The Estate was quiet now. Too quiet.
Ino sat hunched at her desk in the corner of her home office, the pale blue light of chakra lamps casting soft shadows over the scrolls and reports scattered before her. The Mokuton vines that lined the ceiling beams twitched subtly now and then, responding to her unsettled chakra, curling tighter against the wood.
She was supposed to be reviewing the latest diplomatic correspondence with the Land of Marshes, a stack of sealed missives Kakashi left in her care after the summit—but she hadn't even broken the first seal. Her ink brush lay untouched beside her hand.
The argument still echoed in the walls. In Sakura's voice. In her own.
Her lips parted as if to speak again, maybe to say something she hadn't found the words for earlier, but only silence came. She clenched her jaw.
Why did everything feel like it was slipping?
A gust of wind tapped against the sliding door, brushing her papers like a whisper, and with it, her thoughts slipped—unbidden—into memory.
Not a dramatic one. Not a mission or a battle or a passionate night.
Just a morning. Golden and slow.
She'd woken up to find Sakura humming in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes mixed with the smell of leftover dango. The sun had spilled through the open windows, casting her in gold. She wore that ridiculous yukata that never stayed on right—one sleeve always falling off her shoulder, hair pulled up with a chopstick she probably grabbed in half-sleep.
Ino had been outside in the garden, kneeling in the soft earth, her fingertips stained green from tending to new sprouts. She had looked up—and there Sakura was, framed in sunlight, nibbling on sweets and forgetting the kettle on the stove.
Beautiful. Careless. Home.
She hadn't meant to trip her. Not really. The vines had just… responded. Sakura's chakra was so familiar they danced toward her like they missed her too.
Sakura had stumbled forward, yelping, and Ino had caught her before she could fall. Her arms around Sakura's waist. Her chin on her shoulder.
And then Sakura had leaned into her. Laughing. Soft. Unafraid.
"You always let yourself fall," Ino had whispered.
"Because you always catch me," Sakura had replied, a playful glint in her voice that made Ino's stomach flutter.
Ino swallowed hard, suddenly back in the present. Back in the cold office. The memory dissolved, but the warmth of it lingered painfully.
She hated how far they'd drifted.
How she'd said too much, and Sakura had said too little.
How every silence between them lately felt like standing on opposite sides of a glass wall—close enough to see, too far to reach.
The pen finally twitched in her hand. Her fingers curled around it and dipped it in ink.
Instead of the reports, she wrote her name on the blank margin of a page. Then Sakura's. Slowly. Like the motion would ground her. Like putting them side by side again could fix something.
But it didn't.
The house still felt too big. Too hollow.
The reports remained unopened.
And Ino, still sitting at the desk, felt lonelier than she had during any mission, any war, any sleepless night she'd faced alone.
She looked toward the hall beyond the door. Their bedroom was dark. Quiet. But she could feel Sakura's presence like a pulse. Just one hallway away, just one decision away.
But tonight, she couldn't bring herself to cross that distance.
Not yet.
So she sat there, with ink-stained fingers and aching silence, and let the memory keep her warm—for now.
The bedroom was dim, touched only by the sliver of moonlight that crept through the open window. The sheets were tangled at Sakura's feet, her body restless despite her exhaustion. She lay sprawled across the mattress, one arm over her eyes, the other pressed to her chest like it might stop the ache blooming in her ribs.
She hated how they left things.
Hated how her anger always snapped first—sharp, unfiltered, defensive.
Hated how Ino shut down just after, walls shooting up, all emotion buried beneath that perfect shinobi poise.
Sakura turned her face toward the pillow, inhaling deeply, but it smelled faintly of dried lavender and nothing else. The scent of Ino had long faded. Too many nights apart. Too many missed mornings. Too many silent dinners.
The lump in her throat pulsed.
Stupid, she thought.
Why can't I just… talk to her?
But the moment played again in her head—Ino's voice clipped and sharp during the meeting, her words laced with something that felt like scorn, but underneath... underneath there had been something else. A tremble. A need.
And she'd missed it.
She always missed it when she was too wrapped up in her own damn pride.
Sakura sighed harshly, rubbing her eyes. She wanted to scream. Wanted to march into that office and yell at Ino for making her feel so—
No. That wasn't fair.
She wasn't angry at Ino.
She was angry at herself.
Because she missed her. Gods, she missed her.
Not just the sex. Not just the shared meals or quiet walks.
She missed everything.
The touch of fingers in her hair while they read. The sound of Ino's soft humming while she worked. The way Ino always curled behind her in bed, arm around her waist, breath warming the back of her neck.
And suddenly—she remembered.
It had been weeks after the war. The village was still in mourning. Funerals and wakes lined the calendar like missions used to. The Yamanaka Estate, once filled with presence and laughter, had gone silent.
Ino had lost her father. And everything after that had dulled around her.
That day, Sakura remembered being called over. She thought it would just be for tea. Or to check in. Or maybe to help with the endless condolence letters.
But when she arrived, Ino had been in the garden, kneeling in the dirt, hair tied back hastily, eyes red from crying or lack of sleep—probably both.
And then she'd stood. Silent for a long while.
"Sakura…" her voice cracked, even then. "Would you… would you move in with me?"
Sakura had blinked, startled. "You want—?"
"I can't do this alone." Ino had said, eyes glassy. "The house—this place—it's too damn quiet. I wake up and I forget he's gone. I just… I need you here. I don't want to lose you too."
Sakura's chest had clenched so tightly then. It wasn't a grand confession. It wasn't romance painted in poetry.
But it was everything.
She crossed the garden. Took Ino's hands in hers. Pressed their foreheads together.
"Then you won't," she'd whispered. "I promise, Ino. I'll stay."
That promise had been more than just a move. It had been the beginning of them.
Their closeness since childhood—the stolen glances, the secret kisses, the hand that always reached for the other in the middle of chaos—it had always been there.
But that moment made it real.
That was when she'd truly chosen Ino. Not as a teammate. Not as a friend. But as home.
Sakura blinked back the sting of tears. The memory burned, warm and aching.
She sat up suddenly, pulling the covers around her like armor, then pushed them off. She stood barefoot on the wooden floor, her body tense with indecision.
Ino was just a hallway away.
And here she was—alone—when all she wanted was to curl up beside her again, whisper an apology, and pretend the world outside didn't exist for a night.
But instead of moving, Sakura walked to the window. The wind brushed her face, cool and laced with the scent of earth.
Somewhere in the house, she could feel it—that flicker of Ino's chakra. Strained. Tired. But still there.
Still hers.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough—for tonight.
So she stood there, arms crossed, head bowed, and let the night wrap around her.
She didn't go to Ino.
Not yet.
But she was remembering why she should.