought she was just a Hyūga princess, a piece on a shogi board.

The memory shifted. It dissolved into color and light.

Suna.

He saw the explosion of the fireworks reflecting in her lavender eyes. He saw the way the red light softened the curve of her cheek. He remembered the feeling of the desert wind and the warmth of her body standing next to his.

He remembered the taste of the honey cake.

He remembered her smile, not the polite mask she wore now. The real one. The one that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made his breath catch in his throat.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a painful, erratic rhythm.

He had held that warmth in his hands.

And he had thrown it away.

He had traded that smile for this cold, hollow silence. He had traded the honey for ash. He had terrified himself with a nightmare of losing

Madara opened his eyes. He stared at the closed screen of the bathing room.

The fear of the Curse, the fear of her death, was still there. It was a cold snake coiled around his spine.

But the pain of listening to her hum alone was worse.

The pain of seeing Hikari cry was worse.

The pain of living in this gray, empty world he had created was worse.

He looked at his hand. The steel ring was there, scarred and dull.

He clenched his fist.

He was Uchiha Madara. He did not cower and did not hide from storms.

The shoji screen slid open, releasing a cloud of warm, damp steam into the cool bedroom. Y/N stepped out, her skin flushed from the heat, her hair damp and heavy against her back. She was dressed in her indigo sleeping yukata, the sash tied tight around her waist.

She stopped.

Madara was not where she had left him. His pallet was no longer in the center of the room, an island of isolation. He had dragged it across the floor. It lay directly beside the large platform bed, the edge of his futon touching the wood of her frame.

He sat there, legs crossed, his hands resting on his knees. He looked up as she entered, his dark eyes were not the void she had seen for the past week. They were heavy with an emotion she was too tired to decipher.

Y/N stared at the proximity. If she lay down on the bed, and he lay down on the floor, his hand would be within reach of hers.

She did not comment on it. She did not have the energy to fight him, nor the resolve to welcome him. She simply walked to the vanity and picked up her comb. She sat down, her back to him, and began to untangle her damp hair.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

"We need to speak," Madara said. His voice was a low rumble, rough with the fatigue of his journey and the weight of his guilt.

Y/N’s hand paused mid-stroke. She looked at his reflection in the bronze mirror.

"Tomorrow," he added. " In the morning. Before the day begins."

It was a request.

Y/N lowered the comb. She looked at the bandages peeking out from the collar of his yukata. She looked at the gray cast to his skin. He was injured and exhausted.

"You are injured," she said softly, addressing his reflection. "You should rest."

Madara waited. He wanted her to agree to hear him out.

She did not give it to him.

Y/N set the comb down with a soft click. She stood up and walked to the bed. She pulled back the heavy quilt and slid inside, turning onto her side, her back facing him and his pallet.

"Goodnight, Madara," she whispered.

She did not answer his question. She did not promise him a conversation.

Madara sat there for a long moment, staring at the curve of her back under the covers. He understood. She was protecting herself. He had hurt her, and trust did not return just because he moved a mattress.

He accepted her silence, it was better than her absence.

For the first time in a week, the house was full. And as the moon rose over the Uchiha compound, they both fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, separated by height, but breathing the same air.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The sun slanted through the high windows, hitting Madara’s face. His hand flew to his side, shielding his eyes, while his other hand instinctively checked the space beside him.

It was empty.

The bed was made: the sheets were pulled tight and smoothed flat, erasing any evidence that she had slept there.

Madara sat up, a hiss escaping his teeth as the movement pulled at his stitches. He looked around the room. Her medical bag and cloak were gone.

He let out a long, heavy sigh. The sound scraped against the silence.

She had left. Y/N had gone to the hospital before dawn, just as she had for the few days. His gesture of moving the pallet, his silent request for a truce, had not been enough. Madara had expected too much too soon.

He stood up, his body aching with the stiffness of healing and the weight of regret. He would go to the kitchen, drink his tea alone, and then go to the tower to bury himself in paperwork. It was the routine he had built, the prison he had constructed.

Then he heard it.

It was faint, drifting down the hallway from the dining parlor. A sound that had no business being in a house of mourning.

A giggle. High, bright, and undeniable.

Then a voice. Low, soft. murmuring.

It was Y/N.

Madara froze. His hand tightened on the collar of his robe.

She was still here.

He walked silently, drawn toward the sound like a moth to a flame.

He reached the open door of the parlor.

They were there.

Hikari was sitting on a cushion, her hair half-braided, munching on a rice ball. Y/N was kneeling behind her, a comb in her hand. She was weaving Hikari’s unruly hair into a neat plait.

Y/N was not dressed for the hospital. She was wearing a simple, pale green house yukata. She looked tired, her eyes shadowed, but she was here. She was present.

"Hold still," Y/N whispered, tugging gently on a lock of hair. "Or you will go to the Academy looking like a bird's nest."

Hikari giggled again. "A cool bird's nest."

Madara stepped into the room.

"Good morning."

His voice was rough with sleep.

The atmosphere in the room snapped tight.

Hikari’s giggle cut off instantly. She looked up, her dark eyes darting from Y/N to Madara.

Y/N’s hands stilled on the braid. She did not jump or turn around. She finished the plait, tied it off with a red ribbon, and then slowly stood up.

Her expression was calm. "Good morning," she replied. She did not use his name.

Madara walked to his cushion. The distance between them across the small table felt vast, a canyon he had dug himself.

Y/N moved to the teapot. She poured a cup and placed it in front of him, steam curled into the air.

"You should eat," she said, sliding a bowl of rice and grilled fish toward him. "Your body needs the fuel for the healing process."

It was the physician speaking. Not the wife.

Not his wife.

Madara picked up his chopsticks. "Thank you."

They ate.

Usually, breakfast was a quiet affair, but this silence was heavy. It was thick with the things they had said last night and the things they had not.

Hikari sat between them, her eyes wide. She looked at her brother, who was staring grimly at his fish. She looked at Y/N, who was drinking her tea with a gaze fixed on the garden wall.

The air felt static, like the moments before a lightning strike. Hikari chewed her rice ball slowly, afraid that if she swallowed too loudly, she would break something fragile.

She sensed the wall Y/N had put up.

She sensed the regret coming off her brother in waves.

They were sitting at the same table, but they were miles apart.

Hikari finished her food quickly, stuffed the last bite into her mouth and scrambled to her feet. She needed to get out of the blast radius.

"I'm going!" she announced, her voice too loud in the quiet room. She grabbed her bag. "I'm going to be late !"

Y/N turned to her, the mask softening just a fraction. "Have a good day at the academy, Hikari-chan. Be careful."

"I will!"

"Bye, Nii-san," she whispered.

Madara nodded, not looking up. "Go."

Hikari fled. Her footsteps faded down the hall, then the front door slammed shut.

The silence rushed back in, absolute and suffocating.

The front door clicked shut behind Hikari, leaving a silence that felt heavy enough to crush bone.

Madara sat at the table, his hand resting near his teacup. He looked at the steam rising in thin, gray wisps. He looked at Y/N. She was sipping her tea, her gaze fixed on the garden. She was sitting right there, but she felt miles away.

Madara cleared his throat, the sound was rough in the quiet room.

"The sun," he started, his voice low. "It is... bright today."

Y/N lowered her cup and looked at him. Her expression didn't change, but a flicker of something, confusion perhaps, or disbelief, passed through her eyes. Madara Uchiha was making small talk about the...weather ?

"It is," she agreed politely.

Madara clenched his hand on his knee. Why was this harder than facing a battalion of rogues ?

He pushed himself to his feet. "Walk with me," he requested. It was not a command. "The air in the house is... suffocating. We should go out."

Y/N looked at him. She looked at the bandages visible at the collar of his yukata.

"You are healing," she said. "Exertion is not recommended."

"Walking is not exertion," he countered. "And I cannot sit in this room any longer. Please Y/N.."

The please hung in the air. It was a word he rarely used.

Y/N hesitated. Then, she stood up.

"Very well," she said softly. "A walk."

They walked through the village outskirts, avoiding the busy market streets where eyes would follow them. They took a winding, dirt path that led up the gentle slope of the Hokage Rock, winding around the side to a high, grassy hill that overlooked the entire valley.

The walk was silent. The only sounds were the wind in the trees and the crunch of their sandals on the earth.

Madara walked at a measured pace, mindful of his injury, though he would never admit it. Y/N walked beside him, matching his stride. They were close enough that their sleeves brushed occasionally, sending small, electric jolts through the heavy atmosphere between them.

They reached the top of the hill.

The view was breathtaking. Below them, Konoha spread out like a map. The red and green roofs, the winding river, the bustling streets, it was a living, breathing testament to the peace they had built. The sun bathed everything in a warm, golden light.

Madara stopped at the edge of the overlook. He crossed his arms over his chest, wincing slightly as the motion tugged at his ribs. He looked down at the village.

Y/N stood a few feet away. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders against the breeze.

Y/N was looking at Mardara. She saw the profile of the man she had married. The sharp nose, the wild hair, the lines of exhaustion etched into his face. He looked strong, as always, but there was a crack in the armor... He looked lonely.

"It is a good view," Madara said, his voice carried away by the wind.

"It is," Y/N replied.

He turned his head to look at her. The wind whipped a strand of black hair across her face.

He wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. He wanted to pull her close.

But the wall was still there.

"Y/N," he said. His voice was heavy.

She met his gaze.

Madara turned his head and looked out at the village he had built. The wind tugged at his loose hair, whipping it across his face, but he did not move to brush it away. He kept his arms crossed, his hands gripping his biceps.

"I have lived my life in the cold," he began. His voice was low, a rumble that vibrated through the ground beneath their feet. "Since I was a boy, I have known only duty, war, and the silence that comes after the fighting stops. I built a fortress around myself. It kept the world out, and it kept my grief in."

He took a sharp breath, the air whistling through his nose.

"Then you came."

He turned his head slowly. He looked at her again.

"I expected a political arrangement. I expected a quiet presence in my house, a signature on a treaty. I did not expect this." He gestured vaguely to the space between them. "This noise. This disruption."

Y/N stood still, the wind fluttering the hem of her yukata. She listened.

"At first, it was just irritation," Madara admitted. "You were in my kitchen. You were in my training yard. You were humming in my room. But then, the irritation changed. It became a pull. A gravity I could not fight."

He stepped closer, invading her personal space, needing her to hear every word.

"When I look at you, there is a tightness here." He pressed his hand to his chest, right over his heart. "It is not pain or adrenaline. It is a heat. It starts when I hear your voice in the hallway, it flares when you smile at Hikari and it burns when you look at me with those eyes that see everything. It is a feeling I have not known, and it terrified me."

He looked down at his hands, calloused and scarred from a lifetime of violence.

"I did not know what to do with it. I am a warrior, Y/N. I know how to destroy, how to conquer. I do not know how to hold something delicate without crushing it. I do not know how to be warm."

His voice cracked, just a fracture in the stone.

"And that fear paralyzed me. In Suna, under the fireworks, I looked at you and I felt a happiness I have not felt for ages. And immediately, I felt the shadow. Because in my life, happiness is the herald of loss. Every time I love something, the world takes it away. It bleeds it out in front of me."

He looked at her, his gaze raw and desperate.

"I pulled away because I was scared. I am scared of hurting you. I am scared that my darkness is contagious. I am scared that if I hold you too close, I will break you, or my enemies will use you to break me. I am scared that I am doing everything wrong, that I am failing you as a husband because I only know how to be a general. I thought if I removed myself, you would be safe. I thought if I stopped caring, the curse would pass over us."

He let his hands fall to his sides, open and empty.

"I tried to leave. I tried to go back to the cold. I thought it would protect you. But out there, in the rocks and the blood, the cold was not safe anymore. It was just lonely and I realized that I would rather be afraid with you than safe without you. I would rather risk the loss than live another day in that silence."

He stopped, the confession hung in the air.

Y/N stared at him. She saw the man stripped of his armor, the general who had surrendered his command to his own heart.

She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cool against his warm, scarred skin. She didn't just hold it: she gripped it, anchoring him to her.

"Madara," she whispered, her voice carrying over the wind. "Look at me."

He met her gaze, his dark eyes vulnerable.

"You are afraid of a shadow," she said gently. "You are afraid of a story your clan tells itself to make sense of the pain. But the Uchiha Curse only exists because you let it dictate your future. You let the fear of loss stop you from gaining anything worth keeping."

She stepped closer, her other hand coming up to cup his cheek. Her thumb brushed the scar there, a tender, reclaiming touch.

"I am not a fragile thing you need to put on a shelf," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "I am jonin of Konoha I have faced death in the hospital, on the battlefield, and in the eyes of my own father. I am strong enough to be loved by you, Madara. I am strong enough to carry your fear until you are ready to let it go."

Madara leaned into her touch. His eyes fluttered shut as her thumb traced his cheekbone. He let out a long, shaky breath, the air whistling through his nose.

"You said you didn't know how to be warm," she murmured stepping in. "But you kept me safe in Suna. You fed me when I was tired and you held my hand when I was afraid. You are already warm, Madara. You just need to stop dousing the fire."

He opened his eyes. They were dark, intense, and they shifted slightly to her mouth. "Y/N," he rasped. It was a plea and a surrender.

"Do not push me away to save me," she whispered, tilting her head back. "Hold me close. That is the only safety I want."

Madara didn't speak, he moved. He lowered his head slowly, giving her every chance to back away. She did not. She rose on her toes to meet him, his lips brushed hers. It was not a storm or a desperate collision. It was the softest thing he had ever done. He kissed her with gentleness, his rough lips moving against hers with a reverence that made her knees weak.

Y/N sighed into his mouth, her fingers tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. She deepened the kiss, just slightly, inviting him in. Madara made a low sound in his throat. His arms came around her, locking behind her waist, pulling her flush against him. He held her there, drinking in her warmth, letting the reality of her.

He pulled back, just an inch. His forehead rested against hers. His breathing was unsteady. "I will," he rasped into the space between them. "I will hold you."

He wrapped his arms tighter around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. They stood there on the hill overlooking the village they had built, wrapped in each other's arms, the wind singing around them.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, orange glow over the Uchiha compound. For the first time in multiples days, the house did not feel like a tomb.

Y/N stood in the kitchen, finishing the preparations for dinner. The air smelled of grilled mackerel, miso soup with fresh scallions, and steaming white rice.

"I am starving!"

The shout preceded the arrival. Hikari burst into the room, her feet thumping loudly against the wooden floorboards. She was a blur of energy, sliding in her socks as she rounded the corner into the dining parlor.

"Hikari."

Madara’s voice cut through the noise. He was already in the parlor, setting out the tea cups. He looked up, his expression a familiar mask of brotherly disapproval.

"Do not run in the house," he rumbled. "You will knock something over."

Hikari skidded to a halt, grinning unapologetically.

"I didn't knock anything over, Nii-san. I am an excellent runner."

She flopped onto her cushion, bouncing slightly. "Is it ready? It smells amazing."

Y/N entered with the serving tray.

"It is ready," she announced, smiling at the girl. "Sit properly, Hikari-chan."

