Almost
The warmth of the teacup burns gently against your palms, a sharp contrast to the chill clinging to the morning air. You cradle it close, fingers curled around the porcelain like it’s something fragile—something that might slip through if you don’t hold on tight enough.
Kurenai’s balcony offers a rare pocket of peace above the low murmur of Konoha waking up. The village is already in motion. Market stalls clatter open in the square, and shinobi pass below in twos and threes, caught in their own rhythms. The scent of rain still lingers from last night’s storm, damp earth rising on the breeze.
For once, you’re still. Not planning. Not moving. Just… breathing.
“Didn’t think you’d stop by,” Kurenai says as she joins you, placing a plate of sweet rice cakes beside your cup. She brushes her hands on her robe and gives you a sidelong glance. “You’re usually halfway to a new mission before sunrise.”
“I’m human,” you murmur, taking a sip. “Believe it or not, I do rest. Occasionally.”
“Hm.” She folds her arms, leaning on the railing. “You say that like it’s a confession.”
“It might be.”
She doesn’t laugh, just hums quietly. You’ve always liked that about her—how she leaves space for silences that don’t feel awkward. She’s not one to pry unless there’s a reason.
You study the steam curling from your cup. “The quiet’s nice.”
“It is.”
The conversation could end there. You wouldn’t mind if it did. You’re tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix—burnt at the edges, worn thin by weeks of too many back-to-back assignments and too little time to remember what it feels like to just… exist.
Still, your mind isn’t quiet.
Kurenai raises an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”
You don’t look at her. Don’t answer. But you feel her shift slightly, the pause stretching just long enough for her to piece it together.
You grunt. “He rewrote the plan mid-mission. Again.”
She picks up a rice cake, unbothered. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
“That’s not the point.”
Her lips twitch. “It never is with you two.”
You narrow your eyes at your tea. “He doesn’t take anything seriously until he does, and by then it’s always too late to prepare for whatever stunt he’s pulled. He’s infuriating.”
“And yet, here you are. Drinking tea and thinking about it.”
You shoot her a look. “I’m thinking about how to strangle him without leaving evidence.”
“I’m sure.” Her smile is small, amused. “You always talk about him like you’re angry, but you never sound like you really mean it.”
“I am angry,” you say, but even to your own ears it sounds like a well-rehearsed line—one that’s lost its sharpness somewhere along the way.
Kurenai doesn’t press. She just settles beside you, letting the moment breathe.
You focus on the noise of the village again. There’s a comfort in it—the murmur of normalcy, of routine. Even if your life doesn’t allow much of either, you still recognize the rhythm. It’s familiar. Steadying.
For a while, neither of you say anything. You just sit there, sipping slowly, the warmth of the cup grounding you as the sun rises higher in the sky.
And for a brief, fleeting second, it almost feels like the weight on your shoulders isn’t there.
Almost.
By midday, HQ hums with movement. Briefings shift in and out of occupied rooms, the scent of paper and ink clings to the walls, and the weight of tired shinobi hangs in the air like fog. You move through it like muscle memory, fatigue pressed into your joints from the mission the night before. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving a dull ache behind your eyes and a list of reports with your name on them.
The intel wing is warmer than the rest of the building—someone’s fiddled with the heating again—and your uniform clings to your skin in all the wrong places. You have a half-eaten rice ball in your pouch and three near-misses with the Hokage’s assistant before Tenzo appears beside you like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
“Back from the land of vague threats and sharp retorts, I see,” he says, falling into step with you. His tone is maddeningly chipper.
You don’t slow. “Tenzo, I swear to god—”
“What? You don’t miss me when you’re off storming enemy strongholds with your favorite emotionally unavailable comrade?”
“I will end you,” you mutter.
He hums in thought. “Violent denial. Must’ve been a fun mission.”
You reach the office you’ve been assigned and key in the lock, the door creaking open just as Tenzo leans into your space like he’s about to say something conspiratorial.
“You and Kakashi,” he starts, voice too casual to be innocent, “you’ve got that thing again. The ‘we hate each other, but we’re also the only ones who understand each other and might die for each other even if we also kinda want to strangle each other’ dynamic.”
