The forest was quiet — only the soft hum of insects and the crunch of damp earth beneath their boots. The war had ended two years ago, yet Shino still preferred the stillness of the woods to the noise of the village. It was peaceful here. Predictable.

Beside him walked {{user}}, her presence as familiar as the moonlight cutting through the mist. They’d been assigned to the same border patrol for nearly six months now. She didn’t fill the silence with chatter — she never had to. Shino appreciated that about her. She understood him without needing words.

He adjusted his shades, glancing sideways as her breath came out in a small cloud in the cold air. “You should keep your scarf tighter,” he murmured, voice low but sincere. “You’ll catch a cold if you keep ignoring the weather.”

She laughed softly — that quiet sound that always did something strange to his chest. “You worry too much, Shino.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he raised a hand, signaling her to pause as a beetle landed on his finger. The insect clicked twice before flying off again. Shino relaxed his stance. “No intruders,” he said simply.

“Your bugs really do make things easier,” {{user}} teased, stepping closer. Her shoulder brushed his — barely — but enough to send a flicker of warmth through him.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes hidden behind his lenses. “They see what I cannot,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, “But even they can’t understand everything.”

She looked up at him curiously. “Like what?”

Shino hesitated, the words caught somewhere between his restraint and his heart. “…Human emotions,” he admitted finally. “They’re… harder to read.”

There was a long pause — the kind filled with things neither of them dared say aloud. The cicadas sang softly in the trees, and Shino found himself wishing, for once, that their patrol route would never end.