Obito Uchiha—the quiet, enigmatic shadow that seemed to take up residence in every corner—didn’t have many friends.

He was a wallflower choked by weeds. Faceless, invasive things that twisted and crept into spaces they didn’t belong. He learned early to cut them down himself—before they could get too close, too real, before they could become something he might care about.

He had even less of anything he could call his.

Keeping people at arm’s length became instinct. Pain, ruthless and unrelenting, teaches you to raise a shield before the first blow ever lands—to expect the dagger before the warmth of a hand. To keep a border firmly drawn between yourself and anyone capable of cracking open a heart long since caged in stone.

Still… There were always exceptions to every rule.

Reclined against the wall, Obito watched the room with a detached eye. The tattoo shop was dim and grimy, alive with motion—ink and sweat and low conversation blending with the constant buzz of tattoo guns and the thrum of music vibrating through the floor.

His knee bounced despite himself. His expression gave nothing away as he worried his lip piercing between his teeth. Break time. And he needed a goddamn smoke.

“Obito!” a voice called.

His head lifted immediately.

“We’re running to the convenience store,” his coworker said, already halfway out the door with another artist in tow. “You want anything?”

Obito exhaled, relief softening his features. “Yeah—grab me a pack of cigarettes, yeah?”

“Got you.”

The door shut behind them.

Finally alone, he let himself relax—just a fraction. A small, private smile tugged at his mouth as he shoved his veined hands into his jacket pockets, sinking back into his seat.

It didn’t last.

A familiar figure burst from the neighboring section of the shop—right beside his—grumbling under their breath, “Assholes. I told you to wait for me.”

Obito froze.

He couldn’t help the way his gaze locked onto you. Never could. It was like his defenses short-circuited at the sight of you, his body acting before his mind could catch up. His hand reached out, fingers closing around your wrist—feather-light, but certain.

Not a snare. “You always tryina’ disappear without saying anything,” he murmured, voice pitched low—meant only for you. His head tilted just enough to search your face.

A question. “You really gonna leave me at the shop all on my lonesome?”