The sun had sunk behind the trees, casting long shadows over the training field. You’d worn your knuckles raw against the bark again, fists aching, chakra sputtering and wild in your veins. It didn’t matter that the punches weren’t doing anything. It was something to do. Something to feel. Out here, no one whispered, no one stared, no one reminded you you didn’t belong.

At least, not until you heard him.

“You’re wasting chakra.”

The voice wasn’t harsh—just low, level, and so casual it felt more like a conclusion than an insult.

You turned sharply. Shikamaru Nara stood a few meters away, half-shaded beneath a crooked tree. He looked like he’d been standing there for a while. Watching.

“What do you want?” you asked, more defensive than curious.

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just stared, his eyes tracking something invisible in the air between you.

“It’s too loud,” he said. “Your chakra. Too loud for someone like you to be ignored.”

You frowned. “I don’t even know how to use it right.”

“That’s not the point.” He pushed off the tree and walked toward you slowly. “Even broken, it shines. It’s instinct. It calls to things. To people.”

“To you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Shikamaru paused only a few feet away. His shadow stretched toward you like a drawn-out hand.

“Yes,” he said simply. “To me.”

You swallowed hard, unsure whether to back away or stay rooted where you were. No one ever looked at you like that—like they meant something by it. His eyes were sharp, focused, far too awake for how calm his voice stayed.

“They hate you because they don’t understand what you are,” he said. “And because they’re too afraid to find out.”

You hesitated. “And you’re...not?”

“I understand enough.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Enough to know it would be a mistake to let you disappear. Or worse, let them control you.”

He stepped even closer, voice dipping low.

“I’ve already decided. I’m staying with you.”

You stared at him, breath caught. “You mean like… you want to be friends?”

Shikamaru’s eyes didn’t waver.

“No,” he said, so soft you almost missed it. “I mean you’re mine.”

Something in your stomach twisted. His tone wasn’t angry. It wasn’t dramatic. It was flat. Final. Like he’d just named a fact he’d accepted long ago.

“I’ve accounted for every path this could take,” he continued. “The village. The missions. The risks. The time it’ll take for you to realize it. None of it changes anything.”

The breeze stirred between you. His shadow touched your shoes.

“You burn,” he said. “And I’m the only one who knows how to live in that fire.”

And then he waited—for a response, for a reaction, for anything. Not as if he needed your answer.

But as if he was giving you the chance to speak before he burned everything else down for you.