She set the tray down on the low table. Usually, she would place the dishes and then move to the cushion opposite Madara, creating a respectful distance between them.

Tonight, she did not.

She knelt on the cushion directly beside Madara.

She settled in, arranging her skirts. She was close enough that her knee brushed his, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his side.

Madara paused. He looked at her, then at the empty space across the table where she usually sat.

He shifted his weight, leaning into her just slightly. He picked up the teapot and poured her cup first, his movements fluid and easy.

Hikari watched them.

She picked up her chopsticks, ready to dive into the fish, but she stopped.

She looked at her brother, the terrifying Ghost of the Uchiha, who looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

She looked at Y/N, who was sipping her tea with a soft, contented flush on her cheeks.

She saw the way their sleeves overlapped, the way Madara’s arm rested protectively behind Y/N’s back, not quite touching, but guarding the space.

Hikari dropped her chopsticks.

A giggle bubbled up from her throat. She clamped her hands over her mouth, but it escaped anyway.

"Hehe."

Madara narrowed his eyes at her. "What is it?"

Hikari shook her head, but her face was turning a bright pink. She peeked through her fingers at them.

"You are sitting together," she whispered, her voice high with delight.

"We are married," Madara stated flatly. "It is normal for married couple."

"No, it's not normal for you two," Hikari insisted, giggling again. She wiggled in her seat, blushing furiously. "You look like... like the people in the romance scrolls. It's so mushy."

She hid her face in her hands again, peeking out with one eye.

"It's gross. But it's also really nice."

Y/N laughed, the sound bright and free. She leaned against Madara’s shoulder, abandoning all pretense of distance.

"Eat your fish, little monster," Y/N teased. "Or I will give your portion to your brother."

"No!" Hikari grabbed her bowl, stuffing her face to hide her grin.

Madara sighed, a long, suffering sound, but as he reached for his own rice, Y/N saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

The dinner dishes were cleared, and Hikari was tucked into bed, exhausted from her day.

Madara went to the bedroom first while Y/N finished her nightly routine in the bath. The hot water soaked away the last of the tension from her muscles, leaving her feeling loose and warm. She dried herself, slipping into her indigo sleeping yukata, and brushed her hair until it shone like black silk.

She slid the shoji screen open, stepping into the bedroom.

The pallet on the floor was gone, rolled up and stored away in the cabinet.

Madara was in the bed.

He was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, a scroll open in his hands, though he wasn't reading it. He wore his sleeping robes, his hair loose around his shoulders. He looked large in the space, his presence dominating the bed that she had slept in alone for so long.

Y/N stared at him. It was a shock to see him there. It was one thing to share a bed in a Suna guest house out of necessity but it was another thing entirely to see him claiming his space in their home.

Madara looked up. He saw her hesitation, the way she froze by the door, her hand tightening on the sash of her robe.

"I can take the futon again," he said, his voice low and rough. "If you want the space. If this is too much."

Y/N moved instantly. She crossed the room in three quick strides.

"No," she said firmly.

Madara froze.

"Do not go," Y/N said, her voice softer now. She stood by the side of the bed, looking down at him. "I do not want the space. It is too big without you."

She felt a flush rise on her cheeks, but she held his gaze.

"I like it," she whispered. "I like you here."

The tension left his shoulders.

"Hn," he grunted, "Then come here." He set the scroll on the nightstand and extinguished the lamp.

Y/N climbed into the bed, the mattress dipped under her weight tilting her toward him.

His body heat radiated across the small distance between them, it was a comforting heat.

She settled onto her pillow, turning on her side to face him.

He was facing her. In the dark, she could just make out the gleam of his eyes. He reached out. His arm slid under her neck, pulling her closer until her head rested on his shoulder. His other arm draped over her waist, holding her secure.

Y/N sighed, the sound lost against his chest. She rested her hand over his heart, who's beat is slow and strong against her palm.

"Goodnight, Madara," she murmured.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

There was no floor, no cold.

It was just them.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The date was etched into her bones. It did not need a calendar. It arrived with the shift of the wind, a specific chill in the autumn air that smelled of memory and old ash.

Y/N woke before the birds. Beside her, on his pallet, which he had moved just within arm's reach of the bed, Madara slept. His breathing was deep and even, a rhythm that usually calmed her. Today, it felt distant.

She slid from the warmth of the covers, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. She moved silently to her trunk. She did not reach for the indigo Uchiha robes, nor the white medical tunic.

She pulled out the black silk.

It was the formal mourning attire of her clan. High-collared, stiff, and utterly devoid of color. It was a ghost's clothing.

As she dressed, tying the sash, she waited for the familiar surge of rage. For years, this day had been a furnace. It had been the day she sharpened her kunai and cursed the name Uchiha. She looked at herself in the bronze mirror. The black fabric made her skin look pale as snow, her lavender eyes stark.

The rage did not come.

Instead, there was just a dull, hollow ache. A bruise that would never fully heal, but no longer bled. She looked at the reflection of the sleeping man behind her.

The "monster."

She saw only Madara. The man who liked honey cakes. The man who protected his sister with a desperate ferocity. The man who had given her a comb because he noticed her hair got in her eyes.

The man who makes her heart beat faster..

I cannot hate them anymore, she realized, fastening the final clasp at her throat. And that is the hardest part of the grief.

It felt like a betrayal. To love the thing that took her. To find comfort in the arms of the clan that had spilled her mother's blood.

"Forgive me, Kaa-san," she thought, the plea echoing in her mind. "I am sleeping in the enemy's house. And I am finding peace there." She slid the shoji screen open and stepped out onto the engawa.

The air was biting. The sky was purple, bleeding into the first faint gold of sunrise. The garden was silent, the stones gray and still in the morning light.

She stood there, her hands clasped in her sleeves, watching the light touch the curved tiles of the Uchiha rooftops. This compound, once a fortress of nightmares, was just a small sleeping village. It was full of children she had fed, and a husband she... loved ?

She closed her eyes, feeling the first weak rays of the sun on her face. It was the same sun that shone on the Hyūga compound across the river.

"I miss you," she whispered to the empty air. The words vanished into the silence. "I am safe here. But today... today I just miss you."

The sun had barely breached the horizon when Y/N moved to the kitchen. The silence of the house was profound, a sharp contrast to the storm of memories in her head. She washed the rice. She sliced the pickled plums. She set the kettle to boil.

She arranged the three settings on the low table in the parlor. One for her husband. One for his sister. One for herself. The normalcy of the task was keeping her grounded in the present while her heart drifted toward the past.

She was placing the chopsticks when a small sound broke the quiet. A soft shuffle of feet against wood.

"Y/N-nee?"

Y/N turned. Hikari stood in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair was a wild, spiky halo, and her red sleeping yukata was rumpled. She looked small and soft. She blinked, her dark eyes focusing on Y/N. She saw the severe, high-collared black robes. She saw the lack of the usual blue or white. She saw the pale, drawn look on Y/N's face.

Hikari did not run this time. She walked over slowly, her usual boundless energy dampened by the heavy atmosphere. She wrapped her small arms around Y/N's leg, pressing her cheek against the stiff black silk.

"You look different," Hikari mumbled into the fabric. "Why are you wearing all black? Is it for a mission?"

Y/N froze for a moment, then softened. She reached down and rested her hand on Hikari's messy hair.

"No, little one," she said softly. "No mission today."

Hikari pulled back, looking up. Her eyes were wide and curious. "Then why? You look... like a shadow. It makes me sad."

Y/N knelt so she was eye-level with the girl. She smoothed a stray lock of hair from Hikari's forehead. "I wear this to remember," Y/N explained, her voice steady but quiet. "We wear black to honor those who have passed on."

Hikari's brow furrowed. "Who passed on?"

"My mother," Y/N said. The words tasted like cold iron. "I lost her a long time ago. On this day."

Hikari's eyes widened. She knew about loss. She was an Uchiha. Loss was the air they breathed. But seeing it on Y/N, the woman who was usually their source of light and sugar, was disturbing.

"Oh," Hikari whispered. She stepped closer, putting her small hands on Y/N's shoulders. "Does it hurt? Still?"

"Sometimes," Y/N admitted, managing a small, sad smile. "It hurts less than it used to. But today... today the house feels a little quieter because she is not in it."

Hikari nodded solemnly. She understood that feeling. She leaned forward and kissed Y/N's forehead, a clumsy, sweet gesture of comfort.

"I will be calm today then," Hikari promised. "And I will eat all my breakfast. So you don't have to worry."

Y/N's heart squeezed. She pulled the child into a hug, burying her face in the girl's neck, breathing in the scent of milk and sleep.

"Thank you, Hikari," she whispered. "That would help me very much."

The shoji screen slid open with a sharp, decisive sound. Madara entered the parlor. He was already dressed in his high-collared clan robes, his hair tied back, his face set in its usual morning mask of stoic indifference.

He stopped.

His gaze landed on Y/N. The black mourning silk swallowed the light in the room. It was utterly foreign to the woman who usually sat there in soft indigo or white. She looked pale. She looked like a statue carved from ice.

He knew the date. His mind had made the connection.

The Kawa River ambush.

The loss of the Hyūga matriarch.

He knew his clan was responsible.

He said nothing. He walked to his cushion and sat. The air in the room was thick, heavy with ghosts.

Hikari was true to her word. She did not shout a greeting. She did not launch into a story about her dreams. She ate her rice in solemn silence, casting worried glances at Y/N, then at Madara, sensing the tension but not understanding the depth of the history of the loss.

Y/N barely touched her food. She drank her tea, her hands steady, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the walls of the Uchiha compound. She was already gone.

When the meal was finished, Y/N set her cup down with a soft click. She did not look at Hikari. She looked directly at Madara. Her lavender eyes were clear, devoid of the warmth he had grown used to.

"I will be heading to the Hyūga compound for the day," she stated. Her voice was calm, flat, and brook no argument. "I will be with my father and Haru. I will return after sunset."

She was returning to her family to mourn the woman his family had killed. She was drawing a line in the sand.

Madara held her gaze. He felt a sharp, cold spike of something in his chest. It was not anger. It was regret. It was the bitter taste of a war he had won, only to realize the price was sitting across from him. He could not comfort her. His comfort would be an insult. He was the source of the grief.

He gave a single, stiff nod. "Go," he rumbled.

Y/N stood up gracefully. She smoothed the stiff black silk of her robes. "Thank you."

She turned to Hikari and rested her hand briefly on the girl's head, a silent goodbye. Then she walked out of the room.

Madara listened to her footsteps recede down the hallway. He heard the front door open and close. The silence she left behind was deafening. It was not peace, it was an absence.

The door clicked shut, leaving a silence that felt heavier than the Sunagakure's desert.

Hikari sat at the low table, her hands clenched in her lap. She looked at the empty cushion where Y/N had sat. She looked at the teacup Y/N had used.

"It feels cold," Hikari whispered. Her voice was small in the large room. "Without her here. It feels cold."

Madara did not speak. He stared at the steam rising from his own cup. It was twisting into shapes that vanished before they could form.

"She is alone over there," Hikari continued, her dark eyes filling with tears. "With just her sad father and Haru. She shouldn't be alone, Nii-san. Not today." She looked up at her brother, her expression fierce and heartbreakingly honest.

"We killed her mother. That is why she left, isn't it? She thinks she has to hide from us to be sad."

Madara flinched. It was a microscopic movement, a tightening of the jaw, but Hikari saw it. He could not deny it. It was the truth. Y/N had retreated to her territory because she believed her grief was an accusation against him. She believed that to mourn her mother, she had to stop being an Uchiha.

She was wrong.

He thought of the night she had held Hikari through the nightmares of the fire. She had not turned away from their pain, she had embraced it.

He thought of the bentos. The candy. The way she stood by his side in Suna. She had carried the weight of his clan for months. And now, when the weight of her own clan was crushing her, he was sitting here, drinking tea.

Madara stood up. The sudden movement made the tea in his cup ripple. He walked around the table to where Hikari sat. He looked down at his little sister, the girl who had been healed by the woman they had forced into their lives. He reached out. His large hand landed on Hikari’s messy, spiky hair. He ruffled it, a rare, clumsy gesture of affection.

"Go to your room," he commanded. His voice was low, but the roughness was gone. "Put on your formal robes. The black ones with the crest."

Hikari blinked, sniffing back a tear. "Why? Where are we going?"

Madara turned his gaze toward the door, toward the direction of the Hyūga compound across the river.

"We are going to pay our respects," he stated. He looked back at his sister. "She held you when you cried, Hikari. She fed our clan. She built a home in a fortress." He straightened, his armored shoulders squaring. "We will support her," Madara said, "just as she has supported this family."

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

Y/N kept to the shadows. She avoided the bustling main streets of Konoha where the merchants were already shouting their wares and the ninja were gathering for morning assignments. She did not want to be seen.

She slipped through the narrow back alleys, her black mourning robes brushing against the wooden fences. The village felt distant, a world away from the cold knot in her chest.

She reached the high white walls of the Hyūga compound. The guards at the gate, members of the branch family, straightened as she approached. They bowed low, a silent, respectful gesture that acknowledged her not as a guest, but as kin returning to mourn.

Y/N walked through the gates. The compound was silent. The shishi-odoshi in the garden was stopped, the bamboo tube resting against the stone. The koi pond was still.

She navigated the polished wooden corridors of the main house. The air grew heavier with every step, thick with the scent of white lily incense. It was the smell of memory.

She stopped at the shoji screen of the ancestral hall. She took a breath to steady her shaking hands, then slid the door open.

Her father and brother were already there.

Hisasi sat in the center of the room, facing the family shrine. His posture was perfect with his back a rigid line of steel. He wore the black ceremonial robes of the clan head in mourning. He looked like a statue carved from gray stone, unmoving and cold.

Haru sat to his right. He wore the same black robes, but his posture was less rigid. His shoulders were hunched forward, his hands clenched tight on his knees. His head was bowed.

They looked like islands separated by a sea of tatami.

Y/N stepped into the room. The sound of her tabi socks sliding on the mats broke the silence. Haru’s head snapped up. His pale lavender eyes were red-rimmed. He looked at her, and relief washed over his face.

Y/N did not speak. Words were unnecessary here. She crossed the room and sank to her knees on Haru's other side. She adjusted her robes, folded her hands in her lap, and looked up at the shrine.

A single portrait rested there. A woman with kind eyes and a smile that seemed to forgive the world. Y/N closed her eyes. She let the silence of the room settle over her like a shroud.

She was back, she was a daughter, and she was grieving.

Haru knelt beside his sister. He looked at her profile, pale and composed in the morning light. She looked like a statue, perfect and unreachable. But then he saw the slight tremor in her hands folded in her lap.

She was not a statue. She was his big sister. She was the one who had brushed his hair when he was small. She was the one who had stood between him and their father's expectations.

And now, she was the one who had sacrificed herself to the Uchiha to spare him.

His heart cracked. It was a physical pain, sharp and jagged.

He needed to know she was still here. That she wasn't just the Uchiha Okusan. That she was still Y/N.

