Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"We shouldn't keep doing this." His voice echoed out almost silently as nimble fingers cupped his cheeks, softly threading into the brown locks that framed his face.

"Why not?"

He allowed her to pull him down, his nose coasting the tip of her own. Even as he gathered a reply, he knew he wouldn't have the strength to turn her away, to deny her. He never did.

"It's not right, Sakura." She blinked at him languidly, warm breath coasting from her lips and over his own.

It started months after the war on the night of her twenty-third birthday. Too many drinks and a need to solidify her womanhood led to a passionate tangle of lips, tongues, and limbs. She still recalls the feeling of his body, hot and damp, sliding against her own. The needy whines he pulled from her so effortlessly, the low groans that sent chills down her spine as he drove into her.

"You're wrong," She nuzzles her face against his, bringing their foreheads to union. Warm, gentle hands run down her back as a breath of defeat rolls from his throat.

Part of her knows he's right; they shouldn't keep sneaking around like this. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, and when they kept finding each other, an agreement of need and desire. No emotional strings, just physical bliss.

Pure, hot, unencumbered passion.

Still, as she seals her lips to his and he responds tentatively, slowly, the burn that builds in her chest says otherwise. The knowing smiles and simple laughs they share as they end up in her bedroom say otherwise. The way they undress one another with gentle intention, with care was telling of a strong emotional bond.

As he continuously brings her to heights of pleasure that seem otherworldly, she thinks she's in trouble.

As his fingers sink possessively into her hips, pulling them higher into the air as he pounds into her, she is sure she'll never feel whole without him in her life. Her chest is pressed into the sheets, fingers clinging to cotton, toes curling as she falls over the edge, shuddering and moaning his name like a mantra. She feels his body tighten rigidly as he follows her into euphoria, waves of warmth coating her slick inner-walls.

Once they've cleaned and righted themselves, he opts to stay. He pulls her into his arms, warm and protective, as he places feather-light kisses into her knotted hair. He whispers that he's sorry if he was too rough with her; that he'd never hurt her.

As she falls asleep, nose stuffed against his neck, soft hair tickling her face, she knows she loves him. She doesn't care that her former sensei might have a heart attack if he knew how involved they were, nor does she care how angry her blonde best friend would be if she knew she was keeping steamy secrets from her.

When she wakes to him gone, she knows she is in love with him. If not for the note he leaves detailing the mission he's been sent on, then for the way she stays curled in bed for longer than she should, because her sheets reek of him.

When he misses his return date two weeks later, her heart hangs in her throat, but she keeps her emotions in check. He'll come back to her because he promised, and Genma was a man of his word.

Two weeks turns into three, then four, then five. She's aware that her antsy, anxiety-filled behavior is becoming noticeable; Tsunade asks if she needs time off from the hospital, and Ino grills her about it.

She denies, denies, denies, even if she spends her nights alone crying into a stray t-shirt he left at her apartment. It's long since lost its scent. She's going stir-crazy because she wonders if she'll ever see him again, hear him again, smell him again, feel him again.

She should've known that somebody like her could never do casual.

She becomes withdrawn, piecing together simple lies when she doesn't show up to spar with Kakashi and Naruto, or when she skips out on girls night. She finds the world around her darkened; it's harder to get out of bed, to shower, to eat, to live.

Only now does she realize the impact that he had on her. The lilt of his voice, its tone warm and sandy. The squint his eyes formed into when he laughed. The crookedness of his smile, the split ends in his hair because he didn't trim it nearly as often as he should, the heat in his eyes that were a few tones too light to be considered brown. One civilian parent, one low-ranked shinobi, no fox beast sealed inside, no kekkei genkai, no traumatic past; purely normal.

She loved that about him.

He's marked down as MIA on week seven, and a storm of anger and despair clouds her. She tears pictures from her walls, smashes furniture; a mirror, a nightstand, her dining room table still adorned with a plate of half-eaten food and an empty cup of tea.

When week eight rolls around and she discovers she's pregnant, only then does she begin to take better care of herself. She does it for the life growing inside of her, the only part of him she has left. The only piece she may ever have of him for the rest of her life.

As her belly grows, people question. First it's Tsunade and Shizune, inquiring about the father. It pains her to think of him– of their time together. When she bursts into a fit of tears complete with snot and hitched-breathing, they let it go to comfort her.

She avoids Ino as best she can, until the blonde corners her one afternoon. There's a knowing look in her blue eyes, and her words send a knife through her heart and into her soul.

"They're clearing out Genma's apartment. They're going to sell it."

She doesn't know how she knows, but Ino has always been unnaturally gifted at reading people and situations.

Her lips part, a noise getting stuck in her throat. Her hand flies to her belly, round and almost six months pregnant. Her eyes water, her face pulling into an expression of pain and grief wholeheartedly.

"It's him, isn't it?" Ino whispers.

"He's the father of your child." She states more than questions.

Sakura can't do anything but choke out a sob and give a slow nod of her head. She crumbles to her knees, grateful for the warm embrace that surrounds her. Ino follows her to the ground, cooing soft, calming words into the crown of her head. She doesn't let go until the shrill sobs wracking her body die down and she's too tired to continue grieving audibly.

The days tick by painstakingly slowly.

She shows up at Raidou's doorstep near the end of her pregnancy, when the baby is bound to come any day. He doesn't look surprised, even as she asks to come in. He steps to the side, allows her to enter his home, and softly closes the door behind her.

She watches curiously as he disappears down his hallway, only to emerge a few minutes later with a large box. He motions wordlessly to the kitchen table, and she silently waddles towards it, peering down at the box as he slowly opens it.

"I know he would want you to have these items." He softly speaks. She glances at him, startled, and he offers a kind smile.

"I was his best friend, you know. I knew what was going on between you two, even if I never brought it up." He sets a calming hand on her shoulder to soothe her nerves before motioning to the box once more.

“He was a good guy. Talented enough to make a difference, yet normal enough to fly under the radar.” The silence was almost insufferable as her heart thrummed in her ears. Her mind reeled and she found herself hoping that this wasn't real. She couldn't have this conversation, not yet. Not when she still didn't have any answers pertaining to Genma's whereabouts or wellbeing.

With shaky hands she begins looking through the items. There's a few shirts, a picture of his genin team, and then a picture of him alone. She can tell he's younger, probably around the age of sixteen or seventeen, taken after his promotion to jounin. She smiles sadly as she takes in his appearance; nonchalant and near-expressionless. The stray chunk of brown hair hanging between his eyes nearly brings tears to her eyes.

Setting the picture to the side before she loses her composure, she reaches for the next item in the box. It's a black jacket, rimmed with a red hood; oversized, yet not big enough for him to fit in as an adult.

"He wore that jacket religiously when he was a genin, no matter the weather." Raidou chuckles, and a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. She hugs the jacket to her chest and glances up at him gratefully.

"Thank you." She bows. "This means the world to me, Raidou." She wipes a stray tear as she returns to full height, and he nods.

"Of course, Sakura. I can tell how much you love him. I'm grateful that he had someone like that in the end." His words tear at her soul, and bring a fresh wave of tears to her eyes.

"Please, don't speak about him like he's dead." She whispered. "There's still a chance–" Her voice cracks. "That he's alive."

Raidou smiled sadly at her words, but nodded nonetheless. She can tell he doesn't agree with her; his mind is already made.

"There's something else." He held up a finger before disappearing again. When he returned, he handed her a worn leather book. She hesitantly accepted.

"I don't know how he'd feel about anybody reading through this, but I think you deserve it. It might help you find some peace." She looked at him with wide eyes before flipping through a few pages, soaking in the curly writing that she's attuned to Genma.

"These were also his parents." Two velvet boxes were passed her way. She stared at them for a long moment, her heart beating painfully against her ribcage.

"Raidou, I can't—"

"You can, and you will." Eventually, he placed the pair of ring boxes into the box of items, and let out a sigh.

"If anyone deserves them, it's you. You're carrying his child, so perhaps one day they can put them to good use."

And just like that, her emotions flooded free. She choked out an apology, shameful in the way she breaks down in front of a man she knows close to nothing about.

Warm hands settle on her upper-back, tugging her into an even warmer hug.

"Don't apologize, Sakura." He whispers.

Sakura gives birth less than a week later, accompanied by Ino, Tsunade, and Shizune. She weeps tears of exhaustion as the small bundle is placed into her arms, a loud wail echoing throughout the hospital room.

"Haia." She whispers, brushing a gentle hand over the brown hair peeking from behind the blanket.

"Haia Haruno. A beautiful name." Tsunade hums as she peeks at her former-student, turned mother.

"Shiranui." Sakura's voice echoes out impossibly soft, and Shizune and Tsunade still.

"What?" They ask in tandem, confused and taken aback.

"Haia Shiranui." She repeats, louder.

Tired green orbs peer at the two women, a shy smile gracing her lips.

"I want her to take her father's last name." She speaks proudly.

Ino smiles knowingly whilst Shizune and Tsunade share an incredulous look.

And just like that, everything made sense.

The screech of a wail pulls her from sleep, followed by a frustrated groan. She glances at her clock, the electric-green letters glaring back at her.

2:06 AM, it mocks.

She stands, exhausted from night after night of broken sleep. Padding to the corner of the room, she lifts her two-month-old daughter into her arms.

“Shhh, Haia.” She coos, running a hand through the tuft of brown locks atop her baby girl’s head. The infant continues to cry, tiny hands clutching her mother tightly.

“You’re strong like mommy, huh?” she hums as she moves to sit on the lone chair in her bedroom, lifting her shirt to expose tender skin. The ache in her breasts is sharp, but Haia needs to eat.

After the usual struggle to get her latched, paired with a quiet hiss when toothless gums clamp down too hard, the room fills with soft, rhythmic suckling.

Sakura hums gently as she feeds her daughter, green eyes drifting down to meet an identical pair staring back. It’s true that Haia looks like her mother, but as she grows, Sakura begins to see traces of him; the shape of his mouth, the set of his brow. It brings her both comfort and sorrow.

Blink, blink.

Baby babble lilts through the air.

Blink, blink.

