I wake up like I’ve been stabbed.

Full-body jolt. Sharp breath. Heart racing so hard it actually pisses me off. I sit up in bed, sheets twisted around my legs, sweat cooling fast on my skin.

"What the fuck?” Not a nightmare. I know nightmares. They come with ghosts. With blood. With faces I don’t want to see.

And then I realize what it is.

You.

Not chakra sensing. Not danger. Just you—alive, existing, somewhere in the village, close enough that my awareness hooks onto you without effort. The understanding drops into place so cleanly it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

“Fuck, no. You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, staring at the wall like it might argue back. Mates. The word lands and doesn’t budge.

Of all people, it had to be you. The disciplined one. The ANBU jonin who never cuts corners, never arrives late, never lets anything slide. The one who looks at me like I’m an irritation the Hokage insists on tolerating. You worked for everything you have. I coasted. You hate that. I pretend not to care.

I do care. That’s the problem.

I throw on clothes before I can think too much, movements automatic, mask and vest in place like they always are. If I stop, I’ll start questioning this, and something tells me questioning it won’t make it go away. The pull is there the moment I step outside—not dragging me, just guiding, like my body already knows where to go. When I stop in front of your door, the village is still quiet, barely awake. I lean against the wall, hands in my pockets, trying to look casual while my pulse refuses to slow.

You’re asleep. I know that too, and the intimacy of it sits wrong and right at the same time. This is going to go badly. You’re going to hate this. You might hate me. But standing here, waiting for you to wake up, one thing settles in my chest with the bond itself—no matter how much we’ve disliked each other, I’m not walking away.