#silversins

Mission reports always smelled like dust.

Ink.

And regret.

You discovered that somewhere around your third year as a shinobi—somewhere between blood-stained scrolls, sleepless nights, and paperwork that somehow managed to feel more exhausting than combat.

Tonight was no different.

The scroll tucked beneath your arm felt heavier than it should.

Not because of its contents.

Not because of the mission.

But because of who you had to deliver it to.

You walked through the streets of Konohagakure with your jaw set and your pulse entirely too aware of itself.

The village was beginning to quiet.

Shop lights glowed warm against dusk.

Children were being called home.

Street vendors packed away skewers and sweets.

And somewhere above all of it—

The moon was beginning to rise.

Silver.

Of course.

Because apparently even the sky enjoyed mocking you.

You tightened your grip on the scroll.

“Get a grip.”

An old woman walking past gave you a concerned look.

You smiled politely.

Kept walking.

Definitely not talking to yourself because you had to deliver paperwork to Kakashi Hatake.

Definitely not.

Absolutely not.

That would be embarrassing.

You climbed the steps to the Hokage building.

One.

Two.

Three.

By step twelve, your heartbeat had become irritating.

By step twenty—

You were considering faking a shin injury.

By step thirty—

You were considering death.

“Pathetic.”

You pushed open the front doors.

The building greeted you with quiet.

Paper.

Wood polish.

And memories.

Shinobi moved through the halls with purpose.

ANBU masks.

Chūnin vests.

Low conversations.

Boots against polished floors.

Normal.

Professional.

Exactly the kind of environment where a person should absolutely not be thinking about their superior officer’s hands.

Or voice.

Or silver hair.

Or—

You stopped.

“Stop.”

A passing clerk blinked.

You smiled again.

Too brightly.

He walked faster.

Coward.

You continued down the hallway.

Kakashi’s office sat at the far end.

Second floor.

Last door.

Quiet.

Private.

Dangerous.

You hated that your body knew the route without effort.

Left.

Right.

Upstairs.

Last corridor.

And then—

You froze.

Because his door—

Was open.

Not wide.

Just enough.

A crack of warm golden light spilling across the floorboards.

And from inside—

A voice.

Low.

Smooth.

Lazy.

Entirely too familiar.

Your stomach dropped.

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You knew that voice.

And worse—

You knew that tone.

The one he used when he was amused.

When he was entertained.

When he was about to ruin someone’s day.

You should knock.

You should walk in.

You should hand him the report.

Say goodnight.

Leave.

Simple.

Professional.

Adult.

Instead—

You heard him say—

“Her breathing hitched...”

And your entire body stopped working.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Surely—

Surely not.

Then—

His voice again.

Softer now.

Lower.

Each word dragged slow.

Deliberate.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“She wanted to look away...

But desire had always been crueler than common sense.”

Your pulse slammed against your ribs.

No.

No.

No.

Was he—

Was he seriously—

Reading Icha Icha…

Out loud?

You stared at the half-open door like it had personally betrayed you.

This was ridiculous.

You were a trained shinobi.

You had fought missing-nin.

Been stabbed.

Poisoned.

Nearly drowned once.

And somehow—

Somehow—

This was worse.

You should leave.

Immediately.

Right now.

Before your dignity packed its bags and moved countries.

Instead—

You stepped closer.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

Until you were standing just outside his office.

Hidden.

Breath held.

Listening.

Like an idiot.

Like a complete, hopeless—

“Her pulse betrayed her...”

You shut your eyes.

Oh, this was bad.

Very bad.

You leaned lightly against the wall.

Scroll forgotten beneath your arm.

Heart doing deeply unprofessional things.

And his voice—

God.

His voice.

Warm.

Quiet.

Amused.

Like velvet dragged over open skin.

You hated it.

You hated him.

You hated—

“She wondered if he knew…”

A pause.

A page turning.

Then—

Softer.

Lower.

Almost intimate.

“Of course he did.”

Your breath caught.

A tiny sound escaped you.

Barely a sigh.

Barely a breath.

Barely—

A mistake.

Silence.

The reading stopped.

The page stopped turning.

The entire hallway seemed to stop breathing with you.

Your pulse pounded.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then—

His voice.

Calm.

Knowing.

Dangerously amused.

“If you’re going to stand outside my office…”

A pause.

Long enough to kill you.

Then—

“You might as well come in.”

Your eyes widened.

Heat rushed straight to your face.

No.

No, no, no.

Maybe he meant—

Someone else.

Another shinobi.

A clerk.

A—

“Unless,” he added lazily,

“you’d rather keep listening from out there.”

…Death.

Immediate death.

You stared at the door.

At the golden light.

At the shadow of silver hair cast across the floor.

And realized—

With horrifying clarity—

Kakashi had known.

The entire time.

For three full seconds—

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t think.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t unusual around Kakashi Hatake.

But this—

This was new.

This was humiliation.

Refined.

Personalized.

Delivered directly to your doorstep.

You stared at the crack in the door.

At the strip of warm light stretching across polished wood.

At the shadow moving lazily beyond it.

And considered your options.

Option one—

Run.

Option two—

Fake a heart attack.

Option three—

Jump out the nearest window and trust your shinobi instincts.

Option four—

Walk in there like a functioning adult.

…

Option four felt wildly unrealistic.

His voice drifted through the doorway again.

Lower now.

More amused.

Which should’ve been illegal.

“I’m starting to think you left your mission report outside.”

Damn him.

You looked down.

The scroll was still tucked beneath your arm.

Warm.

Slightly crumpled.

A casualty of your dignity.

You inhaled once.

Twice.