You halt in the doorway. “You’re unwell.”
“I’m entertained.”
You shoot him a look that’s all dry sarcasm. “Glad my suffering gives your day meaning.”
Tenzo leans against the frame, smug. “It’s free drama. Do you know how boring paperwork is?”
You open your mouth to respond—to shut him down, to redirect, to say something—but a shadow rounds the far corner of the hall.
Kakashi.
He walks like he’s not trying, but you know better. The scroll in his hand is more for show than anything; his eyes flick between the text and the hall, as if checking for movement. You catch the faint smell of soap as he passes—he must’ve just come from the baths—and the worst part is, he doesn’t even look surprised to see you.
Your spine straightens reflexively.
Tenzo sees it too, and unfortunately, he’s too quick for your reflexes.
“Kakashi,” he calls out with infuriating glee, “I was just telling our favorite kunoichi how she and you radiate unresolved—”
“Don’t,” you snap, stepping forward and cutting him off with a warning glance sharp enough to slit a throat.
Kakashi glances up, unreadable. “Afternoon.”
“Hatake,” you reply evenly, a nod, nothing more.
His gaze flicks across your face—brief, clinical, but something lingers there, like he’s checking you over for damage only he knows how to spot. It’s not soft, but it’s not cold, either.
“Sleep at all?” he asks.
You bristle. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Too late.”
He’s already walking again before you can formulate a response, leaving behind the same faint disturbance he always does—as if his presence were a pebble dropped into still water, and you’re the one left rippling.
You don’t realize you’re still watching him until Tenzo lets out a low whistle.
“That man is either trying to kill you with passive affection or genuinely wants to know.”
You don’t respond. Just shoulder past him into the office, the door closing behind you with a solid click.
Later that night, you find yourself beneath the floodlights of Training Ground Seven.
The world is quiet, blanketed in the low hum of cicadas and the rustle of wind through tree branches. Your breath fogs in the cool air, sharp and rhythmic as you move through a familiar kata—strike, pivot, parry, breathe. Again. Again.
It’s muscle memory. Habit. The kind of silence that lets your thoughts burn off without demanding answers.
You’re not expecting company.
Which is why the sudden, casual voice at your side nearly earns someone a kunai to the jugular.
“Try aiming a little lower,” Kakashi drawls, standing entirely too close. “You’re compensating again.”
You whip around, blade slicing clean through air—fast, precise, a warning shot that misses his cheek by inches.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just tilts his head slightly to avoid it.
You lower your weapon with a hiss. “God, you’re like a cockroach. Unkillable and always showing up when I least want you to.”
He offers a one-eyed smile, unbothered. “Flattery? From you? I must be dreaming.”
“You’ve got some nerve,” you say, sheathing your blade with more force than necessary.
“I get bored easily.”
“You know there are other places to be a nuisance, right?”
Kakashi drifts toward the opposite edge of the sparring ring, rolling his shoulders like he’s warming up. He doesn’t answer immediately, and that’s what tips you off—he’s not just here to pester you.
“You seemed off earlier,” he says, tone more level now, quieter.
Your hands still at your sides.
“…What do you mean?”
He shrugs, loose and lazy, but his eye watches you carefully. “You looked like you were holding something back.”
You’re still breathing heavily from your drills, but this feels different now. He’s watching you too closely. The air feels thinner.
“Maybe I was,” you reply after a pause, voice clipped. “Not really your business.”
His head tilts. “Didn’t say it was.”
“Then why are you here?”
Kakashi doesn’t move closer. He just stares, unreadable beneath his mask and moonlight.
“I figured I’d give you someone to hit.”
The words settle between you like something fragile. You can’t tell if it’s an offer or an apology—or both.
Your throat tightens.
You should be irritated. Should call him out on the arrogance of assuming you need help—or worse, comfort—but something about the way he said it sticks. Like he noticed. Like he cared enough to.
So you choose the easier path. The familiar one.
You draw another kunai from your holster and throw it at him.
He catches it between two fingers, effortless.