Matching emerald eyes meet as their foreheads touch. Slowly, Sakura raises her hand, fingers wiggling as she tickles her daughter. The six-month-old laughs, chubby limbs flailing as she gurgles with delight.

“Is your mommy torturing you again?” Ino coos, bending to eye Haia. Her blue eyes shine with adoration as she wiggles a well-manicured finger in front of the baby’s face. Haia reaches out curiously, and Ino laughs, pulling her finger away when the child tries to gum it.

Sakura waves her own finger, left to right, and hums.

“No, no, Haia.” She kisses her daughter’s tiny nose, earning another soft giggle. “That’s dirty.”

Ino straightens with a stretch and sighs. “She’s so cute, forehead, it’s not fair!”

The pinkette huffs a laugh, turning to the blonde as she lifts Haia into her arms. She presses a kiss into the soft, slightly curled brown hair.

“One day, with the man you love, you’ll make your own.”

Ino smiles softly, almost sadly, as her gaze flickers to a photo of Genma. It sits perched on a side table in Sakura’s living room, surrounded by photos of Haia and her mother.

“Perhaps one day you’ll be able to find love again,” Ino whispers.

“I can’t.”

“Sakura—”

“No.” The word cracks sharper than intended.

Ino’s lips turn down as she nods slowly. She still hears the heartbreak in Sakura’s voice, she still sees the pain that lingers behind her eyes.

That night, after Ino leaves, Sakura sinks to her knees beside the side table. She shifts Haia in her arms, then lifts the photo of Genma. Haia blinks, chubby hands reaching for the frame.

“You see, Haia?” she hums. “This is your daddy.”

Curiosity flickers in Haia’s green eyes, and Sakura smiles softly.

Kakashi sits perched not far from the Tsuchikage’s office, cloaked in shadow. Pakkun had led him here months ago, tracking an old shirt that once belonged to his missing comrade.

Genma Shiranui had disappeared nearly a year and a half ago, a helpless stretch of time for any missing ninja. Officially marked MIA long ago, presumed dead by most, but the details never sat right with Kakashi.

Genma had been sent by Tsunade to deliver a scroll detailing trade plans to Iwagakure, alongside an ANBU squad. When the team missed its return deadline, their bodies were later found near the Iwa border. Their deaths had been caused by a strange poison, one neither Tsunade nor Shizune had seen before.

But Genma was simply… gone. No blood, no weapons, no gear. No trace of him at all.

Kakashi’s mind races through fragments of memory and intelligence. Shiranui had served under the Fourth Hokage, the Third, and now Tsunade. He’d fought in two wars, completed hundreds of missions, and earned the quiet respect of every leader who’d ever commanded him.

That kind of man doesn’t just vanish.

Iwagakure might have allied with Konoha during the war, but they were far from trustworthy. The Tsuchikage was a cunning old man, forever undermining the other villages to get his way. Kakashi is certain now. Shiranui is here, somewhere within these stone walls.

Captured. Enslaved. Alive.

Pakkun reappears by his side, tail flicking in agitation.

Kakashi’s visible eye narrows. He’ll find Genma and drag him back to Konoha, if not to knock sense into him for sleeping with his former student, then to fill the hole left in her heart and reunite him with his daughter.

If there’s even a chance Haia can grow up with both a mother and a father, he’ll make it happen. Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

Sakura’s knuckles echoed against the sturdy wooden door as Haia sat perched on her hip, a baby bag slung over her shoulder. She adjusted the strap and pressed a wet kiss to her daughter’s cheek, earning a squeal. Sakura laughed under her breath as Haia babbled happily.

“Ba-ba-da?” she echoed, grinning when Haia replied with another burst of baby chatter. Two tiny bottom teeth glimmered as she smiled, growing a little more every day.

A moment later, the door creaked open to reveal Raidou, his face splitting into a fond smile.

“Look who it is!”

Sakura gasped dramatically, bouncing Haia, who immediately reached toward him. Raidou made a goofy face and lifted the six-month-old into his arms, earning a delighted laugh.

“Thanks again for watching her today, it means a lot.” Sakura slipped the strap off her shoulder and handed the baby bag over.

“Of course. You know I love spending time with Haia.”

The child grabbed at his forehead protector before glancing back at her mother.

“Ma-ma-ma,” she gurgled, pointing with a chubby finger.

“Yes, mama has to go to work.” Raidou smiled at her, setting the bag just inside the doorway.

Sakura leaned in to kiss Haia’s cheek one last time. “I’ll be back around seven, if everything goes according to schedule.”

With a final wave, she was gone.

Raidou sighed softly as the door clicked shut. He carried the baby bag to the kitchen table before settling on the floor beside a play mat. Setting Haia down among her toys, he smiled as she reached for a stuffed fox.

Her brown hair was tied in high pigtails, messy and perfect. The sight twisted something in his chest, because even with Sakura’s eyes and nose, the rest was Genma. Her cheeks, her chin, the exact shade of her hair.

Genma’s daughter.

He tried not to think about how many firsts he’d witnessed in his friend’s absence; her first laugh, first steps, first time holding his finger. Guilt sat heavy in his chest.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the unmistakable stench of doom.

Baby poop.

He groaned aloud as Haia laughed. “Really? Already?” He lifted her carefully, keeping her at arm’s length. Another squeal of delight escaped her as he wrinkled his nose.

“At least this is one thing your dad’s not missing out on,” he muttered.

Genma clenched his teeth as the leather whip cracked across his back, another strike carving pain into his scarred skin. He swallowed the groan that threatened to escape, the chains at his wrists rattling when he moved.

He wasn’t dead.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here, a year, two, maybe six months, but he knew he was still breathing. He hadn’t seen the blue sky over Konoha in what felt like forever, but he wasn’t dead.

He was alive.

Another snap. Another hiss of pain.

“Fuck. You.”

The words tore from his throat like gravel.

“Ah, he finally speaks,” a man’s careless voice replied behind him. Genma didn’t recognize it; he rarely did. When he wasn’t in the fighting pit, he was locked away, interrogated by faceless lackeys of the Tsuchikage.

He’d never talk. They could break his body, but not his loyalty.

They hadn’t killed him, maybe because he made them money. Maybe because killing him would be too quick.

After the war ended, the villages had promised peace, but Genma knew better. Peace was an illusion.

As long as shinobi existed, war would too.

With missions dwindling and tempers simmering, too many fighters were left idle, and Iwa had found their outlet; the underground ring.

Snap.

“Ignoring me again, huh?” the man taunted.

Snap.

Snap.

“Fuck you!” Genma roared, muscles trembling with fury.

“Listen here—”

The sound of the door crashing open cut through the air.

“Iyashi, don’t cause too much damage,” another voice called. “It’s starting soon.”

“Fine, whatever.”

The shackles loosened. Genma didn’t move. Not yet. The man shoved him forward with a boot.

“Get ready.”

Kakashi descended the stone stairs, the echo of each footstep swallowed by the roar beneath. Pakkun had been right, something ugly festered in Iwa’s shadows.

His disguise had gotten him past the guards easily, but he stayed alert as he entered the underground arena. He slipped toward the back row, where the view was wide and unseen.

He leaned against the cold wall, eyes scanning the pit below; a circular cage, the floor smeared with old blood, torn clothing littering the dirt.

The lights dimmed. A single ring of lamps flared to life, casting the arena in harsh white. Cheers erupted, filling the cavern with a feverish energy.

A man stepped beside him, clipboard in hand. “You placing a bet, sir? It’s about to start.”

Feigning casualness, Kakashi took the clipboard.

Please pull a ticket and record your name and bets on the blank side. Winnings will be paid at the ticket booth after all rounds.

Round One: Akaji vs. H.115
Round Two: Fumito vs. H.068
Round Three: Kitsuchi vs. H.007

Kakashi tore off a ticket, scribbled random bets, and signed Danno. Handing it back, he slipped his hands into his pockets.

Let’s see what Iwa has in store for me, he thought.

Sakura sighed softly as she lifted Haia from the crib in Raidou’s spare room. She bent to retrieve the teething toy that had fallen into the corner and offered it to her daughter.

Her baby’s cheeks were flushed and damp with tears, each wail pulling at Sakura’s heart in ways she couldn’t describe. She kissed the soft brown hair and whispered, “Shhh, baby. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, Sakura.” Raidou’s voice carried frustration. “I tried to calm her down, but I don’t think I’m who she needed.” He raked a hand through his hair.

“Raidou,” she said gently, “it’s alright. She’s teething. Some nights I can’t calm her either.”

He exhaled, tension easing. “I guess that makes me feel a little better.” He chuckled nervously. “Not that I’m glad you struggle too, just… that I’m not the only one.”

She laughed softly. “I know what you mean.”

Haia’s cries faded to quiet hiccups as Sakura rocked her.

“We should probably get home,” she said. He nodded, retrieving her bag.

“Thank you again, Raidou.”

“Anytime. You know where to find me.”

She smiled, stepping into the crisp night.

Kakashi didn’t flinch as the crowd roared. His gaze locked on the fighter below, a man with a familiar stance and brown hair matted with sweat and dirt.

Genma.

He was gaunt, scarred, but unmistakable. Still standing when he shouldn’t have been.

Kakashi’s fingers curled around the betting ticket in his pocket, heart pounding.

He was close now. Closer than anyone had been in months. Just a little longer. Just enough proof to act.

Below, Genma spat blood and lifted his fists again.

The door clicked softly behind her. Sakura slipped off her shoes, Haia nestled against her chest with a tired coo. The apartment was dim and quiet, wrapped in the hush of midnight.

“Alright,” she murmured, brushing a kiss to Haia’s temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up and cozy.”

Haia mumbled a protest, knuckling one tiny eye. Sakura smiled, unsnapping her pajamas. The baby smelled faintly of milk and Raidou’s aftershave, a scent that made Sakura’s heart twist.

It wasn’t fair. Her daughter should be falling asleep on her father’s chest, not someone else’s.

Once she was changed into soft pink pajamas embroidered with daisies, Sakura settled into the rocking chair by the window. Moonlight spilled across the floor, turning everything silver.

“You gave poor Raidou a run for his money tonight,” she whispered. “I told him you were a handful.”

Haia sighed, sleepy and content.

