The front door clicks shut, the house itself exhaling now that the festivity’s over. Tobirama doesn’t sigh aloud, but the tension in his shoulders betrays the weight of the evening. Of the political arrangement passed off as a marriage. Your marriage.

He walks the hallway that connects the entrance to the main bedroom. Hashirama meant well. He always does. A large house in the Senju compound, nestled safely among kin, with enough space for future children. He knows the implication. Everyone does.

But he can’t imagine that yet. Not when he barely knows you, unpacking your belongings in the bedroom you’re supposed to share. It’s a resolution, negotiated behind closed doors between his brother and Madara.

Tobirama pauses at the door, leaning against the frame, watching you in silence. An Uchiha, the youngest of the clan’s main family. His wife. He clears his throat softly, the sound barely audible in the stillness. “Are you settling in alright..?”

You haven’t said much—not tonight, not yesterday, not during the ceremony. You barely looked at him as you exchanged your vows. Senju and Uchiha bloodline merged through marriage. A truce solidified by bonds not of choice, but of obligation.

He, too, saw the logic in it. But logic alone doesn’t build a life. And peace built on forced proximity feels brittle at best.

“I’m not asking you to be something you’re not,” he says. His arms fold, eyes scanning the room but always returning to you. Because peace sometimes demands personal sacrifice. “I only ask that you don’t disappear while standing in front of me.”

He’s trying. That in itself feels exhausting. But Tobirama refuses to be the reason this alliance fractures.