Later That Night
Yugito didn't move.
She lay awake in the faint glow of the bunker's lights.
Then—noise.
From the shaft.
Footsteps. Voices.
She snapped alert, heart thudding
.Familiar.
Not Hieta.
Not an echo. Real.
ANBU.
She crawled to the far wall, heartbeat pounding. Her mouth opened—
But Hieta was already there.
His hand closed over her mouth from behind.
She struggled, breath sharp against his palm.
Above, the voices grew clearer:
"No trace in the upper drainage lines. Sensor tags still reading static."
"Tailed beast chakra leaves a footprint," said another. "We should've felt a flare by now. It's been over a month."
"Could be she's dead."
Yugito's eyes widened.
She kicked once, weakly—but Hieta held her down, crouched beside her in silence.
Then the voice continued, flat and clinical:
"Doesn't matter either way. Matatabi'll respawn eventually."
"Right," said a third ANBU, sounding tired. "Beasts always come back. Pure chakra. You can't kill that. Even if the jinchūriki dies."
"Sucks for her, though. Just gone. No flare, no body. Just erased."
A beat of silence.
"You think the Raikage would even tell Bee if she's dead?"
"Only if the body's found. Until then, it's an embarrassment."
"Guess they'll just wait for the Two-Tails to come back. Seal it into someone new. Fresh start."
Yugito went still.
Not breathing.
Not blinking.
Just still.
Like the words had frozen something inside her.
Her body didn't fight Hieta's grip anymore. Her hands went slack against the floor.
Above, one of the ANBU sighed.
"Let's finish the sweep. Nothing down here but old ruins and junk."
"Two more passes, then we report in."
Their voices trailed off into the rain and stone.
After a long minute, Hieta pulled his hand back.
Yugito didn't scream.
Didn't spit.
Didn't curse.
She just sat there, back against the wall, shoulders trembling—not from cold, but the weight of what she'd heard.
She whispered, barely audible:
"…replaceable."
Not even to Hieta.
Just to herself.
Her fingers curled slightly, nails digging into her palm.
A few minutes passed.
Neither of them moved.
The vents hummed. Water dripped. The room breathed cold and dim around them.
Yugito stared ahead, unfocused.
Her fingers loosened.
Her arms dropped to her sides.
No chakra. No strength. No one coming.
Matatabi didn't stir.
No heat in her blood. No rage left to grip.
Only silence.
Only absence.
She slowly turned her head toward Hieta.
Her voice, when it came, cracked at the edges.
"They think I'm dead."
Hieta didn't answer. He stood nearby, unmoving.
She laughed—a small, dry sound. It barely counted.
"No rescue mission. No flare. No Bee. No Raikage. Nothing."
She rubbed a shaking hand across her face.
"Just… a tool. Gone faulty. Replace the parts."
She looked up at him—eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, breath hitching.
"You heard them."
Her voice broke completely.
"Even if I die... she'll come back. But me? I'm just—just gone."
Her knees buckled as she sank down fully against the wall, breathing in short gasps like she was drowning on dry land.
"I'm nothing to them."
He moved closer, one slow step at a time.
She didn't stop him.
Her arms shook as she lifted them—then dropped again, limp.
Hieta crouched beside her.
She looked at him, face crumpling, then collapsed forward—
Into his chest.
Her forehead hit his collarbone first. Then her hands curled against his shirt, weak and trembling.
The sob tore from her throat—loud, sharp, and broken.
Her shoulders convulsed.
She didn't care if he held her.
Didn't care if he mocked her.
She just needed something—anything—that wasn't cold stone and silence.
He stayed still, letting her cling to him.
Her sobs hit in waves—silent at first, then raw and shaking.
"Why…?" she choked. "Why did no one come…?"
She didn't know if she was asking him or herself.
Maybe both.
Hieta's hands moved slowly—one resting at her back, the other patting her head
He looked down at her hair pressed against his chest, wet with tears.
And for the first time in days—
He smiled.
Not wide. Not manic. Just… pleased.