Sakura rocked slowly, the rhythm as familiar as breathing. Her hand moved in circles across Haia’s back as she hummed, eyes drifting to the photo on the shelf; Genma’s face caught mid-smile, half teasing, half tender.

Flashback

He’d fallen asleep on her couch, half in uniform, one arm slung over his face. She’d come home late from the hospital, dropped her bag, and paused when she saw him.

He looked different asleep, more peaceful. The tension usually etched into his face was gone.

She knelt beside him, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead.

“Genma,” she whispered.

He cracked an eye open, smiling lazily. “Caught me.”

“You’re never this still,” she teased. “It’s suspicious.”

“Only because you make it hard to relax,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes, but her heart fluttered. “Do you ever stop deflecting?”

His grin softened. “With you? Sometimes.”

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek. She leaned into the touch before she could stop herself.

“Stay the night,” she whispered.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he drawled, voice warm with sleep.

End Flashback

“I’ll tell her about you,” Sakura whispered to the dark.

Haia stirred, and Sakura kissed her brow.

The ache in her chest would never vanish, but for now, Haia’s steady breathing anchored her.

She laid her daughter in the crib and brushed a hand over her hair. “I love you,” she murmured.

Then she turned off the light and lingered by the crib a moment longer, listening to the sound of peace.

One day at a time.

Chapter Text

The stench hit him hard; sour sweat, old blood, cheap liquor. Kakashi didn’t flinch. The moment he stepped into the den, he became someone else.

He moved like a drifter, cloak heavy with travel grime, face hidden beneath a worn hood. A false scar cut across his jaw. His chakra signature was suppressed so tightly that even his oldest comrades wouldn’t have recognized him.

He let his gaze sweep the room once, brief and lazy, though he was already cataloging every exit, every weapon, every lie.

The bar was loud. Not cheerful-loud, but ugly-loud. Men shouting, coins clinking, knuckles cracking against bone from the pit in the back. Another fight. Another poor bastard bleeding for someone else’s thrill.

He kept to the edges, nursing a cup of watered-down sake he barely tasted. He hadn’t slept in two days. He couldn’t afford to. Not with Genma’s next match close, and information scarce.

The bartender was watching him, as was the man with the broken nose in the corner. Good. Let them.

He leaned back when two men took the table behind him. Their accents were thick, locals probably. One spat on the floor.

“They’re putting the Konoha one up again soon. Heard he used to be one of the Hokage’s men.”

A grimy chuckle followed. “Got his teeth knocked out last time and still got back up.”

“Bet on him next time,” the other said. “Can’t kill him, apparently. Crowd loves him.”

Kakashi’s fingers tightened around the cup. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud.

Genma was still alive. Barely.

They didn’t even call him by name, just the Konoha one. No face. No past. Just blood and spectacle.

Kakashi’s eye caught a small door along the wall; guarded, reinforced with iron beneath the wood. The fighters’ entrance, he guessed. That’s where they’d take him between matches, down to the holding cages, deep in the underbelly of the city.

His knuckles ached from holding still.

He wanted to kill every man in this room. He wanted to tear the door off its hinges, drag Genma out, and burn this place to the ground. 

But he couldn’t. 

Not yet.

He needed the schedule. The routines. The weak points. If he slipped now—

He forced the thought away.

From the pit, one of the guards laughed. “Three more matches until the Konoha dog’s up again.”

That gave him time.

Kakashi stood, drained the cup, let the burn remind him what was real. He didn’t know what was left of Genma, what they’d broken or taken, but alive was enough. For now.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Sakura sat cross-legged beside the crib, back pressed to the wall, arms wrapped around her knees. Haia’s small body rose and fell in steady breaths; perfect, defenseless, warm, trusting.

She couldn’t look away.

There were nights she didn’t sleep at all. Nights like this, when the weight of everything she hadn’t said and everything she couldn’t fix pressed against her ribs.

Would he have wanted her? Accepted her?

The thought came soft and venomous, curling tight at the back of her mind.

Sixteen months. That’s how long it had been. Sixteen months of silence and pretending and trying not to count the days.

They’d barely been anything, just a handful of nights, two people reaching for something nameless in the dark. No promises. Just warmth. Just escape.

And now… this.

Sakura swallowed hard. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when she didn’t know if the ache in her chest was grief or guilt or fear.

What if he came back and looked at Haia like she was a mistake?
What if he came back and looked at me the same way?
What if he never came back at all?

She hated herself for the doubt, for how small it made her feel. She was a war hero, a medic, a mother. But in the dark, she was still the girl who gave everything and never felt like enough.

“I didn’t plan this,” she whispered to the sleeping baby, her voice cracking.

He didn’t either, another voice echoed.

Haia didn’t stir. Just breathed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Tears came quietly.

She didn’t know if Genma was dead or just unreachable. She didn’t know if he’d ever see Haia’s smile or the way she laughed on days when the grief should’ve swallowed her whole.

And gods, that uncertainty hurt more than his absence.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, angry at herself for crying again. For being soft.

When she looked up, Haia was still there, a safe, breathing, proof that love didn’t need permission to exist.

There was a knock at the door.

Then another.

Then—

“I know you’re in there, Sakura! I can hear your depressing music!”

Sakura sighed, bouncing Haia gently against her chest. “Ino,” she muttered, reaching to unlock the door. “Do you ever not break into my house?”

The door flew open before she finished twisting the knob.

“I didn’t break in! I knocked like a civilized person,” Ino declared, sweeping into the living room like she paid rent. “You just take forever to answer. And that music? A war crime.”

“It’s piano lullabies.”

“It sounds like someone’s dying politely.”

Sakura blinked. “Politely?”

“Yeah. We’re going out. You, me, and the world’s cutest third wheel.”

Haia blinked up at her.

“Hi, Princess,” Ino cooed, poking her cheek. “You’re coming with Auntie Ino today. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure your mommy doesn’t wear beige.”

“It’s sage,” Sakura protested.

“It’s beige with ambition.”

Sakura gave her a flat look.

“Go get the carrier,” Ino said breezily. “I packed snacks, wipes, and a backup onesie because your kid poops like a demon. Now go brush your hair before I start narrating your tragic widow arc in public.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best. You’re welcome.”

By the time night returned, the house had gone still again.

Sakura stood by Haia’s crib, brushing damp hair from her daughter’s forehead, chest heavy with tenderness and exhaustion.

She showered, scrubbing away the sticky sweetness of melted ice cream and the sharper guilt clinging beneath it. When she pulled on one of Genma’s old shirts, soft and frayed at the collar, her heart ached in quiet betrayal.

It always happened at night.

She curled onto her bed, damp hair soaking the pillow, and tried not to remember, but the past always came back in fragments.

The warmth of his body against hers. His laugh, dry and breathless. The taste of cinnamon and smoke. His hand on her hip, uncertain and sure all at once.

Her hand drifted to the same spot now, the place his fingers used to grip when he was losing control.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The heat in her chest wasn’t only physical. It was want.

Would he have stayed, if he’d known?
Would he have wanted this life? This child? Their daughter?

Sakura turned her face into the pillow and exhaled, heavy with everything she couldn’t say.

She missed him.

The light above the ring buzzed like a dying insect, white-hot and flickering. It made the blood on the floor gleam like oil.

Genma stood barefoot on the gritty concrete, chest heaving. They hadn’t given him much rest between matches, not when the crowd demanded blood.

Another fighter was shoved through the iron gate. Big. Slow. Heavy hands like mallets.

He rolled his shoulders. Don’t think. Just move.

But from somewhere deep inside, a face surfaced. Her face. Sakura, laughing at something stupid he’d said. Her hands on his chest. Her breath warm in the dark.

He stumbled. Just a hitch, but enough.

A fist connected with his jaw. Pain exploded bright behind his eyes. He hit the floor hard, grit in his mouth.

“Get up,” someone snarled from the shadows.

Genma spat blood, pushing himself to his knees.

Forget her. Forget Konoha. Forget your name if you have to.

Yet he couldn’t.

He ducked under the next swing. His elbow slammed up, once, twice—throat, gut. The man dropped, gasping.

The crowd roared.

Genma didn’t look at them, he didn’t look at the blood. He turned toward the exit, breath ragged.

And then he saw him.

A figure near the back; hooded, still, waiting, watching.

Something about the stance, the silence. The way he didn’t move. Didn’t cheer.

Genma’s chest tightened just for a second.

Then the gate opened again. Another fight. No time to think.

He turned back, fists up, ribs screaming with every breath.

The baby monitor crackled softly in the dark.

Sakura sat on the floor in front of the hallway closet, a box in her lap. Her hands trembled.

She didn’t know what had changed, only that something in her had tilted. She couldn’t wait any longer.

The journal was there, tucked away since the day Raidou gave it to her. Its corners were curled; a senbon pinned to one corner like a careless tack.

She carried it to the kitchen table and stared at it for a long moment. Then flipped it open.

No name. Just a doodle of a frog in a flak vest flipping someone off.

Her breath hitched.

She turned the pages slowly and cooked handwriting washed over her. Some entries were short, some sprawling.

Day 3, Second Battle of Tori Ridge.
Three days, no sleep. Pretty sure I hallucinated a cat on fire running through the medic tent. Or maybe that was real.

Another:
Raidou says I’m going to get myself killed if I keep volunteering for the front squads. He’s probably right. I don’t tell him it’s easier than sleeping.

Her chest tightened.

She flipped to one dated just before the war.
It’s almost here. I’ve never found a good reason for war. A memorial full of names. A bunch of us pretending we’re fine.

Then later:
Mission to the Land of Hot Springs next week. Escort job. Probably another goodwill mission, which usually means “expect to get stabbed anyway.”

And then, buried in the middle of the page:
Met up with the medic squad yesterday. Haruno was there. She’s different when she’s not elbows-deep in someone’s chest cavity. Funnier. Sharper.
She has this laugh that sounds like she doesn’t let herself do it often. Makes you want to earn it again.

Sakura pressed a hand flat to the page.

The final entry read:
Headed out tomorrow. Escort gig, nothing dramatic. Said yes, like always. Got that itch again, like the air’s holding its breath before a storm.
Probably nothing.
When I get home, maybe I’ll ask her—

The writing trailed off into oblivion.

