Chapter Text
A few weeks into being together, Akira’s bedroom had begun to feel… shared.
Not in any way that could be pointed to outright. Nothing official. No dramatic moment where space was negotiated or belongings were deliberately moved. It was subtler than that. Quieter. The kind of shift that happened when two people stopped thinking in terms of mine and yours and started unconsciously thinking here.
A shirt of his hung over the back of her chair, sleeves dangling like it had simply given up there – discarded without ceremony when he’d shrugged it off one evening and neither of them had felt compelled to fix it. A kunai pouch sat on her desk among scattered papers and pens, resting there with the quiet confidence of something that expected to stay. And there was the unspoken assumption – never stated, never questioned – that if Itachi wasn’t at the compound, he was probably here.
This morning was one of those mornings.
Steam clouded the bathroom mirror, turning the glass opaque as water hammered steadily against tile. Akira’s voice drifted through the door, muffled by the rush of the shower – humming softly, tunelessly, and with the sort of wholehearted confidence that came from not caring how it sounded. She switched melodies halfway through without noticing, made up the rest as she went.
Itachi sat on the edge of her bed, posture straight out of habit, hands resting loosely in his lap. His gaze was unfocused, eyes tracing nothing as he listened to the familiar domestic rhythm: water, humming, the faint clink of bottles being knocked over and set upright again.
Domestic.
The word still felt strange in his head. Not unpleasant – just unexpected.
He was midway through reorganizing his thoughts – a reflex he doubted he would ever fully shed – when a dull, persistent ache announced itself in his left forearm. Not sharp. Not urgent. Just… present. Insistent in the way old injuries tended to be.
Ah.
His eyes dropped. He tugged gently at the edge of his sleeve, exposing the bandage wrapped around his arm. The gauze had loosened slightly, its edges frayed, adhesive losing the battle against time and movement. It had been there longer than it should have been.
He flexed his fingers once, testing. Everything responded as it should.
Still, if Akira saw it like this, she would notice immediately. She always did. And she would give him that look – the one that somehow managed to balance genuine worry with thinly veiled exasperation. The look that said you are competent in every way except when it comes to yourself.
Better to deal with it now.
He stood, movements quiet and precise even when no stealth was required, and crossed the room towards her dresser. He’d watched her grab medical supplies from it often enough – second drawer from the top. He opened it carefully, as though it might protest.
Bingo.
Bandages, gauze, antiseptic wipes, tape – all stacked neatly to one side. Predictable. Sensible. Entirely Akira.
And then –
Something else.
A single sheet of paper lay tucked beneath the medical supplies, folded carelessly, edges worn soft and corners bent. It wasn’t hidden so much as abandoned, shoved into the drawer with the vague promise of dealing with it later. A future-me problem, clearly.
Itachi paused.
For a brief, dutiful moment, he told himself he should leave it alone.
That resolve lasted approximately half a second.
He lifted the paper, unfolding it with deliberate care.
Chaos erupted.
The page was a battlefield of frantic handwriting. Arrows shot across it in every direction, looping back on themselves, colliding mid-thought. Entire sections were circled aggressively, crossed out, then re-circled elsewhere as if the author had changed their mind halfway through an argument with themselves. Names were scattered across the page like they’d been thrown down in frustration.
Itachi – underlined three times.
Shisui – circled with an enormous question mark.
AKIRA – written twice in capital letters, one instance boxed so heavily the pen had nearly torn through the paper.
There were stick figures.
Actual stick figures.
Itachi blinked.
Once. Then again.
He leaned back against the dresser, eyes scanning more carefully now.
IF ITACHI DOES THIS →
→ Sasuke distracts???
→ NO TOO OBVIOUS
→ AKIRA TALKING?? (RISKY)
An arrow veered off towards the margin, where a note had been scribbled in different ink:
SHISUI = WILD CARD
(WHY IS HE LIKE THIS)
A sound escaped him before he could stop it – a soft huff of air that bordered dangerously close to a laugh.
He kept reading.
Another section was titled – generously – PLAN E, though it had been aggressively crossed out and replaced with PLAN E?? OR F???
Under that:
IF EVERYTHING GOES WRONG
→ Sasuke yells
→ Akira punches someone
→ RUN
Beside it was a tiny doodle: a wild-haired stick figure sprinting at full speed, while another lay flat on the ground, labeled ‘probably fine.’
