Chapter 346 — A Walk Down Memory Lane
Prelude: Threading Time in the Attic
The attic of Malik's magic mansion was a world unto itself—quiet, high above the bustle of enchanted kitchens and self-sorting libraries, wrapped in the hush of winter and the hum of soft, ambient magic. The walls of the room changed, and at present they were paneled in cedar, warm and fragrant, and the ceiling arched like the inside of a cathedral, beams carved with foxes, moons, and little stars that blinked when he wasn't looking at them.
On the far wall, a massive circular screen glowed faintly—a live map of the Land of Fire in winter, enchanted to show not just terrain but life. It was Malik's version of background noise: a slow, drifting documentary of snow-covered forests, foxes curled in dens, deer picking their way through frostbitten meadows, birds fluffing their feathers against the cold. Occasionally, a little subtitle would appear in the corner: "River otters: just being little guys." Or "Snow hare population: thriving."
Malik sat cross-legged on a velvet bench, surrounded by a chaos of fabric, notebooks, and half-finished ideas. He hadn't slept. Not even a nap. But he didn't feel tired—just suspended, like a thread waiting to be pulled.
In one hand, he scribbled notes into a battered recipe book titled "Sweet Alchemy: Volume 3." His handwriting was looping and dramatic, full of flourishes and side comments like "maybe add cinnamon unless you hate joy" and "Sakura will pretend not to like this, and complain about watching her figure, but she'll eat three."
In the other, he was working on a mannequin—netting, stitching, and layering fabric with a kind of focused grace. The outfit wasn't for him. It was a gift. A practice piece. A new skill he'd finally committed to learning: Threadcrafting, a hybrid art of magical tailoring and traditional sewing, blending chakra-infused fibers with mundane techniques. It was part spellwork, part patience, part aesthetic madness.
He'd named the discipline himself, of course. "Threadcrafting: The Art of Wearing Intention."
The current piece was a winter coat—deep plum with silver lining, designed to hold warmth without weight, and enchanted to resist snow but not hug the body too tightly. He was proud of the collar. It folded like a poem.
His thoughts drifted as he worked.
Should I add a hidden pocket? Maybe for snacks. Or a love letter. Or a kunai. Or all three.
He paused, adjusted the sleeve length, then glanced at the glowing map again. A fox was currently stealing a fish from a sleeping bear.
"Bold," he murmured. "Respect."
His mind jumped—foxes to bears to Malik's own date tonight. Sakura. Emerald dress. That smile she wore when she was trying not to be sentimental but failing beautifully.
He pulled out his phone, thumbed the screen.
Still early.
He had time.
He added a note to his recipe book: "Try barley tea with honey and ginger. Serve with quiet."
Then he leaned back, letting the attic's soft breeze ruffle his hair. The mansion adjusted the lighting automatically, casting a warm glow over his workspace. The mannequin stood like a silent witness to his thoughts, dressed in care and intention.
Malik smiled to himself.
He wasn't just killing time.
He was threading it.
He stretched out, "No point in waiting, I'll just go a little early and wait, no need to make me suffer and stay locked up like this."
And soon, he'd walk into the next chapter—coat buttoned, scarf neat, hands visible, heart open.
Ready.
The afternoon snow fell like sifted flour—thin enough to sparkle, quiet enough to soften everything it touched. Malik arrived at Sakura's door right on time: coat still buttoned, scarf neat, posture easy and deliberate. He rang once and waited with both hands visible, like a man choosing to leave all his tricks at home.
Sakura opened the door with winter practicality, just a little slower to not let in too much cold air into her home. Still, he smiled as thier faces and eyes finaly met, the door no longer blocking her, on the outside and nostalgia tucked beneath: a dark pea coat and knit scarf, hair clipped back so her eyes gleamed green as glass; and under the coat, an emerald wrap dress—the same cut she'd worn on their first date, now fitting differently over strength she'd earned. The fabric skimmed the curve of her hips and the steadiness of her waist; she'd noticed this in the mirror and let the pride stand.
He gave a small bow and didn't turn it into a flourish.
"Ready?" he asked, voice warm, ordinary.
"Ready," she said—and was surprised by how right the word felt.
They started walking.
Malik asked for her hand, and she gave it, "Then allow me to take you to The Park (Again, but Different)."
He'd chosen the same park from their earliest days—bare branches, low bridges dusted with snow, the pond iced in a gauzy sheet. This time he didn't fill the space with jokes. He matched his pace to hers, let conversation crest and fall without chasing it.
