The Yin and the Yang

by lilac haze

AU. Non-canon. Modern setting. ER Doctor Sakura Haruno. Subjectively speaking, Minato Namikaze is bad at his mystery job. Age gap less than five years. MinaSaku. In which two strangers learn to find balance not only within themselves but each other and all the struggles that come along the way give one major event that was lead up by thousands of tiny decisions and steps.

5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

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A/N:

Hello! Welcome back for the next chapter. Thank you for your support! This was a fun one to write. More so than maybe the previous. So let's get into it!

~L.H.

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Chapter 5

We had a plan! We had an agreement! What happened to that?

It wasn't working, I had to improvise.

So you call me! You let me handle it.

With what hand, Sakura?

He rubbed his brow with the back of a tired, greasy-covered palm, knuckles scraping against his forehead. He probably should not have asked that question and definitely not in that tone even if it got her to stop shouting questions, that she was not interested in hearing answers beyond what could be thrown back in anger, if only for a moment. The question had caused her to pause, to recalibrate. It was the beginning of the end. The tailspin into the downward spiral. She did not look back. His ears were still ringing. Every time he closed his eyes, the sound got that much louder. It became accompanied by her oh-so-angry face. Livid. She was livid. She barely contained herself until the leftovers Mebuki had sent along with him were stowed away and Sasori was on the other side of the sliding glass door - the man had insisted on going down the fire escape that was accessible from her balcony - before unloading on him. And unload she had. Before just fifty-three minutes ago he was not aware it was possible to hold onto such anger for so long and still maintain coherence.

What a fool I was. Ignorant.

Today he learned. Today he learned so much that it felt like a small miracle that his head did not split open from the gap between his sunshine-yellow brows down to the nape of his neck. His teeth moved to press together with enough force for the discomfort to be felt. The floorboards creaked but he did not look up from the task at hand. His hands were coated with gunpowder. A layer of grocery market ads covered the surface of the coffee table which was adorned with various tools he needed to clean the only mess he could at the moment: his gun. A gun he had not provided after-shooting care to. It was neglect on his part. Even if his arm was screaming at him - and his hand was less than cooperative - he kept at it. He needed to keep his hands busy to keep his mind from ruminating too much. On her. On her outrage. On his part in it all.

He felt only slight twinges of guilt that she had caught him attending to the very gun that soiled her hands with culpability. He had thought she had gone down for the night. And putting this off any longer would be a detriment. They could not afford the weapon jamming on them when they needed it the most. With a grimace and restrained grunt, he pulled the slide back. A quick curl around the trigger had it snapping back in place - completely aligned. Smooth.

What's done is done.

She did not move from the edge of the short hallway. He sighed and set the gun on the table. He began to gather the cleaning supplies and return them to the black bag Sasori had brought him when he dropped off his clothes. He would clean those later because it appeared that she was not done with getting everything off of her chest for him to collect and carry. The ad papers were folded and tucked into a plastic bag at his feet, to be burned so they could not end up as evidence.

"Did you forget?" He asked dryly with more than a little wounded pride, no longer accepting of being watched silently and judged louder still. Was it too much to ask for a man to brood in peace? Or was her reload time just that much faster than his? "Did you forget to say something earlier when you were salting the earth?" The bag zipped closed. He lowered it to the foot of the couch. His hands were still tacky.

As he was still not facing her, he missed the eye roll but the huff that left her - somewhere between a scoff of incredulity and annoyance - he was very much in his purview. It was as if he could feel it moving through the air, warming the ambient temperature even more than the raging furnace. He began to clean his hands with paper towels that had more than the occasional grease or powder stain. He leaned back into the cushions, tilting his head all the way against the back of the couch.

There was a soft thud from somewhere in front of him. He closed his eyes. Her scent - her aroma of vanilla and amber - filled his nostrils without permission. The thought of bringing his hands to his face crossed his mind fleetingly.

Might as well wave the grease-filled paper-towel flag.

"I need to check your bandages and you for cuts," her voice was without the blunt edge of a cleaver that was used to hack him into pieces; pieces that he was still in the midst of collecting. Her usually sharp tongue had wanted him to prolong the suffering.

"I didn't open any stitches," his brow furrowed as the words left him. He would have felt it. Sure he was sore and tender but that was the extent of it.

I overdid it.

But he did not need to bother her with the details of that. Her mother gave Sakura more than enough ideas.

"Cheddar," she supplied with confidence that her answer satisfied his query.

Minato blinked open his eyes, his chin moved down until he was at eye level with her. Sakura was leaning forward with her hands on her knees. But a nose's distance away. His stance was held in place by wariness. He would not be lulled into a false sense of security.

"Here," she handed him an open package of wipes-alcoholic judging by the smell.

"Thank you." He proceeded to clean most of the residue from his fingers and palms. He paid special attention to avoid his knuckles. He had removed his bandages before setting out to clean the gun. He took his time. She did not so much as speak or rush him. He tucked the no-longer damp wipe into his pocket because handing it back just seemed ungrateful and rude - presumptuous. "I'm okay," he insisted, feeling slightly embarrassed he had misjudged her intentions.

Potential intentions.

Because the sting was very much akin to pain in his shoulder. It was still around. Fresh.

Sakura crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at him. A divet formed between her brows. She narrowed her eyes and that almost had him closing his - feigning sudden exhaustion.

I understand possums now.

"Stop being a tough macho man and let me see what the damn cat did to you, already. Before you contract an infection that causes even more problems," she said somewhere between annoyed and apologetic. "Cat nails are thin. They get in deeper," she continued to present her case when faced with his interpretable silence. Overcompensating on behalf of his lack of engagement. "He's basically still feral." Sakura knew next to nothing about cats - a product of her brother being allergic and her household being strictly no-pets when she was growing up, no matter how much she pleaded her case for a puppy or a bunny - but a little over a year hardly seemed like a lot of time to domesticate an adult stray that showed up on her mother's porch one day and refused to leave. The scrawny, flea-infested thing tried to barter with leaves and rocks for passage through the two sets of doors that were more often than not unsympathetic. And it worked. It worked awfully well for him.

"Cheddar didn't hurt me," Minato found himself saying words he never thought he would say. They sounded every bit as ridiculous as they felt to say.

She gaped at him. Shamelessly, with her mouth closing and opening like a fish. She pulled back her red sleeve, aggressively in haste to not lose any momentum built by the implied absurdity of his statement. She pointed to a faint scar about three inches long. It melted into the crook of her elbow.

"Cheddar," she said, matter-of-fact. But she was not done, so he remained a silent spectator to the unfolding evidence. Next, her foot - with peeling red polish on her toes - entered his line of sight; propped up on the coffee table he saw a curved scar on the top of her skin. She had high arches. "Cheddar," she said again in that same manner of tone. She all but shoved her hands under his nose. He leaned back instinctively. He saw the tiny scars crisscrossing just centimeters from his face; his vision blurred as if his eyes had crossed.

"Cheddar?" He asked impassively, face blank and unchanging in its lack of expressed emotion.

Sakura nodded her head, emphatically. "He's the devil incarnate."

So hyperbole is commonplace in your lexicon.

The discovery made him feel better. Marginally.

"It looks like Cheddar doesn't like you very much." What possessed him to assemble the words in that manner, he was not sure. "You do know he's gray and not orange right?" He asked, quick to move on from his potential instigation.

Is color blindness genetic?

"When my mom first got him, he would sit on her sliced cheese every time she left it on the counter. Just the cheese." Sakura shook her head at him with her hands on her hips. "He goes crazy for cheese."

I guess that makes sense if you squint and don't think hard about it.

"And for your information, Cheddar doesn't like anyone. He only tolerated Mom in the beginning because she gave him cheese, amongst other things," she added with a huff of frustration. It was warranted. Cheddar gained seven pounds since he joined the Haruno household. The average weight for a tabby was around ten pounds as Cheddar's vets told her repeatedly with judgment as if she were the one shaving years off of his life with his lifestyle. "It's reverse Stockholm Syndrome. He just showed up one day out of the blue and won't leave."

Minato raised a blond brow in question. In question, if he was supposed to read further into her rather pointed quip or not. One that she noticed and acknowledged with a tsk. "The cat," she clarified with next to no amusement. "Not everything is about you," exasperation clung to her words heavily. "From your experience, you should know that I prefer to handle my misgivings with you a little differently, with a touch more directness," her lips pulled into a smirk. The wink was just overkill.

That's one way of putting it.

"Now," she sighed deeply, shedding the act, "stop stalling and show me," she curled her fingers toward herself to encourage him to move quicker. "Come on!"

He laughed, the rest of the tension from earlier escaping along with the sound. "You have a creative way of asking me to take off my clothes," he teased because he could not help himself - something about her just drew it out of him.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," she rolled her eyes, quickly reaching the end of her patience with him and maybe the fact that her face was starting to turn pink - betraying all her efforts to mask what was on the inside. His words did hold effect. "Seeing how we've been seeing each other for ten months now. You don't strike me as the type to hold out for marriage."

Here we go again.

Was the dig - he assumed it was a dig - about his character necessary?

"So you did forget something," he turned his head to the side. He stared at the brass table lamp with the white marble base on the dark end table, moodily. "I already apologized." Repeatedly.

"You did," Sakura mused in agreement. "I'm not here to fight or argue," she claimed with a sigh, pushing away the plastic lavender bowl that was sitting on the table.

He noticed it just now, along with a clean washcloth on the edge. White and pristine. He had been so busy with first avoiding her to notice and then when the barrier was broken, he did not want to notice anything but her. That was the answer. But it was rather pathetic and flowery so he pretended to be unaware.

"Why are you here?" He asked her, facing her head on and without blinking. He was tired; too tired for games and signals that would leave his brain wired trying to untangle and decipher. If he needed a night to sleep like the dead, it was tonight. But it was out of his hands and at her mercy.