Slowly, tentatively, Haru moved his hand across the space between them. He slid his fingers into her palm. Y/N didn't look at him. She didn't break her meditative pose. But her hand closed around his instantly. Her grip was warm. It was solid. It was an anchor in the shifting sea of his grief. Haru let out a shaky breath, his shoulders dropping. She was here.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

Outside the walls of the Hyūga compound, the village of Konoha was waking up to a sight that would fuel rumors for a generation.

Uchiha Madara was walking through the streets.

He was not in his armor. He was dressed in formal, high-collared black robes, the Uchiha fan emblazoned on his back. In his right hand, he carried a small, wrapped bundle of high-grade white incense and a spray of white lilies. In his left hand, he held the small hand of his sister.

Hikari walked beside him, struggling to match his long strides. She wore a black formal kimono, her usual wild energy contained into a solemn, nervous trot. She squeezed his hand tightly, her dark eyes darting around at the villagers who stopped to stare.

Madara ignored them. His gaze was fixed on the white walls rising in the distance.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He was fully aware of the audacity of this moment. He was an Uchiha. He was the leader of the clan that had ambushed the convoy.

Walking into that compound was not just a breach of manner. It was a provocation.

"Turn back," a logical, cold voice in his head whispered. "It will cause conflict."

But then, other images overrode the logic. He saw Y/N in his kitchen, covered in flour, teaching Kenta how to pull candy. He saw her on the floor of his room, holding Hikari through the terror of a memory she hadn't lived but understood anyway. He saw her face under the fireworks in Suna, the red light softening her smile. And finally, he saw her face this morning. The pale, hollow look of a woman who believed she had to leave her husband to mourn her mother.

He tightened his grip on Hikari's hand. He would not let her be alone.

He would bear the hatred of the Hyūga. He would bear the glare of her father. He would walk into the fire for her, because she had walked into the fire for him every single day for multiple months.

"Head up, Hikari," he commanded softly. "We are Uchiha. We do not shrink."

Hikari straightened her spine, mimicking his posture.

"Yes, Nii-san."

They reached the gates. The Hyūga branch guards froze. Their white eyes widened in disbelief. They saw the Ghost of the Uchiha standing on their threshold, holding flowers for their dead mistress.

Madara did not wait for permission.

"I am here to see my wife," he rumbled, his voice low and undeniable. "Stand aside."

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The arrival was not quiet. The heavy wooden gates of the Hyūga compound groaned as they were pushed open, the sound echoing through the silent courtyards. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approached the ancestral hall.

Inside, the three mourners froze. Hisasi’s head snapped up, his Byakugan activating instinctively. Haru’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened painfully. Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat.

The shoji screen slid open with a harsh, decisive rasp. The light from the garden flooded the dim room, silhouetting two figures against the morning sun. One was small, hesitant, a child in black. The other was a mountain.

Uchiha Madara stood in the doorway. He filled it. His black robes seemed to absorb the light, his presence a heavy, undeniable weight that pressed against the walls. He held white lilies in one hand, their purity a stark contrast to the violence he represented.

Beside him stood Hikari, her small hand clutching his, her dark eyes wide and fixed solely on Y/N. The silence that followed was absolute. It was the silence before an execution.

"Uchiha-sama."

Hisasi’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade of ice. He did not bow. He did not move from his kneeling position. His pale eyes were cold, filled with a profound, simmering outrage. The enemy was here. In the sanctuary. On this day.

Haru shot to his feet. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. His chakra flared.

"You," Haru hissed, his voice trembling. "You dare..."

Y/N remained kneeling, her hand still hovering where Haru’s had been. She stared at her husband. She saw the lilies. She saw the child. She saw the look in his eyes, not arrogance or malice, but a dark, fierce resolve.

The tension in the room thickened, a physical pressure that made the air hard to breathe. The Hyūga and the Uchiha, facing each other over the memory of a dead woman. The past and the present, colliding in a single silent moment.

Haru did not shout. He did not let his anger explode in a wave of chaotic noise. Instead, he stepped forward, placing himself physically between his sister and the Uchiha leader. His voice was a low, trembling vibration that cut deeper than any scream.

"How dare you," Haru said.

He raised a shaking finger, pointing not at Madara's face, but at the white-and-red fan sewed on his chest.

"You walk into this house. On this specific day. Wearing that crest." Haru took another step. The veins around his eyes were bulging, his Byakugan searching for a target, for a weakness, for anything to strike.

"That is the symbol of the men who killed her," Haru hissed. "It is the symbol of the fire that burned the convoy. And you wear it here, in front of her shrine, like a badge of honor."

"Haru," Y/N said, scrambling to her feet. She reached for his arm. "Haru, please. Calm down. He is-"

Haru ripped his arm away from her touch. He did not look at her. His pale, furious eyes were locked on Madara. "You took my sister," Haru accused, his voice thick with a venomous mix of grief and helplessness. "You forced her out of her home. You bound her to your blood soaked clan. You stole the only family I had left."

He chest heaved.

"Is that not enough for you, Uchiha Madara? Must you also come here and steal our grief? Must you mock the dead with your presence?"

"Haru! Stop!" Y/N pleaded, stepping in front of him, trying to break his line of sight.

Haru looked over Y/N's shoulder, ignoring her. He stared straight at the Ghost of the Uchiha.

"Leave," Haru commanded, his voice shaking with the effort to hold back a physical attack. "Get out. Before I forget that you are the Village Head and remember that you are my enemy."

"Haru."

The single word cracked through the room like a whip. It was not shouted. It was spoken with the absolute, freezing authority of the Hyūga Clan Head. Hisasi did not rise. He remained seated in seiza, his hands resting on his knees, his pale eyes fixed on his son.

"Sit down," Hisasi commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "You are a jonin of this village. You will not brawl in the ancestral hall like a child. Sit down and let the man explain himself."

Haru froze. His chest was heaving, his face flushed with a violent, impotent rage. He looked from his father to the Uchiha leader.

Slowly, agonizingly, Haru unclenched his fists. He stepped back. He sank to his knees beside Y/N. He did not look at Madara. He stared at the floor, shaking.

Madara did not flinch. He did not even acknowledged Haru's outburst or Hisasi's intervention.

He stepped forward.

The sound of his boots on the tatami was heavy, a rhythmic intrusion into the sacred space. He walked past Y/N without looking at her. He walked past Haru.

He stopped directly in front of the black-lacquered shrine.

He looked at the portrait. The woman with the kind eyes and the gentle smile. He did not bow in apology. Uchiha did not apologize for war. War was a force of nature; it happened, and people died. To apologize would be to insult the soldiers who had fought on both sides.

But he did not stand in arrogance, either.

He slowly knelt. He placed the bundle of white lilies on the altar. They were fresh, pristine, their scent cutting through the stale air of the room. He reached out and took a stick of incense. He lit it from the candle flame. He held it for a moment, watching the smoke curl upward, a gray ribbon connecting the living and the dead. He placed it in the burner.

"The Uchiha respect strength," Madara said. His voice was a low rumble, addressing the portrait, but carrying to every corner of the silent room. "You died defending your kin. You died a warrior's death."

He paused.

"Your death... was a loss to this village."

It was not "I am sorry." It was an admission of value. From the leader of the enemy clan, it was a huge concession.

Beside him, a small shadow moved.Hikari stepped up to the altar. She looked tiny next to her brother's broad back. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a single, small purple wildflower, the kind she grew in her secret garden. She placed it next to the white lilies. She put her small hands together and bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut in a silent, fervent prayer for the mother of the woman who had saved her from her nightmares.

Madara stood.

He turned then looked at Hisasi.

"She was a warrior," Madara repeated, his dark eyes locking with the Hyuga leader's pale ones. "And we respect the woman who gave us the Okusan."

Y/N stared at Madara’s back. The knot of guilt in her chest, the one that whispered she was betraying her mother by loving him, unraveled.

Haru was speechless. His fists slowly unclenched, his fingers curling uselessly into the fabric of his hakama. The venom he had prepared, the accusations of cruelty and disrespect, died in his throat. He looked at the incense smoke curling from the stick Madara had lit. The monster had honored the victim. It didn’t fix the past, but it silenced the present rage.

Hisasi let out a low, rough grunt. He looked at Madara. He looked at the man who was arguably the strongest shinobi alive, standing in his hall, lowering his head to a woman. He saw the ring on Y/N’s hand. He saw the matching ring on Madara’s hand.

He realized then that he hadn’t just sold his daughter for peace. She had forged it. She wasn’t a prisoner in that fortress. She was respected and valued. A warmth, unfamiliar and small, thawed a piece of the ice around the old man's heart. He closed his eyes for a brief second, giving a single, stiff nod. It was the highest approval he could offer.

He gestured to the empty space on the tatami mat beside Y/N. "Sit, Uchiha-sama," Hisasi said, his voice grave but devoid of its earlier chill. "Join us."

Madara turned. He walked to the spot Hisasi had indicated. He sank to his knees beside his wife. He did not touch her. He did not need to. His presence was a solid, grounding heat against her side. He settled into the silence, his shoulder brushing hers, two pillars supporting the weight of the room together.

For the first time in history, the Uchiha and the Hyūga sat together, not to negotiate, not to fight, but to remember.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The meal was served in the same room, but the atmosphere had shifted. The crushing weight of the incense had dissipated, replaced by the steam of hot tea and the simple, comforting clatter of ceramic bowls.

Madara sat quietly. He did not lead the conversation. He ceded the floor to the family he had joined. Hisasi, too, was silent, observing the strange tableau of Uchiha and Hyūga breaking bread under his roof.

It was Hikari who bridged the gap. She sat between Y/N and Haru, her earlier solemnity giving way to curiosity. She looked at Haru, eyeing his jōnin flak jacket which he had discarded in the corner, and then at his hands.

"Your hands look like Sana-nee's," Hikari observed, pointing with her chopsticks. "You have the calluses on the palms. From the Gentle Fist."

Haru blinked, surprised by the direct address. He looked at the small Uchiha girl. It was hard to hold onto anger when looking at a child who had placed a flower for his mother. "We train the same way," Haru replied, his voice gruff but not unkind. "It is the Hyūga style."

"Sana-nee is teaching me," Hikari announced proudly. She took a bite of pickled radish. "She says my Katon is wobbly because I don't breathe right."

Haru paused, his cup halfway to his mouth. He looked at Y/N. "You are teaching an Uchiha the Gentle Fist principles?"

"I am teaching her chakra control," Y/N corrected gently, pouring tea for her father. "Hikari has a lot of power. She needed a way to focus it. Our clan trainings provides stability."

"It works !" Hikari insisted, turning back to Haru with wide, shining eyes. "I hit the target three times yesterday. And I didn't fall over. Nii-san even said it was adequate."

She beamed at Madara, who gave a small, barely perceptible nod of confirmation.

"Sana-nee is the strongest kunoichi I know," Hikari continued, her voice filled with hero-worship. "She is not just a healer. She fought Nii-san in the yard and she almost won. Well, she didn't win, but she hit him. Nobody hits Nii-san."

Haru choked on his tea. Hisasi's eyes widened slightly.

"She... sparred with you?" Haru asked, looking at Madara with disbelief.

"Your sister is.. skilled." Madara rumbled, his voice calm. He glanced at Y/N, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. " Her defense is difficult to penetrate."

Haru looked at his sister. He saw the faint flush on her cheeks at the compliment.

"I want to be just like her," Hikari declared, finishing her rice. "I want to be pretty and smart and scary strong. Just like the Uchiha-Hime."

Haru looked at the little girl. Then he looked at Madara, who was watching Hikari with a softness Haru never thought possible. The anger in Haru's chest finally uncoiled. He realized Y/N had not just survived the Uchiha. She had conquered them.

"She is a good person to learn from," Haru said softly to Hikari. He reached out and, tentatively, poured more tea into the little girl's cup. "There," he said offering her a small smile that softened the usual intensity of his Hyūga eyes. "Drink. It is good for focus."

Hikari stared at the cup. Then she stared at Haru. A bright, furious, and completely involuntary shade of pink exploded across her face. It started at her neck and raced all the way to the tips of her ears. She grabbed the teacup with both hands and brought it up to hide her nose, peering over the rim at him with wide, panicked eyes. She looked like a startled rabbit.

Y/N saw it instantly. She leaned over, nudging Hikari gently in the ribs with her elbow.

"Hikari-chan," Y/N teased, her voice sweet and mischievous. "Your face is very red. Is the tea too hot? Or perhaps is it because of someone ?"

Hikari squeaked. She buried her face further into her cup, muttering something unintelligible about steam. "Leave her alone, Nee-san," Haru said, though he looked confused by the sudden change in the girl's demeanor.

"I am just checking her vitals," Y/N laughed, poking Hikari's burning cheek. "It seems she has a sudden case of shy-itis. It is very common in young girls who meet dashing jonin." Hikari kicked Y/N under the table, her face now resembling a tomato.

While the children bickered and blushed, the air on the other side of the table shifted. Hisasi placed his chopsticks down. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. His gaze moved from his flustered son to his laughing daughter, and finally settled on the dark, silent figure of his son-in-law.

Madara was watching Y/N. His expression was not the hard mask of the Uchiha leader.

"Uchiha-sama," Hisasi said. His voice was low, pitched so it did not disturb the chatter of the younger generation.

Madara turned his head. "Hyūga-dono."

Hisasi stood up. He smoothed his black robes. "Walk with me," he requested. "To the garden. The air in here is becoming thick."

Madara glanced at Y/N. He then nodded and rose, his movements fluid and silent.

The two patriarchs left the room, sliding the shoji screen shut behind them, leaving the laughter and the light inside. They stepped out onto the wooden veranda overlooking the Zen garden, where the silence was cold and absolute.

Hisasi stopped by a dry pond. He did not look at Madara. He stared at the patterns in the gravel.

"My daughter," Hisasi began, his voice devoid of the command he used in the council. "She was raised to be a leader. But she was raised in a house of silence and discipline. Your house... is a house of fire and noise."

He turned, his pale eyes piercing.

"Has she found her footing? Or is she merely enduring?"

Madara stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He thought of the kitchen covered in flour. He thought of the hospital classroom where she commanded his elite medics. He thought of the way she had stood next to him in the Suna market.

"She is not enduring," Madara stated, his voice a low rumble. "She is conquering."

Hisasi’s eyebrow twitched.

"She has taken command of my household," Madara continued. "She has reorganized my supply lines. She trains my sister. The children of my clan call her 'Princess.' She has not just found her place, Hyūga-dono. She has carved it out of the rock." He looked the older man in the eye. "She is respected. She is protected. And she is essential now."

Hisasi studied him. He heard the conviction in the Uchiha's voice. He heard the pride. It was not the possessive pride of a man owning an object. It was the admiring pride of a man watching a partner.

Hisasi let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly.

"That is good."

He turned back toward the house. Through the translucent paper of the shoji screen, the silhouettes of their children were visible. He could see Y/N’s shadow, animated and laughing, leaning toward the smaller shadow of Hikari.

Madara was watching that shadow. His gaze was fixed, intense, and completely unguarded. He was watching his wife.

Hisasi watched Madara watching her.

A memory, sharp and painful as a kunai, surfaced in the old man mind. A memory of himself, twenty years ago, standing on this very veranda, watching a woman with black hair braid flowers necklaces for children in the garden.