Sakura closed the journal.

Her hand stayed on the cover, thumb brushing the frayed spine like skin.

Seven months it had sat untouched. Seven months of not being ready.

Now she had pieces of him. Fragments he’d never meant to leave her.

He’d gone wherever he’d gone thinking she’d never see this. Never know.

Thinking she’d be fine.

Her eyes drifted to the baby monitor.

Haia slept soundly, one arm flung above her head.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know.

The crowd pulsed. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and blood that never quite faded.

Genma spat and rolled his shoulder until it cracked. Across from him, the next man smiled with too-clean teeth.

“Begin!”

The man charged. Of course he did.

Genma moved sideways, low and fast. An elbow. A knee. A punch that split ribs. The crowd roared.

He didn’t look at them, and again, he didn’t look at the blood.

He only saw her.

Hands glowing green, voice fierce. The way she said his name like it mattered.

He’d seen her face once in the crowd, hallucination or memory, he didn’t know, but the shame it left behind still burned.

They’d taken his headband, his name, his self. But they hadn’t taken her voice.

He still remembered that she’d never asked him to be better.

She’d just believed he could be.

Chapter Text

He looked right at him.

It was a moment, a flicker, really, but something in that gaze made Kakashi’s spine go rigid. Not recognition, not quite. His disguise was good. Good enough to fool the handlers, the guards, the shinobi stationed along the perimeter. Good enough, he thought, to fool Genma.

But the way those dark eyes lingered… he couldn’t shake it.

It had been years since he’d really seen Genma; not in passing, not between missions, but the way comrades once looked at each other in the field. Years had passed since they’d sat side by side on a rooftop overlooking Konoha, watching the sun fall after a mission that had nearly gone to hell.

Genma had been bleeding then, not from the enemy but from his own damn senbon lodged deep in his shoulder. Kakashi had pulled it free with a pair of tweezers and half a bottle of stolen sake.

“You ever think about quitting?” Genma had asked, voice dry, eyes fixed on the distant mountains.

Kakashi had taken his time before answering. “Yeah. Every day.”

They’d watched the sunset without another word, the silence easy between them. A small victory, the kind that came from simply surviving long enough to see another day’s end.

Kakashi dragged a hand down his face, feeling coarse stubble catch against his fingers. He couldn’t afford sentiment. Not here. Not with Genma caged like an animal and the whole system poised to snap shut around them.

He came back the next night and sat in a different spot, a deeper hood enclosing his frame. This time, he wasn’t watching the fight, he was watching the edges. Counting guards. Tracking the rhythm of the crowd.

They rotated every hour. At twelve minutes past the second bell, there was always a gap, brief but real, between the perimeter guard and the rear cage check. Long enough for a shadow to slip through.

Not enough for an escape. Not yet.
But maybe… enough to make contact.

He timed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth night, he moved.

Sakura sat cross-legged on the living room floor, Haia propped in her lap as she gnawed fiercely on a rubber frog. The apartment was quiet except for the soft coos of the baby and the occasional groan from the radiator in the hall.

A knock broke the stillness.

“Come in, it’s open,” Sakura called.

Hinata stepped inside, cradling a small bundle wrapped in pale blue cloth. She wore a lavender cardigan over her mission gear, her long hair braided neatly down her back.

She smiled, warm and careful. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all. She just woke up from her nap.” Sakura smiled faintly. “You’re actually perfect timing.”

Hinata knelt beside them, offering the bundle. “I made something for Haia. It’s not much—I mean, it’s not perfect—but…”

Sakura unfolded the cloth to reveal a hand-stitched baby blanket. Pale lavender, trimmed with tiny embroidered slugs. The stitches were uneven, but it was soft and clearly made with love.

A warmth bloomed in Sakura’s chest. “Hinata… it’s beautiful.”

Haia immediately dropped the frog and grabbed the blanket’s edge, squealing in delight. Hinata’s face brightened with quiet pride.

They sat in easy silence for a while, watching Haia play. Then Hinata murmured, almost to herself, “She looks like you, but there’s something in her eyes… like she’s already thinking ten steps ahead.”

Sakura huffed a tired laugh, rubbing Haia’s back. “She’s stubborn, too. Won’t nap unless I sing that stupid song about the angry tanuki. I used to hate it, but now I’d probably panic if I forget the words.”

Hinata hesitated, then softly, “It must be hard. Not knowing where he is.”

Sakura’s smile faltered. She looked down at Haia, who was drooling happily on the slug embroidery.
“I do know,” she said. “Not officially, but… what are the odds? Sixteen months. No word, no rumor. If he were out there, if he could come home, don’t you think he would’ve?”

“Maybe,” Hinata said gently. “But I also know what it’s like to love someone who disappears. It doesn’t get easier. Hope just… changes. It softens. Makes room for other things.”

Sakura’s throat worked as she swallowed. Her eyes looked raw, like someone holding back a storm.

She stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out a folded note that was creased and worn. “He left me this before his mission.” She sank back down beside Hinata, hands trembling slightly as she unfolded it.

“Sometimes I reread it,” she whispered. “Like it’ll tell me something I missed. Maybe a clue, a hint…” Her voice cracked, dropping into quiet grief braided with anger. “But then I remember we were just two almost-strangers who started sleeping together. I try to remind myself it shouldn’t hurt this much.”

She laughed weakly. “But it does. It hurts so fucking much I can barely breathe sometimes.”

A tear slid down, catching on her pale lashes.

Hinata reached out and covered Sakura’s hand, the gesture tender and wordless. “You don’t have to explain,” she said softly. “It doesn’t matter what you were or weren’t. What matters is you let him in, and now there’s a piece of him in the world; in her.” She looked toward Haia, who was tugging fiercely at the blanket’s edge. “That makes it real. All of it.”

Sakura let out a trembling breath. She folded the note again and pressed it briefly to her chest before setting it aside, as if deciding, just for today, not to chase meaning in ghosts and half-sentences.

Haia let out a triumphant grunt and flopped onto her belly, inching forward with determined wobbles.

“Oh gods,” Sakura muttered. “She’s figured it out.”

Hinata laughed. “She’s strong.”

“She’s going to destroy my back,” Sakura said, but her smile was genuine now. Fragile, but real.

Hinata glanced toward the kitchen, then stood. “Let me make us some tea?”

Sakura nodded, wordless, grateful.

When Hinata disappeared into the kitchen, Sakura lay back on the floor and closed her eyes. Haia crawled up onto her chest and collapsed there with a tiny sigh. For a while, Sakura just breathed, deep and even, listening to the clink of cups and kettle. The apartment smelled like clean laundry and baby powder. It was warm. It was quiet.

Hinata is a blessing, she thought.

Kakashi slipped through the perimeter like smoke. The cage loomed ahead, iron bars rusted and streaked with something dark and old. The rear corner lay in shadows, the guards turning just out of sight.

Inside, Genma sat slumped against the wall, elbows on his knees, hair tied back in a messy knot. Fresh bruises bloomed around his eye. His lip was split. He didn’t look up.

“Genma,” Kakashi whispered.

Nothing.

He flipped a kunai in his hand and rapped the hilt lightly against the bars.

Genma’s head lifted. Even in the gloom, his eyes were sharp, instinctive and calculating. He looked straight through the hooded stranger, searching for threat.

Kakashi lowered his hood just enough to reveal his singular sharingan.

Genma froze.

“Kakashi,” he breathed, disbelief roughening his voice. Then his voice sharpened, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying not to get you killed,” Kakashi murmured. “I don’t have long. They rotate in seven minutes.”

Genma pushed to his feet, fingers gripping the bars. “You can’t be here.”

“I am,” Kakashi said. “I’ve been watching. There’s a pattern. A gap. There’s a way in—and a way out.”

Genma huffed a breath. “You always did love a dramatic entrance.”

Kakashi ignored it, eyes tracing the bruises along Genma’s arms, the faint scar near his ribs. “You alright?”

Genma smirked weakly. “Define alright.”

Silence settled, heavy with everything they didn’t have time to say.
Kakashi wanted to tell him everything.

You have a daughter. Sakura named her Haia. You missed everything.

He swallowed it down. Not now. Not yet. Not his place.

“You’re not alone,” he said instead. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Genma’s hands tightened on the bars. His voice dropped low. “If they catch you—”

“They won’t.”

“You always say that,” Genma muttered. “Right before everything goes to hell.”

A faint smile tugged beneath Kakashi’s mask. “Some things never change.”

He stepped back into shadow, pulling his hood low once more.

“I’ll be back.”

Genma didn’t answer, but he stayed standing long after Kakashi was gone.

He didn’t sleep.

Not that sleep came easy anymore. Not here, not with the stench of sweat and metal, not with the dull ache in his ribs and the cold that settled into his bones no matter how tightly he curled up on the thin mat. 

But tonight was different. 

Tonight, something had cracked open.

Kakashi.

He hadn’t believed it at first. Thought maybe he’d finally snapped and started seeing ghosts in the crowd. But the moment that shadow slipped behind the bars, low voice, an even lower breath, and whispered his name, he knew. No illusion could match that quiet gravity, that clipped cadence.

Kakashi was here. He’d seen him. Spoken to him. He’d promised to come back.

Genma pressed his forehead against the rusted bars and exhaled, slow and shaky. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the cot’s edge. His other hand toyed restlessly with the half-broken senbon hidden beneath his sleeve. Dulled, useless, but still there. Still his.

A stupid habit that he’d never laid to rest.

He couldn’t afford hope, not really. Hope got you sloppy. Hope got you dead. But there was a flicker now. A single match struck in a pitch-dark cavern.

He closed his eyes and tried to hear it again; Genma. 

The way it had cracked, barely audible. The way Kakashi’s hand had gripped his wrist just tight enough to anchor, not restrain.

I’ll be back.

He wanted to believe that. Gods, he wanted to believe it.

His thoughts flicked unbidden and unwanted, or so he told himself, to her. 

Sakura.

Pink hair and sharp eyes and that laugh that had cracked his ribs harder than any punch. What would she think of him now? Broken down, half-starved, dirty. Less a man than a weapon worn blunt.

He wondered if she thought of him. If she’d mourned. If she’d moved on. She should have. She deserved to.