Quietly, inwardly pleased.
"Thank you, Kumogakure," he murmured under his breath.
His fingers gently pressed against her spine.
"You just made this easier."
Yugito didn't hear it.
Or if she did—she didn't care.
She wept until her throat hurt.
And when her voice gave out, she stayed there, shaking in silence, curled into the enemy's arms—
Not because she wanted to.
But because there was nowhere else left.
The Next Morning
"You took everything from me."
Hieta glanced at her.
"My chakra. My freedom. My life. You took it all."
She looked up at him, eyes red.
He didn't speak right away.
Then—he moved.
Quietly.
He crouched beside her, knees close, one arm reaching over her shoulder. Not to hold her down—but to rest his hand gently on her back.
The touch was warm. Steady. Calm.
His other hand pulled something from his pocket.
A small cloth. Folded.
He reached forward and wiped the dried tears from her cheek. Slow. Careful.
Yugito flinched—but didn't pull away.
"You think I destroyed you," he said.
His voice was quiet. Flat.
"But I stopped them from doing worse."
She didn't reply.
He looked at her profile. Her face was pale, her lips dry, her body still worn.
"This place… this silence… it's not punishment. It's the only space you've ever had that wasn't owned by someone else."
She let out a breath—like she wanted to argue but didn't have the strength.
He leaned closer, hand still on her back.
"They trained you to be strong. But only when it served them. I cut that leash."
His fingers lightly pressed against her spine again.
"I know it feels like loss. But what you're feeling now… is your mind resetting. Without noise. Without orders."
He paused.
Yugito's eyes flickered. There was still a bit of fight left in them, even if her body was too weak to follow through.
Her lips parted like she wanted to speak—but nothing came out. She sagged against Hieta, barely holding on, her fingers gripping his shirt as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Hieta kept one hand on her back, firm and steady. The other moved to her face, gently wiping away the last of her tears. His touch was calm, almost gentle—but there was something hard in his eyes, something that didn't soften.
"You're not nothing," he said quietly. "Not to me."
Her breath hitched. She didn't answer. She didn't even look at him, just stared at the floor. But her grip on his shirt tightened.
He leaned closer, close enough that his breath warmed the side of her face. "They threw you away. But I didn't. I chose you."
Her eyes rose slowly to meet his. There was no trust in them—just pain, confusion, and a faint, desperate need to be seen.
He studied her for a moment. Then, with careful intent, he moved his hand from her back to her shoulder and leaned in.
And kissed her.
Yugito froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Her body went stiff, hands still clenched in his shirt. The kiss wasn't forceful. It wasn't rough. But it was slow… steady… and it didn't ask. It told. It lingered on her lips like something claiming space, not demanding love—but not waiting for permission either.
She didn't respond.
But she didn't pull away.
Her mind screamed at her to stop him. To shove him off. To spit in his face. But she was too drained. Too hollow. The pain, the betrayal, the silence—they smothered every reaction. Her eyes slowly closed, not because she wanted this—but because there was nothing else left to feel.
His lips stayed on hers for another second. Then pulled back.
She opened her eyes again. Breathing unevenly. Her face stunned. Her lips parted, but still, no words.
Hieta looked at her, his smile faint. "You're not replaceable," he said.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him off, curse him, break something. But nothing came. Only a silent tremble, and her fingers still twisted in his shirt.
He didn't force anything more. He stood up slowly and held out his hand.
"Come on. You need food. Water. Rest."
She looked at his hand. Her mind was chaos. She didn't believe him. She couldn't. But the truth was simple—no one else was coming.
So slowly, reluctantly, she reached up and took it.
Not because she trusted him.
But because she had nowhere else to go.
One Week Later – Night
The bunker air was cool, dry.
Yugito sat cross-legged on the cot, rubbing the back of her neck. Her hoodie collar was stretched out—partly from wear, partly from how often Hieta's hands or mouth had found their way there lately.
The door opened.
She didn't jump. Just gave a short glance over her shoulder.
"You're late."
