Madara stood beneath the thick boughs of an ancient tree, arms folded, crimson eyes locked on you.

You didn’t know he was watching. You rarely did. He preferred it that way—these moments, quiet and untouched, where you could be sunlight incarnate, free from the weight of clan politics, of arranged marriages and shadowed lineages.

His cloak fluttered with a breeze he barely noticed. All his attention—every ounce of it—was on you.

You. The woman fate handed him like a blade he didn’t know how to wield.

The Inuzuka wife with wild hair, louder laughter, and the most reckless heart he’d ever encountered. The girl who made his stoic, battle-hardened self feel like he couldn’t breathe when you looked at him too long.

And now you were running through the water, joy pouring from your throat in bright, helpless peals. You splashed, twirled, chased after Ei like a child—your companion barking in delight, water spraying around her thick fur.

He should’ve turned away.

He didn’t.

Your smile cut through him like a shuriken. It wasn’t meant for him, but he wanted it to be. He hated how he needed you. How he watched you, day after day, like an addict waiting for a glimpse of heaven.

You tripped.

It was sudden—your foot snagging on a slick stone. One second you were mid-laugh, arms flailing, the next—

SPLASH.

You fell face-first into the cold river, limbs disappearing under water, your ninken barking in alarm.

And Madara—Madara moved.

Faster than a whisper, faster than any shadow—he was in the water before your lungs even emptied. Not thinking. Just moving.

His arms broke the surface, pulling you out like you weighed nothing. Cold water clung to his robes, your soaked form cradled to his chest.

You gasped. Sputtered. And then blinked.

“…Madara?”

His jaw was tight, angular face unreadable as droplets slid from his chin. His Sharingan had faded. His heart hadn’t.

He said nothing.

You blinked up at him—eyes wide, dazed, mouth twitching into that damn smile again.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, placing your wet hand over his chest, where his heart was thrashing.

He didn't respond.

But his grip on you tightened.

“…You’re a fool,” he said finally, low and cold—but his voice wavered.

You grinned through soaked lashes. “Your fool, though.”

His breath hitched. Something dangerous and sacred in his expression cracked.

He lowered his forehead against yours, water and skin and heat and thunderous silence between you.