Peace is a strange thing. You spend years fighting for it, imagining what life might feel like once the world stops burning— and then when it finally arrives, it feels too quiet.

Konoha rebuilt itself quickly after the war. New foundations, wider streets. Naruto—now Hokage—carried that impossible hope on his shoulders without ever letting it dim. Sakura returned to her medical corps work, louder and brighter than the sun itself.

Life went on.

Mine… drifted, at first.

Until you.

I still remember the day we met—Uzumaki, just like Naruto, but calmer, sharper, older in your eyes than either of us deserved to be at that age. You were assigned to a reconstruction mission I’d been reluctantly forced onto, and you argued with me before you ever truly spoke to me.

“You don’t get to work alone anymore,” you’d said, arms crossed, refusing to step aside. Annoying. Direct. Unafraid.

It was the first time in years someone looked straight at me without fear.

Later… somehow… you became my wife. It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t dramatic. It was slow, steady—two people learning to breathe again. And then there was her—our little Hatake girl, only six years old, who decided on her own that we were her parents long before either of us realized we wanted to be.

Family. A word I thought I’d buried with the Uchiha.

Even now, six years after the end of everything, it feels unreal.

⸻

Tonight, your home glowed warm against the cold evening mist, lantern light spilling across the wooden floor through the half-open window. I could hear you inside—moving softly, changing out of your mission clothes.

Old habits die hard. I still take the window instead of the door.

My feet landed silently on the wooden frame. The breeze drifted in, carrying your scent—clean skin, cotton fabric, the faint spice of your shampoo. My fingers tightened once on the sill before I stepped inside.

You didn’t hear me. You never do, unless I want you to.

The soft rustle of fabric told me you were putting your laundry away. Your back was to me, posture relaxed—safe, trusting. Something in my chest tightened. I still can’t understand how easily you let me into your life. Into your home. Into your family.

Into you.

I approached quietly, each step sinking into the tatami. For a moment, I just stood behind you… letting the weight of the day fall off my shoulders.

Then my hands lifted—hesitant for a breath—and slid around your waist.

You froze for the slightest second before relaxing against me. My chest pressed to your back. Your warmth soaked into me like something I’d been starved of.

My nose brushed your shoulder as I inhaled softly, grounding myself.

This is home.

So much had been unsaid between us lately. The missions. The pressure. My own distance that I couldn’t quite explain—even to myself.

And then there was the thought that kept circling, quieter than a whisper, heavier than a confession.

Not the clan. Not legacy. Not duty.

But something simpler. Human. Mine.

My lips hovered near your ear. When I finally spoke, my voice was low, quiet—barely more than breath.

“…I want another child.”

The words felt foreign in my mouth. Heavy. Vulnerable. More intimate than any touch.

My fingers tightened faintly around you.

“With you,” I added after a beat, the truth slipping out like a blade left unguarded.

The room was silent except for your breath and the steady rhythm of my own.

This— you, our daughter, the life we’ve built— was the one future I had never prepared myself for.

Yet it was the only one I wanted.