"To apologize," she sat back on the table. She gestured vaguely in the direction of, well, everything with a lack of enthusiasm. Begrudgingly almost. Embarrassed. A peace offering as reluctant as it was was still an offering. "Can you please just let me examine your shoulder?" Her lips set themselves in worry. Unfabricated. "You must be in pain," she emphasized.

She was not wrong. There was only so much ice and heat could do. With a soft sigh of resignation, Minato opened the teeth of his white hoodie with the sliding down of the zipper. He leaned forward, peeling himself off the support of the furniture's back. The ends of Sakura's hair touched his skin as she helped him slip out of the left arm of the jacket. Her hands began to unwrap the joint. Quickly.

"I haven't been fair to you," her voice was textured and slightly distant. Minato stared ahead as she worked to free him of the bindings. If she noticed it was not a deterrent. "Today and before today." She paused to catch his eyes. Deliberately. He saw remorse staring back at him. Openly. "It's not your fault I went down those steps. It's not your fault that I put myself in this situation."

His teeth pressed together once more because it was his fault. He never should have been there in the first place.

"It may not seem like much," she continued on with a reflective tone. "But it's my life. I miss not seeing my friends every day. I miss being in the ER. I miss the smell of the hospital, the hum of the lights, the cool of the AC. Wearing scrubs and my coat with my name on it. I miss it. And I am angry to be away from my life, from all that. So I deflected and put that anger on you. When all you are trying to do is keep me safe."

He stayed quiet. How could she know his intentions when he was not ready to admit them to himself? Not fully. Not entirely. He slowly moved - her hand guiding him - until his back was warmed by the heat he had left in the sofa cushions.

"I was difficult. I was argumentative. I was making it harder for both of us. I was awful. I was unfair," she continued to list her transgressions. Unprompted.

The surface of the still water in the purple basin was broken. She wrung the small white towel until it was not dripping with extra moisture. The couch cushion next to him sank just before the wet towel made contact with his hot skin.

"The suture site is aggravated." She blotted the surgical thread. The skin it held together was purple, angry, and puff. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he muttered, finding himself unable to hold her gaze.

You don't have to apologize.

"It's not." She shook her head. Before he could ask what happened about not arguing with the goal of lightening the charged air - the remnants of a storm passed - she was speaking again. "I'm sorry for my behavior, for making things difficult. And for keeping you from your life."

It's not your fault.

The cool towel brought relief. The burning and the itchiness were not as pronounced with each passing second of her attention.

"I'm sorry too, Sakura," he said the words he had said before but felt so different to say in this passing moment.

"For what?" She asked with traces of uneasy playfulness - with underlying fear asking such a thing would open a can of worms neither of them wanted to deal with. They had cleaned up enough messes for one day. "You're not the one who raised their voice or spoke harshly."

Soft words of indifference can cut just as much if not more.

"For not being more patient," he clarified so nothing could be corrupted with misinterpretation. "For not communicating more clearly."

"You were kind of passive-aggressive, huh?" She asked with her lips donning a shell of a smile for a blink of an eye. He nodded his head. "Why did you tell her that you're my boyfriend?" She asked the question much more calmly this time around. She also paused to give him a chance to answer in yet another contrast to before. Pink filled the left side of his peripherals.

"She wouldn't have let me in otherwise," he answered honestly but even so, he felt his skin jump under her fingertips like they had the same properties of a polygraph. The hand that was not holding the towel was moving down his arm. Fingers feeling, traveling over old cuts and wounds, on their way to find new ones. So slowly. Almost leisurely. Confoundingly.

"Hm," she was closer now. Encroaching on his seat. Her eyes were focused very intently on the black stitches, maybe she did not notice the positioning of the rest of her in her seemingly single-minded focus. "You're probably right. I overreacted," a further admission of guilt.

Do you not feel that?

The way her knee was pressed firmly against him.

"Why," he paused to collect himself. Surely she had felt his heart rate pick up through the veins she was mapping so carefully, committing their placement to memory in a map only she understood the legend of. "Why did you get so angry?"

He probably should have worded it better. But he was distracted. By her. It was far from his best work. Her green eyes rose to find his. If they had not captivated him so thoroughly, he would have noticed a slight flush to her cheeks. Pink.

"It's stupid." She lowered her eyes, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. She moved it back and forth. Perls containing a rose petal. "Childish."

"Tell me anyway," he bandaged hand circled her wrist, stopping the movements of her thumb on his inner wrist.

You're being difficult again. Difficult to focus on what you're saying.

He was very interested in hearing what she had to say even if he failed to communicate it verbally.

"You're," she expelled hot air. She shook her head, clearing the invisible slate that she had marked with the word, the beginning of a sentiment. "I've never had a boyfriend. So I never brought one home." The heat and the color had reached the tip of her ears. His silence only added to her encompassing embarrassment. "So I freaked out, okay?" She tried to pull her hand free from his. His grip tightened in response. Now, whether it was instinct or desperation he was not entirely sure. He did not have time to spare it a second thought.

"I'm sorry," the words rushed out. "I didn't know."

She laughed, still avoidant. "It's not really something I advertise. I'm over thirty. I've never had a relationship. I think I've only been on a second date like three times in my life. Never a third." She was rambling now and unable to stop herself from completely spilling her guts. The washcloth under her hand on the top of his shoulder dripped water down his front. Slowly. Agonizingly. "You must think I'm a total weirdo or completely psychotic-"

"I've never had a relationship either," he cut her off, pushing past the dryness in his throat.

"What?" She frowned at him, finally looking him in the eyes. "You don't have to lie to make me feel better. It's fine. I know it's not normal."

"No," he shook his head. There was barely any movement. He did not want to lose track of her gaze, to give her an excuse to look away again. "It was never a priority. It was never an option before." There was no real interest before. Sure there was that redhead with hair that grazed her calves and her boundless, bright violet eyes that could hold the galaxies. She was beautiful. A distantly related niece of Tsunade's on her grandmother's side or something. But the timing was just not there.

Amongst other things.

Things he was too preoccupied with experiencing to draw back away from enough to categorize.

"Is…," she hesitated. Her hand twitched in his. "Is it an option now?"

"Potentially," he said without hesitation. "Current and prior circumstances notwithstanding, yes," he said, not losing another moment to ambiguity.

"Hm," she moved her hand from his shoulder. "My mom said you were really patient with her. She had a nice time. Thank you." She smiled at him. It was a little timid, a little shy, with what lacked in conviction it made up for in warmth.

"It was the least I could do. I just listened."

"It's been a while since someone has I suppose," her smile slipped into the realm of melancholy. Her eyes lowered before she tracked them back up. "She probably told you all kinds of embarrassing things about me, didn't she?" She asked with substantially more lightness. There was a sparkle in her eyes that sent something down his spine. He felt it in his toes.

You couldn't say your S's when you were learning how to talk and even when you started school. To prevent discouragement your brother started calling you RaRa so you didn't have to struggle through your own name. Because you hated the way 'Akura' sounded.

'Like give up!'

That tidbit of her mother had recalled stuck with him. That and the almost pigtail snip story. He was glad Sakura did not give that little boy the time of day. Apparently, they were in the same class all the way up to when she graduated high school. And from Mebuki's retelling, the boy had not grown up at all.

"You were a cute kid." He reached out to pinch her cheek. "Chubby." He waited with a grin on his face for hers to change. And change it did. The smile slipped off before her lips parted until her jaw hung open, loose.

She scoffed, visibly offended. "I was not!" Her voice was but a whine. "She showed you pictures?" She moved to cover her hands with her face. She was still holding the towel which was now both warmer and drier.

So many.

Mebuki promised to have more at the ready the next time he visited. "You made for a very convincing bee."

"God!" Sakura groaned in mortification. "Stop it," she whined weakly, pouting at the chuckle that reached her ears.

"It wasn't all that bad," he worked to placate her. He still did not know the line. He did not want to tease to the point that real feelings were hurt in all this playful jest. "Probably nothing worse than what Hora told you about me," he could not keep the smile he wore on his face out of his voice.

"He didn't tell me anything," Sakura lowered her hands just enough for him to see her eyes. Bright and clear.

"Liar, liar." He was smirking outright now. "You gave him sugar."

He was practically bouncing off the walls…but it won't be my problem. For once.

"Was I not supposed to?" She asked rhetorically, wiping up the moisture with a different towel; finding a reason to avoid his eyes all over again. She grabbed the back of the sofa with one arm for balance while stretching out for the coffee table. He noticed a small plastic tub with a navy blue lid. She was inches short of her target. He hooked a foot around a leg of the table and he pulled it toward them, grunting.

"That was reckless," she admonished him. "I was just being lazy. I would have gotten up."

"Just trying to help," he smiled through the pangs of discomfort of his less-than-thought-out decisions.

"Well, no one asked you to, so just stop being you. It makes my job harder," she griped with put-on agitation. She had the tub between her hands. She pressed a thumb to pop open the lid. "Hold please."

"Me being myself makes your job harder?" He asked with a cocked brow. His fingers wrapped around hers before she pulled them away, leaving just the cold plastic instead of her warm, slightly calloused skin.

"Sometimes," she said with a solemn nod. "Only when you don't listen," she added with aplomb. Similarly to how she had applied the jelly onto his cut knuckles just a day ago, she scooped with her left and spread with her right. The skin and stitches became coated with a tacky, thick, substance. He was suddenly holding off sleep. "Rest," she commented, once she noticed. "You were on your feet all day." There was an unsaid apology in there somewhere. He did not have to look too hard to find it.

"I'm alright."

"Is this the first time you've been shot?" She tapped along the perimeter of the tender skin. The jelly caused the black ink to shine like oil. Glistening obsidian. A gap in the scales of the dragon would form from where the skin was blown apart. There was nothing she could do other than minimize the damage of what was lost.