Itachi lifted a hand to his mouth.
His shoulders shook once, just slightly.
Warmth bloomed in his chest – unexpected, disarming. He could see it so vividly: Akira pacing in tight circles, gesturing wildly with the pen; Sasuke arguing back, equally convinced he was the only sane one involved. The two of them trying desperately to outthink a problem far larger than either of them, fueled by anxiety, loyalty, and far too much stubbornness.
Another arrow caught his attention.
IMPORTANT
DO NOT LET ITACHI REALISE WE ARE PANICKING
His eyebrow lifted.
Lower down, squeezed into the last scrap of empty space:
He’s not stupid.
(Annoyingly perceptive.)
That did it.
A quiet laugh slipped out this time – unmistakable. He shook his head, dark bangs falling forward as he read the page again, fondness steadily overtaking what might once have been tension.
They’d been so adorable. So afraid. Convinced the world would collapse if they didn’t anticipate every possible outcome.
And yet – here he was. Sitting in her room. Alive. Loved. Holding proof that, once upon a time, she had cared enough to plan for him like this.
The shower shut off abruptly.
Itachi froze.
The paper was still in his hand.
Bare feet padded against wood.
“…Itachi?” Akira called, voice casual – a little too casual.
He glanced at the untouched bandages still waiting in the drawer.
Then at the folded paper.
Then at the bedroom door as the handle turned.
He folded the sheet – not quite as neatly as he’d found it – and straightened, smoothing his expression into something carefully neutral. Amusement still lingered in his eyes despite his best efforts.
“Well,” he murmured to himself, “this explains a great deal.”
The door creaked open.
Akira stepped out of the bathroom already mid-motion, tugging the towel from her shoulders and tossing it aside without ceremony.
She was dressed – technically.
Loose shorts sat low on her hips, clearly chosen for comfort rather than presentation, and a dark top clung to her in a way that suggested it had never been designed with modesty in mind. The neckline plunged deep, unapologetic, the fabric soft and worn-in like something she’d owned for years and refused to retire. It was the kind of shirt that existed purely because she liked it – and because she forgot, constantly, how distracting it could be to anyone else.
Her hair was still damp, falling just above her shoulders in uneven layers. The bangs across her forehead were crooked in a way that would have made any professional stylist cry – but Itachi knew better. She’d been cutting it herself since childhood, crouched over cracked mirrors with a kunai and a vague sense of confidence. The result was messy, practical, and unmistakably her.
She smelled clean – soap and warm water and something faintly herbal, like the cheap shampoo she insisted worked ‘just fine.’
She padded towards him barefoot, eyes already narrowed.
“You’re smiling,” she said slowly. Dangerously. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Itachi, standing far too calmly by her dresser, lifted his gaze to her. The smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened – restrained, amused, utterly infuriating.
“I was looking for bandages,” he said mildly.
Her eyes flicked down. To his hands. To the paper.
Time stopped.
Her face drained of colour so fast it was almost impressive.
“No,” she said instantly.
Then, louder: “No. No no no no –”
She lunged.
“Give me that!”
Itachi reacted on instinct, lifting the paper just out of reach, his other arm moving reflexively behind him. “Akira –”
She made a sound somewhere between a screech and a battle cry.
“That is private,” she hissed, hopping forward and grabbing at his wrist. “You are not allowed–”
“I haven’t even finished –”
“YOU DON’T NEED TO.”
She jumped.
Momentum carried her straight into him.
Itachi barely had time to register the sudden weight before his balance gave out completely. His knees hit the mattress first, then his shoulders, the bed dipping beneath them with a soft but decisive thump. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a quiet, surprised sound – more shock than pain – and his raised arm jolted, the paper crinkling sharply as he instinctively kept it out of reach.
Akira followed immediately after.
There was no controlled landing. No graceful recovery. She came down on him in a tangle of limbs and panic, knees bracketing his hips as she collapsed forward, trying desperately to block his line of sight with her body, her arms, anything.
It worked.
Too well.
Her weight pressed him into the mattress, knocking the last of the air from his chest – and then her upper body dropped fully forward, her center of gravity shifting as she overcorrected.
Itachi’s head turned slightly on impact.
And suddenly, unmistakably, his face was buried between her breasts.
Not violently. Not painfully.
Just… completely.