But if Kakashi was here… someone still cared.

Genma curled his fingers into fists and let the pain anchor him.

Tomorrow, he’d fight again. Not because they told him to. Not for the handlers or the crowd, but because he had to stay alive long enough for Kakashi to keep that promise.

Long enough to find out what had become of the pieces he’d left behind.

The apartment was quiet again. Too quiet. Haia had gone down easier than usual, a small mercy after a day that had frayed Sakura’s nerves raw. She hadn’t turned on the TV or the radio. The silence was heavy, but familiar. The kind that settles after a fight, or after you’ve cried yourself out.

Sakura stood by the window, arms folded tight, city lights flickering beyond the glass. Her fingers drifted to the note again, to Genma’s handwriting, folded neatly on a worn scrap of parchment. She didn’t open it. She didn’t have to.

She knew every word. She’d memorized them long ago.

Sometimes she could almost hear his voice in them.

Her body ached, not from the hospital shift or from Haia tugging her hair earlier, but from something deeper. A bone-deep hunger. A missing weight in the bed. A phantom heat that never really faded.

She hadn’t touched herself in weeks, maybe longer. It had felt wrong because it wasn’t him. 

Pointless, almost. 

But tonight, the ache refused to stay buried.

She undressed slowly, uncertain even now if she’d follow through. Her fingers trembled just a little as she lay back on the bed, knees bent, blanket kicked aside. The cotton of her shorts rasped faintly against her thighs as she tugged them down, leaving her bare in the lamplight.

Eyes closed, her hand drifted low, but her mind went further back. Over a year and a half ago. A night that still clung to her like sweat.

It had been late. Past midnight. She’d been on Genma’s couch, half-drunk on cheap sake and worse decisions. He’d looked at her like he didn’t know whether he should touch her.

And then he had.

No hesitation once he started. He’d kissed her like he’d known her body for years, lazy at first, then rougher, deeper, until she’d clawed at his shirt and he’d cursed softly against her throat.

Her breath hitched.

He’d taken his time that night, dragging fingers down the inside of her thigh, watching every reaction. When he slid inside her, slow and deep, she’d clung to him like she was drowning.

“You feel like fire,” he’d murmured.

Sakura bit her bottom lip now, fingers slick, moving in slow circles, the tension coiling hot and low. Her head pressed back into the pillow as her hips lifted, chasing the ghost of his hands, his mouth, the rasp of stubble along her skin.

The orgasm came sudden and sharp as she clenched, half a sob, half a gasp tearing from her throat. She didn’t cry, not really, but her eyes burned and her chest ached with a hollow kind of relief.

She curled onto her side, pulled the blanket close, and stared at the faint shadow where the ceiling met the wall.

Would she always feel like this?

Kakashi crouched beneath the crumbling stone arch of an abandoned outpost, the Iwa border two hundred meters west. It was cold tonight, colder than spring should allow. He didn’t mind. The chill kept him sharp.

He unrolled the parchment, pinning its corners with stones. Four routes. One already compromised with too much patrol traffic to the northwest. Route B cut through the merchant district. Not ideal, but the crowds could be cover.

He tapped Route A. The river crossing.

High risk. High reward.

“Timing has to be perfect,” he muttered.

He had three more nights. After that, the spring inspection would reset everything; guards, rotations, unpredictability. The window would close.

Genma wouldn’t last another three months. Kakashi had seen it in his eyes through the bars.  The hollow, flickering look of someone who’d forgotten what the sky looked. A man who’d forgotten what conversation felt like when it wasn’t based on life or death.

He folded the map and tucked it inside his vest.

He’d already bribed a handler to leave a key in the drainpipe. The price wasn’t what bothered him, it was the silence he’d bought with it. Once he moved, there’d be no backup. No reinforcements.

If it went wrong, it would end fast. 

And not cleanly.

His hand brushed the hilt of his blade, just to ground himself.

Genma had once dragged him out of a crater in Wind Country, half-conscious and bleeding after chakra burnout. No orders, no reward, just because they’d gone in together; and that meant they came out together.

Now it was Kakashi’s turn.

He checked the watch hidden beneath his sleeve on the inside of a wrist. 

Midnight.

Three days.

“Three days,” he whispered to the dark. “Then we end this.”

Tsunade tapped the desk. Once. Twice. Again.

Shizune recognized that rhythm. It only came when something had gone very wrong.

“It’s been too long,” Tsunade muttered.

“Still no check-in?”

“Nothing. Not a scrap. He was due back ten days ago, and if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t blink. But this is Kakashi.” Her voice dropped low, rough. “He never goes this quiet unless something’s gone sideways.”

“Could he still be undercover?” Shizune asked carefully.

Tsunade shot her a look. “He’s good, but he always signals somehow. Even if it’s just an ink stain on a coded invoice. I haven’t heard a whisper.”

She stood, joints cracking, and went to the cabinet she hadn’t opened in months. From it, she drew a thin black folder sealed with wax.

“That’s the Iwa file,” Shizune said.

“Or what’s left of it.” Tsunade tossed it on the desk. “He said it was personal. I didn’t press. I should have.”

“You want me to assemble a team?”

“Small. Quiet. No fanfare. Take the western pass, make it look like a patrol. You, Raidou, and I want Hyūga eyes. Someone reliable.”

“Hinata?”

“Perfect. Leave at dawn. If he’s dead, bring me a body. If he’s alive…” Tsunade’s gaze drifted to the sake bottle on the shelf. “Bring him back before he does something stupid and noble.”

“What should I tell the others?”

“Nothing. Not yet. Let Konoha sleep tonight.”

When Shizune was gone, Tsunade sank into her chair. Fingers resumed their rhythm on the wood grain; tap, tap, tap. Something had shifted.

And whatever it was, it was getting closer.

The night air tasted like rust and smoke.

Kakashi crouched low in the alley behind the rear cages, his hood damp with sweat. The moon was thin, waning and almost gone, and that was good. Darkness had always been his element.

He forced a signal, two short whistles. A pause. Then a faint scuffle in reply.

Genma slipped from the gap behind the latrine hut, hunched, limping. Leaner and harder, but still thinner than Kakashi remembered.

“You actually came back,” Genma rasped. His voice barely rose above the noise of boots and distant shouting.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah, but people say all kinds of things.” His smirk was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came when he stumbled.

Kakashi caught him under the arm. “You good to move?”

Genma grunted. “Define good.”

“Conscious and sarcastic.”

They moved.

They slipped through the gaps Kakashi had mapped in his mind; guard rotations, blind corners, narrow service tunnels. Not a true escape, not yet, but close enough to breathe.

Genma moved like a man held together by sheer will. Every third step faltered. He didn’t ask where they were going. Forward was enough.

“I’m not gonna make the mountain pass tonight,” he managed, breath hitching.

“There’s an old relay shelter two klicks out,” Kakashi said. “It’ll buy us a few hours.”

“And if they find it?”

“They won’t. Not in time.”

A beat. Then softly, almost shy and wholly uncharacteristic, Genma said, “Thank you.”

“You’d do the same.”

Genma didn’t answer, but his hand tightened briefly in Kakashi’s cloak, an anchor thrown from a sinking ship.

The trees thickened as they reached the ridgeline, mist curling low around their feet. The stars were brighter here, beyond Iwa’s reach. Genma stopped, his head slowly tilting up, almost in awe.

“First time I’ve seen the sky in… hell, I don’t know. Months.”

Kakashi didn’t speak. Just kept his hand steady at his back.

The night swallowed them again.

But this time, they were heading out. Not in.

The forest outside the Land of Earth was quiet. Quiet in an unsettling and eerie way.

Shizune crouched beside a shallow impression in the soil, mud softened by last night’s rain. A partial boot print, light but deliberate, lay imprinted in the softened soil. She brushed a gloved hand over the edge, studying it in the faint pre-dawn light, her medic’s pack slung high on her back.

“They’re moving fast, but someone’s favoring their left leg,” she murmured.

Behind her, Raidou adjusted his grip on his short sword. “Kakashi?”

“Could be, but he’s not alone.”

Tsunade had been right, Kakashi was in deep. Too deep to check in. Too long gone for this to be anything other than trouble. The moment Shizune saw the redacted mission report stamped with Tsunade’s seal, she’d known this wasn’t going to be a standard retrieval.

TenTen knelt beside her, scanning the terrain through chakra-enhanced binoculars. “There’s a burn patch ahead. Small, but fresh. Someone lit a fire and killed it fast.”

“Rest stop,” Shizune said. “Or a forced pause. Either way, they’re trying not to be seen. We push now, and we might catch up by dusk.”

Raidou’s tone was dry. “Or walk straight into whatever they’re running from.”

Shizune rose, brushing mud from her knee. “If Kakashi found him,—if it’s Genma—he won’t leave him behind again. So neither do we.”

A shadow passed through the air when she said it. They didn’t name it, but they all felt it; the ache of too many missions ending in a list of names and no bodies.

TenTen slid her scroll into its holster. “Then we’d better move.”

They slipped deeper into the wilderness, dawn breaking in streaks of rose and gold through the trees. Shizune didn’t look back. Her pulse thrummed sharp and low. Fear, maybe. Or hope. She wasn’t sure which hurt more.

The mid-morning sun painted pale stripes across Sakura’s living room floor. She moved slowly, barefoot, Haia nestled against her chest in a soft wrap. The baby had woken early, fussing with sore gums, gnawing on her own fingers.

Sakura bounced her gently while pouring coffee with her free hand. “Nice try,” she said, catching Haia’s reaching fingers. “You’ll get your caffeine in about eighteen years.”

After breakfast, she dressed them both; Haia in a cream onesie dotted with tiny ladybugs, Sakura in leggings and an oversized sweater that still smelled faintly of Tsunade’s herbal salve. She pinned her hair up in a loose twist and didn’t look too long in the mirror.

The market was quiet. Haia stared at everything, the colors, faces and sounds around her. Her little head swiveled curiously from Sakura’s chest. Haia had Genma’s hair no doubt; rich brown that lightened in the sun, just beginning to curl at the ends, and Sakura’s eyes, sharp, green, unmistakable.

Villagers smiled and offered the same soft comments. She’s going to be a heartbreaker.