"It is," he admitted with reluctance of where such a thing might lead.

"Sasori said you don't use your gun often." Or at all, according to the man. But she needed corroboration. One way or the other.

Hora. You and your loose gums.

"I don't." He was looking up at the ceiling, head tilted back over the edge of the sofa. His stomach was turning so much the chicken katsu might not stay where it belonged. A horrifying realization.

"You're a lieutenant."

What's done is done. There's no putting the toothpaste back in the tube.

"I am." There was no pride anywhere to be found. He felt her tap his shoulder. He let her help him lean forward. She began to wrap his shoulder with a fresh set of bandages. "Does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me?" She was moving quickly, with more purpose than she had before.

"That I have a gun. That there's a gun in your home."

That I'm here.

"Yes." She leaned back. She began the process of wiping her fingers with the discarded damp towel. He could see small flecks of red. Blood. Fresh.

I didn't feel it.

"But it can't be helped," she rose to her feet with a sigh. "I'll get you some more painkillers. And ice."

He watched her leave the room until she was hidden away by the ajar freezer door.

"And while we're both being agreeable and accommodating," her voice called out obstructed as she spoke to the ice box. "I have a proposition for you."

His brows rose to touch his hairline. He could make even less of her now than he did then.

The bed sheets spun, rising to the top of the machine before tumbling down only to be carried back up into the next cycle. She could see the reds, blacks, and blues - recognizing certain articles of clothing in the machine next to the white spinning sheet that was close to giving her motion sickness. Her green eyes made nearly flat in the reflection were just about the only thing she recognized. She scratched her head which was covered by a black ballcap. Her nose scrunched in response to the itch not being alleviated. the synthetic fibers pricked the skin of her cheeks and neck. Oh, how she longed to directly scratch her scalp. It would be so unbelievably satisfying.

It's so itchy.

"You're making it obvious." A heavy hand pressed to the top of her head discouraging and preventing her from chasing relief.

Sakura glared at his reflection through the dryer window. "It itches," she complained.

"You said you would be good," he reminded her not unkindly.

I would have promised you a pony if it meant being outside.

"This is me being good," she moved her sneakers against the polished floors, purposely trying to enhance the squeaking sound. It was too quiet. "I thought the wig was just for the car. The cameras at the toll bridge." She was thinking and speaking like a criminal now. Sakura's eyes searched for cameras first. She had counted no less than five in the laundromat. Her eyes kept moving between them like a morbid game of pinball. "I thought it would be fine here. This is a clan business right?"

I've never been to this part of town before.

Minato lowered his hand to his side, indecisive about whether or not he wanted to return it to his pocket. His cut knuckles were without bandages; the wound had healed enough to be exposed to the elements. She kept the comment about friction against scabs to herself in what she told herself was a sign of emotional maturity.

"This laundromat is affiliated with the clan."

So not run by the clan then.

She noted the distinction. Minato sometimes said more with what he did not say than what he actually did. Most of the time in her rather short experience. The figureheads were only associated with the clan in some way. Maybe they owed a favor. Or maybe they paid for protection services this way.

Wonder how they ended up here.

"It was nice to feel the sun again," she held his gaze.

Even if it was through a car window.

A red face towel fell from the top curve of the machine, vying for her attention but she remained steadfast in her focus. "Thank you." She smiled at him. It had taken over an hour - the first of the load she had folded and put back in the laundry basket for the tension to ease away from his shoulders. His eyes never stopped moving.

He's not comfortable here.

"It was the least I could do." His fingers moved to the cigarette perched on his ear. A habit she noted.

"Is your shoulder bothering you?" She turned around before she asked him. "I could have driven."

Did you not want me to memorize the turns? Because I did.

Even if he had not used GPS and relied on the side streets in probably what added to their journey.

"Your car is tied to you," he explained not for the first time, patiently. "It's easier to trace. It's harder to do with clan cars."

You have an answer for everything.

They had fake plates. Or plates associated with public clan members that were on the up and up. Politicians, soccer moms, the owners of an optometry shop, or a used car dealer. And while he did not outright say it, he would not let her drive clan - company - property. The risk was not worth it.

"My shoulder is fine," he returned her smile she had no recollection of putting on.

"I have to admit," she moved in a small circle, her arms clasped together behind her back. "I am surprised that there is no mention of you in any of the articles I looked up." Sleep was avoiding her bed. She needed something to occupy her time and her mind which were eating away at her. Slowly. "Not by name or description."

No traces of you.

"I know how to hide in plain sight," he walked to the plastic chairs at the entrance of the laundromat. He slowly sank into one. His back to the row of windows. The sun had long set for the day. It barely stayed up in the sky as the days continued to lose more and more time to the night.

You're tired. Probably exhausted.

"You're not worried about the cameras here?"

"They're decoys. Like most of the cameras down at the subway. I shot out the legitimate ones."

That explains some things. Also confirms Sasori's claim about you being a dead shot.

Cameras would be a liability in an establishment such as this, where most of the clientele were associated with Akatsuki in some shape or form. Having the decoys installed at least kept up appearances. They could claim real cameras were too expensive to install and maintain.

"You've been searching?" His voice asked without judgment or scorn.

Yes. Sometimes. Not knowing isn't working anymore…it never did.

"Here and there." She could only read about the events - in chunks. Watching the TV - the news - was still too much to ask for. Sakura sighed, she shuffled her feet until she was standing near his seated frame. She looked out the window. Something she had taken for granted before. She took in the skyline. Trying to etch the stars into her mind. "Any word?" She asked, already having more than an inkling of an answer.

Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?

"Sakura," he said her name with a sigh.

"Be patient," she finished the sentiment that he was unable to start. "I know."

I'm trying.

"You didn't ask me about him," she blinked, her lashes felt heavy. Foreign. It was as if she was watching herself; all that much closer to disassociating.

I don't want to be in my head. I'm tired of overthinking. I'm tired of my brain never shutting off.

"It's not really my place," Minato leaned his head back against the panel of glass. Completely vulnerable from the back. He made for an easy target.

I hate that I even thought of that.

Her clothes continued to churn in the high-speed dyer. Sakura sat in the chair next to him, her knees pressed together.

"Will my mom be okay?" Her hands folded together, needing something to hold onto.

"Blood feuds are rare even between clans of the Akatsuki anymore. Unheard of outside of it," he turned his head with intent to hold her eyes. "She will be fine. I promise you."

Anymore…meaning they once were in the syndicate?

"Okay," she believed him. She had to believe him. It was all she had.

Okay.

Her slippers dragged against the linoleum, to the hardwood until he could not hear them over the small plush rug. The journey was short but he had kept his eyes on her up to the point that he was all but forced to look away. He could not risk her catching him staring.

"I'm back," she announced in a sing-song voice. She settled into the open seat next to him. The middle cushion.

"No bowls," he tilted his head in the direction of the small pint she held in her hand with two metal spoons in the other.

"Two less things to wash," she folded her legs under her. She held out a spoon for him to take, which he did. "What's this?" She furrowed her brows at the TV.

"I thought we could try something different." He partially moved the pink throw off of his lap and moved it to cover hers as it had been before she went off to get them ice cream.

Sakura removed the lid from the container and peeled off the film. A perfect layer of ice cream beckoned to be etched away by the metal spoons. She leaned forward to place them on the coffee table. She settled back on the couch, wiggling to get comfortable. "This sudden epiphany for the change," she tapped the curve of the spoon against her bottom lip. She watched as a woman sweating from the brow cut onions at blinding speed. "Wouldn't have to do with the fact I keep giving you microwaved leftovers, does it?"

He chuckled. "Not at all." He dug his spoon into the soft ice cream. He maneuvered until he got a sizable chunk of partial chocolate cookie. "I'm not that subtle."

Sakura pushed air from her nostrils loud enough to be heard. She followed his lead and scooped up ice cream before depositing it in her mouth. In that moment that already passed, she was thankful that he was a liar. He was subtle. Her night terror from the previous evening had been horrible. She had woken up screaming. Her neighbor had knocked on the door to check on her this morning. So maybe a change was necessary.

I should have gotten whipped cream too when I got up…but then he would have seen me shoot it into my mouth directly from the canister like an animal.

The dilemmas she faced on her daily challenges were great.

"Do they really have to make an entree with gummy bears?" She made a face at the thought.

"They really do," Minato answered solemnly. "See the one with the scarf? I think he's the one to keep an eye on."

"Really?" Sakura brought more ice cream to her mouth. It melted on her tongue. She chewed on the cookie bits. "He's super methodical," she noted the bowls - she wondered if they had large dishwashers - that were filled with ingredients all lined up neatly as everyone else seemed to be running with their heads cut off. "He's slow."

"He's in control. He's calm," Minato provided additional perspective. "He's not reacting to anyone. He's making everyone react to him."

Calm.

She let out a small hum. She held her spoon back just as he came back for more. She kept her eyes on the TV, pretending not to notice his on her.

"Sakura, please don't take this the wrong way…," he began. The cooking competition had cut to a commercial.

No promises.

"Okay," she nodded her head, denoting he was free to continue with a receptive audience.

"Can you not lock your door when you sleep?" He said the words softly as if the volume was the very thing that made them controversial. She supposed that was also why he formed it as a question even if it was closer to a suggestion at best and a demand at worst. "I'm not really in a state to be kicking down doors."

If Ms. Honda can hear me screaming, she would definitely be able to hear a door being kicked in.

"I'll think about it," was the best she could offer him at this time.

"Okay." Minato turned his attention back to the TV. His spoon was completely vertical in his hand. "The show is back," he informed unnecessarily. She was watching intently, mind miles away.

