She walks through the bustling streets, past the Okiya. For a long time she walks, hands curled into fists and trembling with the force raging inside her.

  Somehow she tamps down the urge to scream and simply not stop. She makes it out the main gate, storms into the trees that make up the forests of Fire.

  When she’s far in enough she stops, panting. Her eyes are hot and stinging and she smells like tea and she’s never been so frustrated in her life.

  With a yell she turns and punches a tree trunk with all her strength because she can. Pain explodes across her knuckles, rattling up her arm and reaching her shoulder, sharp and aching.

  “Fuck!”

  Blood drips from her torn knuckles and for a moment she hops around, cursing and blinking away tears.

  When she staggers to a stop, she stares at the back of her hand in fascination. It hurts. It makes her want to do it again.

  She approaches the tree again, eyeing the unblemished bark for just a moment.

  And then she sets her feet and rears her arm back again –

  “You really will break it if you keep doing that.”

  Her head snaps to the side so fast that her hair whips her in the face.

  Itachi is standing at her side, fingers gently holding her wrist.

  “Itachi-sama,” her voice cracks and she winces as his eyes dart from her bleeding hand to her face.

  “I caught half of the game,” he says in a level tone, pulling her hand closer to peer at it.

  She swallows, embarrassment churning in her gut.

  “Do you want him dead?”

  The question comes candidly as he tilts her hand this way and that. Surely he can feel the harsh thrum of her pulse in her veins, but he doesn’t look up.

  “I – I could never-”

  “Do you?” He asks again, his free hand reaching up to brush her hair off her face. Thin strands tickle at her skin from where they’ve stuck to the tear tracks on her cheeks. His palm rests lightly against the curve of her jaw as he waits.

  She searches his face as he raises his eyes to meet hers.

  Unwavering. Miyu feels it in her gut, in her bones, in the words that ache to get past her lips that he is serious.

  He’s a ninja. Logically she knows he could be lying and she’d never know.

  But there’s an openness to his dark eyes that makes her feel as though he would make it happen if she asked.

  Part of her wants it.

  The other part of her, making up the majority, knows that it would cause more trouble than it’s worth, and get Itachi into a mess if he was ever found out.

  So she takes a steadying breath and murmurs, “No.”

  His thumb smooths across her cheek and she leans into his touch, lip trembling as the frustration of the day sweeps over her.

  “I’m sorry,” her voice is shaky and wet, accentuated by a tiny hiccup that escapes her attempt at control.

  “Don’t apologise,” his voice is barely above a whisper, and she realises that he’s taken a step closer. They’re so close now, one of his hands still circling her wrist to keep it still.

  His face blurs as tears swim in her vision, and another hiccup escapes her.

  “I’m so-”

  Her breath hitches and she can feel her face crumpling, but she pushes on.

  “-angry.”

  One tug on her wrist and she falls into his front, knees weak and chest too-tight.

  “Me too,” she can feel his lips moving at her temple. “It was obvious that you conceded the game. But you won the battle. You know that.”

  That sends a fresh wave of tears to her stinging eyes.

  “I didn’t win anything,” her voice is thick and shaky, “I’m such a fool-”

  He pulls away from her, just far enough to capture her chin between his fingers and lift her gaze to meet his.

  “Every single delegate in there will report nothing on the game, Miyu.” The sound of her name unhindered on his lips has her breath catching for an entirely different reason.

  “The only reports to leave that hall will be detailing your thorough dress down of a man foolish enough to believe he could corner you and emerge unscathed.”

  She chokes out a laugh at that and it’s bitter and wet.

  “They will see a woman who does not belong, tossing meaningless barbs at a man who could see her dead in a heartbeat if he wished.”

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  There’s her anger again, burning in her chest and heating her very blood.

  “I’m a fool,” she repeats, “I should have kept my mouth shut and my head down. He wanted a pretty little idiot and I gave him-”

  She cuts herself off and lets her head fall forward until her forehead is resting against Itachi’s chest.

  “You gave him his own ass on a silver platter,” it’s so odd to hear Itachi swearing in his smooth voice.

  It’s enough to startle a laugh out of her, and this one makes her feel lighter, lets her lean into his hold a little further.

  “He doesn’t yet understand many of your... jabs.”

  “His advisors won’t have missed them,” she sighs, “nor will his court. It was one of his first appearances to foreign delegates. Gods, I’m an idiot.”

  “Tch,” he manoeuvres her hand into view, “this is the only idiotic thing you’ve done today.”

  She winces at the twinge that his gentle hold sends down her arm.

  “We should get this looked at.”

  Miyu moves her fingers experimentally, rolling her wrist slowly before trying to make a fist again. Pain shoots up her arm and she flinches hard. Her pained gasp has barely left her lips when her feet are suddenly no longer supporting her in a sudden blur.

  It takes her a moment to process that she’s now in Itachi’s arms, and that they’re moving very, very fast.

  “Itachi!” She gasps, scrambling to get a hold on him somehow. Her good hand curls into the fabric of his shirt and she holds on for dear life, even though she knows he won’t drop her.

  “Sorry,” his low laugh isn’t even breathless, though they’re moving fast enough that her eyes are watering from the wind.

  They come to a sudden stop before an apartment block, and even though Itachi has done all the running, Miyu is panting.

  “Gods,” her voice is higher than usual, “you always travel like that? Waterfall must have felt like a snail’s pace.”

  He sets her on her feet, and suddenly a man is standing in the space to her left.

  She flinches back, only barely catching her gasp before it can make it out of her throat. Itachi’s hand on her back settles her.

  “Asuma-san,” Itachi greets politely as though Miyu hadn’t almost jumped out of her skin.