Sakura smiled back every time, but the ache twisted deeper.

She bought fruit, herbs, and a teething ring shaped like a slug. Haia clutched it like treasure.

They passed Ino’s flower shop; empty, except for a basket of pale purple peonies marked FOR S. No price, just initials. Sakura took them, left coins, and didn’t linger.

By afternoon, Haia finally slept, tiny fingers gripping the corner of her blanket, breath steady. Sakura lay beside her, eyes tracing the soft rise and fall of her chest.

The silence in the apartment wasn’t painful anymore. Just soft.

Not for the first time, she just stared at the miracle in front of her.

The forest had gone still again.

Shizune raised a hand. “Hold.”

They were close. She could feel it in the faint flicker of chakra ahead. Burned air, old blood, and smoke, but no pursuit.

A figure emerged from the brush. Kakashi, ragged and silent, supporting someone taller, but leaner.

Genma Shiranui.

Raidou froze.

For one suspended heartbeat, no one spoke.

Then Genma blinked blearily toward them, swaying on his feet. His gaze found Raidou and didn’t quite believe it.

Raidou didn’t hesitate. He crossed the clearing in three strides and pulled Genma into a crushing hold. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t rough. It was everything that had been waiting seventeen months.

Genma stiffened, then broke into a hoarse, shaky laugh. “You grew a beard.”

“You vanished for a year and that’s what you notice?”

“I like the beard,” Genma rasped. “Missed your ugly face.”

Raidou’s voice cracked. “Don’t ever do that again, you asshole.”

“I’ll add it to the list.”

He sagged, barely conscious, but alive. Shizune was at his side in seconds, her hands trembling only slightly as she checked his pulse.

“Vitals are rough, but steady,” she said.

Kakashi sank against a tree, sweat darkening his mask, eyes gone hollow.

Hinata stood back, Byakugan fading as her gaze lingered. Relief and fear tangled in her chest.

He was alive. But everything else had changed.

She pressed her hand over her heart. 

For Sakura. For Haia. For whatever comes next.

The gates of Konoha glowed faintly under the dusk. The retrieval team crossed in silence, no crowds, no questions.

Genma kept his head down. The familiar streets blurred by like ghosts of a life that had gone on without him.

Tsunade met them at the hospital, arms folded tight. Shizune reported briskly. Kakashi stood still beside her. Tsunade’s eyes stayed fixed on Genma, hard and disbelieving.

“You look like shit,” she said finally.

He almost smiled. “Feels worse.”

She jerked her chin. “Exam room two.”

They didn’t talk much during the exam. When she took his wrist for vitals, her hand lingered.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” she said. “But you will.”

He nodded once.

“Go home,” she said quietly. “But before you do…” Her tone softened. “Go see Sakura.”

He sat on the cot for a long time after she left. The world felt loud and distant.

Everyone knew now. About them. About what they’d been.

He pulled on the spare clothes beside the bed and stepped into the night. The streets were empty, damp with rain.

He didn’t know what he would say, only that he had to see her.

It was almost one in the morning when he reached her door.

He stood there for minutes, maybe longer, staring at the wood grain and the faint light behind the curtains. He could smell the rain still clinging to the air, the moss on the rooftop he’d perched on earlier, trying to gather the nerve.

He should come back in the morning. He told himself that twice.

But his hand rose anyway.

He pressed his palm to the door, like he could reach her through it. 

Please know it’s me.

Then he knocked.

Soft at first.

Inside, Sakura stirred.

Haia slept soundly beside her, small fingers curled in her blanket. The knock came again, a little louder this time, pulling her from the warmth of the bed.

She moved through the quiet apartment, heart pounding before she even knew why.

She cracked the door open; no lights, no warning.

And then she froze.

Chapter Text

Sakura didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Her lungs burned, her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and her hand stayed frozen on the doorknob.

He stood there, real, battered, and breathing. His hair was longer now, pulled back at the nape of his neck in a rough bun. New lines framed his eyes, and the easy slouch he once carried was gone. He stood straighter, more guarded.

“Sakura,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. His eyes met hers, deep hazel, clouded with an emotion she couldn’t name.

Her chest tightened painfully. Tears rose, hot and relentless, blurring her vision. Her hand trembled as she lifted it toward him.

Her fingertips brushed his chest, warm and solid. She felt the unsteady pulse beneath her palm, proof that he was real.

Without a word, she collapsed into him, clutching him as though holding on might keep the world from breaking again. Her sobs tore through the silence, raw and unrestrained. There was no anger, no accusation, only seventeen months of grief spilling out in one shattering moment.

He wrapped his arms around her, steady and sure, as if he’d been waiting for this.

She pulled back slightly, eyes searching his face as though afraid he’d vanish if she blinked. Was this real? Was he truly here?

Genma’s gaze softened. He traced the exhaustion etched beneath her red-rimmed eyes, the faint pull of her brows, the quiver in her lips. She was still so beautiful; tired, worn, but radiant in a way that hollowed him out. He had missed her so deeply it nearly broke him.

Genma stepped inside, closing the door behind him. For a long moment, neither spoke. They only looked at each other, too afraid to breathe.

His voice came low, uncertain. “I didn’t realize you still cared so much.”

Sakura’s breath hitched. Despite everything, a spark of her old spirit flickered through. “You idiot.”

She buried her face in his chest again, shaking with quiet sobs. Her fists clutched at his shirt as she struggled for breath. “What h-happened?” she managed between hiccups.

His hand came to rest on the back of her head, fingers brushing through her hair. “I got caught up in a bad situation,” he said softly, voice threadbare.

She lifted her gaze to his, eyes red but steady. “A bad situation?” Her voice cracked, thin and disbelieving.

He looked away, guilt shadowing his features.

Sakura’s breath hitched again as emotion surged through her. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought of you, of—” Her voice broke, tears spilling anew. She dragged a hand over her face, trying to steady herself.

Reaching for him again, she took his hand, her grip gentle but insistent. Without another word, she led him down the hallway.

Genma followed, heart hammering so hard he thought she might hear it.

She stopped at a door and pushed it open. A soft light filled the room, revealing a small figure swaddled in blankets, sleeping peacefully in a crib.

Genma froze. His breath caught.

He stared at the child, brown curls glinting under the nightlight’s glow.

“Sakura, what—” His voice faltered.

She watched him carefully, her tone quiet and steady. “I know this is a lot,” she said. “After everything you went through. You don’t need to say anything, but you deserve to know.”

Her hand brushed his arm, grounding him. She wasn’t pushing, only offering space.

He took an unsteady step back, breath shaking.

Sakura bent over the crib, lifting the baby with practiced care. The child stirred, blinking sleepy green eyes before focusing on Genma.

He stared, stunned. Those eyes, bright green, and that hair, unmistakably his.

Tears welled up, stealing his words.

“She’s yours,” Sakura said softly.

“Mine,” he whispered. “You’re sure?”

The look she gave him was steady, unflinching. “Without a doubt. Do you want to hold her?”

He nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

Sakura shifted the baby into his arms, guiding his hands beneath the small, warm body. His hands trembled as he held her, feeling the rhythm of her breathing.

The baby stirred again, eyes fixed on his face.

Genma looked up at Sakura, eyes wide and wet. “What’s her name?” he whispered.

Sakura’s lips curved in a trembling smile. “Haia Shiranui.”

A tear slid down his cheek. Haia Shiranui. His name. His daughter. He turned the words over and over, the truth of them sinking deep. Sakura had brought this child into the world alone, had given her his name, and he hadn’t known.

He cradled Haia close, trying to steady his breathing. Sakura’s voice came softly. “I didn’t mean to get pregnant,” she said, gaze dropping to the baby. “If you hadn’t disappeared, if you’d been here, I would’ve told you. I would’ve given you a choice.”

Her eyes lifted to his, full of quiet sincerity. “I’m not here to ask anything of you. I just needed you to know.”

Genma looked down at their daughter, then back at Sakura. His voice was low and rough. “I would’ve been here if I’d known.”

Haia reached up, her tiny fingers brushing his cheek. The innocent touch undid him. He let out a broken laugh that was half a sob. “She already knows me,” he whispered.

Sakura smiled faintly, bittersweet.

The silence that followed was fragile, filled with the weight of everything left unsaid.

Sakura moved toward the dresser and picked up a small, worn photo frame. She turned, holding it out to him. “This is the one Raidou gave me,” she said softly. “I’d show it to Haia and tell her stories about you.”

Genma took the photo, staring down at the younger version of himself, almost smiling. Sakura’s voice trembled. “I wanted her to know you, even if you weren’t here.”

His throat tightened. “You showed her me,” he said quietly. “When I was gone.”

Sakura nodded, tears brimming. “I didn’t know if you’d ever come back. I just wanted her to have a face to remember.”

He held the photo tighter, the silence between them heavy with everything they had lost.

Then, finally, Genma’s eyes softened. The years of weariness melted into something fragile but fierce.

“I’m here now,” he said, voice steadier. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sakura swallowed hard and nodded, the impossible weight between them beginning to shift into something real, something they could rebuild.

Haia stirred again in his arms, her quiet coo breaking the silence, the soft hum of a new beginning filling the room.

Haia was back in her crib, her small breaths rising and falling beneath the blanket Sakura had tucked around her. She didn’t cry again, just clutched her stuffed slug and drifted back into sleep like she’d never been awake. The silence that followed was heavy.

Sakura lingered for a moment, watching her daughter sleep, before turning to Genma, who stood a few feet away.

“You want a shower?” she asked softly. “You smell like blood, dust, and every bad decision you’ve ever made.”

His laugh was quiet, but genuine. “You always knew how to make a guy feel welcome.”

She gave a small, tired smile and nodded toward the bathroom. “Clean towels are in the cabinet. I’ll find you something to wear.”

When he emerged twenty minutes later, steam curling around him, his hair was damp and sticking to his cheeks. He wore an old gray shirt of hers, too big, and a pair of sweatpants Kakashi must have left behind. His senbon was gone. The vulnerability of it hit her like a second wind.

He toweled his hair dry with little care. “It’s too long,” he muttered. “Keeps getting in my eyes.”

Sakura looked up from where she sat at the kitchen table, half a cup of tea cooling in front of her. “I could cut it.”

