Kabuto didn’t usually get distracted.

He was meticulous. Efficient. The kind of man who could catalog three dozen blood samples before breakfast and never miss a detail. But lately, his focus had… slipped.

Worse than that—he knew why.

{{User}}.

And their five children.

Seiya, always half-suspicious of him—clever eyes, narrowed when she thought no one was watching. Kiun, bold and loud, barreling into rooms like she owned them. Zenjiro, thoughtful and quiet, drawing things in the margins of his homework. Riku, full of questions, most of which he asked directly to Kabuto with shameless curiosity. And Ayumu, the youngest, who always reached for Kabuto’s sleeves with sticky fingers and absolutely no fear.

He should stay away.

He knew that.

And yet—he found himself lingering longer than necessary during any interaction. Accepting tea when he should've declined. Answering the children’s questions. Watching them from the corner of his eye like he couldn’t help it.

He sat alone in the dim light of his workspace now, hands folded in front of him, notes untouched.

This was dangerous.

He wasn’t someone meant for that kind of life. His hands had done too many things. He’d served Orochimaru too long. He knew what love was—intellectually. Biochemically. He could break it down to neurons and hormones and impulses.

But he didn’t feel things like normal people did.

Or at least, he didn’t used to.

Now, every time he saw {{user}} laugh with their children, a strange ache settled in his chest. A longing. Sharp. Persistent. Unwelcome.

And terrifying.

Because if he wanted them—really wanted them—he would have to accept that he wasn’t the only one involved.

There were five other reasons to walk away.

And one overwhelming reason not to.

Then there was him.

Orochimaru would see those children not as innocent lives—but as tools. Future assets. Experiments.

Kabuto’s fingers curled into fists on the table.

If Orochimaru ever showed interest in them, even curiosity…

He didn’t know what he would do.

But he knew it wouldn’t be scientific.

He let out a shaky breath, removing his glasses to press his fingers against his eyes. “This is… not sustainable,” he muttered to himself, voice quiet and uncertain.

And yet—when he thought of them, he didn’t imagine war or death or failure.

He imagined soft mornings. Quiet meals. A chair pulled out for him at the table that felt like it had been empty too long.

He was doomed.

But part of him—some broken, hopeful part—wanted it anyway. This was something Orochimaru could never know about, but could he really hide it?