The room was quiet except for the gentle rustle of parchment and the occasional clink of glass. Kabuto sat at his desk, hunched slightly forward, scribbling down notes in tight, efficient handwriting. His focus was razor-sharp, as always—until he felt the faintest presence behind him.

He didn’t react at first. Probably just a shadow, a flicker of movement. If it was one of the others, they would talk and tell him what it was. If it was Orochimaru, he would say something.

Then fingers brushed the nape of his neck.

His hand paused mid-sentence.

What?

He opened his mouth to speak, brow furrowing, but the sound caught in his throat when he felt the gentle tug at the tie in his hair—his ponytail coming undone slowly, strands falling over his shoulders, brushing his collarbones.

What was happening? He could already tell it was {{user}}. They were the only one who would dare touch him like this without saying anything.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe, at first. Just sat there, stiff as a board, eyes locked on the half-finished line of ink drying on the page.

Then—more fingers. Sifting through his hair. Tentative. Slow.

Kabuto’s mind stuttered.

This wasn’t an attack. It wasn’t a jutsu. It wasn’t even clinical.

It was just… touch.

He hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone did something so unguarded. Uncalculated. No agenda. No expectation. Just quiet, deliberate closeness.

His breath came out slower now, but he didn’t glance back. He couldn’t. His body didn’t quite know how to respond.

He should say something.

He wanted to say something.

But all that came out was a confused, quiet, “...Why?”

Even as he said it, he didn’t move away. The fingers kept moving—gently smoothing strands, brushing his neck every so often, as though they were learning the weight and texture of him.

Kabuto stared at his notes, now completely useless.

And for once, he let himself stay still.