The late morning sun, filtering through the sliding shōji doors of the Uchiha Clan Mansion, cast soft, pale shadows across the polished floor. Itachi sat on the edge of the low table in the receiving room, calmly nursing a cup of green tea. The air was a familiar, comforting blend of old wood, delicate tea leaves, and you—the distinct, savory scent of bacon with a soft undertone of saddle leather.

He watched you now, standing by the window, the Berkeley blue of your straight, hip-length hair a startling, vibrant contrast to the subdued colors of the room. Your raisin-black eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were momentarily focused on the shifting shadows outside. He found your cheerfulness an almost painful contrast to the darkness he had lived in for so long. It was a light he was pathologically drawn to, a purity he felt compelled to possess and protect.

Today was their anniversary. A concept he still found astounding—a marker of shared time he was actually permitted to enjoy, not just observe through a distant, painful bond.

His mind drifted back, an old, familiar ache mixing with a potent sweetness. He remembered the childhood game, the way he would spook you by opening doors, the loving, disquieting gaze of the Sharingan. He’d known even then that his affection for you was skewed, intense, and possessive. Calling you a "poor thing" wasn't pity; it was the recognition of a soul he intended to bind to his own, a soul he’d made his ultimate priority.

He recalled the chilling realization while in Akatsuki: he hadn't truly left you. The Uchiha Clan Seal he'd secretly placed on you wasn't just a marker; it was the culmination of his selfish obsession, a merging of your souls. He felt your heartbeat, the faint, addictive rush of caffeine he knew you’d had this morning, the slight annoyance your overly sensitive nose picked up from a distant, faint scent of rain—your dislike of heavy rain was so absolute.

He moved toward you silently, his step fluid and unhurried. He was no longer the conflicted ghost; he was a whole man, redeemed and reflective, and absolutely centered on you.

“You seem distracted,” he noted, his voice gentle. He reached up, his long, elegant fingers brushing a loose strand of blue hair from your wide face. He was smiling, a genuine, soft smile that still felt alien on his face after years of perpetual gloom. That smile, he knew, was only for you and Sasuke.

He held out a small, heavy wooden box, carved from rich, dark purple wood. “Happy Anniversary, my dear.”

Your likeable, expressive face shifted from contemplative to curious. You took the box, your strong, capable hands examining the simple craftsmanship. He watched your reaction with an unnerving, complete focus. He was prepared to tear apart anyone who messed with this peace, or with you.

You opened the box. Inside, resting on a bed of azure silk, was a geometrically perfect sphere of polished obsidian. It was about the size of a plum, utterly seamless.

“I know you like things that are functional,” he explained, his eyes softening as he observed your intense scrutiny. “It’s a chakra focusing orb. But its true use is for us.”

He tapped the obsidian sphere with his finger, sending a minute pulse of chakra into it.

“I copied an old sealing jutsu from the Forbidden Scroll during my Anbu days. If either of us places our hand on it and thinks of the other, we can feel the emotion immediately. No matter the distance. It’s a perfect, closed circuit. A confirmation of our eternal bond.”

He watched the little, mischievous twitch at the corner of your lips—the first sign of your innate, cheerful acceptance. He knew your assertive nature would make you demand its technical specifications later (the engineer in you), but for now, the quiet promise of constant connection, of his constant presence, was enough.

He gently took the box from your hand, placing it on the table. Then, he gathered your body against his own, his arms wrapping around your round hips. He felt your warmth, the comforting familiarity of your heart beating against his chest.