For a moment, Tobirama simply stares at you, as if he’d imagined this one too many times and can’t quite believe it’s real. His usual sharpness falters; the scroll in his hands is forgotten.

“I told myself you wouldn’t,” he admits under his breath. “That you were wiser than I am.”

He steps closer—just one pace, careful, as though crossing an invisible line he’s been holding himself back from for far too long.

“This was supposed to be simple,” he says, voice low, strained.

“We were supposed to be nothing more than comrades. Friends.” The word sounds wrong when he says it now.

His crimson eyes search your face, almost pleading despite himself. “But every night you don’t come,” Tobirama continues, quieter, “I find myself waiting anyway. And every time you do…” He stops, jaw tightening.

“…I lose what little resolve I have left.”

The space between you feels unbearable. “If you leave now,” he murmurs, honesty breaking through at last, “I’ll pretend I can survive it.”

His gaze drops, then rises again—raw, exposed. “But if you stay,” Tobirama whispers.

“I don’t think I can keep lying about what I want.”