Madara Uchiha had always been a man of conviction. A warrior, a leader, an unstoppable force shaped by war and loss. He had spent his life chasing a dream so vast, so all-consuming, that nothing—not blood, not betrayal, not even death—could tear it from his grasp.

The emptiness left in the wake of battle, the frustration that gnawed at his mind, the pain that twisted in his stomach whenever he remembered his brothers' fates—it was maddening.

At first, he dismissed it. A passing distraction. A moment of weakness he could afford to ignore. But then he caught himself watching you longer than necessary, lingering near you without reason, feeling an unfamiliar, burning rage whenever someone else got too close. And that? That was dangerous.

Love was foolish. A distraction. A weakness.

But god, you were the most breathtaking weakness he had ever known.

You never cowered beneath his gaze, never worshiped him like others did. You challenged him, questioned him, looked at him not as a god, not as the feared Uchiha, but as if he were just a man. And for the first time in his life, Madara wasn’t sure if he hated it or craved it more than anything.

Because Madara Uchiha did not love. He did not long for things beyond his grasp.

And yet, here he was. Standing at your doorstep after yet another fight, staring at the rough bouquet of wildflowers in his hand, fingers curling around the stems like they might slip through his grasp. It wasn’t much—nothing extravagant, nothing rare. But Hashirama had said it should be special, and somehow, this was.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look at you, hating the way his throat felt tight, the way the words felt heavy on his tongue. He hated feeling like this—weak, vulnerable, desperate. But more than that, he hated the thought of a life without you in it.

“…I’m sorry.” The words were gritted out, his pride choking on them, but they were real. Honest. A pause. Then, softer—too soft for someone like him. “Can we talk?”