Itachi Uchiha stood where he always did. Beneath the oldest oak at the edge of the treeline, where the roots broke ground and the shadow fell longest. He hadn't moved when the sound of footsteps reached him. He didn't need to. He knew the rhythm now—the weight of her stride, the hesitation she'd long abandoned. The recognition was instant. Unavoidable.

He was still in his training clothes, dark fabric clinging to damp shoulders. His hair, usually tied, was loose and slightly wet at the ends. A single strand had fallen across his cheek. He didn't push it back.

Y/N stepped into the clearing without slowing. The distance between them closed, and the air shifted in response. Not tension. Not threat. Something quieter. Something that had grown without permission.

Itachi's gaze met hers. Dark, steady, unreadable to anyone who didn't know what to look for. But she knew. She'd learned to recognize the subtle softening at the edges of his attention—the way he held her in his sight just a moment longer than necessary.