He hesitated in the doorway, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

They moved through the motions like it was something they’d done a hundred times. Sakura grabbed scissors from the drawer and a towel from the laundry basket. She pulled a chair into the middle of the small kitchen, the scrape of wood against tile the only sound.

Genma sat.

She stood behind him, draping the towel over his shoulders, her fingers brushing the curve of his neck. He shivered, not from the cold, but from something deeper.

She worked in silence, combing through the tangled strands and trimming carefully. The air between them felt too close, too charged. They hadn’t touched like this in so long.

After a while, he spoke. “I didn’t know if you’d even want to see me,” he said quietly.

Sakura paused, scissors still in her hand. “I didn’t know if I’d be alive long enough to get the chance,” she replied.

They both let out soft laughs, exhausted, but not bitter.

He looked down at his hands. “Back then, I didn’t know what we were.”

She smiled faintly, fighting the urge to rest her forehead against his back.

Genma turned slightly in his seat, just enough to catch her in his peripheral vision.

“And yet,” she said, voice steady now, “my life has revolved around you since the day you didn’t come home.” Her throat tightened. “I waited for you, and not just because of Haia.”

Something in his eyes cracked open. He closed them briefly, trying to hold himself together.

She reached for his hand, her fingers curling around his, warm and calloused.

He didn’t pull away.

“I still can’t believe she’s real,” he murmured. “That we made her.”

Sakura stepped back behind him, silent for a moment as she resumed cutting. Her fingers brushed the nape of his neck, and his damp hair curled softly against her skin. “I couldn’t believe it at first, either,” she said. “I thought I was imagining it. I thought it was just grief. You’d been gone a little over two months when I found out.”

He closed his eyes, letting her voice ground him.

“I used to talk to you,” she continued quietly. “Out loud. Like an idiot. I’d sit in the nursery before it was finished and tell you about the appointments, the cravings, how scared I was.” She hesitated. “It made me feel like you weren’t really gone.”

Genma turned his head slightly, his eyes red-rimmed but dry, filled with something raw and aching. He didn’t speak, but his shoulders rose and fell with unspent tension. Sakura ran the comb through his hair again, slow and steady.

“She looks a lot like you,” he said, voice low. “But her eyes…”

“They’re yours,” Sakura finished softly. “I see you every time she looks up at me. Even though they’re green, their shape is all you.”

The scissors paused again.

“I never wanted to trap you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Or make you feel like you had to stay.”

Genma shook his head. “You didn’t. You couldn’t.”

He looked down, throat tight. “I would’ve been here if I’d known.”

She moved around to face him, kneeling so she could meet his eyes.

“I know,” she whispered.

Silence stretched between them, thick with loss and something fragile trying to take its place.

“I missed you so much I forgot how to sleep without it hurting,” she said. “There were nights I hated you for leaving. For not being there when she was born. For not being able to come back.”

“I tried,” he admitted quietly. “But I also thought… I thought I’d come back and find nothing left. That you’d moved on. That you should have.”

She shook her head. “There was never anyone else. I didn’t wait because I had to. I waited because I believed, somehow, that you’d find your way back.”

“You never owed me anything, Sakura,” he said. His voice was soft, eyes full of worn sincerity. “We never put a name to what we were. You weren’t mine to keep.”

“Even so,” she murmured, “I wanted to be someone you could come back to.”

Genma reached for her hand this time. His chest felt too tight, emotion rising like a tide.

“You were,” he said quietly. “You are.”

Her breath hitched.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The kitchen was quiet, the air between them fragile and new. It wasn’t easy, but it was lighter somehow.

Sakura trimmed the last uneven strand and ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it down. “You look like yourself again,” she whispered.

His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “So do you.”

She cleared her throat, breaking the tension with a soft practicality. “You can have the couch tonight.”

Morning light spilled through the curtains, muted and warm. The apartment was still, wrapped in the hush of early hours and the soft rhythm of Haia’s breathing.

Genma sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, shirt wrinkled, Haia tucked into the crook of his arm. Her tiny fist clung to the drawstring of his pants like a lifeline. He hadn’t stopped looking at her since she’d woken up. Every few minutes he blinked, like he needed to make sure she was still real.

Sakura leaned against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, her eyes softer than they’d been in months.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

Genma nodded. “Yeah. Just… don’t really want to move. Ever again.”

She smiled, lips tilting around the rim of her mug. “You don’t have to. She seems perfectly happy holding you hostage.”

A knock sounded at the door. three quick raps and one long one. Ino.

“Please don’t let her in,” Genma muttered.

Sakura sighed. “Too late.”

A moment later, Ino’s voice echoed through the apartment.

“Tell me it’s true! Tell me the long-lost Shiranui is actually back from the dead and not just some mirage sent to emotionally devastate you!”

“Ino, shut up! The baby’s asleep!” Sakura hissed.

“Oh please,” Ino called back. “That child could sleep through a thunderstorm.”

Seconds later, she swept into the nursery, hair half up, tote bag swinging. She stopped short when she saw Genma sitting on the floor with Haia nestled against him.

“Oh,” Ino breathed. “Oh my god.”

Genma gave a small, sheepish wave. “Hey.”

“Hey?” she repeated, incredulous. “That’s it? You knock up my best friend, vanish for a year and a half, show up looking like a sad, hot stray cat, and all I get is hey?”

Sakura groaned.

Genma shrugged. “I’m holding a baby. Hard to multitask.”

Ino rolled her eyes and crouched beside him. “She’s even cuter than in the photos,” she said softly, her tone shifting as she looked at Haia’s messy bedhead and flushed cheeks. “Hi, sweetheart. Auntie Ino missed you.”

She reached out instinctively, but Sakura’s voice carried from the hallway. “Don’t you dare take that baby from him.”

Ino froze and glanced over her shoulder. Sakura stood there, arms crossed, a rare flicker of irritation in her eyes.

“If anyone deserves to hold her,” she said, “it’s the man who just came back from the dead, as you put it.”

Ino sighed dramatically and sat back. “Fine. I’ll allow it,” she said, nudging Genma with her knee. “But I get her next. You can’t hog her forever, miracle dad.”

Genma’s mouth twitched. “Miracle dad, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky,” Ino shot back. “You still look like a raccoon who lost a fight with a leaf blower.”

“Definitely didn’t miss you,” he muttered.

Haia stirred, scrunching her nose before settling again when Genma adjusted his hold.

Sakura’s chest ached at the sight.

They hadn’t talked about what came next. The high of seeing him alive had begun to fade, leaving a coil of uncertainty in its place.

Later, after Ino left and Haia was asleep again, the apartment felt smaller. Quieter. The ticking clock on the wall grated on Genma’s nerves, each second a reminder that time had moved without him.

Sakura stood at the sink, rinsing a mug she hadn’t used. Her shoulders were tight. She hadn’t looked at him since Ino left.

Genma leaned against the doorway, restless hands twitching for a senbon he no longer carried.

Finally, Sakura spoke. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she said without turning. “We could always share the bed.” Her voice lilted, shy but steady.

He looked up sharply. Not because of the words, he’d imagined them before, but because of what they meant now.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

Sakura turned, drying her hands on a crooked towel. Her eyes met his and lingered. “I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to,” she said. “You don’t owe me that. Or anything.”

Genma stayed where he was, silent.

Sakura stepped closer, careful. “I just thought maybe the bed would be more comfortable. That’s all. You don’t have to say yes.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” she said softly. “You’ve been gone a long time, Genma. I don’t know what you went through, and I’m not going to pretend I can fix it.”

The air buzzed quietly around them.

She folded her arms, then let them fall. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not trying to trap you here. I’m not asking for anything you can’t give.”

He flinched, and her expression softened.

“I know we weren’t anything before,” she said. “And I don’t know what we are now. Maybe nothing. But even if you don’t want to be with me, I’d never keep Haia from you.”

Genma’s breath caught.

“She’s yours,” Sakura said quietly. “You don’t have to earn that, and I’m not using her to keep you here.”

He looked down, the floorboards blurring under his gaze. Something cracked open inside him. She was giving him a way out.

“It just feels like the walls are closing in,” he said.

“I know.” She took a step closer. “It’s too fast. You barely had time to breathe.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

“You can take the space you need,” she continued. “You don’t even have to stay here if it’s too much. We’ll figure something out. Raidou will help. Even Kakashi owes you a few favors.”

That drew the faintest snort from him.

Sakura smiled, small and brittle. “I mean it. You can go if you need to. I won’t stop you.” Her voice softened. “But I hope you don’t.”

His eyes lifted to hers, haunted, tired, but searching.

“I’m not who I was,” he said quietly. “I don’t even know who I am now.”

“Okay,” Sakura said. “Then we start there.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“You’re not pushing me,” he muttered. “But it still feels like time dragged me forward without asking. Like everything kept moving, and now I can’t catch up.”

He looked up at her. “Do you think Haia knew I was gone?”

“No,” she whispered. “She just knows she was born loved.”

His face crumpled slightly.

“I’ll give you space if you need it,” she said. “But if you want to sleep in the bed, I won’t ask questions. I’ll just be there.”

Genma swallowed hard. “Okay.”

A quiet moment passed.

He stood, every motion deliberate, and looked at her uncertainly. “Just to sleep,” he said.

She nodded.

When he followed her down the hallway, neither of them spoke. Not when she pulled the covers back. Not when he hesitated before lying beside her, too tense to move.

She didn’t reach for him. Just turned onto her side, facing away, and let the silence between them be his choice.

Chapter Text

Genma shot awake with a silent gasp, the sound trapped in his throat. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, sweat gathering along his temples, sliding down his neck and chest. His heart thrashed against his ribs, panic pooling heavy in his gut like a stone sinking into wet sand. For one shattering moment, he was back in that cell. Chained, rotting, the leather biting into his flesh, the roar of the crowd echoing in his ears, the arena lights burning white-hot into his retinas.

His hazel eyes flicked through the darkness, struggling to anchor to something real. The room was both familiar and foreign, a place he hadn’t truly inhabited in so long it felt like a memory. Finally, his gaze landed on her.

Sakura.