Then pushed the door open.

And immediately regretted having eyes.

His office was lit in gold.

Late afternoon sunlight spilled through wide windows, turning dust into floating stars.

Mission scrolls lined the shelves.

Maps covered the walls.

Stacks of paperwork sat in neat, disciplined piles.

And right in the center of it—

Kakashi.

Relaxed behind his desk.

One leg crossed over the other.

Orange book still open in his gloved hand.

Silver hair catching the light like moonlit steel.

Visible eye smiling.

Watching you.

Not surprised.

Not even slightly.

Like he’d expected this.

Like he’d been waiting.

Your throat went dry.

He looked back down at his book.

Turned a page.

And said—

“Door.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Without looking up—

“You left it open.”

Oh.

Right.

Because apparently your brain had packed up and left the village.

You turned.

Closed the door.

The click sounded suspiciously final.

When you turned back—

Kakashi was watching you again.

Still smiling.

Still entirely too comfortable.

Still ruining your life.

You walked toward the desk.

Each step louder than it had any right to be.

Your boots.

Your heartbeat.

Your poor decisions.

All equally obvious.

You placed the scroll down.

A little harder than necessary.

“Mission report.”

Kakashi glanced at it.

Then at you.

Then back at the book.

"Mm."

That was it.

Just—

Mm.

You narrowed your eyes.

“That’s all?”

He turned another page.

“Did you want applause?”

You hated him.

Deeply.

Professionally.

Possibly romantically.

Which was frankly inconvenient.

You crossed your arms.

“You knew.”

He looked up.

Slowly.

“Knew?”

“That I was outside.”

A pause.

His eye softened.

Curved.

Dangerously.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

No denial.

Just—

Yes.

Like it was obvious.

Like you were obvious.

Your face heated instantly.

“You—”

You stopped.

Because apparently words were no longer available.

Kakashi closed the book.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he knew exactly what that sound did to you.

Then placed it on his desk.

And stood.

Oh.

No.

No no no.

Standing Kakashi was unfair.

Sitting Kakashi was manageable.

Annoying.

Distracting.

Dangerous.

Standing Kakashi?

Standing Kakashi was a war crime.

Tall.

Broad.

Silver and black and effortless confidence.

Like someone had taken moonlight, sarcasm, and poor emotional boundaries…

And built a man.

He started walking toward you.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

Your body reacted before your brain did.

You stepped back.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped—

Because your back hit the bookshelf.

Wonderful.

Perfect.

Death.

Kakashi stopped just inches away.

Close enough to smell rain.

Cedar.

Ink.

And something warm and distinctly him.

Your pulse became a public embarrassment.

He tilted his head.

Studied you.

Slowly.

Painfully.

Like he was reading something far more dangerous than Icha Icha.

“You stayed.”

Not a question.

A fact.

You swallowed.

“Maybe.”

His eye smiled.

“Liar.”

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.

“Why were you reading it out loud?”

A beat.

Then—

Kakashi leaned closer.

Just slightly.

Enough to make breathing complicated.

“Why were you listening?”

Your heart forgot its training.

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

Nothing.

No words.

Just heat.

And him.

Watching.

Waiting.

Entirely too amused.

Then—

His hand lifted.

Slowly.

And your entire body froze.

He reached toward your face—

And brushed something from your shoulder.

A leaf.

Just—

A leaf.

He held it between two gloved fingers.

Studied it.

Then looked back at you.

“Distracted.”

The bastard.

You glared.

“I’m not distracted.”

His visible eye dropped—

To your lips.

Then back up.

And suddenly—

Suddenly—

The room felt very small.

Very warm.

Very dangerous.

Kakashi leaned in.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Giving you every chance to move.

To run.

To stop this.

You didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

Because apparently survival instincts abandoned you around silver-haired men with emotional damage.

His voice dropped lower.

Softer.

Barely above a whisper.

“You’re breathing wrong.”

Your lips parted.

Entirely on their own.

And Kakashi noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze darkened.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And suddenly—

You realized—

This wasn’t teasing anymore.

This was something else.

Something heavier.

Something slower.

Something far more dangerous.

And Kakashi—

Kakashi knew it too.

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

Not the kind that settled over forests after rain.

Not the kind you found on rooftops at midnight.

This silence—

Was alive.

Heavy.

Breathing.

It sat between you and Kakashi Hatake like a third thing in the room.

Watching.

Waiting.

Your back pressed harder against the bookshelf.

Wood dug lightly into your shoulder blades.

Grounding.

Necessary.

Because nothing else felt particularly reliable right now.

Especially not your pulse.

Kakashi stood close enough that you could feel his warmth.

Close enough that every breath you took felt borrowed.

Close enough that if you moved—

Even slightly—

You’d touch him.

And somehow…

He wasn’t touching you.

Not yet.

Which was worse.

Much worse.

His visible eye stayed on yours.

Steady.

Patient.

Far too knowing.

Like he could hear every chaotic thought ricocheting through your skull.

Like he was enjoying every second of it.

Which—

Knowing Kakashi—

He absolutely was.

Your throat felt dry.

Your palms felt warm.

Your dignity—

Well.

Your dignity had left around chapter three of Icha Icha.

“You’re staring.”

The words slipped out before your brain approved them.

Kakashi’s eye curved.

“You noticed.”

You hated him.

You hated how your face warmed.

You hated how your heartbeat responded to three stupid words.

And mostly—

You hated how he knew.

“Are you always like this?”

You meant it to sound annoyed.

Sharp.

Controlled.

Instead—

It came out breathless.

End of part 1.

☝Part 2

Signing off.

Silver Sins 🌙

~Akari