In Another Life

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

You drift. You turn your pillow over a dozen times. You lie there with your arm across your eyes, trying to will your brain to shut up—to forget. But it doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t.

Because every time you close your eyes, you see him.

Not the version you’re used to—the aloof, masked smartass who makes every spar feel like a challenge and every mission feel like a test. No. You see hisface.

The real one.

The one no one gets to see.

You see the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar just under his cheekbone, the tiny mole at the corner of his mouth—subtle, but there. Burned into your memory. You see the way his eyes widened for a split second before he dropped you like you were on fire.

And then the way he said “I was just improvising,” like that explained everything.

You hate him.

You hate how close he was. How warm. How quiet it got between you. Like something was waiting to tip.

You hate how your heart stuttered in your chest like a fool.

You hate that you didn’t want to move.

And that you still don’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled away.

You tell yourself it’s just adrenaline. Just surprise. Just a moment. But you’re lying. And the worst part? You know he’s doing the same.

By the time morning comes, you feel like you’ve been through a war.

You throw yourself together mechanically—uniform, gear, mask, all the usual motions. The sun isn’t even up yet when you head to the debriefing room, because maybe if you get there first, you won’t have to feel whatever it is that’s sitting heavy in your chest.

Spoiler: you don’t.

Because he’s already there.

Leaning against the far wall, posture casual, one leg crossed over the other like he’s completely at ease. His hands are in his pockets, his hair is a mess in that stupidly perfect way, and of course the mask is back in place.

Like nothing happened.

You hesitate in the doorway.

Just a second.

But it’s long enough for him to see you—really see you. His gaze flicks your way, sharp and unreadable. Then it slides away like you’re nothing more than a passing breeze.

You walk in.

You sit.

You don’t look at him, but you feel the tension like a second skin.

Eventually, you speak.

“So. About last night—”

“Don’t overthink it.”

You freeze.

He’s looking straight ahead, not at you, and it stings more than you expect.

“You used your face,” you say, quieter. “The face. You don’t just do that.”

“I improvised.” Cold. Dismissive. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You stare at him. Hard. 

He shrugs. “You’d expect anything less from me?”

You narrow your eyes. He doesn’t even flinch.

Asshole. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Guess I should be flattered.”

He doesn’t respond.

You want to push. You want to say more, throw it in his face, make him look at you again like he did last night.

But the door swings open before you get the chance.

“Morning, lovebirds.”

You jolt upright. “Genma.”

Genma strides in like he owns the place, flipping a senbon between his fingers, eyes dancing with mischief. “Wow. That tone. Either I walked in on something I shouldn’t have, or someone forgot to clear the air.”

Kakashi doesn’t look up. “You’re early.”

Genma grins, settling in. “You’re both here before me. That never happens. I’m suspicious.”

You scowl. “We’re professionals.”

“Sure,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “but your energy says divorced couple who had a moment of weakness and now refuse to talk about it.”

You almost choke. Kakashi’s eye doesn’t even twitch.

But you see it. The faintest tension in his shoulders. The subtle way his fingers curl into a fist against the arm of the chair.

Genma watches you both, clearly entertained. Then, with zero remorse, he drops a folder on the table. “Two-man recon. One week out. That’s your next assignment.”

You stare at the folder. So does Kakashi.

One week. Together. In the field. Alone.

Perfect.

“Understood,” you say, voice clipped.

Kakashi doesn’t say anything.

You shoot him a quick glance—nothing accusatory, just habit—but his gaze is firmly on the window again, like if he ignores you hard enough, this whole thing will go away.

It won’t.

Genma hums. “No protests? Huh. Guess you two really made up.”

You’re halfway to launching a kunai at his head when Kakashi stands up.

“We’ll handle it,” he says flatly.

And then he leaves.

Just like that.

You watch the door swing shut behind him, and your gut twists.

You hate this. You hate how cold he is. How quickly he shuts you out when things get even remotely real. You hate that you care.