She had turned in her sleep, facing him, bathed in the soft spill of moonlight from the window. It carved gentle lines across her face. He drank her in, his lip trembling as his breathing began to slow.

In. Out. In. Out.

His hands were still shaking, the relief so fierce and clean it burned, loosening the tears that slipped down his cheeks. He reached out, fingers brushing back the pink strands from her forehead. A ragged breath shuddered through his chest as she stirred, eyelids fluttering open to reveal eyes so catastrophically green they undid him all over again.

She’s here. I’m here.

She pushed herself up, the fog of sleep clearing as she focused on him. His expression, so raw, so wrecked, made her breath hitch.

“Genma…” she whispered, the name catching in her throat.

Her gaze fell to his trembling hands. “You’re shaking,” she said softly. He only nodded. Genma, the unflappable man she’d fallen in love with, nodding like a child too tired to pretend. She reached out, hesitant but sure, cupping his face with both hands. Her thumbs swept away the tears he couldn’t stop.

“Talk to me,” she breathed.

His mouth opened, then closed. His lips parted again, but still nothing came. His hands lifted, finding her shoulders, then sliding slowly down her back before he pulled her flush against him. The suddenness of it startled her; her nose bumped into the warm curve of his neck, the contact awkward and perfect all at once.

Her hands slipped from his face, one finding the nape of his neck, the other settling against his shoulder. His heart was pounding so hard she could feel it through his chest, each beat a frantic drum against her skin. A shaky sigh escaped her, thick with everything she couldn’t say.

“I thought—” His voice caught as he dragged in air shakily. “I thought I was back there.” The sound of him, raw and cracked and soaked with tears, was something she’d never heard before.

Her arms slid fully around his neck, forearms stacked, and he gathered her onto his lap. His hold tightened, desperate and almost bruising, but she didn’t mind. She leaned into his ironclad hold.

Her nose brushed up from his neck to the underside of his jaw, her breath warm against his skin. “You’re not,” she whispered, steady in the way he couldn’t be. “You’re here. With me. I won’t let you go back, Gen.”

The nickname punched felt like a kick to the gut. He pulled back slightly, his palm finding her cheek, guiding her until their foreheads met with a soft thud. The promise he’d made the night before, ‘just to sleep’, was already unraveling into the dark.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you again,” he breathed, the confession landing like a detonation.

The closeness of his arms around her, skin pressing into skin, breath mingling in the dark, was her greatest wish come true.

“I missed you every damn day.” she whispered fiercely. “Each day more than the last.”

His nose brushed against hers, a silent surrender. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. Wouldn’t. Not after sixteen months of forced distance, of stolen time.

His lips met hers, and she inhaled sharply, surprise catching in her throat. Warm breath mingled between them, the tiniest gap before he closed it again. Her sigh slipped out soft and content, her heart tightening around everything she’d been denied.

His head tilted to the right as the kiss deepened, both of them breathing hard through their noses. His lips caught her bottom one before his tongue slid against hers. The sound that caught in the back of her throat nearly undid him. Her hands slipped lower and then under his shirt, warm against his sweat-slickened back.

They pulled apart slowly, almost reluctantly. Their foreheads came to union once more, Sakura’s thumbs drawing lazy circles at the small of his back.

His eyes flicked to the bedroom door. Beyond it, he knew Haia slept peacefully. He swallowed, looking back at Sakura. “I don’t want to wake her, but…”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You don’t ever have to ask to see her, Genma.”

She slid off the bed and tugged him up by the hand. “Come,” she whispered.

They moved through the house in quiet steps.. When they reached the nursery, she glanced over her shoulder, green eyes soft and tender, before slowly pushing the door open.

The room was dim, bathed in the silvery hush of moonlight. Together, they approached the crib. Haia lay on her back, tiny chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of dreamless sleep. Her head had fallen gently to the side, soft brown curls,  wild and stubborn, fanned across the mattress. One fist was curled near her cheek, the other splayed across her stomach. A small puff of air left her lips now and then.

Sakura glanced up at Genma, catching the exact moment his eyes softened. She saw the awe hitting him hard enough to lighten his face, softening his features. He lifted a hand slowly, almost hesitant, like he was afraid to disturb the stillness around them. His fingers threaded gently through the soft wisps of baby hair, careful and trembling.

His lips thinned, tugging downward; not a frown, but a quiet, helpless pout of pure adoration. Hazel eyes flicked toward her, shimmering in the low light. “She’s perfect,” he whispered, the words barely carried on his breath. “You did… amazing, Sakura.”

Sakura’s gaze softened too, dropping to where his fingertips brushed lightly over Haia’s brown curls. “It wasn’t just me,” she whispered back, voice warm and steady. “You helped me bring her into the world.”

“I wasn’t here.” His voice was quiet, but laced through with regret, frayed at the edges with self-loathing.

Her eyes slid back to him as her body turned fully in his direction. She reached up, her hand finding the back of his neck, steady and unyielding, gently urging him to look at her. When he finally did, she saw it; the cracks in those hazel eyes, raw and unhidden.

“You weren’t able to be here. It wasn’t your choice, and it’s not your fault,” she whispered, her tone soft but unwavering. “There’s a difference.”

His hand stilled, fingers still tangled in Haia’s soft brown hair. His gaze locked on hers, some of the tension in his face melting, just barely. “It still hurts,” he breathed.

Her brow pinched, eyes sweeping over him with something fierce and tender all at once. “That’s because you’re human, Genma.” She stepped closer, “And I will be here every second of every day, if you’ll have me. Even when you’re hurting. Even when you’re angry. Even when you tear yourself apart over something you never had the power to stop.”

His expression cracked wide open then, something in him splintering under the weight of her words. His eyes flicked down to Haia, then back to Sakura. “Sakura—” It came out like a protest, rough and breaking in the middle.

She shook her head gently, leaning in until her forehead rested against his shoulder. Her lips brushed a feather-light kiss against the fabric of his sleeve. “Don’t beat yourself up, Genma,” she murmured against him. “Not for this.”

A heavy breath left him, nostrils flaring. His lips thinned before relaxing, and then he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

Sakura opened the front door later that afternoon to find Raidou on the other side, hand still raised mid-knock, like he’d been standing there for a while trying to work up the nerve.

“I wanted to stay away, but I—”

“He’s in the nursery,” she said with a knowing smile, cutting him off gently. “He’s your best friend, I get it.” She pushed the door open wider and waved him in. “Go on.”

Raidou’s shoulders eased, a small, genuine smile replacing the tension on his face. “Thank you, Sakura.” He stepped inside, kicked off his sandals, and made his way down the hallway.

When he reached the nursery doorway, he froze.

Genma was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair pulled into a loose, uneven bun, Haia perched in his lap like she belonged nowhere else. She was clapping, babbling between bursts of high-pitched giggles, and Genma wore a wide, crooked smile; the one Raidou hadn’t seen since he went missing. Haia kept looking up at him with her gummy, red-tinged grin, the unmistakable sign of teething, like he was the funniest person in the world.

Raidou cleared his throat, not to be noticed, but to swallow past the sudden tightness in his chest.

Genma’s head lifted, his grin softening when he saw him. “Raidou,” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice.

Raidou stepped inside slowly, crouching beside them. Haia spotted him immediately, squealed, pointed, but made no move to leave her father’s lap.

“Hello, princess,” Raidou cooed, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Genma snorted.

Raidou raised a brow. “What’s funny?”

“You. Talking to a baby. With that voice.” Genma’s grin widened, that same cocky little curve Raidou used to see nearly every day before everything fell apart. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed.

A wave of old memories hit, warm and heavy, and Raidou’s chest swelled with something that felt a lot like relief.

He dropped into a full sitting position, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, pretending at nonchalance, “it’s hard to resist. She’s adorable.”

Genma’s expression softened at that, his gaze drifting back down to Haia. “She is,” he murmured, the words warm and fragile. “It feels like she already knows me.”

Raidou tilted his head, glancing between father and daughter. “That’s probably because Sakura’s been shoving pictures of your face at her every spare second,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips.

Something in Genma’s features melted even more at that. “She told me,” he whispered. He lifted Haia gently against his chest, bringing her tiny face close to his, just looking at her, drinking her in like he was trying to memorize every line, every curl, every sound.

“Your mommy is way too good for me,” he cooed softly, in the same baby voice he’d just mocked Raidou for.

Raidou huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound low and genuine. “She’s not, Genma,” he said simply, “She’s everything you ever deserved, and more.”

Genma brushed his nose playfully against Haia’s before glancing at Raidou once more. He looked like he might make a joke, but then his felt melted into something more serious. “I’m trying to believe it. After everything.” He murmured, turning back to Haia like he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her.

“It’ll take time, but you’ll get there.” Raidou reached forward, and set a gentle handle on Genma’s shoulder. “I promise.”

A moment later, soft footsteps padded down the hall. Kakashi appeared in the doorway, his usual quiet presence filling the room, and Sakura followed right behind him. She stepped in, kneeling between Raidou and Genma, and leaned down to press a kiss to Haia’s chubby cheek.

The baby immediately babbled and reached for her hair, fingers grasping at the loose strands, her grin wide and gummy. “Ma-ma-ma,” she cooed proudly.

Sakura laughed, pulling back just enough to catch Haia’s gaze. She pointed toward Genma with a playful grin. “Da-da-da?” she teased.

Haia leaned back in Genma’s arms, eyes wide, lips rounding into an exaggerated ‘o’ that sent a ripple of laughter through the room.

Sakura let out another light laugh and pushed to her feet. “I’m going to the store while you three catch up,” she announced, moving toward the doorway to stand beside Kakashi. “Does anybody need anything?” she asked, in that gentle, effortless way only a mother could.

Kakashi and Raidou shook their heads in unison, clearly used to the question. Genma raised his brows, glancing between Sakura and the little bundle perched in his lap.

“No, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking down to Haia before landing back on Sakura. “You’re just going to leave me here with her after, what, two days of practice?”

Sakura chuckled, pointing at Raidou. “If you need backup, he’s gotten pretty good at this.” She met Genma’s eyes, her voice softening into something steadier. “You’ll be fine, Genma. You’re a natural.”

And just like that, she disappeared down the hallway, the door to the house closing softly in the distance.