"How are your post-op rotations?" he asked.
"Long. Satisfying," she said. "I like teaching the interns more than I thought. It forces me to be clear."
"You've always been clear." No edge, no wink. "Sharp, even when tired."
It landed in a place praise rarely reached. She glanced at him from the scarf's shadow and, just for a beat, stood taller inside her coat.
"And you?" she asked. "Still doing miracles and lots of paperwork?"
"Endless forms, truly, I'm starting to hate the sight of paper, but . . ." he deadpanned. "I'm learning to sign my name in twelve polite ways."
They teased Tsunade's lecture tone; she teased his habit of anonymous donations he forgot to mention. They allowed the kind of silence that isn't awkward, just shared.
On the far side of the pond, he paused at the same bench. A thermos emerged from his satchel—plain, not conjured—and two enamel cups clicked gently on the wood.
"Barley tea," he said. "It's a little sweet, it's also warm, but other than that, nothing special with it or in it, sorry."
"Coward," she murmured, mouth curving.
"Maybe, but I might be a little Reformed," he said, smiling back at her.
Steam warmed the space between them. Malik's gaze sat gently on her expression, attentive to thoughts as they crossed like clouds. Proud, she realized—not of himself. Of her. The awareness settled through her like the heat they shared in this space.
They walked on, the snow crunching softly beneath their boots, until the path narrowed into a quiet corridor of bare trees and lantern-lit silence.
Malik looked up at the Lanterns, "I miss everyday electricity sometimes, but Lanterns are more romantic for sure."
Malik slowed his pace, letting the hush settle between them like a shared breath. Then, with a gentle flourish that was more instinct than performance, he extended his arm.
Sakura glanced at him, her expression unreadable for a moment, then slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. His fingers brushed once against the edge of her glove—just a light touch of contact, warm and fleeting—before settling into respectful stillness. It was the kind of gesture that said: I remember you. I remember us. And I'm still learning how to hold you gently.
They walked like that for a while, side by side, the rhythm of their steps syncing without effort. The snow fell in slow spirals, catching in the folds of her scarf and the edges of his coat, and for a moment, the world felt paused—like a photograph developing in real time.
Sakura broke the silence first, her voice touched with amusement. "You're recreating it."
Malik turned his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with that familiar pink-gold mischief. "Our first date," she clarified.
"Guilty," he replied, utterly unrepentant. "But I thought you might like it. Nostalgia is a great way to make people smile."
She smiled, soft and real. "I do," she admitted, and let her head tip briefly to his shoulder—not enough to lean, just enough to say I trust you with this memory.
Malik's heart did a quiet somersault, but he kept his tone light, playful. "Then I hope you know where we're headed next, my sweet Sakura."
She raised an eyebrow. "Spoilers?"
He grinned. "It's the museum. Handled with Care. Just like you."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't pull away. And in that moment, wrapped in snowlight and shared history, they weren't just walking—they were retracing something sacred, step by step, with the kind of grace that only comes from choosing each other again.
Their next stop was familiar: the small museum by the archives, with a winter exhibit of village craftwork—needlework from the war years, pottery thrown during flood seasons, a glass case of personal seals that never found their owners.
The first time they'd walked these rooms, he'd joked to outrun the weight of it all. Tonight he read a placard aloud now and then in a low voice, more to keep her company than to explain anything. At the display of medic-nin field kits from three generations ago, Sakura traced with words the evolution of each tool—what had become safer, what still wasn't—and he listened like a student under a favorite sensei, questions brief and respectful.
At the memorial ledger near the exit, he didn't touch it, didn't try to lighten it. He stood with her, equal height for once on the shallow step, and bowed his head the way she did. The moment felt like sealing a letter and promising not to break the wax again.
Outside, the snow had thinned to a shimmer.
"Thank you," she said. "For not trying to fix the sad parts."
"They're not broken," he said. "They're heavy. I can help carry, but I don't get to repaint them, at least not all of them."
She bumped his shoulder. "You're getting good at this."
"Don't tell anyone," he whispered. "It'll ruin my reputation."
They circled the building's side path slowly, the snow crunching beneath their boots like soft punctuation. The courtyard opened before them—quiet, tucked away, almost forgotten by the rest of the village. But not by them.
The cherry tree stood bare now, its branches skeletal against the pale sky, reaching like memory itself. Beneath it, the bench remained exactly as it had been: worn smooth by time, dusted with frost, and still holding the echo of a kiss that had once left Sakura dazed and grinning against her own better judgment.
