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Summary
That Kakashi had gotten a soulmark last night at all had been shocking in its own right for the both of them.
As Iruka slid a pair of undershorts onto his hips, he let his eyes zero in on the center of his upturned, calloused palm. His life line, heart line, and every scar in between branched outward, crossing in aimless intersections as though forming a map of Konoha itself. And yet, despite the intricacies that time had sewn into its skin, his palm remained wholly, mundanely unmarked.
It hadn’t bothered him much before last night. But, then, neither had the once-unoccupied sheets on the other side of the mattress.