The wind was cold against his skin, turning it red in mere seconds. His hands curled around the faded wooden banister. Splinters were the furthest thing from his mind. The view was hardly spectacular. He could see the carport. Sakura's red car was parked right under the numbers that denoted her apartment: 2-C. He made a mental note to start her car for her tomorrow to avoid the battery draining completely. All after an extensive sweep of the car. It was not the Uchiha's style to blow things up but the same could have been said for public shootouts. Nothing could be assumed. Not anymore.

Nothing is stable.

The ladder to the fire escape was folded. There was some solace that the sound would wake her if someone tried to use that avenue to break in. It would buy them some additional time to get out through the door in the kitchen. The emergency escape plan that he went over with her. She humored him with every repetition. His eyes never stopped moving. He ignored the couple fighting loudly in the lot. Screaming. They were screaming at each other uncaring who they subjected to their public, mutual meltdown. Even at the worst end of her vocal spectrum, he did not find Sakura's voice half as annoying - grating, taxing, ear-bleeding - as theirs. The pitch nearly caused a headache to form behind his brows.

With one final sweep of the area for the day, Minato turned around. He was careful that the door was fully latched before he slid the metal lock with the completely broken plastic guard in place. A small green ring let him know it was locked and the status of the sensor could be monitored on Sakura's laptop. He bent forward to lay a long block of wood - just two inches shorter than the length of one of the doors - on the tracks. Now, if someone really wanted to get in, they would have to break the single-panel glass. And there was no way he was going to sleep through that. Or the neighbors as they seemed rather involved. It was more of a challenge than he had anticipated, keeping his coming and going - along with Sasori's (the man had red hair for goodness sake) - under their radar. The last thing she needed was more questions and adversities to overcome.

Minato adjusted the curtains so there was zero chance of anyone being able to look inside. With one last tug of the two separate panels of the curtain, he turned to face the door. The window in the bathroom was too small for anyone to crawl through. But even that he had made sure was latched shut and that the windowstop was tightened to the sill. Death by gas was not completely out of the question if they got desperate enough to appease their ego - his ego.

He opened the door, blinking twice in short succession to find her across the way with her back against the half-bath door, closer than he had anticipated. A question was posed on her face. Her arms were crossed. Her black nightshirt completely swallowed her.

"It's clear," he gave verbal confirmation of the status. She would know if it was not clear. It would be painfully clear. Alarmingly clear.

"Good night," she stepped forward as he stepped to the right.

"Good night," he said to the soft closing of the door. "Sweet dreams," this sentiment came out quieter, softer as it was not for her ears to hear. He was on the couch, pulling the covers over him when he heard a distinctive sound that caused disappointment to settle into him. She had locked her door and it had been louder than a nine-millimeter round fired - the same size of the bullet she dug out of him - in an enclosed space; completely undermining any chance of the parting sentiment she had left him taking root.

She stirred the eggs, lowering the temperature yet again on the induction stoves. She broke up the slightly darker-than-appetizing brown chunk into even smaller pieces. She frowned as she pulled out a substantially sized eggshell. She practically jumped in the air at the toast popping from the toaster. She grabbed a plate and sprinted to it. The vent fan spun at too low of a setting to make any noticeable difference.

"How in the world?" She stared at the essentially white side and the burned underbelly. "I forgot to rotate them!" She slapped her forehead with her hand, sending egg chunks all over her kitchen because she was still holding onto the blue spatula.

"Crap," she murmured as she chanced a glance over her shoulder. Minato had not moved. But that hardly meant anything. Maybe he was just playing possum long enough for her to have something on the table so he did not get dragged into the madness. Or he took pity on her. Whatever came first. She did not blame him. She could not blame him.

Hard for a surprise to be surprised when there's only so much square footage.

Sakura moved back to the stovetop where the eggs were sizzling at her - screaming that they were about to turn into a chewy, leathery, inedible mess. She raised the nonstick pan with a red handle. She turned off the dial and moved to where she had left the sage-colored plate. She dumped all of them onto the otherside. She hummed to herself. It also served another purpose, it would force him to acknowledge what the smells - because she was not delusional enough to label the slightly burning stench as aroma - could not.

Wakey, wakey, Blondie.

She grabbed one of the slices of toast on her way to the sink. She pulled open a drawer, blindingly searching for a butterknife. She flipped it over so that the dark side was up. She began to scrape it. She only had the end pieces left. She figured slightly powdery toast was preferred over toasted end pieces. It was just a guess. The scrapped-off bits dusted the bottom of her sink. She lowered the toast into the plate, swapping it for its sibling. She repeated the process. Just as she was about to slather butter on the bread, she heard him stir.

"Good morning!" She smiled brightly. "Go brush your teeth. Breakfast is just about ready!"

"Morning," he answered back softly, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hair was disheveled and his sweats wrinkled. Adorable. Minato was downright adorable first thing in the morning.

Without even trying. Not a single drool stain. The man doesn't even snore.

She had yet to find one flaw - beyond the glaring, obvious one inked all across his back, arms and upper chest of course.

The half-bath door closing gave her all the clues she needed that her request was being heeded. She carried on humming her tune as she buttered on the side of the toast, hoping what her offering lacked in presentation made up for in flavor.

"Brown food tastes good," she placated nerves that she was not expecting to experience. The judge of the cooking competition had said that and from the brown spots all over the eggs and the bread, her food must taste really, really good.

"Maybe it would have been better with bacon?" She questioned herself much too late. Not that she had bacon on hand. Ino's long tirades against the drawbacks of pork lived rent-free in Sakura's head every time she was at the grocery store. "Oh!" Her face brightened. She pulled open the fridge door. She rummaged through the last bottom drawer on the right. She palmed a tomato. It was slightly on the softer side but she could work with it. With a swing of her hips, she closed the fridge. She washed the tomato under the tap. With wet, dripping hands a paper towel was pulled from the roll. She dried the fruit. Cutting it in half and depositing it on his plate. She held her culinary creation in her hands, eyeing it critically. She even rotated it to see it from all angles.

Not half bad.

She lowered the plate in front of the chair closest to the living room.

There!

"Orange juice!" She reminded herself of what it was missing. She busied herself with getting his glass ready. By the time she turned around, he was standing behind the chair. "Sit, sit!" She gestured with her hands, ushering him along into cooperation.

"What's all this?" Minato asked despite having every context clue available to him; from the stained green apron she wore to the not-so-contained mess behind her. The distinct aroma of coffee mixed with everything else left her with even less of an appetite.

"Breakfast," Sakura answered with hints of exasperation, her chipper mood giving way to a moment of blatant honesty. "A thank you for all the breakfast you've been providing." She held her breath as she tried to discern if the look on his face was closer to perturbed or cautiously intrigued. "Scrambled eggs and toast," she clasped one hand in the other over the front of the apron. "With a side of tomato!"

"I see," he said slowly, which only added to her growing unease.

This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. I should have just made him cereal.

That was nearly impossible to mess up. In a way, this was entirely his fault. The episodes they had watched built up her interest - her desire - to try things out on her own. It was not that she did not know how to cook - she was a human adult and cooking was a life skill - it had been a while since she last stepped into the kitchen with the intention to do more than reheat something. She was busy. She just reallocated her time to things she deemed more important: doing her laundry and sleeping. But now she had time. So why not?

The soft sound of the chair moving, pulled her from her thoughts. She tried - and potentially failed - to mask the eagerness with which she had inhaled when he picked up the fork.

"Wait!" She threw out her arms. Minato, to his credit, did not drop the fork in surprise. Instead, he regarded her with a raised brow in muted curiosity. "The finishing touch!" Sakura whirled around. She was opening the fridge and reaching for something all the while she could feel the heat on her face. The cold air inside the fridge did nothing to alleviate the rising temperatures. The door closed with a soft slam. She walked over to the table and without asking, she flicked the pop-top open and squeezed velvety-thick ketchup all over his eggs - not even sparing some of his toast as the bottle squirted loudly.

Perfect.

"Thanks," he said, proceeding to clear his throat.

She tilted the bottle and closed the top. Sakura watched wordlessly, feeling each of the nerves those contestants must have felt when his fork containing brown eggs with some yellow - slathered with bright red ketchup - was brought to his lips. They parted, the fork and the food went in and only the fork came back out. He chewed. She waited. He chewed again. She waited even more with the ketchup bottle hugged to her. Her heart sank when he lowered the fork. He started to cough against his curled fist. It started innocently enough. But it did not take long for his sun-kissed skin to turn red.

Water. Get him water!

The voice in her head had more sense than her. Sakura set the ketchup bottle on the table. With a growing sense of panic, Sakura tore open the cabinet where she kept her glassware. She reached for the first one she could get her hands on. The tap was turned on. She did not even wait for it to be filled more than halfway. The water sloshed. She guided it to his hand. He had not stopped coughing the entirety of the time. Together, the two of them brought it to his lips. He drank. A sip. Then two. Before she knew it, he had drained the glass. She stood, demoralized, watching as he dried his mouth with the back of his hand.

I almost killed him…by accident!

"How much heat did you put in them?" He wheezed out the question with all of his willpower, his fist against his sternum. Cobalt-colored eyes were watering anew while the previous tears had been pushed out midway down his high cheek-boned face.

He didn't even cry when he got shot! Or the stitches.

"Not a lot or anything!" She said quickly, shaking her head back and forth. "I wanted it to have some flavor," she explained lamely and with copious amounts of guilt. She had full custody of the glass. She made her way to the sink to fill it again. "The lady on the show didn't put enough of the red powder and they sent her home for it," she spoke over the running water, her back to him.

No one likes bland eggs…right?

"What did you use?" He cleared his throat for the umpteenth time in a continued attempt to clear his airways of agitation. The tap turned off.

"Um," Sakura snatched the spice container from the counter. "This," she shoved both toward his hand - the glass and the spice.