  The man’s forehead protector glints in the moonlight as his eyes flicker from Itachi to her.

  She straightens up, bows in greeting, and offers a polite smile. Her hand and wrist are smarting now, a constant ache that dulls the sting of her bleeding, scraped knuckles.

  When she rises from her bow the two men are staring at one another, a silent conversation passing between them that she can’t hope to decipher.

  “Do you have a medic handy?” Itachi asks dryly, “Miyu-san got into a fistfight with a tree.”

  The man’s brows shoot up, and the corner of his mouth quirks just slightly as his eyes settle on her once more.

  “It was a rude tree,” she explains dryly, shooting Itachi a betrayed look.

  “Must’ve had it coming, then,” Asuma grunts, and Miyu lets herself smile a little more genuinely.

  “Nao should be back with our takeout any minute.”

  And then they’re following the ninja into the apartment complex. They walk up four flights of stairs before they enter an apartment. It’s… sparse. There’s a few lounges, a small dining table. The walls are bare, painted an off white that goes rather nicely with the dark wooden floorboards.

  “We’ll disinfect this while we wait,” Asuma says, gesturing to the table.

  Miyu sits, letting her arm rest on the table. While the other man opens a cupboard under the sink Itachi gently pushes her long, heavy sleeve up her arm. Her hand is red and swelling, the beginnings of bruises darkening her bloody knuckles.

  “Your form wasn’t terrible.” Itachi comments lightly, and it takes her a moment to realise he’s talking about her punch.

  “Oh,” she huffs out a laugh, “when I was younger my... neighbour," her mouth doesn't want that word to come out, but she forces it anyway, "wanted to be a ninja. He made me learn how to punch so he could learn how to evade.”

  Itachi hums at that, and steps aside to let Asuma sit opposite her. She eyes the neat line of his beard and wonders what he does here in the capital.

  He cleans the scrapes quickly and efficiently. The stinging isn’t so bad, and she hadn’t punched hard enough to get any splinters caught in her skin, so it’s over fairly quickly. As he stands to throw away the bloodied wipes the front door opens, and a woman enters.

  Her blonde hair is cropped close to her head, leaf insignia hanging from a bandanna around her neck. Brown eyes scan the room tiredly and Miyu feels terrible for asking anything of this ninja who has obviously just finished a long shift.

  “Yo, Nao,” Asuma’s gruff voice reminds Miyu of her manners, “guests.”

  “Hello, Riko-san,” Itachi greets politely. “This is Miyu.”

  Taking her cue, Miyu stands and bows to the woman.

  “Good evening, Riko-san. I apologise for the intrusion at this late hour.”

  The woman sets the plastic bags that she’s carrying onto the kitchen benchtop as she surveys the two of them with weary eyes.

  “Not a worry,” she says after a moment, gesturing for Miyu to take her seat once more. “Let’s have a look then.”

  It turns out to be a fracture as Itachi suspected. Miyu’s only a little bit proud that she was able to punch that hard in the first place. She watches in fascination as the woman’s hand’s glow with soft green light. Silent, Miyu feels warmth tickle it’s way into her hand, seeping into her skin and deeper. Her hand goes numb for a few minutes, and the green glow gradually fades.

  When the Riko removes her hands, Miyu’s own is pale and unblemished.

  “Amazing,” she breathes, lifting it from the table to inspect it. She wiggles her fingers, clenches her hand into a fist, and shakes it out. It feels completely fine.

  The woman is looking at her with a tired smile, like a parent watching their child marvel over something simple. Miyu blushes under her gaze.

  “Thank you, Riko-san.” She bows again, “I am in your debt.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the woman waves her off. “It was nothing. Besides, you had a hard-enough day already.”

  At that Miyu sobers. Riko, at least, must have been present at the game – or heard about it, possibly. Chikako is right, Ninja are terrible gossips. They claim it’s ‘intel sharing’, but they fool no one.

  “Really handed that prick his ass tonight,” Asuma says, leaning against the doorway with an unlit cigarette between his lips, “you’re wasted here.”

  Miyu cracks a smile, but it feels hollow.

  She and Itachi take their leave and make for the flower district.

  His hand brushes against the back of hers as they walk in companionable silence.

  As they near the Okiya, he catches her fingers in his and pulls her to a stop. She blinks up at him, waiting. In the dim glow of the lanterns of the flower district, his face is highlighted by soft shadows that make him appear almost otherworldly.

  Something cold and thin is pressed into her palm, and when she looks down – her hairpin. Makishima’s gift, whole and blameless in the events of the day, glinting in her upturned palm.

  “Thank you.” Miyu’s voice is thick with emotion. Itachi’s dark eyes are unreadable, but he doesn’t stop her as she closes her fingers around the pin and continues the little ways left to reach the Okiya.

  “I can’t stay,” he murmurs at the front door, hand reaching up to brush her hair over her shoulder.

  “Not even for a little while?” she asks, knowing that it may be fruitless.

  “I’m sorry,” Itachi’s calloused hand cups her cheek again, and she refuses to let her lip tremble.

  “When will I see you again?” she hates that she sounds small, hopeful. But his posture softens, and the corners of his mouth tilt up just slightly.

  “Soon,” he says, and then his hand shifts from her cheek and he – pokes her? Right in the centre of her forehead.

  “Take care, Miyu-san.”

  A blink, and he’s gone.

  She stands there, forehead tingling in the aftermath of his touch. Her own hand lifts to press against it, and she wonders at the gesture.

  “Ninja,” the sigh leaves her feeling rather amused, and with the day she’s had? Amused is more than she could have dreamt of.