And most of all, you hate that you can still feel the press of his body above yours—warm, steady, close.

Burned into your skin like a curse.

Genma whistles. “Damn. What did I miss?”

You don’t answer.

You’re already too busy trying to hold yourself together.

Because you are not fine.

And you’re starting to realize you won’t be for a long time.

The terrain is rough.

Sloping hills carved out by rivers, dense underbrush curling between old roots, the earth damp and uneven beneath your sandals. You don’t complain, though your knees ache from the endless crouch-walk through low branches. Your mission pack digs into your shoulders, heavy with reconnaissance equipment and survival tools. You don’t speak, and neither does he.

It’s been three days since you left the village. Two days since you’ve said anything that wasn’t necessary. One day since you’ve managed to sleep without seeing him above you, breath warm against your skin, that beauty mark stamped behind your eyes like a seal.

You clench your jaw and refocus.

The two of you work as ANBU operatives should—seamless, silent, deadly.

You keep to the trees when possible, traveling fast and high, and when the terrain forces you to the forest floor, you communicate only in gestures. A flick of his hand: pause. A twitch of your fingers: enemy above, six meters. A nod from him. You split off, move through the thicket like a shadow.

No sound. No unnecessary words.

You’ve done missions with him dozens of times before, but this one is different. Not because of the mission. Because of him. Because of you. Because of the thick, tangled thing lodged in your throat every time you get too close.

Even now, crouched across from him at a narrow overlook, your breath misting into the cool dusk air, you can feel it. The edge of it scraping your ribs like a blade.

Below, through the low canopy of trees, your target moves.

Three smugglers. Medium build, lightly armed, but disciplined. Too clean to be freelancers. Shinobi-trained.

You shift slightly and feel Kakashi’s eyes flick to you in the dark, just for a second.

“Two o’clock. Leader’s the one with the burnt sleeve,” you murmur, barely audible.

He nods once.

You draw back behind the ridge, retrieving a scroll from your pouch and laying it flat between your knees. You both study it quickly—routes, markers, symbols. A network of underground movement from Grass to Fire, thin and well-hidden. This outpost is just a temporary relay, but it’s a keystone. If you’re right, taking it out quietly could cripple their operations for weeks.

“Minimal contact,” Kakashi says.

“Observe and disable,” you reply.

“You take the left perimeter.”

“You sure? You’re better at climbing—”

“You’re better at traps.”

A beat of silence.

You don’t argue.

You move like mist.

Crawling through low ferns, crouched behind brush, your breath shallow and careful. You place chakra-infused trip threads at strategic angles, marking choke points and escape routes. The forest is alive with insects and the low rustle of leaves. It almost feels normal—until a flicker of movement snaps your attention back to the camp.

Kakashi is already inside the perimeter.

You watch him from the treeline, his body a blur of fluid motion, silencing a guard with nothing but a twitch of his wrist and the edge of his blade. You hate how easy he makes it look.

You slip back to your position.

Wait.

Three.

Two.

One.

The trap activates just as the smugglers attempt to reposition, a thin snap of chakra-wire binding their feet to the forest floor. You spring forward, drawing your blade.

Kakashi’s already there, meeting them head-on in a blur of steel and shadow. You take the left flank, intercept the panicked one trying to run. He lunges, and you duck beneath the arc of his blade, slam your palm into his ribs, twist, and drop him.

It’s over in seconds.

You pant quietly, heart racing as you turn and catch Kakashi standing in the clearing, hitai-ate pulled halfway back down, wiping blood off his arm.

You both stare at the scene—three unconscious bodies, not a drop of blood spilled where it didn’t need to be.

Silent.

Precise.

And yet—

You’re still breathless.

From the run. From the fight.

From him.

You make camp just as the sun dips below the tree line. The forest thickens around you, a mess of tangled roots and rustling leaves that seem too loud in the quiet. He sets up the perimeter seal without a word, and you gather what little kindling you can find.