Minato reached for the container. His blond brow was bunched together, and his jaw was visibly tight. "This is Cayenne," he said slowly, turning the container so that the label was toward her.

And your point?

"I know," she retorted, defensively. She knew how to read. She lowered the glass to the table so that she could cross her arms to make it official.

"The woman from last night's episode used chili powder."

"So?" She met his eyes with unshakable belief. "They're the same."

"No," Minato stressed, slowly. "They are not." His voice did not fluctuate once. Even cadence at a low volume.

"Cayenne is a chili. It's red. Chili powder is made of chilies - also red. I didn't have chili powder so I improvised. They are interchangeable. You're overreacting," she lowered a palm onto the smooth marble. She leaned forward reaching for his discarded fork.

"Sakura," he warned her.

"You're just being a big baby," she stabbed some of the eggs with more force than needed, sending some bits flying off the plate and onto the placemat. She did not stop until the fork was filled to capacity to really drive her point home. She sopped up the red sauce, slathering the eggs in it. "I can't even handle spicy food and I'm about to show you just how dramatic you are."

Mister tough-guy, yeah right.

"Sakura, don-"

She shoved the eggs into her mouth before he could finish his sentiment that was uttered with concern. Minato sighed in resignation. He leaned back in his chair, watching with flat eyes as she chewed.

"See?" She spoke with her mouth full. She snagged a piece of scrapped toast smattered with globs of butter from off his plate. It was fine. If he did not appreciate her cooking, she would eat it all. No skin off her back. "Nothing to it-"

Oh, dear God.

She recognized her mistake immediately. Sakura clenched, dropping the toast onto the table. Butter side down right on her gorgeous marble. A splurge or an investment depending on what mood she was in when asked about it.

How did the ketchup not help?! It's mostly sugar.

"Spit it out," he held out a napkin well within grabbing distance, waving it back and forth enticingly. He gestured to the water. "Drink."

My mouth is on fire.

"Imfine," she said as she chewed - slowly. Her face was starting to color. The heat was moving up from the back of the neck straight to her eyeballs.

Is that normal?

"Sakura, you've made your point. You have a higher spice tolerance than me," he continued to try to coax her to do the right thing for herself. "You're tougher than me," he admitted without shame.

Don't look at me.

"Itsfine." The tears in her eyes seemed to undermine her claims. Her face was pinched together in pain. Her teeth crunched down on an eggshell. She nearly gagged then and there. She could feel sweat start to bead up; ready to explode.

Would it be less painful to just keel over? Would that make it stop?!

"Sakura," he was in front of her with a hand on each shoulder. "Sit."

She did not fight essentially being forced into a seat - no matter how gentle he was. Her sweaty hands were placed on top of his as she gulped down the water glass he held for her. She tilted her head back, desperate for every last drop.

"More," she croaked. "More!" She nearly knocked the glass of orange juice onto its side as she lunged for it with derangement.

"Easy," Minato's tone was low as he escorted the glass to her mouth in a display of zero trust in her abilities to do the same. If she had any capacity to feel something other than pain, she would have made her offense known. Loudly.

She just managed to force the juice down her throat without it dribbling to the sides of her mouth. She gasped for air. Her eyes found his. An apology - she owed him ten at the very least - bubbled up in her throat, ready to be shared. But what came out instead was far from it.

"They're not the same," she said on the verge of sobbing, tears halfway down her cheeks. "They're not the same." She shook her head helplessly, her recently developed world-view was shattered.

Minato's shoulders shook; his lips were pressed together in a line that did not hold. He laughed. Open and free. She found herself joining in until the new tears were being shed for a completely different reason.

xXx

"Everything looks really good," she said with a pleased tone. "In a couple of days, we can reduce the size of your bandage." She massaged his fingers, encouraging increased blood flow to his utilized well-below-average hand. "I know," she made an apologetic face while her tone was full of remorse. "But physical therapy is part of the process and the sooner we start, the less of a lift it will feel like once your stitches are removed."

He let out a small grunt for her to do whatever she wanted. It was painful, to say the least, this new addition to their routine. "You take all this stuff for granted when it's working properly," he mused out loud, needing something different to try, because pretending he did not feel pain was not helping in making the session manageable.

"Hm," she nodded her head in agreement absentmindedly. She was perched on her coffee table, facing him as she conducted the latter half of the assessment. "Squeeze my fingers as much as you can without it being too uncomfortable," she instructed in that detached clinical voice of hers. It was strange how it never managed to feel cold even though it had every reason to.

He complied all while biting the inside of his cheek, making that pain nearly compete with that which stemmed from his shoulder. Nearly.

"Don't overdo it," she advised him. "I still can't believe you finished that abomination I made for you. You seem to be a glutton for punishment."

"It's fine," he tried to smile but the sweat on his brow was actively working against him. "I have a high pain tolerance."

"You don't have to be so proud of that fact," she said with an annoyed snort. "You sure I can't interest you in some oranges?" The guilt was back two-fold at the memory of him skipping dinner. He had not given a reason but she was not unaware. Later this evening or tomorrow would not be fun for him. If only she had some yogurt lying around. Surely it would help with the churning her food left him with. It was true what they said, no good deed went unpunished.

"It was a big breakfast. A three-egg scramble," he smiled with some strain. His brow glistened with sweat through his long lash-grazing fringe.

"Four," she murmured. "That's good." The pressure around her fingers ceased immediately, before he could retract his hand completely, she held his palm with both of hers, facing upwards. She worked her thumbs along it, stretching and pressing down. A steadily applied pressure.

"Four?" Minato chuckled as he shook his head. "No wonder I was struggling so much."

Her lips pulled upward in a smile she did not remember approving. "You're tall," she said dismissively. "My mom loves to say that Sakuto - my brother - could eat half a dozen eggs in one sitting. I never really paid attention to the exact amount so I can't tell you if that's accurate or not. Figured four split the difference between not being enough and being excessive."

"Four is better than six," he trained his eyes to where their hands connected. He watched her fingers work dutifully. Increased circulation meant increased sensitivity.

"I remember giving myself a stomach ache trying to match what he ate. It took me three whole months to be able to look at eggs again without going green. Which made the whole Dr. Seuss lesson at school rather hard. To celebrate the completion of that unit we made green eggs and ham," she shook her head at the memory. "I all but cried in front of my whole class when they asked me why my plate was untouched." Her thumbs stopped moving but she did not let go. "Sakuto cleared it. Said it was so good that he wanted seconds and thirds. He made everyone jealous with the amount he hyped up my eggs. They left his teeth green for two days. I used too much food coloring. A recurring problem," she joked half-heartedly.

"He sounds like a good older brother."

"The best really," she smiled sadly at him. "He's the reason I opened my clinic. He was thirteen years older than me. But he never made me feel like a burden to be around or that he was forcing himself to interact with me. I wanted to be just like him growing up. I still want to be just like him."

He wanted to ask what happened because something had happened. He knew something had happened. Something had to have happened. Her brother's dog tags were hanging from Sakura's keys. She wore his clothes at home - his pullovers, his shirts, his hoodies. Both Sakura and Mebuki wore the same far-off look in their eyes when they talked about him. He knew that look. He carried that look.

"Sakura," he gathered the courage he needed to ask, all because she had opened the door.

She squeezed his hand one more time before the warmth was gone altogether. "The show is about to start," she smiled. Her eyes slipped closed.

His stomach turned. No, it was not. She had not consulted a clock. But he did not call out the lie out loud. It would not have done any good anyway for she was already halfway to the kitchen - she could always pretend that she never heard him speak and he was too polite to argue the contrary.

"I'll make us some popcorn," she said loudly without so much as a glance as she searched the cupboards. "Do you like Parmesan cheese on yours…Sakura's other way?"

"No thank you," he spoke toward the TV. The curve of her spine and the downturn of her chin would all seep any appetite he had squandered together. The door of the microwave closed. The spinning of the plate soon joined by the pops of the kernels ate away at the silence that sank between them.

The knock on the door had him lifting his head from the armrest of the couch. Minato rubbed his eyes. He could barely make out the sounds of the water. It was her singing that was a more clear-cut indicator that she was still very much in her shower. The knock sounded again. He sat up, his right hand was already slipping into the drawer of the end table - where he kept this gun when he was lounging on the couch. He stood up and tucked the gun into the back waistband of his gray sweats. His right hand hovered closely.

His mind was clear.

He was almost at the peephole when his ears picked on something very distinctive that his brain was having a hard time justifying. The key met the lock and twisted. He watched it happen in slow time: the door opened obscuring him every bit as much as the perpetrator. He felt his quickened heartbeat in his pulse as his hand slipped under his hoodie. His fingers curled around the grip of his gun. The door closed. He furrowed his brow when nothing was filling his line of sight. The deadbolt was engaged again. Minato lowered his gaze. His hand fell limply to his side just as the intruder turned his head.

Minato found himself face-to-face with a boy with a mop of brown hair and large over-the-ear silver headphones who was holding the blue nylon handles of a plastic tote bag between his hands.

"Who are you?" The boy demanded incredulously, backing up until he was propped against the door he had entered from.

Minato's sharp eyes did not miss that the boy's phone was on nor the fact that emergency services were already mostly dialed, he just needed one more number and to hit the call button. The blond tore his eyes from the phone and smiled.

xXx

"You are my sunshine," Sakura sang softly to herself while she tossed the damp towel onto the laundry drying rack she had in her room. Her brushed hair sat around her neck, over another towel draped over her shoulders. She rang her palms along her moisturized arms. Her everything-shower was complete and she felt more like herself. A round of self-pampering was all she needed and not a moment too soon. She hummed the song - the parts that were not all that exciting to sing. She tugged the hemline of her large pullover down. The army motto was displayed across her shoulders. The hem nearly touched the tops of her knees. Apparently, Sakuto had a monopoly on the height in their family for their generation.

