Kiba had never been good at keeping quiet. He wore his heart on his sleeve, in his fists, in every reckless decision he ever made—and nothing pissed him off more than watching you be handed over like some kind of prize to a man who didn’t deserve even your shadow.

The marriage had been arranged, of course. Political, strategic. The guy was old, powerful, influential—everything Kiba wasn’t. And Kiba had to watch it all from the sidelines, jaw clenched, hands shaking, biting down the growl that always rose when he saw that man put his hand on your arm like he owned you.

Everyone said it was a smart match. Kiba thought it was disgusting.

He wasn’t supposed to see you anymore. Not alone. Not like before.

But late at night, when the village was quiet, you'd still come to him. In the shadows between buildings, behind the trees outside the village gates, in the empty woods where Akamaru stood guard and gave the softest bark whenever someone came too close.

Kiba lived for those nights. For the way your hand fit in his, for the way you looked at him like he was worth something. Every stolen moment with you made his blood burn, made the risk worth it.

But he knew the stakes. If anyone found out—if he found out—it could ruin everything. For you. For Kiba. Maybe even for the whole clan.

Still… Kiba didn’t care. Not really.

Because the way you looked at him? The way your fingers lingered when you touched his face?

That was love. And he'd be damned if he let some greedy old bastard win.

Tonight, he waited under the old shrine behind the training grounds, hood up, heart racing. The moon was barely a sliver above, and the trees were whispering like they knew a secret.

When you finally stepped through the shadows, his breath caught in his throat.

He grinned—quiet, desperate, yours.

"You're late," he whispered, voice low, eyes scanning the dark. "Come here."

He didn’t care what happened tomorrow.

Not when he had this tonight.