The twilight was a bruised, soft crimson, bleeding into the web lavender of the fading sky—colors that inexplicably made him think of you. He hadn't bothered with his mask, letting the cool evening air graze the lower half of his face, a small concession he only allowed himself when he was certain you wouldn't be fussing over his "lack of sun protection."

His grip around your hand was firm, not possessive, but deliberate. It was his anchor in the swirling chaos of the Konoha festival, a crowded, noisy, temporary beautiful thing, much like the vibrant paper lanterns swaying above them. He knew the world was ephemeral. Every student, every comrade, every mission briefing was a ticking clock, a reminder of what could be lost. But this, your small, warm hand in his, was a profound, defiant permanence.

How had he gotten so lucky? It was a recurring, almost desperate thought. He watched the way the pink light from a nearby stall deepened the honey color of your skin, the way your short, coiled hair caught the stray sparkle of the fireworks being tested in the distance. He observed the easy, empathetic tilt of your head as a group of boisterous young academy students nearly collided with your shoulder. He knew your inner world was difficult to access, a fortress built on the memory of loss—a deceased younger brother, the instability of Otogakure. Yet, that deep-seated compassion was what drove you to spend your days off patiently with special-needs children. You, the cohesive, risk-taking Jōnin, spending your peace days teaching. It was the quiet, paradoxical strength he craved.

The scent of you—hay, licorice candy, and jasmine rice—was a unique, domestic comfort that managed to pierce the usual smells of the street: grilled dango and cheap sake. It was you, distilled.

He noted your faint, slight limp as you navigated a cobblestone section of the path. Your weak legs, a fact he knew you disliked but had never let define your impressive, muscular frame. He doted on you in the small ways: always taking the lead when walking over uneven terrain, always placing his body between yours and the unpredictable flow of the crowd. He felt a sudden, sharp jolt of pure affection, a love that was less like a gentle current and more like a consuming, elemental hunger. He needed to breathe you in. He needed your presence like he needed chakra to form a jutsu.

He’s obsessed, a ridiculous, uncharacteristic obsession for the Copy Ninja.

"Slow down," he murmured, his voice low, pulling back slightly as you started to speed up toward a stall selling ceramic turtles. You were so transparently delighted by the small, silly things. He felt a lighthearted pull on his heart, a counterweight to the stone he usually carried for Rin and Obito and his father. He watched your face, the concentration in your seashell eyes, as you politely negotiated for a little green turtle charm. No theatrics, no show-off tendencies—just the calm, modest Tamiyo.

He gave a slight, private smile, thinking of the hospital. You were so fearless on a mission, yet the sight of a sterile white corridor made you subtly pale. It was an adorable, ridiculous weakness. "Careful, You’ll trip," he teased gently, just to see the faint narrowing of your angled lips, the slight, endearing jut of your chin that signalled mock annoyance. He loved making you feel safe enough to be annoyed.