"You watch her," Hisasi observed quietly. "As if you are afraid she will vanish if you blink."

Madara stiffened. He tore his gaze away from the window, his mask slamming back into place. "I am vigilant."

"No," Hisasi said. His voice was not cold now. It was heavy with a sad, ancient knowing. "That is not vigilance, Madara. I know that look. I wore it for twelve years."

He looked at the shrine room where the portrait of his wife sat.

"It reminds me of... how I looked at her mother."

Madara felt a sudden, violent kick in his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the woman in the other room. He thought of the fireworks in Suna. The red light on her face. The way she had smiled at him, the honey on her lip, the absolute, terrifying feeling of falling.

He did not speak. He could not. To deny it would be a lie. To admit it would be a surrender.

So he simply stood there, in the cold Hyūga garden, his heart racing like a drum, while his father-in-law looked at him.

"Come," Hisasi said, breaking the heavy silence. "Let us return before they suspect we are conspiring against them." He walked back toward the warmth of the house.

Madara followed, his hand unconsciously brushing the steel ring on his finger, the echo of the fireworks still ringing in his ears.

The transition from the cold, raked-sand garden to the warm interior of the ancestral hall was physical. The heavy scent of lily incense had faded, replaced by the clean, grassy smell of fresh hot water and tea leaves.

The lunch dishes had been cleared away by a servants, leaving the black lacquer table gleaming and empty save for a fresh pot and five ceramic cups. The room felt smaller now, more intimate.

Y/N looked up as the shoji screen slid open. Her face was relaxed, the tension of the morning completely gone. She was leaning slightly toward Hikari, who was showing her something small in her hand. Haru was watching them.

When Y/N saw Madara, her expression brightened. It was a subtle shift, a softening of the eyes, a slight curve of the lips, but to Madara, fresh from Hisasi's observation, it felt like a spotlight.

You watch her as if you are afraid she will vanish.

He felt the truth of it settle in his gut, heavy and undeniable. He walked to the table and took his seat beside her. He did not sit rigidly this time. He settled, his arm resting on the table, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers.

Hisasi took his place at the head of the table. He looked at his children, and then at the Uchiha siblings. The lines of his face seemed less deep than they had at sunrise.

"Tea," Hisasi said simply. It was an invitation to stay, to linger.

Y/N reached for the pot. Her movements were graceful, the black sleeve of her mourning robe pulling back to reveal the pale skin of her wrist and the stark black ring. She poured for her father first, then Madara.

"The garden is quiet today," she noted softly, handing Madara his cup. "Did you find it peaceful?"

Madara took the cup. His fingers brushed hers, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The heat of her skin was a shock against his cool fingertips.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The afternoon waned into evening. The conversation drifted to safer topics—the weather, the harvest reports, the upcoming exams at the Academy. It was mundane. It was boring.

And for Madara Uchiha, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his wife in the heart of his enemy's home, it was the most peaceful battlefield he had ever stood upon.

The walk back to the Uchiha compound was a quiet procession under the starlight. The heavy, emotional weight of the day had drained Y/N. By the time they passed through the gates of their home, her steps were dragging. She kissed a sleepy Hikari goodnight and went straight to their quarters.

She didn't even have the energy for her usual nightly rituals. She simply washed her face, changed into her indigo sleeping yukata, and crawled into the large bed. The scent of sandalwood on the sheets was the last thing she registered before sleep pulled her under.

Madara lingered, gathered his things and went to the bathing room. The hot water did little to wash away the words of Hisasi.

You watch her as if you are afraid she will vanish.

He emerged from the bath, drying his hair with a rough towel. He wore only his sleeping trousers, his chest bare, the map of his scars visible in the dim light.

He stopped at the foot of the bed.

Y/N was fast asleep. She lay on her side, her face turned toward his empty pallet on the floor. One hand rested on the pillow, palm open, curled slightly. The sleeve of her yukata had slipped down, revealing the pale, smooth curve of her shoulder and the delicate line of her arm.

Her skin looked impossibly soft. It was a stark, painful contrast to the jagged ridges of scar tissue that crisscrossed his own body. He walked to the side of the bed. He stood there, looking down at her.

Hisasi was right: He was afraid.

He reached out, his hand hovering over her cheek. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to wake her up just to see her eyes open, just to verify that she was real and she was here.

But he didn't. He was a creature of destruction, and she was something to be preserved.

He pulled the quilt up higher, covering her shoulder.

"Sleep," he whispered to the silence.

He extinguished the lamp and lay down on his pallet. It was close to the bed now. Close enough that if he reached out, he could touch the frame.

He closed his eyes, lulled by the rhythm of her breathing. For the first time in weeks, he drifted off quickly.

The dream did not start with fire. It started with a strange silence.

Madara was standing in a white void. It was cold. Mist curled around his ankles.

He turned.

Izuna was there. His younger sibling stood with his back to him, wearing the Uchiha crest.

"Izuna," Madara called out. His voice was swallowed by the fog. "I am here."

Izuna did not turn around but began to walk away.

"Wait!" Madara moved to follow, but his feet were heavy, trapped in the mist. "Where are you going?"

"Away from you," Izuna said with a sad voice. "You cannot save us, Nii-san. You only know how to fight."

Then the scene shifted. The white void turned red.

He was on the battlefield. Bodies lay around him. His father. His brothers. His clan.

They were all dead. And he was standing in the center of the carnage, untouched. The survivor. The one who was cursed to live while everyone he loved burned.

"Love is a weakness," his father's voice boomed from the sky. "To love is to give your enemy a target."

Then, through the smoke and the blood, he saw her.

Y/N.

She was standing in the distance, wearing her white medical robe. Bloodstains were scattered on her clothes. She was smiling at him. That soft, open smile she had given him at the festival.

"Madara," she whispered.

He reached for her. "Y/N. Come here. It's not safe."

"I know," she said.

She took a step toward him. But as she moved, a shadow rose behind her. A great, terrible darkness.

It did not swallow her. It struck. A wet, sickening sound tore through the air. The sound of steel shearing through flesh and bone. Y/N stopped mid-step. Her breath hitched, a sharp, ragged gasp. She looked down. A blade, black and jagged, had erupted from her abdomen. It had been driven through her from behind with such force that the handguard was pressed tight against her spine. Dark red blood instantly flooded the white fabric of her robe, expanding like a horrific flower.

"No!" Madara screamed. He tried to run, to reach her, but the ground held him fast.

Y/N’s legs gave out. Her knees hit the bloody earth with a heavy, final thud. She coughed, a wet, rattling sound. A spray of bright crimson blood splattered from her lips, staining her chin and the front of her dress.

She did not scream. She did not look at the blade. She slowly lifted her head. Her skin was as pale as ash. Blood coated her teeth. She looked at him. And she smiled. It was a soft, forgiving, loving smile. A smile that said she did not blame him. A smile that loved him even as his world killed her.

"Madara," she gurgled, the light fading from her lavender eyes. The shadow behind her laughed. And she fell. The darkness swallowed her. Her smile vanished. Her light was extinguished.

And he was alone.

Alone in the dark. Alone with his power. Alone with the terrible, crushing weight of a love that destroyed everything it touched.

Madara woke with a gasp.

He sat bolt upright, his chest heaving, his body slick with cold sweat. His Sharingan was active, spinning wildly in the dark room, searching for a threat that wasn't there.

The room was silent.

He looked at the bed.

Y/N was there. Sleeping.

Safe.

He scrambled to his feet. He couldn't breathe. The air in the room felt thin, suffocating. He needed to get out. He needed distance. He grabbed his robe and fled the room, sliding the shoji screen shut with a trembling hand. He stood in the hallway, pressing his forehead against the cool wood of the wall. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

If he loved her, he would lose her. It was the law of his life. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had to stop this. He had to pull back.

Before it was too late.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The return journey was smooth, carried by the momentum of their success. They arrived at the gates of Konoha just as the afternoon sun began to mellow into a warm, golden haze. The massive wooden doors stood open, a symbol of the peace they were working so hard to maintain.

Standing at the checkpoint, reviewing the entry logs with a sharp, critical eye, was Haru. He looked up as the two figures approached. He stiffened instantly.

He saw the black armor first. The imposing, terrifying silhouette of Uchiha Madara. Then he saw the white silk, his sister. But what stopped Haru, what made his hand clench involuntarily around his clipboard, was not their presence. It was the space between them.

Or rather, the lack of it.

They were walking side-by-side. Their steps were synchronized, a rhythmic, unconscious pairing. Madara was not walking ahead. He was walking with her. His body was angled slightly towards her, a subtle, protective arc. Y/N was speaking, pointing at the new construction on the outer wall, and Madara was listening. He wasn't scowling. He wasn't ignoring her. It was a picture of unity. 

Of a couple.

A hot, bitter spike of jealousy twisted in Haru's gut. He wanted to march out there and pull her away. He wanted to shout at the Uchiha to stop pretending. But he couldn't. He was a jōnin on duty. And more importantly, he looked at his sister's face.

She didn't look like a prisoner. She looked tired from the road, yes, but her eyes were clear. She looked calm and safe.

Haru swallowed the bitterness. It tasted like bile, but he forced it down. He had to accept this. This was her reality now. If she could find a way to live in that monster's shadow without breaking, he had to find a way to respect it.

He stepped forward, his face settling into a professional mask. "Uchiha-sama. Y/N-sama." He bowed, strict and formal. "Welcome back to Konoha. I trust the mission to Sunagakure was successful."

Madara stopped. He looked at the young Hyūga. He saw the tension in the boy's jaw, the protective glint in his pale eyes. "The mission was a success," Madara stated. "The southern border is secured."

Y/N smiled at her brother, a genuine, warming expression that melted some of the ice in Haru's chest. "It is good to see you, Haru. Is Father well?" "He is well," Haru replied, his voice softening. "He is at the compound." Y/N shifted her pack, preparing to fall back into the routine. "We should report to the Hokage immediately. The trade agreements need to be filed before-"

"No." Madara's voice cut her off. It was not harsh. It was decisive.

Y/N turned to him, surprised. "Uchiha-sama?"

Madara looked at her. He saw the dust of the desert on her cloak. He saw the fatigue in her posture. She had done enough. He looked at Haru, then back to his wife.

"I will handle the report to Hashirama," Madara said. "The logistics are dull. You do not need to stand there while Tobirama argues about import taxes." He gestured toward Haru with a small jerk of his chin. "Go with your brother. You have been away from your family. Spend the evening with him."

Haru's eyes widened. He stared at the Uchiha leader in shock. Madara was... giving her the night off? He was sending her home? To them? Y/N looked at her husband. She saw what he was doing. He was giving her a gift. He was giving her time.

"Are you sure?" she asked softly. "The report is complex."

"I was there," Madara said dryly. "I remember the terms. Go." He did not wait for her to argue. He turned his gaze to Haru. "See that she eats," he commanded the boy. "She forgets when she is talking." With that, he adjusted his armor and strode past them, heading toward the Hokage Tower, a solitary figure once more. 

Y/N stood there for a moment, watching his retreating back. The warmth in her chest was undeniable now.

"Nee-san?" Haru's voice was quiet, confused. "He... he just let you go?"

Y/N turned to her brother. She smiled, and this time, it reached her eyes completely.

"He is not a jailer, Haru," she said softly. "Come. Let's get ramen. I have missed you."

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖

Ichiraku Ramen was an island of steam and noise, a perfect shield against the outside world. Y/N sat at the counter, a large bowl of miso ramen steaming in front of her. The smell of pork broth and green onions was the smell of home, a stark comfort after days of dry rations and desert wind. Haru sat beside her. He was eating, but his eyes kept darting to her face. He was looking for cracks. He was looking for the misery he was sure she must be hiding.

"He looked calm," Haru said finally, poking at his naruto fish cake. "At the gate. He usually looks like he wants to set the village on fire."

Y/N blew on her noodles. "He was tired, Haru. The negotiations were intense. But he did well."

"He let you go," Haru pointed out, as if it were a suspicious trap. "He just sent you away. Why?"

"Because he knew I missed you," Y/N replied simply. She took a sip of the broth. "And because he knew I was tired of politics. He took the burden of the report so I could rest."

Haru frowned. That sounded... considerate. It did not fit the profile of the Uchiha ghost he hated.

"He's still a monster, Nee-san," Haru muttered. "You don't have to pretend with me. I know what he is."

Y/N set her chopsticks down. She turned on the stool to face her brother completely. Her expression was serious. "He is not a monster, Haru. He is a warrior. There is a difference." She looked down at her hands, at the black ring that she no longer tried to hide. "He is... difficult. He is loud in his silence and stubborn in his logic. But he is observant. He notices when I am cold. He notices when I am hungry before I do. He bought me a cloak in Suna because he knew the sun would hurt me. He... he cares." She paused, searching for the right words. "He is not sweet in the way you mean. He does not say kind words. But his actions... they are mindful. He protects what is his. And he has made me feel safe, Haru. Safer than I have felt in years."

Haru stared at her. He listened to her words, but he watched her face. He saw the way her eyes softened when she spoke of the Uchiha leader. He saw the faint, unconscious flush on her cheeks when she mentioned his protection. He heard the way her voice dropped, losing its professional edge and becoming something... tender. It wasn't the way a prisoner spoke of a jailer. It wasn't even the way a dutiful wife spoke of an arranged husband.

A cold, shocking realization washed over him. It hit him harder than a punch to the gut.

"Nee-san," he said, his voice flat.

"Yes?"

He looked her dead in the eye. He needed to know. He needed to hear it, even if it broke his heart.

"Are you in love with him?"

The noise of the ramen shop seemed to vanish. The steam seemed to freeze in the air. Y/N stopped breathing. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She stared at her brother, her eyes wide, her mind crashing against the question like a bird hitting a window.

Love?

Madara?

The man who's clan killed their mother? The man who slept on the floor? The man who wiped honey from her lip? She sat there, frozen, the answer lodged in her throat, terrifying and undeniable.

The question hung in the steam-filled air of the ramen shop, heavy and suffocating.

Are you in love with him?

Y/N stared at her brother. The sounds of the shop, the slurping of noodles, the clatter of bowls, the laughter of a drunk patron. faded into a dull, distant buzz. Her world narrowed down to the single, terrifying beat of her own heart.

Love.

It was a word that belonged to fairy tales and soft, civilian lives, not to a political woman married to the Ghost of the Uchiha.

Her mind, usually so disciplined, fractured. It spiraled backward, crashing through the last four months, seeking a defense, an argument, a no.

She saw the beginning.

She saw her father’s cold study. The scroll. The name. Uchiha Madara. It had been a death sentence. She remembered the nausea, the cold sweat, the image of her mother’s white robes stained red. She remembered walking down the aisle at the Naka Shrine, feeling like a sacrifice walking to the altar. She remembered his eyes that first night,cold, void-like, utterly indifferent. He was a monster. A warmonger. A creature of shadow who had promised her nothing but a roof and a name.

I hated him, she thought, her grip tightening on her chopsticks.

But the memory shifted. It dissolved into the quiet, dark mornings in the Uchiha kitchen.