Malik slowed, letting the moment breathe. His hands found her waist with the kind of care that felt ceremonial—light, reverent, as though the air between them had edges he dared not disturb.
"Do you remember what you said here?" he asked, voice low, threaded with warmth and something quieter—a kind of awe.
She did. The words surfaced easily, like a lantern rising through water. "'Our world is fraught with danger… but as long as people are willing to stand up and fight, there's hope.'"
He smiled, not just with his mouth but with the whole of him. "You were fierce," he said. "You still are."
His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, slow and steady, and the kiss that followed wasn't hungry or showy. It was deliberate. Deep. A kiss shaped like a promise, like a memory being honored rather than rewritten. When they parted, Sakura laughed—breathless, surprised by how much it still moved her.
"Still think you're a gentleman?" she teased, her voice soft but edged with challenge.
"I'm trying to be," he said, and his eyes—bright with that unguarded hope she'd come to recognize—made her chest ache in the best way. It wasn't just affection. It was belief. In her. In them. In the fragile, beautiful thing they'd built between their lives, between their own missions and their own madness.
He didn't let go of her waist. His hands stayed there, warm and steady, his heat sinking through her coat and skin, reaching her heart like a quiet spell.
"Let's finish this," he murmured, "by going to the pool. The same one as before—simple, private, gentle."
Sakura didn't answer right away. She just leaned in, forehead brushing his, her breath mingling with his in the cold air. The cherry tree above them stood silent, its branches bare but not broken.
And beneath it, two people stood in the middle of a memory—choosing, again, to make it matter.
Twilight ran blue between the buildings. She already knew the last stop; Ino had teased her over tea about her own nostalgia date, about stars and rooftop promises.
The staff at the small indoor pool nodded to Sakura. Malik handled the paperwork like any husband booking a lane. Inside the private room, cedar beams arced above a hush of steam. Towels waited, a covered tray of cut fruit and onigiri, a little sign: Reserved — Haruno & Malik.
"Fifteen minutes to change?" he offered.
"Ten," she said, because she knew he was timing himself too.
In the dressing room, Sakura unfolded the same rose-pink suit. It still fit, differently: shoulders stronger, thighs carved with earned work. She tied her hair up and smiled at her reflection—not at perfection but at proof.
When she came out, Malik was already on deck in a plain swim shirt and trunks, towel over one shoulder, bare feet on warm tile. His eyes found her and softened; his mouth stayed disciplined.
"You look beautiful," he said. Just that. Just right.
"You too," she answered, surprised by how much she meant it—he looked present, grounded, assured without performing.
They eased into the water side by side. No splash contests, no tricks. They matched breaths, turned at the wall together. On the third lap his fingers brushed hers beneath the surface—not catching, just checking, the way divers do.
"How's the shoulder?" he asked between strokes.
"Better," she said. "Don't baby me."
"Wouldn't dare."
They migrated to the shallow end and simply floated. She let her hair fan in the water, eyes on ceiling beams; he anchored lightly at the wall, close enough to be a shore, far enough to be respectful. The quiet filled itself with their breathing and the soft lap of water against tile.
"You're leaving again soon," the practical part of her thought. And the ache that used to come with that thought didn't arrive. Work chosen has a cleaner weight. You're stronger than that first date, she told herself. Smarter. Kinder to yourself. And he sees it.
"Tell me your list," he said at last, voice echoing gently. "You've got two days off. What do you want?"
"Breakfast with more protein than sugar."
Malik luahged at that"A true Betrayal," he whispered. "But for you, it's granted."
"Midday nap. No guilt."
"Sacrilege. Approved."
"Boots for the little ones at the orphanage."
"Already ordered," he admitted, and earned her laugh.
"Dinner where we don't talk work," she added, then rolled to face him. "And one stupid thing."
He feigned suspicion. "Define 'stupid.'"
"Buying a plant and pretending we won't kill it. Or carving our initials somewhere we'll never admit. Or watching a truly terrible movie and refusing to turn it off because it becomes a challenge."
He considered solemnly. "All three. A botanical crime, even though I'm good at taking care of plants, a secret misdemeanor, another of many, and cinematic endurance, might be fun."
She drifted close until their shoulders touched under the warm water. He didn't push the contact farther; he just let it say I'm here. I'm careful with you. I'm still me, and I'm trying in the ways you asked.