The fire crackles to life. You sit on opposite sides.

Not far. Not close.

Just… enough.

And the silence stretches again. Thin and taut and aching.

You poke at the small pan heating over the fire, trying to ignore the way he moves with such unconscious ease. How he always keeps one hand free. How he’s still wearing the damn mask again—of course he is. Like that moment a few nights ago never happened.

Like you didn’t see him. Like he didn’t let you.

Or accidentally let you, depending on who you ask.

You stir the pan a little too aggressively.

His eye flicks to you but says nothing.

Typical.

You exhale and say it—because someone has to, and it sure as hell won’t be him.

“I don’t expect anything from you, you know.”

The words land somewhere between defiance and surrender.

Across the fire, he stills. His shoulders don’t move. Not even a breath.

You keep your eyes on the pan. “About what happened. It was… sudden. But I’m not looking for an apology. Or an explanation.”

A pause. Silence so sharp you can feel it nick your throat.

“I mean, it’s not like you meant to show me your face,” you add quickly, bitterness creeping in without your permission. “Just trying to surprise me, right? Tactical advantage.”

You risk a glance up.

He’s watching you.

And there’s something unreadable in his gaze.

“It worked, didn’t it?” he finally says, voice neutral.

You laugh—low, bitter. “Yeah. You surprised the hell out of me, alright.”

Another stretch of quiet. You drop your eyes again, suddenly finding a lump of half-burned rice much more interesting than anything else.

“But I’m not going to make it into a thing,” you add, quieter now. “You don’t owe me your face. Or anything else. It was… a moment. That’s all.”

Still no response. You wonder if you’ve gone too far. Not far enough. If he’s thinking the same thing. If he’s thinking anything at all.

When you glance up again, he’s leaning back on his hands, eyes half-lidded, gazing at the stars. The firelight casts shadows across the curve of his cheek.

He looks almost—

“I heard Genma’s betting we’ll kill each other before we make it back,” he says, so casually it takes you a moment to realize he’s spoken.

You blink. Then scoff.

“He would. He’s probably made a whole board for it.”

“Odds aren’t in your favor.”

“Oh, please. I could take you.”

He glances at you, the barest tilt of his head. “Sure. If I’m asleep. And tied up.”

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Next mission, then.”

You watch the corner of his eye crinkle just slightly. Like a smile that doesn’t quite touch his mouth.

He tosses you a pouch of ration bars. You catch it mid-air, more from instinct than attention.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Didn’t even throw it at me this time. Progress.”

“I’m healing,” he says dryly. “With time.”

You roll your eyes, but something in your chest loosens. Just a little. The weight begins to shift—still heavy, still strange, but less suffocating.

It’s not back to normal.

But it’s not the cold, unbearable silence either.

You chew slowly, watching the firelight dance along his silver hair. You think of that moment again, despite yourself—his weight above you, the flicker in his gaze, the warmth in his breath. The mole near his mouth. The soft line of his jaw. How no one sees that part of him. How he let you.

Even if it was only for a second.

Even if it wasn’t intentional.

“Have you ever show your face to anyone else?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

His chewing slows, but he doesn’t look over.

“…No.”

You blink, surprised by the honesty. He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t ask again.

The silence this time is different. Heavier, yes—but not empty.

More like… potential.

You’re just about to break it with a quip when he says, without looking at you:

“Your tea’s still awful.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s slander.”

“That’s truth.”

You pick up a small rice ball from your ration pack and lob it across the fire.

It bounces off his shoulder.

He looks at it. Then at you.

You stare him down, challenging.

He tosses it back—harder.

It misses. Barely.

“Still can’t aim.”

“Still can’t shut up.”

He exhales a soft huff of something like amusement, and you fight the smile threatening to pull at your lips.

It’s still complicated. Still awkward. Still frustrating.

But for the first time in days, it feels like you can breathe.

Maybe not like nothing happened.

But close enough.