She saw herself making the bento. Why had she done it? She had seen his shaking hands, his exhaustion, and something inside her, the healer, the woman, had ached for him. She had wanted to feed him.

She saw the night of the nightmare.

She saw the monster sitting in the dark, watching her hold his sobbing sister. She saw the way his shoulders slumped, the way his chakra, usually a fortress of spikes, had softened into a heavy, protective blanket around them. She saw the man who was terrified of his own grief letting her carry it for him.

He is not a monster, her mind whispered. He is just... lonely.

The memories came faster now, a relentless tide.

She felt the weight of the ring on her finger. The way he had stood in the hospital hallway, a wall of black steel between her and the disrespectful Nara. The way his hand had clamped onto her waist, possessive and absolute. 

My wife. 

He hadn't done it to own her. He had done it to silence the world that was laughing at her. He had given her his pride to wear as armor.

And then, the desert.

She felt the phantom touch of the white silk cloak on her shoulders. He had noticed. In the middle of a desert, he had noticed she was hot. He had prepared.

She felt the heat of his hand holding hers as they walked through the gates of Suna. She tasted the honey cake he had eaten just to please her.

She felt the roughness of his thumb on her lip, wiping away the crumb. The way his breath had hitched. The way he had looked at her, terrified and hungry, under the exploding lights of the fireworks.

He slept on the floor for months because he didn't want to scare me. He bought me a comb because he noticed my hair was in my face. He sent me to my brother tonight because he knew I missed him. She thought.

The realization rose in her chest, not as a flutter, but as a tidal wave. It washed away the fear, the politics, the history. It washed away the image of the Ghost. It left only him.

Madara. 

The man who liked sweet things but wouldn't admit it. The man who loved his sister with a desperate, clumsy intensity. The man who was awkward, and proud, and solitary. The man who had let her into his fortress, room by room, until she was standing in the center of it.

She didn't just feel safe. She didn't just feel respected.

She felt connected to him by a thread of chakra that was stronger than any bloodline limit. When he hurt, she bled. When he won, she soared. When he looked at her, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

“Oh gods,” she thought, the breath leaving her lungs. “I am.”

She looked at Haru. Her brother was staring at her, his expression shifting from suspicion to horror. He saw it. He saw the truth written plainly on her face, in the flush of her cheeks, in the wet sheen of her eyes.

"Y/N," Haru whispered, his voice trembling. "You didn't answer."

Y/N lowered her eyes to her bowl. Her heart was beating a frantic, terrifying rhythm against her ribs. She couldn't say the word. It was too big. It was too dangerous. But she couldn't lie. Not to Haru. And not to herself, not anymore.

"He..." Her voice was a whisper, barely audible over the steam. "He gave me a home, Haru. When I thought I was walking into a prison... he gave me a home." She touched the black ring on her finger, rubbing the stone with her thumb. "I don't know when it happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. But... I don't hate him. I don't fear him." She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears. "I think... I think I would do anything for him." It wasn't a "yes." But it was the loudest confession she had ever made.

Haru stared at her confession, his mouth slightly open, processing the monumental shift in his sister's world. Y/N knew she had to break the tension. She cleared her throat, picking up her chopsticks and forcing a casual tone. "But that is enough about my complicated marriage," she said, pointing a chopstick at him. "Tell me about the compound. Is Father eating? Has he replaced the tatami in the west wing yet?"

Haru blinked, derailed. "Father is fine. He eats. He is still stern. The tatami is the same."

"And you?" Y/N pressed, leaning her chin on her hand, a mischievous glint entering her eyes. "You are seventeen, Haru. A jōnin. Surely there is some kunoichi who has caught your eye? Or are you planning to marry your duty ?"

She expected him to scoff. She expected him to roll his eyes and give a stoic denial. She did not expect the sudden, violent shade of pink that flared across his nose and cheeks.

Haru looked down at his ramen bowl with intense fascination. He took a sudden, aggressive bite of noodles.

Y/N’s smile widened. "Oh," she teased. "So there is someone."

"It is not serious," Haru mumbled around the noodles. "She is just... around."

"Around where? The mission desk? The training grounds?"

"The hospital," Haru muttered.

Y/N hid her grin behind her hand. Of course. "Tell me about her," Y/N prompted gently. "Is she quiet? Demure? A proper traditional lady?"

Haru snorted. "She is a nightmare. She is loud. She runs everywhere instead of walking. She yells at me when I try to leave the infirmary before being fully healed." He poked his pork slice aggressively. "She is entirely too energetic. It is exhausting just looking at her."

Y/N watched him. She saw the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, even as he complained. She saw the fondness beneath the grumbling. It was Mina. There was absolutely no doubt. And Haru, poor, stoic Haru, was completely smitten.

"She sounds terrible," Y/N lied smoothly. "So I assume you avoid her?"

Haru sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I do not know what else to do. Every time she talks to me, she talks so fast I cannot keep up. And she looks at me with these big eyes, and I just... I freeze. So I nod, and I walk away. It is safer."

Y/N felt a pang of sympathy "Haru," she said softly. "If you keep walking away, she will think you dislike her. Is that what you want?"

"No!" Haru looked up, alarmed. "I do not dislike her. She is... she is an excellent medic. She is fierce."

"Then stop walking away," Y/N advised. She thought of Madara. She thought of the way he had simply stood next to her in the market, silent but present. She thought of the bento. "You do not have to match her energy," she told him. "You just have to stand your ground. Listen to her. And maybe, just once, bring her something. Does she like dango? Or tea?"

Haru thought about it. "She likes red bean mochi. She ate three of them on the hospital roof last month."

"Then bring her red bean mochi," Y/N said firmly. "Do not make a speech. Just give it to her. It is efficient. It shows you noticed."

Haru looked at her, his expression dawning with a new, terrified determination. "Just... give it to her ?"

"Just give it to her."

He nodded slowly. "I can do that. That is a mission objective I can handle."

Y/N smiled, finishing her broth. She had successfully deflected the attention from her own heart, and perhaps, just perhaps, she had helped launch the strangest romance Konoha would ever see.

"Good," she said, standing up and placing money on the counter. "Now, walk me home. My husband is probably waiting for me."

Haru grimaced at the word husband, but he stood up, ready to escort her back to the lion's den.

Haru left her at the gate of the Uchiha compound with a stiff, formal bow to the guards and a much softer, lingering look at his sister. Y/N watched him go until he disappeared around the corner, her heart lighter than it had been in months. She turned and walked through the silent courtyard. The house was dark, save for the warm glow of the lantern in their private parlor. She slid the door open, expecting to find Madara in his study, buried in the post-mission reports he had insisted on handling.

He was not in his study.

He was sitting at the low table in the parlor. Madara was out of his armor, wearing the simple, dark blue yukata she had bought him in Suna. On the table sat a teapot and two cups. Steam curled lazily into the air. The scent was distinct. It was not the strong, bitter brew Chiyo favored. It was a high-grade gyokuro, shaded and sweet. He was holding the pot. He had just finished pouring the second cup.

Y/N stopped in the doorway, surprised. "Uchiha-sama?"

Madara looked up. His face was relaxed, the hard lines around his eyes smoothed by the dim light. "You returned," he stated. It was not an accusation of lateness. It was a simple confirmation of a fact he had been waiting for. He gestured to the cushion opposite him.

"Sit. The tea is ready."

Y/N knelt. She looked at the pot, then at his large hands resting on the table. "You made this?" she asked softly. "Chiyo has retired for the night," he said, avoiding her gaze. "I am capable of boiling water, Y/N. Drink."

She took the cup. It was perfect. The temperature was exactly right. He had timed it for her arrival. The realization warmed her more than the liquid ever could.

"How is the clan?" he asked after a moment of silence. "Your father. Your brother." He was asking about the Hyūga. He was asking about her life outside of him.

Y/N set the cup down, a smile brightening her face. "They are well. Father is stoic, as always. But Haru..." She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with the secret she had unearthed at the ramen shop. "Haru is distracted. He tried to hide it, but he is a terrible liar. He has feelings for someone."

Madara raised an eyebrow. "The boy? He seems too angry to have feelings for anything but duty."

"That is what he wants you to think," Y/N laughed. "But he confessed it. There is a kunoichi. A medic at the hospital. She is loud, and bright, and completely chaotic. She is everything he is not." She picked up her tea again, her voice animated. "He says he ignores her because he freezes up. He is terrified. It is the most endearing thing I have ever seen. I told him to bring her mochi."

Madara watched her. He did not care about the Haru's love life. He did not care about that loud medic. He cared about the way Y/N looked when she spoke about them. He watched the way her hands moved as she described Haru's embarrassment. He watched the light in her eyes. She looked happy. She looked like a sister, not just a wife.

He leaned back in his seat, his own tea forgotten, content to simply listen to the sound of her voice filling the quiet room. "Mochi," he grunted, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "A solid choice."

Y/N beamed at him. "I thought so too."

The steam from the tea curled between them, carrying the sweet, grassy scent of the gyokuro. Y/N took a sip, hiding her smile behind the rim of the cup. The image of her stoic brother panicking over Mina was still fresh in her mind, but looking at Madara, another thought bubbled up.

She lowered the cup, her eyes dancing with a new, playful light. "You find Haru's predicament amusing, Uchiha-sama," she noted, her voice teasing. "But you should not get too comfortable."

Madara raised an eyebrow, his cup halfway to his lips. "Why is that?"

"Hikari-chan," Y/N said simply. "She is nine now. In a few years, she will be twelve. Then eighteen soon. She is already becoming a striking young woman. She has the Uchiha fire and, thanks to our training, she is becoming strong." Y/N leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Just wait until the boys at the Academy stop being afraid of her and start noticing how pretty she is. You will have a line of suitors at the gate before you know it."

The atmosphere in the room instantly dropped ten degrees. Madara lowered his cup slowly to the table. His face did not just harden; it turned into a mask of absolute, terrifying finality.

"Never," he stated.

Y/N blinked. "Never?"

"She is a child," Madara growled. "She is loud. No one will want her."

"That is a lie," Y/N laughed. "She is charming. And you know it."

"Then I will increase the gate guard," Madara decided, his eyes narrowing as he plotted defensive measures against teenage boys.

Y/N burst out laughing. It was a full, bright sound that filled the small parlor. "You are terrible!" she gasped. "You cannot lock her in a tower. It is the natural order of things. One day, she will bring someone home, and you will have to sit there and drink tea with him and be polite."

"I will be polite," Madara muttered darkly. "I will make sure he becomes scared of the uchihas.."

Y/N shook her head, her laughter subsiding into a warm, affectionate smile. She looked at him : the most powerful shinobi in the world, the man who made Kages tremble, pouting because the idea of his little sister growing up terrified him. It was not the monster the village feared. It was not the cold politician her father respected. It was just a big brother.

"You are very cute when you are protective," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could check them.

Madara froze. His dark eyes snapped to hers. "I am not cute," he rumbled, the word sounding alien and offensive in his deep voice.

"You are," Y/N insisted, feeling bold. The tea, the night, the closeness, it made her brave. "You love her so much it makes you irrational. It is... endearing."

Madara stared at her. He should be annoyed. He should be insulted. He was Uchiha Madara. He was fearsome. He was majestic. He anything but cute.

But looking at her face, illuminated by the soft lantern light, flushed with amusement and something softer, he found he could not summon the anger.

He breathed out, a long, defeated sigh through his nose. "She is... the last one," he said quietly. "I must keep her safe."

"I know," Y/N whispered. Her playfulness vanished, replaced by a deep, anchoring understanding. She reached across the low table. This time, her hand did not tremble. She placed her fingers over his, her palm resting on the back of his large, scarred hand.

"She is safe. You protect her. And I protect her. We will not let anything happen to her."

He looked down at their hands. Her pale skin against his tan skin. The black ring on her finger matching the steel one on his. He turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with hers. His grip was warm, solid, and grounding.

"You have helped," he admitted, his voice rough. "She is happier. She is stronger. That is... your doing."

"It is our doing," she corrected.

They sat there in the quiet parlor, the tea cooling between them, their hands clasped on the table. The silence was not heavy. It was not empty. It was full of a peace that neither of them had expected to find. Madara looked at his wife. He looked at the woman who teased him, who fed him, who fought him, and who healed his family.

He squeezed her hand, a gentle pressure. "Finish your tea," he said softly. "It is getting cold."

Y/N smiled, squeezing his hand back. She didn't pull away. She picked up her cup with her free hand, content to sit there with him for as long as he would let her. "Yes, Husband."

The word husband hung in the quiet air of the parlor. It was a heavy word, weighted with duty and law, yet coming from her lips, in the soft lantern light, it sounded different. It did not sound like a contract. It sounded like a belonging. Madara felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest. It was similar to the feeling he had when he looked at the ring on her finger, but deeper. It was a vibration that traveled from his ears straight to his core. He liked it. He liked the claim of it. But it was still a title. It was a role he played, just as he played Clan Head and General.

He looked at her. She was sipping her tea, her eyes lowered, a faint flush on her cheeks. She was still holding "Say it again," he commanded. It was not an order given to a subordinate. It was a request, stripped of all pride.”Say my name.” 

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs. It seemed like such a small thing. A name. But names had power. To name him was to claim him, not as a superior, but as an equal. As a partner. She moistened her lips. She tightened her grip on his hand.

"Madara," she whispered.

The sound of it washed over him. It was not shouted. It was spoken with a soft, breathy hesitation. It sounded like the desert wind. It sounded like the tea. It sounded like the honey she put in the candy. It dismantled him.

He let out a long breath, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders.

"Again," he murmured.

"Madara," she said, stronger this time, a small smile touching her lips. "Madara."

He closed his eyes for a second, savoring it. It was better than the ring. It was better than the fear of his enemies. It was the sound of being known. He opened his eyes. The look he gave her was raw.

"Good," he rasped. "From now on to you, I’m husband or Madara.. I don’t want to hear Uchiha-Sama no more."

Y/N smiled, a warm, radiant expression that lit up the dim room.

"Alright," she said softly. "Madara." She squeezed his hand. "And I am Y/N." 

"I know who you are," he grunted, but he turned his hand over, interlacing their fingers completely, palm to palm, pulse to pulse. "You are the woman who stole my sister and fed my clan sugar."

"And you are the man who eats it," she teased.

"Hn." He did not let go of her hand. He poured her more tea with his free hand, clumsy but determined. He wanted to hear her say it again. Ideally, for the rest of his life.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖

The walk to the Hokage Tower was a public parade of their new dynamic. Madara did not walk ahead of her. He walked beside her, his stride shortened just enough to match hers. The village watched. The whispers of "abandoned wife" died in throats, replaced by a new, terrified respect. The Uchiha crest on her hand flashed in the sunlight, a warning to anyone who dared to look too long.

They entered the office without knocking. Hashirama was pacing, his face serious for once. Tobirama stood at the window, his arms crossed, his red eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of them entering together.

"You are here," Hashirama said, stopping his pacing. He looked relieved. "Good. We have a situation."

Madara stopped in the center of the room. He did not bow. "You summoned us, Hashirama. Speak."