The soft fabric of her shirt brushed his cheek and nose, warm from her skin and faintly damp from steam. Her chest pressed around his face, not enough to completely smother him, but enough to block his vision entirely, filling it with dark fabric and the sensation of closeness. Heat. The subtle rise and fall of her breathing, which he became acutely aware of far faster than he wanted to be.
His body went rigid.
Every instinct he possessed – shinobi discipline, emotional control, tactical awareness – short-circuited all at once.
Akira realised what had happened exactly half a second later.
“Oh – NO – WAIT –”
She froze for the briefest instant, horror dawning in real time, then immediately started scrambling. Her weight shifted awkwardly as she tried to push herself up without actually thinking through how bodies worked, her hands slipping against the mattress, then bracing clumsily against his shoulder and upper arm.
Her movement only made things worse.
“Don’t look! Don’t read!” she blurted, voice pitched somewhere between frantic and mortified. “That was a dark time, okay? Sasuke was involved! Nothing good ever comes from that!”
Itachi did not move.
Could not move.
His face was still pressed firmly between her breasts, his senses flooded with far too much information for how little space there was in his head at that moment. His mind stalled out entirely – not panicked, not flustered in any visible way, just… blank. Like someone had pulled the plug and left the system rebooting.
“…Akira,” he managed at last, voice muffled against her skin and much steadier than he felt, “you are… not improving the situation.”
“I KNOW,” she snapped, cheeks burning hot enough to feel radioactive. “I PANICKED.”
She finally managed to grab the paper, fingers closing around it with desperate triumph. She yanked it free and clutched it to her chest instinctively – which, unfortunately, meant pulling it closer to the exact place where his face still very much was.
She froze.
Slowly – very slowly – she looked down.
At him.
At the angle of his head, tilted just enough that one wrong breath, one wrong movement, would make this ten times worse.
At the fact that his eyes were very carefully fixed on the ceiling, like he was afraid to test whether moving them would cause permanent damage.
Their eyes met.
For one long, disastrous second, neither of them spoke.
Itachi’s expression had completely abandoned him. Not composed. Not guarded. Just… empty. Processing. As though his brain had briefly stepped out of the room.
Akira made a small, strangled noise.
She scrambled backward so fast she nearly launched herself off the bed, retreating in a flurry of limbs and embarrassment, clutching the paper to her chest like a shield. Her face was on fire.
“I – I didn’t – that was NOT –” She waved a hand helplessly, words tangling. “You weren’t supposed to see it, so obviously the only solution was to tackle you –”
Itachi sat up slowly, one hand braced behind him on the mattress, the other lifting to his face as if confirming that, yes, his head was still attached and reality had resumed.
“…I gathered,” he said.
Then – because the universe had impeccable – he smiled.
Not the restrained, polite curve of his lips.
A real one.
Warm. Unguarded. Entirely too amused.
“I must say,” he added calmly, eyes bright with lingering laughter, “your contingency plans are… remarkably thorough.”
Akira groaned and dropped face-first onto the bed beside him.
“I’m never recovering from this,” she muttered.
The paper crinkled ominously in her grip.
And Itachi, still very much entertained, glanced at it again – clearly preparing to say something that would only make her regret the last five minutes of her life even more.
Akira didn’t give herself a second to think.
The moment Itachi shifted, settling cross-legged on the bed with infuriating calm – bandage entirely forgotten – she dropped to her knees on the mattress in front of him, like gravity had betrayed her and pulled her straight towards his lap.
“Okay,” she said rapidly, hands landing on his shoulders as if anchoring herself to something solid. “Okay. Listen. Before you say anything else –”
He looked up at her.
That was a mistake.
Because from this angle, with her looming over him, hair still damp and curling around her face, eyes wide and bright with panic, cheeks flushed red enough to rival the sunset, she looked exactly like someone confessing to a crime she’d committed in full awareness of the consequences.
“I can explain,” she blurted, words tripping over themselves.
His expression softened almost instantly – not sympathetic, exactly. Curious. Amused. Slightly dangerous.
“I’m listening,” he said, calm, measured, and impossibly infuriating.
Her inhale was sharp, her chest rising in quick little bursts.
“That was not – that paper was not – it was a hypothetical,” she rushed out. “A stress response! A collaborative stress response. With Sasuke. Who should definitely not be allowed pens. Or free time.”
His lips twitched.
“And the arrows?” he asked, voice quiet but deliberately pointed.