Your mouth twitches. “Fine,” you say. “Let’s dance.”
You fight for longer than necessary.
It starts like it always does—fluid, sharp, and laced with biting remarks you both pretend are meaningless. Neither of you are trying to win. You’re testing each other. Pushing. Teasing. You kick, he ducks. He counters, you dodge. It’s all instinct now, too familiar for comfort.
He moves like smoke—graceful and irritatingly light on his feet, as if gravity was more of a suggestion than a rule for him. You’re panting now, sweat sticking your shirt to your back, but you refuse to be the first one to call it.
Then it shifts.
There’s no warning.
One moment you’re pivoting mid-strike, the next—your balance tips.
You blink, stunned, as your back hits the ground with a solid thud, breath whooshing from your lungs. Your arm is pinned above your head, his body angled over yours, knee braced beside your ribs.
And then you freeze.
Because the mask that is usually covering the majority of his face is gone.
And that’s—not normal.
Your breath stalls in your throat.
You’ve heard rumors, of course. Everyone has. Kakashi never takes off his mask. Not during missions. Not during meals. Not ever. Most people don’t even think he has a face. It’s practically a running joke in the barracks—what does Kakashi look like under there?
Now you know.
You’re not sure what you expected—some horrifying scar, maybe, or an entire lower half made of shadows—but what you get is… unfairly attractive. Sharp jawline, soft mouth, that ridiculous beauty mark just beneath the corner of his lips.
His lips.
You have no business noticing his lips right now.
Your eyes drag up—his expression is unreadable, but his gaze is locked on yours, steady and just a little too intense. And for a second, there’s something raw in his eyes. Not smug. Not cold. Just… unguarded.
It knocks the wind out of you harder than the fall did.
“Are you—” you start, voice thinner than it should be.
He blinks, like something shatters behind his eyes, and releases you as if scalded.
You sit up slowly, still dazed, like your brain hasn’t caught up yet. He’s already got his back to you, mask hastily tugged back up over his mouth. The familiar barrier is back in place—but you saw.
“What the hell, Hatake?” you ask, incredulous.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You were wide open. I took the advantage.”
“Right,” you say flatly. “Because showing me the face you’ve hidden from the entire shinobi world for years is a totally normal tactical move.”
“I improvise,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.
You gape at him for a second too long. “That’s a hell of a commitment to improvisation.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance at you. He just turns, slowly, and walks away into the night, as if you didn’t just see something no one else gets to see.
And you’re left staring after him, your heart hammering, brain spiraling.
Because this wasn’t just a pin.
This wasn’t just another spar.
You saw his face.
Kakashi let you see his face.
You try to tell yourself it was strategy. That he was just trying to throw you off balance. That it meant nothing.
But as you remain on the floor of the training grounds, staring at the night sky and tracing the shape of that beauty mark in your mind like a damn idiot, you know the truth.
Kakashi doesn’t show anyone his face.
So why you?
And why now?
You don’t have the answer.
But your heart won’t stop asking the question.
You lie awake in bed, one arm slung dramatically across your eyes like that will stop your brain from replaying every damn second of earlier.
It doesn’t.
You turn over. Then again. The sheets are too hot, your skin too aware of itself, of the phantom weight that isn’t there anymore. You can still feel the pressure of his hand around your wrist. The subtle, anchored hold of his knee against your thigh. The lean line of his body braced over yours like a barrier and a question at the same time.
And his face.
Kami, his face.
You try not to think about it. You try very, very hard not to conjure up the way the moonlight had hit his cheekbones, how unfairly soft his lips looked for someone who never said anything gentle. Or the beauty mark—small and sharp beneath the corner of his mouth, something delicate that shouldn’t belong to someone as ruthlessly composed as Kakashi Hatake.
He should’ve looked smug. Arrogant. Smirking down at you like he’d won, like he always does.
But he hadn’t.
He looked dazed. Like you had caught him off guard. Like the act of being seen—truly seen—had stunned him as much as it did you.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
You hate him.
You do.
Mostly. Probably. Yes.
Okay, maybe it’s gotten a little murky.
