-Canon, Boruto Era-

Warnings: Mentioned murder/death, PTSD/emotional trauma, mentioned/implied alcoholism

Rating: T


No matter how many times he thought of it, Sakura's blossoming from a delicate child to a powerful woman never failed to leave him awestruck.

Even now as she bustled about their shared kitchen, humming an unfamiliar tune to herself as she cleaned up from breakfast, the sleek curve of her toned arms felt far off from the skinny little kid she'd been when they first met.

To be fair, he mused, they'd all changed - Naruto had grown into a sensible, powerful Hokage. He'd long since shed his childhood anger and had, he hoped, become the man that deserved this place in Konoha.

The turbulent state of the world in their youth - and the war in their teens - had shaped them all, both for better and worse.

More often than not, he found his dreams wrought with blood and fire and death, and though he awoke in silent fear, Sakura was there. Though she had her own demons to fight, she always seemed to set hers aside and help him with his.

Her eyes, so soft with kindness, had seen unspeakable things, just as they all had. Having served as one of the best healers Konoha had at its disposal in the war, she had seen the worst of the worst - and it surely haunted her even now. Nights when she would be gone from their bed, he would often find her in the bathroom, hands drenched with scalding water as she desperately tried to remove the blood that only she could see. Nights when she would awaken and reach for the knife under her pillow, jabbing at invisible intruders, only to collapse against the pillow in relief as she realized she was just dreaming.

Her hands, hands that had restored life, had taken life too. There were nights that she came home with a shroud about her, eyes tired and hands shaking as she reached for the bottle of sake stashed at the back of their wardrobe, drinking deeply from the bottle as she recounted the life (or God forbid, lives) that she had been forced to give up. Lives she could not save.

Her mind, so sharp and calculating, second only to Shikamaru's in sheer knowledge alone, could often turn against her. The very first time he attempted the Chidori in a spar, she had gone rigid from fear, the memories of the last time she had seen that attack still haunting her. Though he knew she loved him immensely, it hurt to see the woman who stuck by his side pull back, if just a bit - all because of the pain and suffering of their youth.

Any lesser woman would not have stubbornly stuck to his side. Weaker wills would have crumbled when dealing with him and his unfinished business, his shadowy past, his inner demons that still haunted his name. Sakura could have walked away. She could have left him there to wallow in his own fate.

Yet even now, every morning she turned to him with a smile. His daughter greeted him whenever she was home in the mornings, her face so full of Sakura it almost hurt to look at her when his nights were restless with terrors.

As he watched her work, the calloused hands that could take lives now so gently set dishes in their place, arms that could break boulders now used to lift the rice cooker back into its place in the cupboard, the head of pink hair once matted with sweat and blood now daintily swishing about her shoulders as she worked - he saw it all and he felt, as he often did now that the world was at peace, content.