“Metaphorical.”
“The colour coding?”
“Emotional triage.”
“The lightning bolts?”
“Urgency!” She gestured wildly with one hand, the other still gripping his shoulder like he might evaporate if she let go. “We were desperate. And stubborn. And you and Shisui were doing that thing where you refused to talk and instead just stared meaningfully into the middle distance like tragic poetry incarnate –”
“That does sound familiar,” he murmured, eyes narrowed in that way that suggested amusement but also danger.
“And someone,” she continued, pointing vaguely at the ceiling as if it might bear witness, “had to intervene before everyone emotionally imploded. So we planned. Strategically. Excessively. On paper.”
He nodded slowly, eyes tracing every twitch of her face, every flush, every rapid blink. “I noticed.”
Her words stumbled over themselves now. “But it wasn’t manipulation! It was… guidance. Nudging. Like… emotionally escorting events in the correct direction.”
“And the contingency plans?”
“Anxiety.”
“The reenactments?”
“DESPERATION.”
She exhaled, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “And – and it worked,” she finished quieter now, gaze flickering down, then back up. “You’re here. With me. Right now.”
The room went still. Itachi didn’t tease. Not immediately.
That was somehow worse.
Then he smiled. Small, warm, undeniably fond.
“I see,” he said softly. “So this is all my fault.”
Her eyes snapped up to his. “What – no –”
“For being emotionally obtuse enough,” he continued, voice calm but glinting with humor, “to inspire a multi-layered operation complete with flowcharts.”
She groaned loudly. “You are never allowed to say ‘flowcharts’ again.”
“And yet,” he added softly, voice carrying the faintest edge of amusement, “I find it strangely touching.”
That did it.
“Stop,” she snapped, mortified, heat rising in her chest and cheeks. “Stop being calm about this.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I haven’t even mentioned Plan Kappa yet.”
She made a noise of pure defeat – a strangled, helpless sound – then abruptly leaned forward, arms wrapping around his head with zero finesse, pulling him into her chest with all the panic-driven strength she could muster.
“STOP TALKING.”
Itachi let out a startled sound as his face was suddenly smothered again, nose and mouth sliding under the soft edge of her plunging neckline. Her hold was relentless, panicked, a strange mix of self-preservation and forceful affection, and his mind – trained to anticipate and control – short-circuited spectacularly.
The sudden silence was immediate. Effective.
She held him there, breathing hard, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the implications of what she’d just done. Her chin was pressed against the crown of his head like this was a tactical maneuver rather than a panicked hug.
“…There,” she muttered. “Problem solved.”
Several seconds passed.
Then dread crawled up her spine. Slowly. Inevitably. She looked down.
“Oh no.”
She loosened her grip just enough to register where his face actually was and felt her soul attempt to leave her body for the second time that morning.
“I– I didn’t mean– I was just trying to– let go, let go–”
She tried to pull back. Couldn’t.
Because Itachi’s arms had come up around her waist at some point – secure, unhurried, entirely intentional – holding her right where she was. Content. Comfortable. Very much not rushing.
Akira stared straight ahead, cheeks blazing, hands gripping his hair without permission.
“…Itachi.”
A soft hum vibrated against her chest, muffled by the inside part of her breast, but unmistakably amused.
“Yes?”
“Release me.”
“No,” he said pleasantly.
She swallowed hard. “You are abusing my panic.”
“I disagree,” he murmured, voice calm, warm, uncomfortably close. “I’m appreciating the results of your planning.”
Her hands tightened in his hair reflexively. “…This was not one of the plans,” she muttered.
His hold adjusted slightly – not trapping her, just reminding her that he was there. Present. Steady.
“Perhaps,” he said softly, “it should have been.”
Akira blinked down at him, utterly bewildered, hands still tangled in his dark hair, as if holding on could somehow anchor her to reality.
“What do you mean it should have been?” she asked, voice sharp but trembling, a mix of panic, disbelief, and something dangerously close to flustered indignation.
Itachi’s head shifted slightly against her chest, dark eyes glinting up at her even as his face remained pressed into her, lips brushing lightly over the skin of her sternum. “Maybe,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “it would have been… more effective.”
“More effective?!” she squeaked, hands jerking back slightly as if the movement alone could create space. “You mean… the scheming… the – everything would’ve… if I’d… hugged your face to my –” She froze, realising she could only finish the sentence in the faintest whisper: “…chest earlier?”