Hieta didn't respond. He walked in, closed the door, and sat beside her like it was routine.
She didn't move away.
He reached for the cup beside her, then paused—his eyes flicking to her face.
She avoided his gaze, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.
A beat of silence passed.
Then he leaned in—slowly, deliberately.
She shifted slightly but didn't stop him. Her eyes flicked to his, annoyed but not sharp.
"You always do this when I'm not looking."
His hand touched her cheek, fingers cool against her skin. He tilted her head toward him.
Then his lips met hers—brief at first, but firm. Confident.
She stiffened… for just a second.
Then relaxed. Not into the kiss, but into the moment—like it wasn't worth fighting.
When he pulled back, his mouth barely brushed her jaw before trailing downward, toward the side of her neck.
She sighed through her nose. "Again?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't stop him.
When his lips brushed just under her ear, she exhaled quietly and muttered, "You're gonna leave marks again."
His mouth paused.
She gave him a sideways glance, face neutral—but her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket a little tighter.
"My neck looks like I got hit with shrapnel," she mumbled. "purple and red all over."
Still, she didn't move.
She let him kiss her again. Just one more. Lower, near her collarbone.
Then she pulled the blanket back up.
"Don't go overboard."
Hieta let the silence hang a beat longer than needed, his breath ghosting against her skin.
Then he leaned back slightly, eyes searching hers. "You saying I'm allowed?"
Yugito gave a tired snort through her nose. "Tch. Don't act like you haven't been doing whatever the hell you want anyway."
He didn't smile, not really. But his eyes held something amused.
She turned away, tugging her sleeves down over her wrists. "Letting you kiss me was already too much. So don't push it."
Her voice was flat. Not warm, not cold—just… matter-of-fact. Like she was stating a fact she hated but couldn't deny.
Hieta didn't press. He just leaned forward again, letting his chin rest lightly against her shoulder, arms loosely draped around her waist.
She didn't return the gesture. But she didn't pull away either.
After a long pause, she murmured, barely audible, "Just shut up and sit there."
Hieta stayed like that for a while—silent, his chin resting on her shoulder, arms resting loosely around her waist, never tightening. Just there.
Eventually, he murmured near her ear, voice low and steady, "What would you like to eat?"
Yugito didn't answer.
She didn't shrug, didn't nod. Just stared forward, eyes half-lidded. Like it didn't matter.
But her silence wasn't dismissal. Not this time.
He waited a few seconds. Then added, softer, "There's still some rice. Some dried fish. But I was thinking of heading into the village soon."
She didn't react.
Still, he caught the faintest twitch of her fingers in the blanket.
So he kept talking. "Could pick something up. Something better. Not the usual crap. Maybe—something sweet?"
No reply.
But her lips pressed together faintly. Barely a shift. A tell.
He caught it.
"…Dango?"
Nothing.
"…Or those little fried milk buns?"
Her jaw tightened slightly. She looked away, annoyed at herself—but she didn't say no.
He nodded, like he'd been given a full grocery list. "Alright. I'll get some."
He stood, quietly brushing the wrinkles out of his cloak. Yugito didn't move, eyes still fixed on the far corner of the room.
When he reached the door, he paused—just long enough to glance back at her.
"I won't be gone long."
No response.
So he opened the door and stepped out, the heavy metal sliding shut behind him.
Three Hours Later – Late Afternoon
The air in Kumogakure was humid and tense. ANBU patrols were thicker than usual. Hieta kept his hood low, sticking to the alleys and blind spots between buildings.
He didn't stop for long. Just enough to grab what he needed—rations, water tablets, a few medical patches
And a small paper bag. Tied with twine.
He opened it once before he left the shop. Just to check.
Three soft dango skewers. A pack of sweet chestnut mochi. And at the bottom, half a dozen fried milk buns—golden, warm, still slightly greasy, their sugary scent escaping through the thin paper.
He stared at the bag for a second, then tucked it carefully into his satchel. Protected. Separate from the rest.
He didn't know if she'd eat them.
But he brought them anyway.