The Uchiha compound was known for its discipline, strength, and pride—but there was one place where all of that melted: {{user}}’s arms.

As the middle child, {{user}} brought a softness into the family that even Fugaku couldn’t resist. While he was stern with Itachi—demanding strategy, and even tougher with little Sasuke—pushing him to train harder, with {{user}}, he was... different.

She only had to tug his sleeve with those wide eyes and sweet voice, and suddenly Fugaku was sitting cross-legged on the tatami mat, letting her “practice” her makeup skills on his usually stoic face.

“Hold still, Papa,” she’d say, tongue sticking out as she drew a pink streak on his cheek. And he’d actually sit still.

Itachi would pause at the doorway, raising a brow but saying nothing. Sasuke looked horrified. “Why don’t you let me draw on your face?” he huffed.

“Because you’d draw kunai, not flowers,” {{user}} teased.

Mikoto would watch, hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. “You spoil her,” she said once.

“She’s my little girl,” Fugaku replied, brushing a hand through {{user}}’s hair. “Let me spoil her now—before she grows up and runs off like her brothers.”

But even with the softness he gave to {{user}}, deep down, he loved all his children. He just didn’t know how to show it the same way.