He hummed softly, a sound of amused approval that made her shiver involuntarily, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the exposed skin between her breasts. It was teasing, deliberate, almost torturous in its gentleness. “I am very much enjoying it,” he murmured, drawing the words out, savoring each syllable like he was deliberately torturing her mind.
Akira’s brain stuttered. ‘Enjoying it?’
His hands – no, his arms – were holding her in place, immovable, keeping her pressed in ways she was painfully aware weren’t at all platonic. The loose straps of her top, softened and stretched from years of wear, had begun to slip down her shoulders, and the only thing stopping the top from completely baring her was Itachi’s firm, unyielding hold against her back.
“Y-you’re… serious?” she stammered, voice trembling, eyes wide, hands grasping his shoulders as if she could cling to reality through sheer force.
“Very,” he murmured, lips brushing lightly again as he tilted his head, nipping teasingly at the fabric that had pooled just above her breast. “The closer… the tighter… the more effective your… methods appear to be.”
Her breath hitched. Every part of her screamed at her brain to do something, but her body refused to cooperate. She froze, fully aware that his face was pressed intimately against her chest, that he could see far more inside her top than was supposed to right now. Her hands found his shoulders again, clutching, gripping, anchoring herself as panic warred with the sudden, inexplicable warmth curling in her stomach.
Itachi hummed, low and approving, and she felt it reverberate against her in a way that made her shiver. “You are… adorable,” he said, voice teasing, quiet enough to be intimate, yet layered with amusement. “And somehow… I am enjoying this… more and more.”
“More and more?!” she squeaked, panic sharpening with embarrassment.
“Yes,” he whispered, pressing another soft, fleeting kiss to the skin above her breast. “Your… scheming… your panic… it’s… very effective.”
Her breath hitched again, arms trembling, hands clutching his shoulders, then his hair, then the fabric of her own top in futile attempts to reclaim any sense of authority. But his hold was immovable. Calm. Solid. Anchored.
“Wait,” she squeaked finally, words spilling out too fast, “…You’re serious about this and enjoying it?”
“Completely,” he said, tone smooth, teasing, almost lazy, as if the entire situation was perfectly ordinary and she was the one unraveling. “I am… quite content.”
Her knees wobbled beneath her. She opened her mouth to argue, to protest, to assert herself in some meaningful way – then closed it again, realising there was nothing she could say that would change his composure. Her hands twisted in his hair, then against his shoulders, then back to the fallen straps of her top, trying desperately to find something she could control.
Nothing worked.
Itachi tilted his head again, lips brushing the curve of her sternum with the faintest, teasing pressure. “The straps… slipping… only make it… better,” he murmured softly, dragging the words out like a weapon designed to make her blush.
Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “Better?!”
“Yes,” he said simply, pressing another brief, deliberate kiss to the skin between her breasts, letting the words linger in the space between teasing and quiet amusement. “Very… much… better.”
Her mind spun. Every shred of composure, every carefully rehearsed thought she had, evaporated under the weight of his calm, unwavering presence and the utterly infuriating way he was enjoying everything.
Her hands flew to his arms again, attempting to push him back, to regain some semblance of space and control. Instead, he tightened ever so slightly, his arms hugging her more firmly against him, face still pressed comfortably, almost possessively, against her chest.
“You – this is –” she stammered, voice trembling, cheeks blazing, “…this is insane!”
He hummed softly against her skin, a sound that was equal parts agreement and teasing approval, clearly enjoying the way her panic flared.
“Yes,” he murmured again, pressing one final, lingering kiss against the smooth skin of her sternum. “Insanely… effective.”
Akira groaned, realizing she had no words left, no plans, no options, no escape. She couldn’t move him, couldn’t stop him, and – mortifyingly – she didn’t even know if she wanted to.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, heat and embarrassment coiling through her, and her hands remained tangled in his hair, gripping desperately as though sheer will could restore her dignity.
Itachi’s calm, deliberate hold, his soft, teasing hums, the constant, gentle pressure of his lips against her skin – it all combined to make her heart pound and her thoughts scatter. She was completely, undeniably trapped.
For the first time, she considered: maybe she didn’t want to move him at all.
Itachi’s voice broke through the quiet, low and teasing – but not unkind. “Should I… be worried,” he asked, looking up at her from the precarious angle of his face pressed to her chest, “that your first instinct to stop someone from speaking is… to smother their face?”