Hashirama gestured to the map on his desk. It was no longer focused on the rocks of Iwa. It was focused on the vast, yellow expanse of the Land of Wind. "Iwagakure is respecting the treaty we negotiated," Hashirama began. "But they are expanding their borders to the west. They are pushing against the Land of Wind. If they secure the trade routes there, our treaty becomes irrelevant. They will have enough resources to bypass us entirely."

Madara crossed his arms. "So you want to flank them."

"I want to secure the south," Hashirama corrected. "Sunagakure," Hashirama continued, pointing to the vast yellow expanse on the map. "They are finally coalescing. The desert clans have united under a single leader. Reto."

Madara stood by the window, his arms crossed, his presence a dark anchor in the bright room. "Reto," he rumbled, the name tasting like dry sand. "He is not a shinobi. He is a merchant with a chakra reserve. He does not care for your vision of peace, Hashirama. He cares for profit."

"Exactly," Tobirama cut in, his red eyes sharp. "Which is why we cannot send a warrior to negotiate. If we send a sword, Reto will simply calculate the cost of the war and shut his gates. We need to offer him something he cannot buy elsewhere."

Hashirama looked at Y/N. She stood beside her husband, her hands clasped, the black ring stark against her white tunic. "We need a treaty," Hashirama said. "We need to secure the southern trade routes. Konoha has food, wood, and water. Suna has gold, minerals, and access to the western oceans. We need to link our economies." He leaned forward. "Madara, you are going as the pressure. Your presence alone is a deterrent. It reminds Reto that if negotiation fails, Konoha has the power to erase him."

"And you, Y/N," Hashirama said, his voice softening. "You are the voice. You understand logistics. You understand the cost of things. Reto will try to drown us in tariffs and taxes. You must convince him that an alliance is more profitable than isolation."

Y/N nodded, her mind already racing through resource tables and grain yields. "I understand, Hokage-sama." "Good," Hashirama beamed. "Don't let him swindle us, Y/N-chan!"

The walk back to the Uchiha compound was brisk. The sun was already dipping low, casting long shadows across the village. They had only a few hours before their departure.

Inside their quarters, the atmosphere was one of efficient preparation. Madara packed with the speed of a veteran soldier: weapons, rations, armor maintenance kit. Y/N moved with the precision of a medic: antidotes, cooling salves, hydration salts, and the light, breathable layers necessary for the desert climate.

She was just sealing a scroll of medical seals when the shoji screen slid open with a familiar, energetic thump.

"You are leaving ?"

Hikari stood in the doorway. Her shoulders were slumped, and her usual bright energy was dimmed. She looked from the packed bags to Y/N, her dark eyes wide and accusing. "Nii-san always leave me alone," she mumbled, kicking the doorframe lightly with her toe. "And now you are going to the Sand Village with him. It is unfair."

Y/N smiled softly. She abandoned her packing and knelt on the tatami, opening her arms. "Come here, little one."

Hikari didn't need to be told twice. She ran across the room and buried her face in Y/N's shoulder. "It will be boring," Hikari complained, her voice muffled by Y/N's tunic. "Chiyo-san is strict about bedtime, and Kenta is still annoying even if he stopped being mean. I want to go with you."

"The desert is too hot for little fires right now," Y/N said, smoothing Hikari's spiky hair. "But we will not be gone long. Just a few weeks." She pulled back slightly to look into the girl's face. "Since I am going all the way to the Land of Wind, I should bring you back a treasure. What would you like?"

Hikari's eyes lit up, the sadness instantly replaced by thoughtful greed. "A treasure?" "Anything," Y/N promised. "A scorpion preserved in amber? A vial of golden sand? A cactus flower?"

Hikari tapped her chin, thinking hard. "I want... a Desert Rose," she decided firmly. "The books say they are stones that look like flowers, I want a stone one. Because stones last forever."

Y/N laughed. "A Desert Rose. It is a deal. I will find the most beautiful one in the entire desert just for you."

From the corner of the room, Madara watched them. He had finished his packing and was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched his wife hold his sister. He watched the way Hikari looked at Y/N with absolute adoration, and the way Y/N looked back with genuine love. The knot of tension that usually lived in his chest loosened. He did not say a word. He did not interrupt. But a small, ghost of a smile, a phantom expression that softened the hard lines of his face, touched his lips. This was his home now.

"We leave at sunset," Madara said, his voice low but lacking its usual harshness. "Say your goodbyes, Hikari."

Hikari squeezed Y/N one last time, then ran to Madara, hugging his leg briefly before darting out of the room, shouting about where she was going to put her stone flower.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

An hour later, the sun touched the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and burning oranges. Y/N and Madara walked out of the main Konoha gates. They moved side by side, their silhouettes long against the road. They passed the final outpost and stepped onto the open path. The village noise faded behind them, replaced by the sound of the wind in the trees and the rhythmic crunch of their sandals on the dirt.

The forest deepened around them as the twilight faded into a heavy, star-strewn night. The silence between them was absolute, broken only by the nocturnal sounds of the woods, the rustle of wind in the canopy, and the rhythmic, synchronized thud of their boots on the earth.

They stopped in a small clearing near a stream. There was no need for discussion. Madara secured the perimeter, his chakra expanding in a sensory net, while Y/N gathered dry wood. Within minutes, a small, smokeless fire was crackling, casting dancing orange shadows against the surrounding trees.

Y/N knelt by the fire. She did not reach for the standard, tasteless soldier meals. Instead, she pulled a small pot and fresh ingredients from her pack. She moved with that same precise, fluid grace she used in surgery. She wrapped river trout in large leaves with wild herbs she had plucked along the path and set them on the hot stones. She prepared a simple side of rice, seasoning it with a small vial she carried.

The smell of roasting fish and savory herbs filled the small clearing, chasing away the cold scent of damp earth.

"It is ready," she said softly, handing him a wooden plate.

Madara sat on a log opposite her, his armor unbuckled but not removed. He took the plate. He was hungry; the travel had been rigorous. He took a bite of the fish, then a mouthful of the rice.

He stopped.

His hand, holding the chopsticks, hovered in the air. The flavor hit him. It was not the heavy, salty seasoning Chiyo used. It was lighter. Precise. There was a specific balance of savory and sweet, a distinct, subtle use of dashi and a hint of something floral, plum, perhaps?

It was familiar. It was the exact same flavor profile as the bento he had found on the kitchen counter that morning. The bento Chiyo had claimed was hers.

He chewed slowly, his dark eyes fixing on Y/N across the fire. She was eating her own meal, her gaze on the flames, unaware of his scrutiny. She looked tired, her face illuminated by the firelight, soft and unguarded.

Chiyo did not make the bentos.

The realization settled in his mind with the weight of a stone. It was a deduction. Chiyo was a creature of habit: she had cooked the same way for thirty years. She did not suddenly learn a new, delicate balance of flavors. But Y/N... Y/N was a chemist. A master of mixtures. And she had been the one to suggest he was "burning out."

She had been waking up before him. To feed him. And she had let the maid take the credit, likely to spare herself his rejection.

He swallowed the food. It tasted warm. It tasted like care. He did not say a word. He did not confront her. It would embarrass her. But the knowledge shifted something inside him. The bento was not a household duty performed by a servant. It was a gift. A silent, daily gift from his wife.

He finished the meal, scraping the plate clean. "The meal was... good," he rumbled. Y/N looked up, a flicker of relief in her eyes. "I am glad."

Madara stood, picking up his gunbai. He walked to the edge of the clearing, his back to the fire, looking out into the dark forest. "Sleep," he commanded, his voice low. "I will take the first watch."

He listened as she settled into her bedroll. He listened as her breathing slowed, deepening into sleep. He stood guard in the darkness, the lingering taste of her cooking on his tongue, and the heavy, undeniable realization of her quiet devotion settling in his chest.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The transition from the scrublands to the deep desert was abrupt. The green vanished, replaced by an ocean of endless, undulating yellow dunes that stretched to the horizon. The sun was no longer a celestial body; it was a physical weight, a white-hot hammer striking the earth.

Y/N pulled the hood of her white silk cloak deep over her forehead. The air was dry, sucking the moisture from her skin with every breath. She wound a length of light linen cloth around her lower face, shielding her nose and mouth from the fine, blowing grit. Her fair Hyūga skin, bred for the shaded forests of Fire, flushed pink even beneath the layers of protection, not used of this sun.

Madara walked beside her. He was wearing a similar face covering, though his black armor seemed to drink the sunlight. He moved across the shifting sands with an effortless, predatory grace, his boots finding purchase where hers sank.

Sunagakure rose from the wasteland like a mirage. It was built inside a massive fortification of natural sandstone, a crater that sheltered its people from the worst of the wind. They reached the main gates just as the morning heat began to climb toward higher temperatures. Two guards, wrapped head-to-toe in beige linens, stepped forward, their spears crossed.

"Identify yourselves," one barked, his voice muffled by his mask.

Madara lowered the cloth from his face. He did not speak. He simply let his chakra uncoil, a heavy, suffocating pressure that hit the guards like a physical blow. He let them look at his eyes. The guards stiffened. They recognized the face. Every shinobi in the Five Nations recognized the face. "Uchiha-sama," the guard choked out, stepping back and grounding his spear. "The Kazekage expects you. We will escort you."

They passed through the narrow canyon entrance. The temperature dropped slightly in the shadow of the high rock walls. Madara's gaze remained fixed ahead, but his senses were expanding. He felt them immediately. Three chakra signatures.

Fast.

Silent.

Masked.

Anbu.

They were clinging to the shadows of the cliff face above, tracking their every step. Reto was cautious. He was watching his guests. Madara’s lip curled beneath his mask. Let them watch. It would only show them that the Uchiha and his wife had arrived.

Y/N, however, was looking at the ground. The village opened up before them. It was a world of baked mud and stone, rounded buildings huddled together against the wind. It was stark, beige, and monochrome compared to the verdant chaos of Konoha. But the life within it was the same. She saw children with wind-chapped cheeks running through the narrow alleys, chasing a ball made of woven grass. She saw women with veils haggling over baskets of dried dates. She saw old men sitting in the shade, smoking pipes.

People stopped to stare. They looked at the tall man in black armor and the woman in the shimmering white cloak. Their gazes were wary, curious, guarding their secrets. Y/N met the gaze of a young mother holding a baby. The woman clutched the child tighter and stepped back into a doorway. Y/N’s heart ached slightly. She walked closer to Madara, her shoulder brushing his arm. A silent request for reassurance. He did not look at her, but he shifted his stance, placing himself subtly between her and the watching eyes of the rooftops. They walked in silence toward the Kage building, a massive, circular structure carved from the central rock pillar. The heat rose, but they moved forward, walking into the heart of the sand. 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The Kage building was a masterpiece of desert architecture. Carved deep into the central sandstone pillar of the crater, it was naturally cooled by wind towers that funneled the breeze through wet clay pipes. The transition from the blinding furnace of the outside world to the dim, cool interior was shocking.

They were ushered into the main audience chamber. It was airy, draped in expensive, colorful textiles that softened the harsh stone. A large balcony overlooked the entire village, framing the bustle of Sunagakure like a living painting.

Reto stood by the balcony, his back to the view. He wore the traditional blue robes of the Kazekage, his face unmasked now, revealing sharp, sun-weathered features and eyes the color of old coins. He looked less like a warrior and more like a man who owned the very ground they walked on.

"Madara Uchiha," Reto said, his voice dry and scratching like sand against stone. "And the Lady Uchiha. Welcome to my humble oasis."

He gestured to a low table set with crystal goblets. A servant poured a clear, slightly viscous liquid from a chilled clay pitcher. "Cactus water," Reto explained, a small, proud smile touching his thin lips. "Harvested at midnight from the flowering barrel cactus. It is the purest water of the desert."

Y/N stepped forward. She lowered her hood, revealing her face. She took the goblet. She did not hesitate. Her nose, trained in herbs and poisons, detected only sweetness and minerals. She took a sip. It was incredible. It was cool, faintly sweet like melon, and seemed to hydrate her entire body in an instant. It was a luxury beyond price in this wasteland.

"It is exquisite, Kazekage-dono," Y/N said, lowering the glass. She offered him a small, perfect, diplomatic smile. "Thank you for this kindness. The journey through the dunes is unforgiving, but seeing the marvel you have built here makes the trek worthwhile. The wind-catchers are a brilliant piece of engineering."

Reto’s coin-colored eyes gleamed. He appreciated flattery, especially when it was intelligent. "We survive with what we have," Reto replied smoothly. "Sand and wind. It is good to see that Konoha appreciates ingenuity."

Madara stood just behind Y/N’s right shoulder. He did not take a drink. He did not smile. He stood with his arms crossed, a silent, imposing shadow against the colorful tapestries. His dark eyes were fixed on Reto. He was analyzing. He saw the way Reto’s eyes lingered on the quality of Y/N’s silk cloak. He saw the slight twitch of the Kazekage’s fingers. He let Y/N speak. She was the honey. He was the steel.

"We are honored by your invitation," Y/N continued, her voice steady and warm. "Konoha wishes for nothing more than to understand its neighbors. We hope this meeting can be the start of a prosperous friendship."

"Friendship is a noble goal," Reto said, moving to sit at the head of the table. He gestured for them to join him. "But in the desert, friendship is often expensive. Come. Sit. Let us see if we can afford each other."

Y/N settled onto the cushion. She did not look at Madara for reassurance. She did not need it. She was the expert here.

"Konoha is young," she began, her voice steady in the cool room. "But our foundation is old. Our agricultural techniques have already yielded a surplus harvest this season. Our timber reserves from the Forest of Death are high quality and abundant. We have water, Kazekage-dono. Clean, flowing, excess water."

Reto took a sip of his cactus water, his face impassive. "Water is life here. But distance is the killer. Transporting water across the desert is expensive."

"Not if the transport is part of the trade," Y/N countered. "We are not looking to sell you water. We are looking to trade for access. Sunagakure holds the keys to the western ports. You sit on the largest veins of gold and mineral ore in the south. Your puppet masters craft mechanisms that our engineers cannot replicate."

She leaned forward slightly, her pale eyes locking onto his coin-colored ones. "Konoha needs your steel and your gold to stabilize our currency. You need our food and our wood to build your infrastructure. It is a closed loop. An efficient system where both sides profit."

Reto placed his goblet down. He looked at her with a new, sharp appreciation. "You have done your research, Uchiha-san. Most envoys see only sand and assume we are beggars. You see the gold beneath it. You have a merchant's eye."

"I have an analyst's eye," Y/N corrected gently. "And that brings me to the second part of my proposal." The atmosphere in the room shifted. Madara, standing like a sentinel behind her, radiated a subtle spike of cold intent. It was the signal. "Our mutual neighbor," Y/N said, her voice dropping an octave. "Iwagakure."

Reto’s smile did not waver, but his fingers stopped tapping the table. "The Tsuchikage is ambitious. We are aware."

"He is more than ambitious," Y/N stated. "He is desperate. Our intelligence indicates that the 'expansion' Iwa claims is not merely territorial." She paused to let the weight of her next words settle. "Iwagakure has been holding secret summits in the Valley of Hell. They are not meeting with other nations. They are meeting with a rogue faction of the Chinoike clan. Cultists who were exiled for their use of forbidden blood techniques."

