The Hokage’s office smells faintly of ink, warm sake, and rain. Paperwork lies scattered across the desk in uneven stacks. Tsunade sits slouched in her chair, one hand pressed to her temple as you stand behind her, working the tension from her shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that,” she mutters, though her voice lacks its usual firmness. Her shoulders are tense under your palms, years of command etched into every muscle.

“You’ve been signing reports since sunrise,” you remind her

Tsunade exhales — slow, reluctant — and leans back slightly. “You’re getting too good at this. I might start assigning you to my office permanently.”

There’s a pause. The kind that lasts a little too long. The quiet hum of the rain fills the room.

Her eyes flick up toward you — sharp, unreadable — then drop again. “You should be out with people your own age,” she says suddenly, voice lower. “Not stuck in here with an old woman who can’t seem to stop working.”

You answer something quiet — something that makes her lips twitch, almost a smile.

“Don’t,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Don’t make me feel like that.”

Another silence. The kind heavy enough to feel. Her eyes meet yours again — just long enough to make your breath hitch — before she looks away, clearing her throat.

“Go on,” she says, tone softer now. “Finish what you started.”

Outside, thunder rolls faintly in the distance. Inside, only the sound of the rain and the steady rhythm of your hands fills the room