I should get an air fryer. It would make reheating Mom's katsu so much easier and better.

She continued to hum as she opened the door to her room. Her toes were cozy in their pink slippers. "Please don't take my sunshine…away?" She frowned at the one head that had turned to stare back at her. She blinked and blinked again but even then the picture in front of her did not change.

What…in the world?

"It's Wednesday," Minato answered her silent question dryly. His tone was even blanker than his face.

Wednesday… what does that have to do with any-oh…Oh!

Her eyes widened. She stared at the boy with horror on her features. "Hiro!" She breathed his name in pure, unadulterated alarm. He was fine, sitting there happily with the rust-pink throw across his lap eating a blue popsicle while watching TV. Completely and utterly enthralled. He could not care less that she was standing there.

How could I forget?!

"I'll get us more popcorn," Minato announced, grabbing the purple plastic bowl that was mostly unpopped kernels.

"Okay," Hiro said in a loud volume on account of his headphones which were playing the sounds of the movie nearly loud enough for Sakura to make out from where she stood root in place from her shock. "Can I have orange soda too, please?" Hiro called out. "In my special cup."

"Help me with the special cup, Sakura," Minato said purely for Hiro's benefit even as he was looking right at her. Not happy in the slightest. Minato was off the couch and turning her by the elbow toward the kitchen. Sakura gulped. She was tethered to him. Trapped. He came to a stop at the counter. Minato reached for the top cabinet where she kept the popcorn. He began to speak in a low voice.

"He got here twenty minutes ago. I put on Harry Potter at his insistence. He's been on the couch nearly the whole time." Minato's lips barely moved and he did not so much as look at her. But that did not alter Sakura from gawking at him openly, consequently with her mouth just as open. "He had a key. Who is he?"

"Today's Wednesday," she blabbered, completely turned around.

"We've established that," he said, not without some degree of tightness. He removed the plastic film from the brown bag of kernels without difficulty which was an accomplishment she was too preoccupied to register much less celebrate.

"He lives in this building. In 1-F. His name is Hiro. He's my friend Amaya's kid. She's a single mom. She picked up extra shifts to pay for Hiro's activities. He's homeschooled. He takes classes online and is usually with his grandmother but she needs a break every now and then. And I look after him once or twice a week. He's a good kid. He has a key. I gave it to Amaya if she needed anything or to water my plants and bring in my mail if I got stuck at my mom's when I wasn't expecting it," she rambled. In her lack of giving him information in the past, she was overcompensating by providing way too much now. From one extreme to the other. In her growing unrest and panic, she did not realize how close she was standing to him - not even when her shoulder was pressed up against his upper arm because she was shorter; almost a full head shorter. "I totally forgot," she pleaded for forgiveness.

I screwed up!

"I believe you," he glanced over at the boy before settling his eyes on her face. "It's okay," he said softly.

Really?

"He didn't surprise you did he?" She asked stupidly without thinking. She wrung her hands out of having nothing better to do with them at the moment. "I mean he didn't see your," she looked over her shoulder quickly, "you know what," she whispered.

"No," Minato dipped his head closer to hers. "He didn't."

"Thank God," she flattened a palm to her chest. She could feel her heart beating frantically. "Is this okay?" Because she was insecure and she needed assurance.

Is he going to be okay?

"Everything is fine." Minato stepped away. A draft of air he generated hit her face. She watched him press the popcorn button on the microwave.

Are you sure you're not mad?

She stepped to the left to avoid having to think about the feeling he left her with. She stood on her tippy-toes for a blue plastic cup that was on the middle shelf. She stretched her arms as far as she could, her fingers only managed to push the cup further away. Just completely out of reach. Even if she was too stubborn to admit the thought out loud. She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. A palm pressed on the counter to stabilize herself. She leaned forward, balancing with all her focus. Her breath entered sharply when an arm thicker than hers entered her line of view. She dared not move. She could feel him behind her. Frozen in place with her arm over her head she watched the blue cup lower until it was out of her gaze. She heard it being placed on the countertop with a soft click next to her hand - within reach. Again it was for her benefit. It was his way of telling her it was safe for her to turn back around. The lack of his body heat on her back was more subtle in saying the same.

Sakura lowered her heels to the ground slowly, feeling slightly dizzy. She counted her breaths. Her quickened heartbeat was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. Sakura used the heels of her palms to push off the counter. She moved past him - around him - on her way to the fridge. She pulled it open, willing the cold air to do something for her. Anything. Even if it was small and fleeting. Her thoughts were running rampant. She had put a child in a dangerous situation. It was her fault. If Minato - or God forbid if Sasori had been here - was even slightly more trigger-happy, all of this could have ended so, so badly. Without thinking, she grabbed a white carton with a green twist cap. Sakura closed the fridge door. She walked back to where he had left the cup, hands moving up and down to shake the carton. She began to fill it. The popcorn was popping faster now.

"He asked for orange soda," Minato's eyes were on her but every now and then they would wander over to Hiro who had not moved.

"He asked," she smiled wryly, "but that doesn't mean he'll get it." She swirled the carton to gauge how much more there was. "Want the last of it?" She asked with a teasing gleam in her eyes. "Seeing how I drank all of yours from the other morning?"

"Sure," Minato reached for a glass for her to pour some into. He held two in his hands.

"What did you say to him?" She asked him without raising her eyes from her task as if pouring orange juice was incredibly delicate work and with him looking at her, it might as well have been.

"That I'm a friend who's hanging out," he watched as the last few drops pushed the levels closer to the edge.

A friend…a bit generous no?

"Hanging out?" She asked, twisting the cap back on the container. She put it on the counter to rinse out and put it in the small box she used to hold her recycling later.

"Is that not what people say?" He asked and for the first time today, she saw something akin to insecurity flittering across his cobalt eyes.

She wrinkled her nose. "Did he call you old?"

"He did," Minato admitted without hesitation. He mirrored her smile. She felt the knot in her stomach loosen a margin.

Your whole face changes when you smile. You become more approachable. Less aloof. Less Akatsuki-like.

"It's a good thing," she filled her cup with water. The microwave dinged. She gathered the blue glass in her free hand. "Are you going to get that?" She inquired, searching his face.

Minato blinked. "Right." He turned his head toward the appliance and away from her, pressing the button to open the door.

Sakura walked to the couch, settling on the right side of Hiro. "Here you go, kiddo," she lowered his glass in front of him on a coaster. "And before you have a chance to be disappointed, it's juice, not soda."

I'm sorry, Hiro.

Hiro sighed long-suffering as he clicked on the remote in his hand. "Where's the popcorn?" He asked her with sparkling eyes, looking away from the paused movie. Poor Harry was stuck with one eye open and the other closed. His mouth was frozen midword.

"My friend Minato is bringing it," she said with a smile as she settled back into the cushions. She brought her legs up. "The Goblet of Fire?" She asked him, angled toward him with her arm over the top of the couch.

"It's the best movie, and arguably book," Hiro lowered his hands into the popcorn bucket that was held out for him. Minato sat on his otherside. "Not Sakura's way?" He frowned.

"Not today, kid," She shook her head. "And I'm not arguing," Sakura reached over to snag some popcorn of her own. "Minato?" She glanced at the blond.

"I'm not one to argue," he answered smoothly. "He's right as it is."

Sakura tossed popcorn in her mouth to hide her smile.

"Can I start it now?" Hiro asked with a huff, the remote was already pointed at the screen.

"Of course, Hiro, she said calmly," she just managed with a straight face.

Hazel eyes rolled upward seeking either mercy or a cave-in, but they received neither. He pressed the button that triggered the pictures to move. Harry's mouth moved, the audio entered the room, and the headphones.

"No so loud, kiddo," Sakura reminded him with two taps on her knee.

Hiro's hand tapped as many times on the volume, reducing it in silent acquiescence of her request all the while shaking his head. Sakura continued to add popcorn to her mouth one at a time, looking quite pleased with herself, taking great enjoyment in Hiro's sourness. The small upward curve of Minato's lips only added to it all.

xXx

"Your mother is amazing," Sakura gushed with exuberance. "These were her best enchiladas yet. The meat melted in my mouth," she pulled her shoulders up in a contained squeal. "So good." She handed Hiro a plate. He began to dry it.

"I'll let her know," he said without color as he worked to wipe one side of it thoroughly; leaving not even towel fuzz behind.

"Speaking of letting people know things," she began slowly, not taking her eyes off the soapy suds that she lathered the plate with. "Can you maybe not let your mom know about Minato? I haven't had a chance to tell her and I don't want her to worry."

I need time to think of a believable adult lie.

Hiro turned the plate, carefully with all his focus. He began to dry the backside of it. "Because you forgot."

"Because I forgot," she hung her head. "I'm really sorry about that, Hiro."

That and everything else.

"I know." He lowered the plate to the counter, bending over on the footstool. "You apologized."

"I know. I did," but she still felt awful. "It must not have felt very good to be waiting outside the door and having to use your key."

"It was fine," he said with a dismissive shrug, taking the plate from her hand. "I didn't wait that long. I got cold."

Right in the heart, kid.

She sighed in her disappointment at herself. "I know I would have been so scared if I were in your shoes. Opening the door and finding a stranger." She tried to not make it obvious that she was watching him closely. Studying Hiro for additional insights into just how badly she screwed things up for him so she could blame herself accordingly.

"It was," Hiro frowned. Sakura's stomach was in a free fall to her toes. "But only for a little while. Minato explained who he was. He wasn't a stranger then. So it stopped being scary."

And because Minato was Minato - charming, sweet, disarming, calm, all accompanied by a face that you could seemingly not think twice about trusting - she did not find it hard to believe. At all. But that being acknowledged did nothing in the way of alleviating the built-up guilt.

