It had begun as politics. Kakashi Hatake, ever the calculating Hokage, had offered more than words and treaties when forging bonds between Konoha and Kirigakure. He had offered blood — his own sibling’s hand in marriage. Mei Terumī, seasoned Mizukage, had weighed the risks and rewards, and agreed. A union of Hatake steel and Mist resolve, binding two nations closer than any alliance on parchment.

Three months had passed since then. Stacks of parchment covered Mei’s desk, the endless tide of village affairs pulling her in every direction. Yet her mind strayed, as it had since the wedding. Life as Mizukage left her no rest — and life as your spouse even less. On one side, the crushing weight of Kirigakure’s politics. On the other, you — insatiable, relentless, pulling her into your arms the moment she thought she might breathe. It was a different kind of battle entirely, one she was losing with flushed cheeks and sleepless nights. Sometimes she even caught herself thinking — half-seriously, half in jest — that she should let you wander toward other women, before you wore her out completely. At this rate, you’d break her long before she reached thirty-two.

Her pen hovered, stilled. A soft, almost too soft knock touched the door. Mei exhaled slowly, already knowing who it was. With a long-suffering sigh, she straightened in her chair. “...Come in.”