They climbed out at last, damp and flushed. She stole all the melon and half his onigiri; he performed a quiet tragedy and surrendered his share. Conversation wandered over Tsunade's budget rants, Kiba's ill-fated winter haircut, Shizune's relentless patience, and Ino's star-roof plan when she returned.
"Ino told me about her date," Sakura said, tone light but honest. "She sounded… happy."
"Good," Malik said. "That was the point. To stitch a thread she could follow back."
"You know you don't have to turn every date into medicine, there isn't anything to heal," she said, a smile tucked into the words.
He winced, caught. "Habit. I'm working on being human first."
"You're doing fine," she said, nudging his knee with hers. "Tonight felt like you—and like us. Not the show. The thing underneath."
"That's the goal," he said softly. "Show stays in the box unless you want it."
"I like the show," she admitted, cheeks warming. "Just not all the time."
"Noted."
She hesitated and then gave him the medal he wasn't fishing for. "You didn't comment on me once."
"On your—" He shut his mouth, heroic restraint warring with mischief.
"Yes," she said, amused. "I know it cost you five jokes and three dramatic fainting fits."
He surrendered. "I screamed quietly in my soul."
"I heard it," she said, laughing.
Malik crossed the warm tile with a soft patter, the hush of the private pool room settling around them like folded felt. Sakura had already slid forward on her lounge chair without him asking—wordless invitation, earned and ordinary. He climbed onto the chair behind her, knees bracketing her hips, and she leaned back until her shoulder blades met his chest with a small grateful sound that wasn't quite a sigh.
Her hand found his and tugged it to her waist, then the other. "When it's just us," she murmured, eyes on the cedar beams, "you can be touchy. I like it. Just don't be… you at full volume when there's an audience."
He didn't answer right away.
She felt the pause, the way his breath thinned and went thoughtful. The steam curled off the pool and into the quiet between them. She turned, just enough to see his profile—brows knit, that familiar storm of honesty trying to line itself up into something careful.
"Hey," she said softly, brushing her temple against his jaw. "You're allowed to think. I just prefer to be warned."
He tightened his arms around her, as though remembering he had them. "Sorry," he said. Then she turned her head, kissed his cheek—warm, quick—and he huffed a small laugh.
"Sticky," he accused. "You robbed the fruit tray."
"Occupational hazard," she said, lips quirking. "Now talk."
He drew a breath that felt like a decision. "I should get the excuses out of the way first."
"Try 'context,'" she said. "It's friendlier."
"Context, then." He rested his chin lightly on her shoulder. "I'm… an incubus. Not the fun poster—the real kind. Bound to Love and Lust, capital L both, courtesy of the twin goddesses who thought it would be hilarious to put charisma and compulsion in the same basket and hand me the handle."
She didn't move. Didn't stiffen. Just listened.
"It doesn't make me a victim of it," he went on, voice even. "But it makes desire loud. The stronger I get, the louder it gets. And love—love is louder still. That's my anchor. You're my anchor. But there are days when the static in my bones is… a lot."
She slid her fingers over his forearm and laced them through. I hear you, the gesture said, neat as a chart note.
"And you," he said, voice catching a fraction, "you make it worse."
"Flattered," she deadpanned.
"I mean it as a compliment and a confession." He kissed the slope where neck met shoulder; didn't linger. "You're beautiful. Ridiculously. But more than that—you were first. First to say yes without bargaining for the version of me you wanted later. Part of me still trips over that. Still whispers I was a rebound when Sasuke knew himself and bowed out."
She started to speak—heat in the inhale—but he kissed her cheek again, quick. "Let me finish."
She shut her mouth and raised one brow. Proceed carefully.
"That's old tape," he said. "I don't feed it anymore. But I'm telling you because honesty now is cheaper than confession later. I love you—skin, eyes, mind that could cow a very old mountain, the muscles you built like a thesis you defended with your whole life. I love who you are when you're gentle and when you're furious and when you're so tired you drink soup standing up at the counter and fall asleep mid-sip."
"Rude," she murmured, smiling despite herself.
"I'm done measuring myself against ghosts," he said. "I'm measuring myself against you. If you and everyone I love can train every day and give your bodies to effort, I can train my appetites. I can be better. Public teasing? It'll leak sometimes; I'm flawed and your angry face is art. But you will never be a prop for my persona. Not in a room, not in a rumor."
