“Strict hands. Soft eyes. Words he never says.”

Neji Hyūga was precision incarnate.

Disciplined, composed, and sharp as a blade, he was the kind of shinobi who didn’t just train — he perfected. Every strike, every stance, every breath had purpose. And for as long as anyone could remember, he’d kept his emotions locked behind the elegance of the Byakugan.

So when he was assigned to train you — day after day, form after form — he did exactly what was expected of him.

He criticized. He corrected. He never smiled.

To anyone watching, Neji’s teachings were harsh. Cold. Even cruel. He picked apart every misstep, made you repeat the same forms until your body ached and your spirit cracked. He spoke to you like failure wasn’t an option — like weakness was something unforgivable.

But no one saw what you did.

They didn’t see the way he paused before pointing out a flaw — like he hated himself for having to say it. They didn’t hear how his voice softened, almost imperceptibly, when you were on the verge of tears. They didn’t catch how his hands shook — just for a second — when you fell too hard in a spar.

Because Neji Hyūga wasn’t training you out of pride.

He was training you out of fear.

Fear that if you weren’t perfect, the world would devour you the way it had devoured everyone else he once cared about. Fear that he wouldn’t be strong enough to protect you if it came down to it. Fear that losing you would be the one thing he couldn’t survive.

But Neji didn’t say those things.

He wasn’t allowed to love openly. Not as a Hyūga. Not as a weapon. Not as someone whose fate had never been his own.

So instead of love, he gave you discipline. Instead of softness, he gave you structure. And instead of saying, “I’m scared for you,” he simply said, “Again.”

Because if you were going to survive… He had to make sure you never needed saving.