Akira froze, hands tightening slightly on his shoulders, the weight of his gaze and the absurdity of the situation hitting her all at once. The paper, the frantic scheming, the desperate dive to cover him – it was all… meticulously documented. Every arrow, every stick figure, every crossed-out plan – he had seen it. And he would never let her live any of it down.
“…I… I – my back hurts,” she squeaked finally, squirming just slightly, trying to argue against reality. Her knees ached from pressing into the mattress, her arms trembled, and the sheer ridiculousness of the moment made her burn hotter than any scolding could. “You’re… comfortable. Sitting there. But I’ve been kneeling… all this time!”
Itachi hummed softly, a teasing note in the sound, though his gaze remained steady, dark, unflinching. “I see,” he murmured, eyes glinting with amusement, “…so all the discomfort is… yours?”
Her mouth opened to argue, but before she could speak, his hands shifted subtly, almost imperceptibly. With a smooth, fluid motion, he guided her onto his lap.
Akira barely had time to react, instinctively clinging to the front of her top to keep it from sliding down completely as the straps hung loose and soft around her arms. Her pulse thundered, heat spreading across her cheeks and chest, as she realised just how thoroughly trapped she was – physically, mentally, and emotionally.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to pause. He sat cross-legged, calm and steady, holding her gently against him. She felt the warmth of his body against hers, and the soft press of his arms around her.
And then she looked up.
Itachi’s smile caught her completely off guard. Real, genuine, and entirely unguarded. Warmth radiated from him in a way she hadn’t seen before. His eyes crinkled softly at the corners, and the sharp, teasing edge that usually defined him was gone. This was not teasing, not polite, not calculating. This was him, entirely, unfiltered.
Her breath hitched. Somehow, in that one fleeting instant, she realised she could forgive himeverything. Every teasing remark, every ridiculous reaction he’d drawn out of her, every mortifying leap onto him – all of it was forgivable because of that smile.
He tilted his head slightly, gaze steady, voice now soft, no teasing edge. “It’s… so adorable,” he said, words deliberate, measured, “how much you cared.”
Her ears burned. “…I – what?” she whispered, nearly lost in the space between them.
“It’s… true,” he said, dark eyes glittering with a warmth that made her pulse accelerate. “Especially… after seeing you that one time… scheming with Sasuke about Naruto.” A quiet chuckle escaped him, soft and gentle, teasing only in fondness.
Akira’s fingers tightened instinctively on the front of her top, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to relax, letting herself sink a little more into him. Heart fluttering, cheeks flushed, she glanced down shyly, and realised she was smiling.
Itachi leaned slightly closer – not pressing, just close enough that the heat of his presence brushed against her, that small shift making her acutely aware of the safety and weight of him. “…I think I’ve never… seen a creature,” he murmured, low and almost to himself, “…as adorable as you.”
Her pulse skipped. Her hands, which had been tense for the last several minutes, loosened fractionally. She felt light-headed, even weightless in the tender intimacy of being held in his lap, his arms firm around her but not restricting, just grounding. A small, shy smile tugged at her lips despite the mortification burning in her chest.
Itachi’s smile deepened, warmth pooling in his dark eyes. “Truly,” he said softly, voice quiet, steady, deliberate, “…it’s… remarkable. Everything you do, everything you feel… it’s… beautiful. Even your panic… even your frantic scheming… it’s… you. And it’s… perfect.”
Her mind went blank. Perfect. She – she could forgive him anything after that. Any teasing, any jokes about the paper, any ridiculousness of their lives, even the most mortifying moments of panic. This – this was something else entirely. Something warm. Something soft. Something steady. Something… entirely hers.
She leaned just a little closer, letting the relief, the embarrassment, the fondness tumble out all at once, head lightly resting against his shoulder, hands loosely holding his upper arms. Itachi, ever calm, held her there without question, cross-legged, arms wrapped around her like he had nowhere else to be, and the quiet room seemed to shrink around them until it was only the two of them.
She felt completely safe. Completely seen. And, somehow, completely understood.
She let herself breathe in that warmth, finally, exhaling the tension she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying – her panic slowly melting into something far softer, far quieter, than she could have imagined in the middle of all the chaos.
And Itachi, calm, steady, utterly himself, just held her there.