The sun hung low over Konoha’s main gate, the late afternoon light warm and soft—the kind that made the dust motes glow and the rooftops look almost peaceful. The guards straightened when three familiar silhouettes approached: Temari’s confident stride, Gaara’s calm and steady presence, and—

Kankurō.

He looked a little older than the last time you’d seen him. Taller. Sharper in the shoulders. His makeup cleaner, more precise, the lines on his face more deliberate. There was still that cocky tilt to his posture, but it didn’t hide the subtle flicker of anticipation in his eyes as he stepped through the gate, scanning the crowds.

Temari elbowed him lightly. “Told you she might not even be here, idiot.”

Kankurō just grunted, gaze still sweeping the street. “She said she’d be around. And she’s not the type to miss an arrival she knows about.”

Gaara said nothing, but you could feel—not see, but feel—the faint amusement radiating off him. He understood far more than he let on.

And then Gaara’s pale eyes drifted past the gates. “So that’s why you were so antsy,” he murmured.

Kankurō blinked, confused—until Temari smirked and jerked her chin forward.

“There she is.”

You stepped into view from between the crowd, hands tucked casually into the pockets of your shorts, air warm against the strip of skin your new crop top left exposed. Your hair, now cut shorter, framed your face in an easy, wind-caught way. But what drew Kankurō’s eyes wasn’t your clothing, or the new swagger in your step—it was the scar, pale and jagged, cutting across your abdomen like someone had tried to carve a story into you.

His breath caught without warning.

You wore your headband around your neck like a choker; the metal plate glinted as you stopped beside the gate. Naruto was nowhere in sight—your brother had been called away earlier—but you stood there alone, calm, chin lifted with that same fearless confidence he remembered so vividly from the Chūnin Exams.

“Welcome back to Konoha,” you said, voice warm but laced with a teasing familiarity. “Took you long enough.”

Kankurō stared a bit too long before he realized Temari was giving him a very pointed, very entertained look. He cleared his throat and tried to play it cool.

“Yeah—uh—looks like things changed around here.”

You arched a brow. “Around here? Or just me?”

He swallowed. Hard.

“Both,” he admitted. “Mostly you.”

Your lips curved. “Good. That means the training worked.”

But when his gaze flicked to the scar again, something in his face shifted—concern, sharp and unhidden.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

You lifted a hand, brushing your fingers casually along the line of the scar. “Mission. Bad one.” Then, with a small shrug, “I survived.”

Kankurō’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. But that shouldn’t have happened.”

You stepped closer—close enough that the desert heat lingering on their clothes reached you, close enough for Gaara to quietly shift his sand so the villagers gave you space.

“Relax,” you said softly, lifting a hand to tap two fingers lightly against Kankurō’s chest plate. “I’m still here.”

He exhaled slow, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Temari rolled her eyes, already walking ahead toward the village center. “Come on, lover boy. We don’t have all day.”

Kankurō bristled. “She’s— I’m not— Temari!”

Gaara moved past with the ghost of a smile. “You should go with her.”

And then you stepped forward, tilting your head with a playful glint in your eyes.

“Or,” you said, “you can walk with me. I want to hear everything you’ve been up to. It’s been a year, after all.”

Kankurō froze for half a second—then rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide the grin tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah… yeah, okay. I can do that.”

He fell into step beside you, heart pounding, eyes drifting—more than once—toward your new look, the strength in your posture, the proof written across your skin that you’d fought battles he hadn’t been there for.