"Minato's not scary."

Oh kid, if only that was true.

Because she was scared of him. Even more than the man she had shot. Even more than the police force. Even more than her mother finding out the truth.

"You're brave Hiro. Braver than me," she spoke with honesty that was settled into her bones. "The time you and I spend together is really important to me and I know that my actions today failed to live up to that standard, I will try my best to make it up to you, Hiro. The next time," she hoped with everything she was worth that it was not just empty words.

"Sakura," he frowned in her direction. His eyes rested in the general area of her nose. "I'm not upset."

"I'm glad," she smiled at him, knowing he could see the gesture and that was enough. "Thank you for being so understanding." His shoulder stiffened momentarily at the words. "How is your hand holding up?" She asked him, quick to take the pressure off.

"Good," he said with a small nod. "I've been doing my stretches like you showed me."

"That's good. You let me know if it gets to be too much okay? Don't overdo it, Hiro," she warned in a light tone.

"You work too much," he addressed the plate he was inspecting for any lingering water droplets that had escaped his toweled swipes.

"So you are upset," she pouted. "You sound like your mom."

"Well I am her son," he huffed.

You would make your mom's week kid if you ever told her that.

Sakura scrubbed the bottom of the sink for the last traces of food residue. She peeled the blue, rubbery gloves from her hands and set them to dry across the curve of the faucet. She moved to the other side of the boy to begin putting everything back from where it came.

"Is he really your friend, Sakura?"

She fought her instinct to freeze. Hiro would notice. He always noticed. "He is."

"How come you never mentioned him before?" He lowered the last plate on top of the others. "You talk all the time about Ino. You've told us about Lee, Karin, Kurenai, Shizune, Asuma, and Kakashi," he listed off each name in the same monotone.

Why do you have to be such a sharp kid all the time, Hiro? With the memory of an elephant to boot.

She pulled her bottom lip under her teeth, thinking. "Um," she held the plates to her and opened the cabinet with her free hand. "I wasn't sure about him before. And I wanted to be sure about him before I introduced you all."

There was no reason to tell you.

"So you're sure about him?" Hiro continued to press. He was practically as tall as her thanks to the stepstool. She found herself thankful that eye contact was not his thing because she surely would have crumbled like a cookie if he pinned her with a look that matched his tone: stern.

Daggers of disappointment.

"As sure as someone can be about someone they haven't known all that long." She did not want to lie any more than she had, especially when she was asking him to lie to his best friend - his mother.

"Are you not completely sure because he didn't help you clean up?" He blinked slowly. "Friends help friends."

She smiled. The urge to ruffle his hair was great but so were the consequences of such an action. So she kept her hands where they belonged: to herself. "He's a little tired, not feeling his best. So he gets a pass this time." She prayed that Minato would stay in the shower a little longer. They had come to learn that the hot water helped alleviate some of the itchiness at night.

"Are you having a sleepover?"

"No," she shook her head. Hiro did not know what that meant beyond the context of the shows he watched. Shows that his mother had to first approve of. The question was innocent enough. "He spilled juice on himself, remember? He's just getting cleaned up before he heads back home. Maybe he'll take a nap first so he's not tired when he's driving because that would be dangerous," she explained as nonchalantly as she could. She did not know how close she came to the mark. She was far from a convincing actress but Hiro struggled with social cues so maybe it worked in her favor. As deplorable as it was.

"Okay."

Sakura let out a silent breath of relief. Hiro hopped off the stool. He crouched down to pick it up. She opened the bottom cabinet for him to slide it inside. "Thank you for your help." He adjusted his headphones on his ears.

"That's my line, kid." She held up her right hand just above at eye-level with him. Hiro held his own out to line up with hers. They brought them closer together in one motion but pulled back before contact could be made. "Good work today, Hiro."

"I won't tell Mom," he assured her. "Friends gotta help out friends."

She smiled. He did not notice the strain behind her bright eyes.

xXx

"Minato?" Her voice was soft, barely a sound above a breath at all. "Hiro's gone. You can come out now." No sooner than the words had left her lips, the doorknob turned leaving her with very little time to wonder if he was simply loitering on the other side with his ear pressed against the wood, listening for anything.

Like a bat or something…but I mean waiting is pretty boring.

But there was more than just that. He was probably listening intently for her sake. After all, he was here for a very specific reason. And no amount of wishful thinking would change that.

"Hi," she greeted him.

"Hi," he moved back exactly one step, giving her more vantage to notice. The lack of a shirt was one.

"Sorry," she averted her gaze to his feet. "Do you need more time to dress?"

"No. I figured you could look at my shoulder?"

Duh, that way he doesn't have to aggravate it twice.

"Right," she stood there in the doorway with indecision.

"Sakura?" He asked her with consideration to the internal struggle going on that he knew not much more about.

"I have Vaseline and bandages in my bathroom," she moved past him. It was the only way to keep her nerve and voice level. "Take the left side of the bed. Lie back. I'll be right with you." She did not wait for confirmation. She gathered her hair into a bun at the base of her neck, securing it in place with a red claw clip in the shape of a flower that she snagged from the top of her dresser. She was already moving to locate the supplies she needed. She set them out on the counter of the vanity. She turned on the tap and began to wash her hands. She counted in her head slowly, avoiding her reflection in the mirror.

He was lying back as she had asked. His sunny hair sprawled on her white pillowcase. His hands were folded on his naval. Skin on skin. Ankles crossed causing the sweats to rise up just so. Currently, he donned a pair of black ones. They were a slimmer fit and she was repulsed with herself for noticing.

As naturally - professionally - as she could, she lowered the bandages to the end table. The opened jar of Vaseline joined it. She did not move to coat her fingers. Instead, with the hand that was designated to spread the jelly, she probed the injury. He had turned on all the lights in the room helpfully.

Always with the consideration.

He challenged her preconceived notions. Perhaps she had a narrow worldview. Or maybe she was jaded with disappointment at witnessing heartbreak in those she cared about. Learning from other's mistakes so she did not have to repeat them - so to speak. But she was under the belief that men were not wired to anticipate. They could follow orders and do as they were told but that was the extent of it. If they brought a package inside from the door and even went as far as putting the item in its place, they would leave the discarded box lying around for someone to trip on for example. The emotional labor - the mental cycles - ultimately fell on the woman. Perhaps it was offensive not just to men but to every non-heteronormative relationship out there, but that was what she had believed. But she was beginning to question that now. Just a little.

And you're to blame.

"Thank you for not turning Hiro away. Things like routines and schedules are important to him. It would have been very upsetting for him if it was broken," she made notes to herself of the coloring, puffiness, and texture of the skin around the sutures. As she saw in real time, she was compared to this morning and to a few days back.

"It's the least I could do," he said in a quiet voice.

"It's really not," she shook her head at what was sort of becoming his catchphrase. He wore humility well. As good as the expensive suits that draped him if not better. "You were great with him and you didn't have to be and that on top of everything else requires a thank you." She could feel his eyes on her which made her wish her hair was down. At least that way, some of her would be obscured from all of his intensity. Her shield. Her armor was of no use to her like this.

Don't worry I won't cook for you again, that'll be my thanks.

"You were right."

"About?" She stubbornly avoided his eyes just as he refused to focus elsewhere.

"Hiro. He's a good kid."

No new discoloration. No increase in swelling. The skin is holding.

She smiled, dabbing at the angry red skin that was so dry. "He really is," she agreed with fondness laced to hold each word together.

"I really don't want to disrupt your life more than absolutely necessary."

There was so much earnestness in his tone that she had to close her eyes and gather herself. Just for a moment. How easy it would be to pretend that he was just a nice guy. A really nice guy. The illusion was so tempting.

A decent guy. You have all the makings to be a decent guy. So why…so how did you end up mixed up with the Akatsuki? With the Nara.

"What do you do for the Akatsuki?" She raised her eyes to his, suddenly in a decisive strike. She did not blink in the face of his surprise. He recovered quickly like he always did. But a cool mask did not replace his features. No, there was still some warmth there. Just enough for it to be conflicting whether she knew him at all or not.

Who are you Minato?

Pivotal. The silence felt pivotal to her. If he lied, she would have an answer of what this was, full stop. If he told the truth, it opened a door for something more. If he declined to answer, that was where things got a little less clear. She supposed it would depend on other things such as his body language, his demeanor, the tone of his voice, the hesitation or lack thereof. She dissected the silence. Every slow flutter of his pale lashes could mean so much or nothing at all. He opened his mouth. Her fingers twitched on his chest in something he surely felt. It felt like an eternity waiting for his lips to move. She sat perched on the edge of the bed.

"I control the ports. What comes in and what goes out," he stated simply.

But the answer was far from simple. The answer raised a plethora of questions. Namely how?

"There are dozens of entries to Konoha." Officially such as ports, customs checkpoints, and unofficial channels were nearly uncountable. Like spider veins that splintered off of a main artery or vein. "Fourteen of which see traffic the level the clan is interested in," he sighed warily, his hand went for what was not there: the cigarette behind his ear. He did not bother to play off the action as anything purposeful. "I oversee trade to make sure that the clan doesn't take in losses in goods. And what is delivered is what is promised."

A hub… he operates a hub. Minato….

"And what is delivered?" She asked undaunted. Steady. Ignorance may be bliss but not in this case. Ignorance would be a disservice. "And what is promised?"

What kind of hub are you, Minato? What do you connect?

He held her gaze, not lowering it in the slightest. "A wide range of goods. Sometimes services."

You're going to make me say it.

She clenched her jaw. She would not be deterred. "Do those services go by alternative names like exploitation?" Her green eyes blazed with a fire that was only growing hotter as each scenario came to her mind. Images real and dramatized flooded her at once.

