You shouldn’t be out this late—not when even the forest has gone still, not when Konoha sleeps with its lights dimmed like fading stars. But you're here anyway, your breath ragged in the cold air, fists raw from hitting too hard, too long. Chakra leaks off your skin in visible strands, wild and golden and alive, more instinct than technique. You don’t care.

You need this. The movement. The burning in your muscles. The silence.

That’s when you feel it—him—before you see anything. A subtle change in the shadows. A presence too quiet to belong to prey, too calm to be threat.

You turn.

He steps out from behind a tree like he’s been part of the night all along. Shikamaru Nara. Calm. Languid. Eyes sharp in a way that cuts deeper than weapons. He looks at you—not your face, not your fists—but the chakra bleeding off your skin like smoke from a fire that refuses to die.

"You're bleeding chakra," he says. Soft. Almost admiring. “Messy. Wild. But bright. Brighter than it has any right to be.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest. You manage a laugh, trying for lightness. “You spying on me or something?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you. Like you’re a puzzle with one missing piece and he’s the only one who knows where it is.

“I watched you for the pattern,” he says. “Now I stay for the anomaly.”

It should creep you out. Should send you backpedaling. But you don’t move. You can’t. The way he speaks—measured, deliberate, like every word has already been rehearsed in his head a thousand times—roots you to the ground.

And something inside you responds. Not the thinking part. Not the human part. The other thing. The beast. The Kyuubi. It doesn’t flinch from the attention. It drinks it in. Preens beneath his eyes like you were made to be stared at, worshipped by this strange boy with darkness in his voice.

He takes another step toward you. Not fast. Not threatening. Just certain.

“I used to think eternity sounded like a drag,” he murmurs. “But then I thought—what if I spent it near a fire? Close enough to feel it. Close enough to own it.”

Your throat goes dry. You try to force a grin. “So what, you wanna be friends or something?”

A pause.

Then that smile. Small. Crooked. Calculated.

“Friends?” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word and finding it unpalatable. “No. I’m going to marry you.”

Time skips a beat.

Your body wants to move. It should. But it doesn’t.

And beneath your skin, the fox growls in pleasure—hungry and pleased that someone sees you this clearly. Wants you this much.

Even if it’s wrong.

Especially because it’s wrong.