You groan into your pillow, dragging it over your face. As if suffocating yourself might smother the memory. As if anything could dull the vivid clarity of it all: the line of his jaw, the twitch of hesitation in his expression, the near-physical pull of something unnamed in your chest when you looked at him and forgot—for a terrifying, impossible second—how to breathe.
Your pulse is still a mess.
And your brain? Loud. Relentless.
What was that? Why did it feel like something broke open? Why now, after all this time?
Why does it feel like your heart didn’t get the memo that this is the same man you’ve been sniping at since your ANBU masks first touched the same mission scroll?
You roll over again, eyes wide in the dark.
This shouldn’t mean anything. It was a moment. A fluke. A crack in the usual routine. You were both just… off your game. Tired. Hungry. The moon was in the wrong place in the sky, or something equally stupid.
And yet—
That beauty mark?
Burned into your memory like a brand.
You exhale, a long, shuddering breath, and press your fingers into your eyes until colors bloom in the dark behind your lids.
You’re not fine.
You’re not even close.
And tomorrow, you have to see him again.
With the mask back on. Pretending none of it happened.
Yeah.
You’re really not fine.
Kakashi doesn’t go home after the spar.
He tells himself he’s just cooling down. Walking it off. Letting the adrenaline bleed out under the cover of night.
But really—he’s stalling.
He stays to the rooftops, where the wind can thread through his hair and bite at his skin. Where no one’s watching. Where no one will see the way he keeps flexing the fingers that had been wrapped around your wrist like they still remember the shape of you.
Because they do.
His body still feels the ghost of you under him—warm, grounded, close. And it shouldn’t. It was a spar. A bout. A moment of tactical improvisation, nothing more.
Except he knows that’s a lie.
He exhales slowly through his nose and rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting over the silent buildings of Konoha below. His village. His home. His anchor.
And right now, it doesn’t feel like enough.
You looked up at him like you saw something he didn’t mean to show.
And worse—he let you.
The mask had slipped. Literally. Figuratively. Both in one clean, devastating motion.
He doesn’t show people his face.
Ever.
Even the ones closest to him—especially them—have only caught fleeting glimpses. A half-second here. A shadow there. Always turned away, always covered again before anything could linger.
But with you, tonight…
It had been instinct. A twitch of movement, a shift in angle, the tug of momentum and reflex—and then there he was, above you, exposed. Not just his face, but something deeper. Something more dangerous.
Your eyes widened. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Didn’t say a word.
You looked.
Like you saw him.
His fingers twitch at his side.
He tells himself he only used the opening to surprise you. Catch you off-guard. Exploit a moment of weakness. That’s the shinobi in him—cold and strategic. That’s what he’s supposed to be.
But it doesn’t explain the way he’d hovered a beat too long.
Didn’t explain why he’d noticed the exact place where your collar shifted, exposing the sweat-glistened curve of your throat. Why his heart had skipped when your breath hitched.
Why he’d dropped his gaze to your mouth like a man chasing a secret he wasn’t supposed to want.
He slowly drags a hand against his mask, fingers lingering at the hem. It’s a small motion. Normal. Comforting.
But his hands feel clumsy.
Like they’re remembering things they shouldn’t.
He crouches on the edge of the Hokage monument, watching the village beneath him shift in and out of shadow. A few lights still flicker in upper floors. The soft hum of life continuing.
He should go home. Sleep. Forget it happened.
He’s tired. He can blame the fatigue. The fight. The fact that sparring with you always feels like dancing on a blade’s edge—too close to something real. Something sharp.
That’s all it was.
A moment.
A misstep.
Except…
That beauty mark. The one just at the corner of his mouth. You’ve never seen it before. No one really has. And now it’s yours.
You’ve seen him.
Even if it was only for a heartbeat.
Even if he tore himself away from you like your skin burned him.
(And maybe it did.)
He leans back against the stone, closing his eyes behind the slant of his hitai-ate. He tries to quiet his thoughts. Tries to convince himself that tomorrow it’ll all go back to normal.
It won’t.
He knows it.
And worse?
He doesn’t know if he wants it to.