Reto went very still. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Even his advisors shifted uncomfortably. The Chinoike were a myth, a nightmare of blood dragons and exploding humans.

"I assume your ANBU have reported the chakra anomalies in the north," Y/N said, calling his bluff. "Red clouds. Missing patrols. Bodies found drained of blood."

Reto looked at her. He looked at the white-clad woman who spoke of nightmares with the calm of a librarian. He realized then that Konoha was not just here to trade rice. They were here to offer a shield against a monster.

"If Iwa secures an alliance with these blood-users," Y/N finished, her voice hard as diamond, "they will not need to trade with you, Kazekage-dono. They will simply take what they want. And they will start with the village that sits on a gold mine."

She sat back, folding her hands in her lap, the black Uchiha ring catching the dim light. "Konoha offers a trade treaty. But we also offer a military pact. If Iwa marches south with their blood witches, the konoha shinobi will march to meet them."

Reto looked at Madara. The Ghost of the Uchiha stared back, his arms crossed, a silent, terrifying guarantee of violence. Reto looked back at Y/N. He picked up his goblet. "You make a compelling argument," Reto said, his voice dry. "Very well. Let us discuss the terms of this... military pact."

The military pact required specifics, and that was where Madara stepped in. He moved from the silent sentinel to the commander with a single step.

"The Konoha Military Police Force will manage the southern perimeter," Madara stated, his voice commanding the room. "We will establish a forward operating base at the Kikyo Pass. My Uchiha elites will man it."

He looked directly at Reto. "We require Suna trackers to guide my men through the shifting dunes. We do not tolerate unauthorized movement across the border. If your patrols spot the Chinoike red clouds or any chakra anomalies, they do not engage. They signal us. We handle the slaughter."

Reto nodded slowly. "An alliance between Uchiha elite and my elite shinobi. It is acceptable. My scribes will draft the protocols."

The tension in the room broke. The deal was done. Economy and defense, bound by ink and necessity.

"You must be weary from the road," Reto said, standing up. "My guards will escort you to the guest quarters. Please, refresh yourselves. The evening market is a sight to behold, and you are welcome to explore it."

A Suna guard, silent and wrapped in beige cloth, led them out of the Kage building and into a complex of guest suites carved directly into the canyon wall. The room was spacious, cool, and dim, protected from the harsh sun by thick stone walls and colorful tapestries.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut, leaving them alone.

Y/N let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. She unclasped her heavy silk cloak and laid it neatly on a low chest. She felt a deep, thrumming satisfaction. She had not just observed. She had driven the negotiation. She had secured resources that would feed Konoha for a generation.

"The tariff reduction," she said, half to herself, a small smile playing on her lips. "He actually agreed to forty-five percent. Tobirama will be pleased with the math."

"Tobirama will find a way to complain about the sand," Madara grumbled.

He was standing by the narrow window, removing his heavy gauntlets. He placed them on the table with a metallic clatter. He turned to look at her. His gaze was heavy. It was the same look he had given her in the training yard, but intensified. It was not just respect. It was validation.

"You did not stutter," he rumbled. "You looked a Kage in the eye and threatened him with starvation and war in the same breath."

Y/N turned to face him, smoothing her tunic. "It was the necessary leverage."

Madara walked toward her. He stopped a foot away. He reached out and, with a rough gentleness, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered for a second on her cheekbone.

"You moved smart," he stated. His voice was low, vibrating in the quiet room. "You were lethal. Reto is a shark, and you made him thank you for the bait."

He pulled his hand back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression returning to its usual stoic mask. "It was adequate performance for an Uchiha," he said.

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. Coming from him, adequate was high praise. She smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her chest. "Thank you, Madara-sama."

"Hn. Get changed," he ordered, turning away to hide the slight softening of his eyes. "We have a village to inspect. And Hikari is expecting a rock."

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The Suna market at dusk was a sensory overload of vibrant colors, the smell of roasted spices, and the sound of wind chimes made of polished glass. The heat had broken, leaving a pleasant, dry warmth that brought the villagers out in droves.

Y/N walked close to Madara, her eyes scanning the stalls. She was looking for the Desert Rose for Hikari, but the merchants seemed more interested in her. They stopped before a stall draped in silks that shimmered like water deep indigos, burnt oranges, and sandy golds. An older woman, her face weather beaten and kind, spotted Y/N. Her eyes widened. "Oh, child," the woman clucked, stepping out from behind her wares. She reached out, touching the sleeve of Y/N's white travel cloak. "This is beautiful weave, yes. But it is heavy. You are a flower of the leaf, you will wilt in our heat."

Y/N smiled politely. "It has cooling seals, Oba-san. I am quite comfortable." "Seals!" The woman scoffed, waving a hand. "Jutsu does not replace breathability. Look." She pulled a garment from a rack. It was a traditional Suna dress, made of layers of sheer, airy silk in a soft, dusty rose color. It was cut to catch the wind, elegant and practical. "This," the woman insisted, holding it up against Y/N. "It brings out the color of your eyes. You must have it."

"It is lovely," Y/N admitted, touching the fabric. "How much is it?" The woman shook her head vigorously. "For the envoy who made Reto-sama actually smile? It is a gift. A welcome to the sand." "I cannot accept," Y/N started, her Hyūga propriety kicking in. "It is too much." "Nonsense!" The woman was surprisingly strong. She grabbed Y/N's arm and pulled her toward the curtained back of the stall. "You will try it on. If it fits, it is yours. It is bad luck to refuse a gift of silk in the desert. Go, go!"

Y/N cast a helpless glance back at Madara. He stood there, his arms crossed, watching the scene with a look of mild amusement. He nodded once. Go. Y/N disappeared behind the curtain, leaving the Ghost of the Uchiha standing alone in the middle of a crowded market aisle.

Madara exhaled. He was accustomed to waiting for war councils to end, or for enemies to die. Waiting for his wife to try on clothes was a new, strange, and oddly domestic type of patience. He turned his back to the clothing stall to give her privacy, his gaze drifting over the nearby vendors.

His eyes landed on a small, modest table a few feet away. It was covered in hand-carved items. Bone, wood, and polished stone. He stepped closer. There were hair accessories. Not the silver and bells of the Uchiha, nor the simple wood of the Hyūga. These were carved from desert ironwood and inlaid with turquoise and amber. His gaze fixed on a comb. It was dark wood, sturdy and elegant. The inlay was mother-of-pearl, shaped like a crescent moon rising over a dune. It reminded him of the lullaby.

He reached out, his gauntleted finger hovering over the comb. He did not touch it. He was thinking of the heavy, black silk of her hair. He was thinking of how it fell forward when she was teaching, irritating her. He was thinking that he still needed to retrieve his mother's comb from the vault. But this... this was a souvenir.

"It is a fine piece, sir." The merchant, a young man with a scarf wrapped around his head, was watching him. He wasn't afraid of the armor. He was a salesman. He smiled, gesturing to the comb Madara was inspecting. "Desert ironwood. Stronger than steel. It will not break, no matter how thick the hair." The merchant leaned forward, his voice lowering to a knowing tone. "Looking for a gift for your lady?"

Madara froze. Your lady. Not "your teammate." Not "the envoy."

Your lady.

He looked at the merchant. Then he looked back at the curtained stall where Y/N was rustling into the silk dress. He did not correct the man. He did not scowl. The title settled in his chest, heavy and warm and right.

"Hn," Madara grunted. He pointed at the comb. "Wrap it." He dug into his pouch for the coins. He was not just a general today. He was a husband buying a trinket for his wife, simply because he wanted to see her wear it.

The merchant handed Madara the small, cloth wrapped package. Madara tucked it into his pouch, the weight of the desert ironwood comb a secret against his hip. He turned back toward the clothing stall, composing his face into its usual mask of bored patience.

The heavy curtain of the changing booth rustled.

Y/N stepped out.

Madara felt the air leave his lungs in a single, sharp rush. It was not a gasp. It was a complete cessation of breath.

The outfit was traditional Suna garb, designed for heat and movement, but on her, it looked like something woven from a mirage. It was a dusty rose color, the silk sheer and airy. Unlike the heavy, concealing layers of her Hyūga robes or the practical stiffness of her jōnin uniform, this garment clung. It wrapped around her bodice, leaving her shoulders and arms bare to the warm evening air. Gold cuffs cinched the fabric at her wrists and waist, emphasizing the hourglass curve he had only glimpsed at the lake. The skirt was split for movement, revealing the pale skin of her leg as she walked.

She looked breathtaking.

Madara stood rooted to the spot. His feet, which could move faster than the eye could follow, refused to lift. His brain, usually a fortress, went blank. The only thing processing was the visual of his wife in silk and gold.

He felt a sudden, traitorous heat rise up his neck. He clamped his mouth shut, his jaw setting hard to suppress the reaction. He crossed his arms tighter, his fingers digging into his biceps.

Y/N stood by the stall entrance, fidgeting with one of the gold bangles. She looked down at herself, then up at him. Her expression was uncertain, her pale eyes searching his dark ones for a verdict.

"I do not know if it suits me," she said, her voice quiet. She tugged self consciously at the sheer fabric of the bodice. "It is very exposed. I am not used to wearing something so loud."

She looked at him, waiting.

Madara swallowed. His throat felt like he had swallowed a handful of dry sand.

He could not tell her she looked beautiful. That would be frivolous.

He could not tell her he wanted to carry her back to their room immediately. That would be inappropriate.

He cleared his throat. It was a rough, jagged sound.

"It is practical for the climate," he managed to say. His voice sounded strained, tighter than usual.

He forced himself to look her in the eye, tearing his gaze away from the curve of her waist.

"And the color," he added, his voice dropping an octave, "is not objectionable."

Y/N bit her lip. "So I should return it?"

"No."

The word came out too fast. Too loud.

Madara stepped forward, his shadow falling over her. He needed to be closer. He needed to ensure no other man in this market was looking at her.

"Keep it," he ordered. His voice was a low, rough growl. "It suits you. Wear it." He saw a flush rise on her cheeks, matching the rose of the silk.

"Oh. Alright. If you say so, Uchiha-sama."

"I do say so."

He turned sharply, presenting his back to her so she would not see the dark flush that had conquered his own face.

"Pay the woman," he commanded, staring intently at a stack of rugs he had absolutely no interest in. "We are leaving."

The shopkeeper bustled forward before Madara could even reach for his coin pouch. She shoved a heavy canvas bag into Y/N's arms, containing her folded jōnin uniform and travel cloak. Then she produced a second bundle. It was wrapped in dark blue cloth and tied with a gold cord. She pressed this one into Y/N's hands as well, right on top of the first.

"And this is for your husband, my dear," the woman said with a wink that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "He cannot walk around a festival in all that black metal. He will scare the children. This will match you nicely."

Y/N blinked, juggling the bundles. "Festival?"

"The Festival of the Desert Moon!" the woman exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "It starts at sundown. Music, fire dancers, the blessing of the oasis. It is the best night of the year." She stepped around the counter and began physically herding them toward the exit. Her hands were gentle but firm on Y/N's back. "Now go! You are young, you are beautiful, and the moon is rising. Don't waste the night haggling with an old woman."

Madara frowned. He did not like being herded. He reached into his pouch and produced a gold ryo coin, a significant sum. He attempted to place it on the counter.

"We pay for what we take," he rumbled.

The woman laughed and swatted his hand away. The coin fell back into his palm.

"Consider it a tax deduction for the treaty!" she crowed. "Now shoo! Go show off that dress!"

She pushed them out of the stall and yanked the curtain shut.

Madara and Y/N stood in the middle of the crowded thoroughfare. The sun was dipping below the canyon wall, casting long, purple shadows across the sand. Around them, the atmosphere of the market was shifting. Lanterns were being lit. The smell of roasting meat and sweet spices grew heavier. Drums began to beat a slow, rhythmic pulse in the distance.

Y/N looked down at the blue bundle in her arms. She looked at Madara, who was staring at the closed curtain with a look of profound, baffled annoyance.

"She gave us clothes," Y/N said, holding up the blue bundle. "For you."

Madara looked at the bundle. Then he looked at Y/N in her dusty rose silk, the gold bangles catching the last of the light. She looked like a desert queen. The shopkeeper was right. He was out of place. And if he wanted to walk beside her without looking like her bodyguard, he needed to adapt.

"Give it here," he grunted. He took the bundle. He did not inspect it. "We will return to the quarters," he decided. "I will... change. And then we will visit this festival." He paused, his dark eyes scanning the crowd, daring anyone to look at his wife. "Stay close," he ordered. "The crowd is thickening."

He offered her his arm.

Y/N hesitated for only a second. She shifted the bag of her old clothes to her other side and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. His arm was hard muscle beneath the armor, but his posture shifted, leaning slightly toward her.

They walked back toward the guest quarters, a general and his lady, ready to face the night.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The guest quarters were a sanctuary of cool stone and silence after the noise of the market. Y/N placed her bag of folded uniforms on the chest and moved to the small vanity mirror. The dusty rose silk of her new dress caught the lantern light, shimmering softly. It was a bold look, far removed from the austere white and lilac of the Hyūga, but in the heat of Suna, it felt liberating.

She applied a faint brush of rouge to her cheeks, though the desert sun and Madara's proximity had already given her a natural flush.

Behind the dressing screen, the heavy clank of armor hitting the floor echoed. Then, the rustle of fabric.

Madara emerged.

The shopkeeper had chosen well. He wore a loose, dark blue tunic that wrapped across his chest, bound by a sash of woven gold and black. The fabric was light, designed for the desert night, but the color was deep enough to feel like him. Without the bulk of his armor, he looked leaner, dangerous in a different way.

He stopped in the center of the room, adjusting the unfamiliar cuff of the sleeve. He looked up and caught her watching him in the mirror.

He cleared his throat, a rough sound in the quiet room. He walked over to her. He didn't stop until he was standing just behind her stool, his reflection towering over hers.

Madara reached into his sash and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped object. He placed it on the vanity table, right in front of her.

"For you," he said. His voice was low, stripped of its usual command.

Y/N looked at the small package, then up at his reflection. "Uchiha-sama?"

"Open it."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she undid the wrapping. The cloth fell away, revealing the comb.

It was exquisite. Dark, polished desert ironwood, smooth and cool to the touch. The mother-of-pearl inlay caught the lantern light, glowing with an iridescent, milky sheen that perfectly matched the pale lavender of her Byakugan.

It was shaped like a crescent moon rising over a dune.

Y/N gasped softly. "It is beautiful."

"It is durable," Madara said, his eyes fixed on the comb, avoiding her gaze. "Ironwood. It will not break." He paused, shifting his weight. "And the inlay," he murmured, his voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated in her chest. "It suits your eyes."

He looked at her then, meeting her gaze in the mirror. The intensity in his dark eyes pinned her to the spot.

"You can wear it," he said, "for the festival." The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the unsaid. Madara seemed to realize he had exposed too much. He straightened abruptly, turning away.

"I will wait for you outside," he stated, his voice returning to its brisk, military cadence. "Do not be long. The moon is rising."

