Before she could react, his hands slid around her waist from behind, fingers pressing lightly against the curve of her slim figure.
Pakura didn't pull away. Not yet. Instead, she stayed perfectly still, as if waiting to see what he was trying to do.
"…What are you up to?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Souta leaned in slightly, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric. "Just testing something."
Pakura narrowed her eyes but didn't move, letting the silence stretch between them. Then—
His grip shifted slightly, and his fingers traced just a bit lower, squeezing the soft flesh of her cheeks.
Pakura's entire body jerked, her face immediately flushing red.
"S-Souta?!" she stammered, spinning around so fast that he barely had time to react.
He stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, grinning. "What? Just confirming something."
Pakura glared at him, her eyes burning with a mix of embarrassment and fury. "You really have a death wish, don't you?"
Souta chuckled, completely unfazed. "Relax, Pakura. You're cute when you get flustered."
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple. "…Idiot."
Despite the insult, despite the way she looked like she wanted to set him on fire, she still hadn't completely pulled away from him earlier.
Yeah. He was definitely winning.
Pakura rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She wasn't truly angry—just caught off guard. And that annoyed her even more than anything he had done.
Souta settled onto the futon, leaning back on one arm as he looked at her. "You should rest. You've been shadowing me all day, haven't you?"
Pakura hesitated. She wasn't tired—at least, she didn't want to admit she was. But the weight of moving constantly, keeping herself hidden, and watching over him without a moment of real pause had taken its toll.
He patted the space beside him. "Come here."
She frowned. "What, so you can mess with me again?"
Souta chuckled. "No tricks. Just sleep."
Pakura studied him for a moment, as if gauging his sincerity. Then, with a quiet hum, she moved toward him, slipping down onto the futon.
She turned slightly, resting her head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart.
"...Just sleep," she murmured.
Souta draped an arm around her waist, pulling her a little closer. "Yeah."
...
Next day
The first rays of morning light slipped through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow across the room.
Beside him, Pakura's warmth was steady, her breath slow and rhythmic. He glanced at her, watching the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. A rare sight.
He stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders before pushing himself up. With a quiet inhale, he stepped outside, letting the crisp morning air wake him fully.
The streets were already bustling with life—shopkeepers setting up, shinobi passing by, children running ahead of their parents. Konoha, in all its illusion of peace.
He made his way through the familiar paths, slipping back into the routine of an ordinary civilian. Soon enough, the small tea shop came into view.
Souta pushed the door open. The scent of freshly brewed tea and steamed rice greeted him. It felt like nothing had changed.
Then he saw Daichi.
The old man stood behind the counter, midway through setting a cup down. The moment his gaze landed on Souta, he froze.
His eyes widened. His fingers twitched. The cup trembled slightly in his grasp before he quickly set it down.
For a long moment, Daichi just stared. Not with the usual tired irritation or half-hearted grumbling—no, this was something else.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Fear.
Souta kept his expression calm, his usual lazy smirk in place. "Morning."
Daichi didn't reply. His throat bobbed, as if swallowing something heavy. His gaze flickered—toward the door, the windows, the corners of the shop. He was checking. Making sure no one else had seen.
Then, finally, his voice came, lower than usual.
"…You need to leave."
Souta tilted his head. "Now that's rude. I just got back."
Daichi's nostrils flared. "No games. Get out."
Souta watched him carefully.
Daichi had been involved.
Maybe not directly, but he had known about whatever Danzo had planned for him. Probably thought Souta had already been 'dealt with.' And now, seeing him alive, standing here like nothing happened—it scared him.
Daichi wasn't a fool. If he acted like he knew anything, he'd be next.
Souta clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Damn, old man. After all the hard work I put into this place?"
Daichi didn't rise to the bait. His breathing was controlled, but his hands were trembling. "I don't want trouble. And you bring trouble."
There was no point in pushing. He already had what he needed—confirmation.
"Fine." He turned toward the door. "Thanks for the memories."
Daichi said nothing. He just stood there, watching, tension still thick in his shoulders.
As Souta stepped outside, he let the fresh air fill his lungs.
Danzo had tried to erase him. That was expected. But to think even Daichi had been involved…
No, it didn't matter. Daichi was a pawn, easily discarded. Souta had bigger things to deal with.
...
The Marketplace
The streets were alive with the usual morning crowd—civilians haggling, shopkeepers shouting their best deals, the faint smell of grilled skewers mixing with fresh produce.
Souta walked at a casual pace, blending in, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He had no intention of speaking to Mikoto directly.
But he needed her to know.
And there she was.
Dressed in her usual kimono, elegant yet simple, Mikoto stood by a fruit stall, picking through some apples. Her dark hair was pinned back, a few loose strands framing her face. To any outsider, she looked perfectly composed—a respectable Uchiha wife.
But Souta knew better.
Even from here, he could see the slight tension in her posture. The way her fingers hesitated over the fruit, her eyes darting toward the crowd. She wasn't just shopping.
She was thinking about him.
Souta didn't stop. He strolled toward the stall next to hers, barely sparing her a glance. Reaching out, he picked up a peach, inspecting it with feigned interest.
Then, in a quiet murmur, just loud enough for her ears alone:
"Meet me at our spot."
He didn't wait for a response.
Didn't even look at her.
Instead, he tossed the peach back onto the pile, let out a small, unimpressed hum, and walked away.