"I don't deal people. And I don't make deals with people who do." His words were the extent of his communication. Beyond his unwavering eye contact, he gave her little to work with.

"Drugs?" She pressed. "Weapons?"

"Depends," the unsatisfactory answer slipped past his growing tighter-by-the-blink lips. "And yes."

"What is it dependent on?" She asked with more flippantness than what was productive.

The weather? Your mood? Demand?

"No Class A or Class B substances. No weapons above Class Two."

So no morphine, ketamine, heroin, GHB, oxy, or coke - the most harmful of substances. And no machine guns, grenades, rocket launchers - basically military weapons. How noble.

"What about the clan?" She was not satisfied with mere sentiment. "You make it seem like you have a say."

Are you just blowing up smoke to distract me?

"Maybe it's because I do," he clicked his tongue. A chuckle - tense and short - pushed past his throat. "I don't trade humans and destruction, Sakura. Never have and never will."

You're smart. More than smart enough to make something of your life. So why Minato? Why did you sell your soul to them?

She felt something inside her unclench and relaxed despite her intentions to keep her guard up. "So you see them as humans?"

"That's what they are, isn't it?" He asked rhetorically.

Why are you here? How did you end up here?

"So you're a right hand with morals, huh?" She did not set out to be so argumentative and accusatory. Something about him pulled this side out of her; a side she thought was long gone.

"I'm human, Sakura," he cut through the heart of it. "The question is do you see that?"

How dare you ask me that?

She pushed unamused air out of her nostrils. "That is what you are, isn't it?" She threw his words back in his face.

"It is," he nodded his head, barely. "But that's not what I asked."

I held you closed while you bled with my hand!

"You know you are. You know the answer. You know I do." She was defensive. A part of her recognized that. A small part. Probably the only sane part.

What do you want from me? What more do you want from me?

"If I knew," he smiled without humor. Small. Fleeting. Guilt-inducing. His voice had not fluctuated once. He was in total control despite her being the one throwing out leading questions. "I wouldn't have asked."

I…I….I'm a good person. Right?

She stopped short. Her head cleared of a thought. There was a buzzing in the vacancy she was suddenly left to deal with. Akin to a fat fly moving around in completely random motion. She gnawed on her bottom lip with zero concern that he could see her actions. She felt bad and that added to her conflict. She felt so small for having made him feel that way even if it was just transitory. It was a rather abrupt and harsh reminder that she still had a long way to go from her goal; from seeing what she wanted to see in the mirror. She sighed.

The buzzing was drowned out by the first wayward thought to cross her mind. Soon it was joined by more. She was swimming in them. Or maybe she was just drowning the dark turbulent waters of his sapphire eyes. Dark and bottomless. She held on to a piece of driftwood that floated her way.

Start over. Talk to him. Don't assume. Don't accuse. Don't be like you. Calm down, Haruno.

"So you deal with shipping and receiving," she began again with a more neutral tone, grounding herself with a breath. "For one of the largest clans in Konoha. You look out for their interests as long as they align with your morals." Morals she was slowly learning both through what he told her and what he showed her. "That could lead to a lot of friction with the other clans. Sounds like a lot of stress," she moved her fingertips in small circles unknowing of what she was doing. Almost representative of the circular nature of her thoughts. She did not know what to make of this all. Which way was up again? She held on.

"It can. It did especially in the beginning. But bullets and bloodshed are not profitable. Business is. The underground casinos need to run, the money laundering businesses that are also happy to launder clothes, the tattoo shops that are gateways to underground boxing matches, and the like. Money is the bottom line for the Akatsuki above all else. And as long as there is enough to go around no one grumbles too much."

Business is okay. Business isn't terrible.

"But what happens when someone gets greedy?" She asked with a frown. Her fingers curled toward her palm as her hand rested on his pectoral muscle, nearly covering his alliance.

What happens then? What happens to you then?

"There's always disagreements. Some rustled feathers," he smiled, sending her stomach fluttering. He brought his palm to cradle the back of his head. He peered at her under his lashes. She swallowed not so subtly.

How come you never get mad? How can you not get mad?

"And that doesn't scare you?" It was all wrong, his nonchalance. These were criminals. Hardened criminals. Criminals that did not think twice about pulling a trigger - repeatedly - surrounded by civilians.

You could have died. You had a hole in you. How are you fine?

"I've gotten very good at placating and balancing egos," his thumb moved across her arm in what would have been bold if she had not started whatever this was. "Smoothing things over," he added in a textured voice, layered with things she was too preoccupied to pick apart.

Placation. Is that why you're so calm? You're so busy placating everyone else that you're too exhausted to have anything left over for you to feel. Is that it?

"So what happened then? What happened at the Tani Station?" Her need to know trumped the self-preservation that said not to test him. But if he was good at placating egos, maybe he himself did not suffer from the same ailment.

Are you safe?

"Something that never should have." His thumb pressed into the crook of her arm. Not painful but not negligible either. "I'll take care of it. I'm taking care of it."

She nodded her head, absentmindedly. Her focus was being pulled by his eyes. His dark, dark eyes held the warmth of the naked Raiden lightbulb of her desk lamp. She leaned forward all without realizing. A loud buzz had her snapping back.

Minato reached for his phone which was next to the Vaseline with annoyance on his face. Maybe. He was once again guarded.

"Who is it?" She asked for the sake of it. She swiped her thumb down the length of the stitches, counting that each one was still accounted for. Seventeen. She leaned left for the bandages, dipping her head to hide her flushed face.

What was that?

"Your mom," he frowned, turning his phone to show her. "She texted."

What?

She blinked. It was her mother's number on the top of the screen under the name he stored it under. Ms. Haruno. Her brain was just not computing nearly fast enough. "My mom?" She asked incredulously, voice going nasally. "Why is my mom texting you?"

At least there's not enough to justify the scrollbar.

"She told me to bring tools," he ran a hand through his bangs. "Any idea of what that could be about?"

"No," she answered honestly, perturbed. "Did she mention me at all?"

His eyes darted back to the phone that had turned back around to face him. He sucked a breath through his teeth.

"Are you thinking of a lie?" She raised her brow and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Potentially," he answered without meeting her in the eyes.

So she didn't ask.

"I think I might have a hammer somewhere from when Ino and I hung the photos on the walls," she said, covering the feelings rising in her. "Maybe some duct tape?" She tilted her head to the side with thoughtfulness. "A couple of thumbtacks and a rubber band."

"That helps," Minato said slowly. He clicked through his phone.

You're lying.

"Are you texting Sasori?"

"I'm texting Hora," he nodded his head.

Sakura sighed. She reached for the bandages. "Are you handling me?" She began to unfurl them after opening the packaging.

"You would not even think to ask if I was handling you," his eyes twinkled with self-assurance in his abilities.

"Cocky much?" She asked with a scoff, looking away because she did not trust her face to keep cool, not when he turned up the heat of his gaze.

"Cocky would be pointing out how you seem to be in no hurry to get me into a shirt and out of your bed." The right side of his lips pulled higher than his left as he smirked at her, smug in his totality.

She rolled her eyes, refusing to think about the flush of her cheeks. "You're rather one-dimensional," she mused, busying herself with fluffing his pillow just to give herself something else to fixate on.

"I believe to the non-pessimist it's referred to as consistency," he informed her with a half-smile that was all smug, which she caught from the corner of her eye.

"Charming," she bit out sarcastically. "To call a realist a pessimist is rather pessimistic of you, wouldn't you say, Mr. Optimist?" She leaned back and crossed her arms - that was the intention anyway but the signal got lost somewhere along that very way and her hands wound up at his shoulder again. She played it off as a meaningful act. At least that was what she told herself.

"You're putting words in my mouth, Dr. Haruno," he countered, cheeky.

And because she was weak and she had no discipline, her gaze drifted down from sapphire-colored oceans along a sharp ride of a nose, between Cupid's bow to the end of the path marked by soft, pink muscles protected by a layer of skin with mauve tones. His mouth. His annoying, troublesome, no-good mouth.

I think I know what you are.

"I would have waited."

She saw the words being formed as her ears recognized them. The low and textured voice was ASMR she was not expecting. She could just close her eyes, drift off, and leave her troubles behind for a moment. A respite.

"If the timing was there, for the right person. If that's what she wanted. I would have waited."

You, Minato Namikaze, are trouble with a capital T.

"Words," Sakura pressed her tongue to the corner of her mouth. Retracting her hands to her lap, she raised her eyes to his. "May be easy to say in a moment found to be receptive, but actions are harder to align. Hindsight has more perspective. Wisdom comes with time," she recited, concluding with a click of her tongue. She was unfazed by the darkening of his eyes.

Infatuation is a powerful beast but ultimately fickle, Mr. Namikaze.

"Now," she sighed deeply, a mental reset of her headspace - willing the warm air to do the same. "Quit trying to distract me. I need to focus." He zipped his lips and tossed the make-believe key over his shoulder in a very cheeky display. She sucked in her teeth. "It's rather unfortunate you did that because I was just about to ask how you've been sleeping."

The problem is….

He stared at her with open curiosity, like she was some kind of puzzle he was trying to piece together without having the final picture as a guide.

I find myself wondering if you're the kind of trouble worth getting into or not.

"You need your rest. I keep waking you at night and in the mornings. Maybe you should take the bedroom," she offered without reluctance. "That way you don't need to be uprooted anytime someone stops by or something." She tugged at the bandages in her hands. "Say something."

And I know it makes no sense. There's no logic. There's no reason.

"I meant what I said," his eyes softened with gratitude. "I don't want to disrupt your life more than I have."

A little late for that because I want to know.

One way or the other, her life was never going to be the same again. She started and finished wrapping him without another word. It was the only way to avoid putting her foot in her mouth or worse…her mouth against his.

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