(15 years ago)
"I'm sorry," he muttered when his elbow knocked into hers when he took the only seat left−next to her−as their whole group settled on the counters of Ichiraku.
"I'm sorry," he muttered when he accidentally stepped on her untied shoelace, causing her to lose her balance as they all walked along the lamp-lit sidewalks of Konoha. He caught her when she lost her balance, to which he apologized again, quickly letting go of her upper arm.
"I'm sorry," he said when his pinky so much as grazed her skin.
He apologized for every accidental contact and it irritated her because she knew it wasn't really what he was apologizing for. He's walking on eggshells around her and it was pissing her off. It was so uncharacteristic of the Uchiha that it made her pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation. He didn't have to be so careful with her, she was used to it. She'd lived most of her life feeling unwanted. She wore rejection like a second skin.
She was about to say as much when he reached out to grab her wrist as she exited his car to offer another apology. But she just sighed and lowered herself back onto the cigarette-stained car seat. "You've been saying 'sorry' all day, Sasuke," she said tiredly, but with understanding. She flashed him her most convincing smile, but he didn't seem to buy it. He never did, and it always made her falter. His grip only tightened around her.
She had said something earlier that day. He had kissed her first thing in the morning, soft lips and light touches. He took her slowly and almost lazily, half-asleep and half-horny. He'd trailed feather light kisses along her jaw and gently sucked on the pulse at the side of her neck. Afterwards, he'd laid his head on her breasts, as if listening to the pounding in her chest, as if the way her heart beat was his. He turned his head to look up at her, resting his chin on her heart, eyes hazy as he came down from his high and halfway back into sleep. Three words spilled from her swollen lips, unbidden, and his entire body went rigid.
"I'm…" he hesitated again, as if looking for the right words. But there was really nothing else to say.
She was tired of hearing it and he seemed tired of saying it.
"Sorry." He looked almost hurt and she couldn't help but feel that he didn't deserve to look like that−had no right, because she was the one who put herself out there and blurted it out like an idiot.
"It's not your fault that you don't love me." The hand on her wrist fell limply onto his lap and she slammed the car door shut.
It hadn't hurt that morning. The look of confusion and uncertainty and hesitation, the way he hurriedly pulled out of her and got off of her, as if touching her hurt him. None of it had hurt. But standing before him now, with that sorry little look on his face, she didn't even realize that she had half wanted him to close the distance between them and prove her wrong with a simple "no, I do love you." But he didn't.