The door creaks as Madara steps inside, careful to let it close behind him. The light from the hallway doesn't follow. The room is dark, quiet, the kind that blankets the walls and makes even his breath feel too loud. It smells faintly of old wood—and you.

For a moment, he doesn't move. His eyes adjust slowly, drawn to your face, peaceful in a way he doesn't think he's ever really been. He sits at the edge of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress. For a while, he doesn’t touch you. Just looks. Studies the way your hand rests over your stomach even in sleep. And then he reaches out, fingers brushing over your belly.

A minute passes. Two. And a flutter. Barely anything, but it’s there. His child.

It’s still impossible to say without feeling its weight sink deep into his chest. He thought he could do this, that founding a village’d be the end of war. But now, he sees it: peace is a delicate illusion. And he doesn't know if he can trust the world not to tear it apart.

Hashirama had spoken of diplomacy. Of trust. But Madara sees further than that. He sees weakness taking root in hesitation, old grudges waiting to resurface. And above it all, he sees this—you, the life you made—completely unguarded. He wants to stay here. Gods, he wants to believe that this could be enough, that this future might not need to be defended with fire and blood.

He swallows, hand lingering when you stir. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs. He opens his mouth again. Closes it. What he wants to ask is: Am I wrong? Would you say yes? Would you lie to keep the peace in your home, or tell him the truth?

Instead, Madara just stares, as if by holding onto this moment long enough might answer something for him.