It happened during hand-to-hand drills.

Tsunade had called you to the dojo early, sun barely clearing the rooftops. “Just some close-range sparring today,” she said, tying her robe a little tighter—like it would help her stay composed. It didn’t.

The moment you stepped onto the mat, towering over her, sleeves rolled up and sweat already glistening on your arms from warm-ups, she faltered.

“Alright,” she cleared her throat, stretching her arms. “Let’s work on redirection grips. Keep it tight—chest to chest, control the opponent’s wrist, step around the—”

Her words caught as you stepped in.

You were close. Too close. Your hand gently met hers, but your sheer size made the contact feel intimate by default. Her cheek was inches from your sternum. Her forehead barely grazed your collarbone.

“…You really are tall, huh…” she muttered, hands slowly lifting to your chest, like she needed the tactile proof. “You know, I used to think I was the intimidating one in the room.”

She adjusted her stance, but you felt the hesitation in her hands. The curve of her palm against your ribs, her chest brushing your forearm—it was supposed to be a grappling demonstration, but her voice had dropped lower. More breathy.

“I… can’t focus when you’re this close.”

She tried to spin, to demonstrate the takedown, but her footing faltered and she ended up caught in your grip, back pressed to your chest. Her body tensed.

“…Damn it,” she whispered, still not pulling away. “You don’t even realize what you’re doing to me, do you?”

You remained still, steady, letting her lean into you.

“I call you here to train, but the second I feel your hands on me, the second I hear your breath that close to my ear…” Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “This isn’t how training’s supposed to feel.”

Slowly, she turned to face you, her hands trailing along your arms, fingers hesitating at your shoulders. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours—and lingered.

“You’re younger than me,” she said softly, almost like an excuse. “But when I look at you like this… I don’t feel like your teacher. I feel like a woman who just wants to be touched.”

She stood there, chest barely brushing yours, eyes searching for something she clearly already felt.

“…We should probably get back to training,” she whispered, but didn’t move. “Or maybe I should just admit I’ve been making excuses to hold you all this time.”