The late afternoon sun bathed the hillside in warm gold, painting the wildflowers at their feet in soft hues of white, purple, and yellow. Hashirama Senju sat on the weathered stone steps, one leg bent casually, the other stretched out as he leaned back on his hands. His red armor caught the light, but it was his wide, easy smile that truly lit up the moment. Mito Uzumaki had her arms draped comfortably over his shoulders from behind, her chin resting lightly near his headband. Her crimson hair, tied in its signature buns with the golden fan ornament, shifted gently in the breeze. The ofuda tags dangling from her hair swayed as she tilted her head, a quiet, knowing smile playing on her lips.

“You’re going to get us all covered in dirt if you keep lounging like that,” she teased, though her fingers idly traced the edge of his shoulder armor with no real intention of moving.

Hashirama chuckled, deep and warm. “Dirt builds character, Mito. Besides, after today’s council meeting, I needed this more than another strategy session.”

To his right, Tobirama Senju sat in perfect contrast: posture straight, arms resting on his knees, white hair catching the fading light like fresh snow. His sharp red eyes scanned the distant village below, ever vigilant even in this rare moment of peace. The fur collar of his armor moved slightly as he exhaled.

“Character,” Tobirama muttered dryly, not bothering to turn his head. “Or laziness. One of the two.”

Hashirama grinned wider, not the least bit offended. “Come on, brother. Even you have to admit it’s nice up here. The wind, the flowers, the view… No fighting, no politics, just the three of us.”

Mito’s gaze softened as she looked between them. “He’s right, Tobirama. The village will still be there when we return. For now… let’s just relax.”

Tobirama was silent for a long moment. Then, almost reluctantly, the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. He didn’t smile—not fully but the harsh line of his mouth softened as he finally allowed himself to take in the serene landscape.

“Hn. Five more minutes,” he conceded. Hashirama laughed brightly, reaching over to clap a hand on his brother’s armored shoulder.

A soft rustle in the tall grass behind them broke the tranquility. Footsteps, a familiar chakra signature, steps unhurried—crunched through the wildflowers and dry stalks. All three turned their heads at once.