He strode out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Y/N sat frozen on the stool. She reached out and picked up the comb. It was heavy, substantial. He had bought this. While she was changing, while he was waiting, he had looked for something, found this, and thought of her.

He thought it suited her eyes.

A deep, warm flush spread across her cheeks, far brighter than the rouge. She pressed the cool wood of the comb against her burning skin, a small, shy smile blooming on her lips.

"Thank you," she whispered to the empty room.

She raised her hands to her hair, sliding the comb into the dark silk above her ear. It held perfectly. She took a breath to steady her racing heart, stood up, and went to join her husband. 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

The Festival of the Desert Moon transformed Sunagakure. By day, the village was a fortress of beige stone and blinding sun, fierce and unyielding. By night, under the indigo canopy of the desert sky, it became a jewel box spilled open upon the sand.

Thousands of glass lanterns, blown from the very sands they stood on, hung from the wind towers and archways, casting a kaleidoscope of amber, turquoise, and ruby light across the canyon walls. The air, usually dry and biting, was heavy with the scent of roasted lamb, sweet dates, and the sharp, spicy smoke of incense burning in copper braziers.

Y/N stepped out into the thoroughfare and felt the rhythm of the drums vibrating in the soles of her sandals. She walked close to Madara, her hand tucked securely in the crook of his arm. The blue tunic the shopkeeper had chosen fit him well; it softened the hard edges of his silhouette, making him look less like a weapon of war and more like a desert lord surveying his domain. Yet, the muscle beneath the silk was rigid, his eyes scanning the crowd with perpetual vigilance.

"It is... vibrant," Y/N murmured, her eyes wide as a group of dancers spun past them, their veils trailing like smoke.

"It is chaotic," Madara corrected, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He guided her deftly around a group of revelers, his body a solid shield against the press of the crowd.

They were drawn toward the central plaza, where a roar of applause went up.

A circle had been cleared in the sand. In the center, Suna shinobi were performing, but not for combat.

A fire breather stepped forward. He did not weave hand seals for a jutsu: he spat a fine mist of oil from a gourd and ignited it with a snap of his fingers. A massive, swirling dragon of flame erupted into the night sky, its roar matching the drums.

Y/N gasped, her head tilting back to watch the fire dissolve into sparks.

"A Katon without chakra," she noted, impressed. "Pure chemistry."

"Inefficient," Madara grunted, though his eyes traced the arc of the flame with critical appreciation. "But... visually pleasant."

Then, the sand users stepped in.

This was jutsus Y/N had never seen. Three shinobi moved in perfect synchronization, their hands weaving fluid, dance-like motions. The sand at their feet did not rise as a wall or a coffin. It rose as a ribbon.

Grains of golden sand, infused with iron dust, swirled into the air, catching the firelight. They twisted and morphed, forming shapes, a hawk in flight, a running jackal, a blooming cactus flower, before dissolving back into glittering dust that rained down over the dancers.

Y/N watched, mesmerized. The ironwood comb in her hair held the dark silk back, allowing her face to be fully illuminated by the golden light. Her lavender eyes reflected the shimmering sand, sparkling as if she held the galaxy within her pupils. She looked young. She looked free.

Madara stopped watching the show.

He watched her.

He watched the way her lips parted in wonder. He watched the flush of excitement on her cheeks, distinct from the heat of the day. He watched the way the dusty rose silk of her dress clung to her form as she leaned forward, captivated by the beauty of a foreign land.

He felt a strange, tightening pressure in his chest. It was not the pressure of battle. It was the pressure of possession.

He wanted to take her away. He wanted to shield her from the eyes of the crowd, not because they were a threat, but because they did not deserve to see her like this. This expression, this unguarded, radiant joy, should be his alone.

"The crowd is thickening," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Y/N blinked, breaking her trance. She looked at him, dazed and happy. "It is wonderful, isn't it?"

"It is loud," he countered. "Come. High ground."

He did not wait for an argument. He guided her away from the plaza, leading her up a winding staircase carved into the canyon wall. They climbed past the noise, past the smell of sweat and spice, until they reached a secluded overlook atop the western ridge.

Here, the wind was cool and clean. The noise of the festival was a distant hum below them. The sky above was endless, a velvet void scattered with diamond dust.

They stood side by side near the edge of the cliff.

"Look," Y/N whispered, pointing toward the horizon.

A single streak of light shot up from the village center.

BOOM.

The firework exploded. It was not like the small, ceremonial crackers of Konoha. This was a Suna masterpiece. It blossomed into a massive sphere of gold and azure, hanging in the air for impossible seconds before raining down like falling stars.

Another followed. Then another. Crimson, emerald, violet. The desert night was torn apart by light.

Y/N’s face was turned upward, bathed in the flashing colors. The explosions reflected in her pale eyes, turning them into pools of liquid light.

Madara did not look at the sky.

He leaned against the rock wall, his arms crossed, and again looked at his wife. He asked himself when it had happened.

When had the "political alliance" become... this?

Was it the night she held Hikari through the nightmare?

Was it the morning he found the bento, realizing she had fed him when he forgot to feed himself?

Or was it simply... inevitable?

He tried to summon his logic. He tried to build the wall.

She is an asset, his mind insisted. She secures the Hyūga. She manages the clan. This feeling... this possessiveness... it is merely the instinct to protect a valuable resource. It is for the clan.

It was a lie. A flimsy, transparent lie that crumbled under the weight of his own heartbeat. He looked at the curve of her neck, exposed by the new comb he had bought her. He looked at her hand, resting on the stone railing, bearing his ring.

He did not care about the clan in this moment. He did not care about the treaty, or Hashirama, or the peace. He simply wanted to stand here, in the dark, and breathe the same air she breathed.

Y/N turned.

She felt his gaze. The fireworks were loud, but his silence was louder.

She looked at him.

The red light of a bursting firework illuminated the side of his face. It cast deep shadows over his sharp features, softening the scars, highlighting the strong line of his nose and the depth of his onyx eyes.

He was not looking at the view. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her knees weak.

She smiled.

It was soft. It was intimate. It was a smile just for him. Madara’s heart did not just skip a beat. It stopped. It seized in his chest, a traitor to his own biology. The wall came down. The logic evaporated.

He looked at her smile, and he knew, with a terrifying, absolute certainty, that he was in trouble.

He was Uchiha Madara. And he was completely, utterly defeated by the woman standing in front of him. He pushed himself off the wall. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until he was shielding her from the wind, from the world.

"The view," he said, his voice low and raspy, "is... pretty."

He was not talking about the fireworks. Y/N’s breath hitched. She saw it in his eyes. The heat. The conflict. The surrender. She didn't look away. She stepped closer, until the silk of her dress brushed the silk of his tunic.

"Yes," she agreed, her heart thundering against her ribs. "It is."

"I smell cinnamon," Y/N announced suddenly, her nose twitching like a rabbit's. She peered over the edge of the cliff toward the bustling plaza below. "And roasted almonds. There is a vendor down there selling those Suna honey cakes the Kazekage mentioned."

Madara looked down at the chaotic swarm of humanity. "It is a mob. You will be trampled."

"I will be fast," she promised, her eyes bright with a sudden, childish determination. She pointed at the spot where they stood, a perfect vantage point shielded from the wind. "You stay here. Hold the ground. If we move, we lose the view."

Madara stared at her. He was the leader of the Uchiha clan. He was the co-founder of Konoha. And his wife was ordering him to stand guard over a patch of rock so she could buy pastries.

"I am not a scarecrow," he grumbled.

"You are the best defense I have," she countered with a grin that was far too disarming. "Do not let anyone take our spot, Uchiha-sama."

Before he could argue, she gathered her silk skirts and darted down the winding stone stairs, disappearing into the crowd.

Madara sighed, a long, suffering sound. He turned his back to the path, crossing his arms and glaring at a group of Suna teenagers who looked like they might be considering his spot.

He held the ground.

Ten minutes later, Y/N returned, slightly breathless, her cheeks flushed. She held a paper sack stained with grease and syrup.

"Success," she declared, rejoining him at the wall. "They were just pulling them from the oil."

She opened the bag. The smell of warm honey, dates, and cinnamon wafted up, rich and intoxicating. She pulled out a small, golden-brown cake and took a bite. She let out a small hum of pure delight.

"It melts," she murmured. "It is incredible. You have to try this."

She pulled out a second cake. It was dripping with glaze. She held it up to him.

Madara eyed the sticky confection with suspicion. "I do not require sweets. They are calories."

"It is a festival, Madara," she chided, stepping closer. "You are legally obligated to eat cake. Open."

She held it right in front of his lips. He looked at the cake. He looked at her determined, lavender eyes.

He sighed through his nose. He knew when he was beaten.

He opened his mouth and took a bite. He expected it to be cloying. He expected to hate it.

He did not.

The pastry shattered between his teeth, warm and crisp, giving way to a center of molten date paste and honey. It was rich. It was sweet. It was, frankly, one of the best things he had ever tasted.

Madara Uchiha had a secret. A deep, guarded secret that not even Hashirama knew. He possessed a profound weakness for sweets.

He chewed, his eyes closing briefly as the flavor hit his tongue.

"Hn," he grunted. He swallowed. "It is acceptable."

Y/N laughed softly. "Acceptable? You almost smiled."

"I did not."

"Here. Finish it." She held up the rest of the cake.

He leaned down and finished it in one bite, catching her fingers with his lips for a fraction of a second. Y/N froze. The heat from his mouth was sudden and electric against her skin. She pulled her hand back, her heart doing a frantic double-time beat against her ribs.

She busied herself with her own cake, taking a large bite to hide her fluster. The sugar was dizzying. Or maybe it was the man.

"They use a different kind of flour," she babbled, staring at the horizon. "It is lighter than ours. And the dates..."

She stopped. Madara was staring at her. He was not looking at her eyes. He was looking at her mouth. The air between them grew heavy, charged with a sudden, suffocating tension. The noise of the festival below seemed to fade into a dull roar.

"You have... a crumb," he said. His voice was a low, rough rasp.

Y/N went to wipe her mouth with her sleeve, but he was faster.

He reached out. His hand, usually so rough, so dangerous, cupped her jaw. His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, sweeping away a speck of pastry and a drop of honey. His skin was rough, calloused from the sword, but his touch was agonizingly gentle. He did not pull away immediately. His thumb lingered on the corner of her mouth. He looked at her lips, then up into her eyes.

His pupils were blown wide, black pools that swallowed the light.

Y/N stopped breathing. Her entire body flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the desert. Her heart hammered against her chest, so hard she was sure he could feel it through the air between them.

Madara felt the shift. He felt the softness of her skin against his rough hand. He felt the heat radiating from her. The urge to lean down, to close the scant inches between them and taste the honey on her lips, was a physical pain. It was a roar in his mind.

She is your wife.

She is right there.

Then, the logic kicked in. The fear. The control.

He blinked, the spell shattering.

He coughed, a harsh, clearing sound in his throat. He dropped his hand and took a sharp step back, putting a safe foot of distance between them.

"The... the fireworks," he muttered, turning his head sharply to look at the dark, empty sky. "They are finished."

Y/N blinked, dazed, her hand rising to touch the spot on her lip where his thumb had been. It burned.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling. "They are."

They stood there for a moment longer, the silence thick and heavy with the thing that had almost happened.

"We should return," Madara said, his voice brisk, his back to her. "We have an early start tomorrow. The treaty finalization."

"Yes," Y/N agreed. She gathered her skirts, her hands shaking slightly. "We should go."

They walked back down the winding stairs in silence. They walked through the dying festival in silence.

But it was not an empty silence. It was a silence filled with the memory of a touch, the taste of honey, and the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that the distance between them was closing, fast.

Back in the guest room, Y/N went straight behind the changing screen. Madara stood by the window, staring out at the desert night, his hand clenched at his side, his thumb still burning with the phantom feel of her lips.

He was in trouble.

He was in so much trouble.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

There was a problem.

In Konoha, their room was traditional. It had tatami mats, which were soft enough to sleep on, and a cupboard full of spare futons. Here, in the heart of the Suna cliffs, the floor was solid, polished sandstone. It was beautiful, but it was as hard as iron and cold as ice.

And there was only one bed.

It was a massive, Suna-style platform bed, piled high with silk cushions and thick, woven blankets. It was luxurious. Ideally suited for a visiting dignitary and his wife.

Madara surveyed the room with a critical, tactical eye. He saw the bed. He saw the floor. He did not hesitate. He moved to the small chest where the spare linens were kept. He pulled out a single, thin woolen blanket.

"Take the bed," he stated, his voice flat. He walked to the far corner of the room, near the window slit. "I will sleep here." He dropped the blanket onto the unforgiving stone. It looked pathetic.

Y/N watched him. She thought of the scars on his back. She thought of the fatigue she had seen in his eyes before Chiyo's intervention. She thought of the treaty signing at dawn.

"Madara," she said. Her voice was quiet but firm.

He paused, halfway down to his knees. He looked back at her.

"The floor is stone," she pointed out. "It is not the tatami of the compound. It will suck the heat from your bones within an hour."

"I am a shinobi," he grunted, dismissing her concern. "I have slept on granite in the middle of winter. This is a luxury."

"It is inefficient," she countered, using his favorite word against him. "We have a treaty to finalize at sunrise. If you wake up stiff and sleep deprived because you were stubborn about a mattress, it compromises the mission."

Madara straightened up. He looked at the floor. It really was just a slab of rock. Then he looked at the bed. It was huge. It was wide enough that they could lie down and not even touch.

He looked at Y/N. She was standing by the edge of the mattress, her arms crossed, giving him a look that was equal parts exasperated healer and commanding wife.

"It is big enough for three generals," she said, gesturing to the expanse of silk. "I promise I will not kick."

Madara hesitated. The logic was sound. The floor looked miserable. And after the moment on the cliff, the idea of sleeping ten feet away from her felt strangely wrong. He sighed, a sharp exhale through his nose. He dropped the thin blanket back onto the chest.

"Fine," he rumbled.

Y/N hid a smile.

Y/N slid into the bed first. The mattress was soft, sinking under her weight. She moved all the way to the left, curling up near the edge, pulling the heavy quilt up to her chin.

The mattress dipped on the other side. Madara settled in. He lay on his back, his hands folded over his stomach, rigid as a corpse.

Darkness swallowed the room.

The silence returned. But now, it was intimate.

Y/N lay in the dark, her eyes wide open. She could hear his breathing. It was slow and deep. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, warming the space between them.

She was lying in bed with Uchiha Madara.

She turned her head slightly. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window slit, she could see his profile. The sharp nose, the long lashes, the hair fanned out on the pillow. He looked younger when he wasn't scowling.

"Madara?" she whispered.

There was a pause.

"Go to sleep, Y/N."

His voice was rough, but there was no bite in it.

"Goodnight," she murmured.

She closed her eyes. She drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the scent of sandalwood and the comforting, heavy presence of the man beside her.

Madara waited until her breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep.

Only then did he turn his head.

He looked at her sleeping face, softened by the shadows. He looked at her hand, resting on the pillow near his shoulder.

𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪˖

OMG ONE BED TROPE ?? FESTIVAL TROPE ????