He shifted, arms firm at her waist, voice steady as a vow. "I want a long time with you. Years before we even pronounce the word children without laughing. A house with quiet corners and a kitchen that smells like broth more often than fire. Boots for kids who need them. A plant we inevitably name and argue about watering schedules for. And when the missions and miracles pull me away, I want to come back to the same bench, the same cedar beams, and the same woman who expects me to keep choosing her on purpose."
He exhaled. "So here's the promise, Sakura Haruno. I will keep love louder than lust. I will treat you like the force you are—in public with respect, in private with the softness you allow me, and on the bad days with patience that doesn't ask you to smile first. If you choose to stay the length of my life, I'll give you all of me. Not just the spectacle. The ordinary. The difficult. The true."
Silence, warm and deep. The hum of the room and the little tick of water against tile. She didn't answer quickly, because she never did when the stakes were real.
Finally, Sakura spoke—clear, surgical, kind.
"First," she said, turning a fraction to face him better, "you were never a rebound. I didn't pick you because a door closed. I picked you because you knocked and didn't barge in. You waited in the cold with tea and a grin and an apology ready if I said no. That is not rebound energy. That's character."
His throat worked. She kept going.
"Second: your nature isn't a flaw to be apologized into the ground. It's a system to be managed. You name it. You put safety rails on it. You call me when the static is bad and you go run laps with Lee or make broth with Shizune or let Ino rant about three clients until the feeling passes. You do not 'white-knuckle' this alone and then present me with a tidy report."
He nodded against her shoulder. She squeezed his fingers once. Hard.
"Third," she said, eyes flicking up to the beams, voice softening, "I love you. Not the idea. You. The man who shows up with boots and paperwork and remembers the name of every nurse at a station. The man who can cook joy into rice and keep his hands to himself in a museum because he knows the weight of a room. The man who gets it wrong, apologizes with his whole chest, and tries again."
She tilted her head back until their eyes met. "You don't need to earn me every week. Just keep choosing. Make good on your promise—and expect me to make good on mine."
"Which is?" he asked, barely a whisper.
"To be your partner, not your project." A beat. "To tell you when you're being ridiculous. To drag you away from a stove when your eyes go glassy. To be soft when you deserve it and sharp when you need it. To keep my work, my friends, my life—and let you in, deliberately, not because you demanded space but because you built a place worth sharing."
Her mouth curved, wicked and sweet. "And to allow tasteful touching in private quarters."
He laughed, a quiet unspooling. "Tasteful?"
"Subject to renegotiation," she said, eyes bright.
She reached up and framed his face in wet, warm hands. "About Sasuke: we are friends who failed in romance and succeeded in honesty. He's happier being himself. I'm happier being with you. I don't compare the roads anymore. I check my footing and keep walking. And being honest, I try not to think about him, for a few reasons you already know."
Then, gentle but firm, "Boundaries. You knew this was coming."
"Yes, Doctor."
"In public," she said, ticking them off like rounds, "no playful humiliation. No surprise kisses in front of subordinates. No using my name to grease a door open without asking. In private, more of this—asking, listening, holding. When you slip? You fix it. Not with gifts. With changed behavior."
"I can do that," he said.
"You will," she corrected, and kissed his cheek again, softer. "Also, for the record: I like your show. I fell for the mind under it, but I like the glitter. Just… don't weaponize it at me when I'm trying to be serious. We clear?"
"Clear," he said, relief like light behind his eyes.
"And lastly," she added, leaning back into him fully, granting weight, "don't apologize for loving me out loud. It's allowed. I can handle it." Her smile tilted. "You are not the only loud thing in this relationship."
He snorted. "Noted. Loud."
She settled, and he adjusted, palms spanning her waist, thumbs resting in the warm divot above her hipbones. The room felt smaller in the good way—the way that says we built this circle and we keep it clean. After a minute, she spoke again, conversational, merciful.
"You still owe me stupid," she said.
"The plant, the misdemeanor, and cinematic suffering," he recited.
"Mmm. And breakfast with too much protein."
"A betrayal of my people," he sighed. "I'll make it edible."
She angled him a look. "You'll make it good. You always do."
"Flattery detected," he said primly. "Logging it for later."
"Log this," she murmured, and turned in his arms enough to kiss him—steady, grounded, nothing to prove. He matched her—pressure, breath, the brief press of a smile into the shape of the kiss when she nipped his lower lip because she could.
When they parted, he rested his forehead to hers. "Thank you."
"For what?" she asked.
"For treating me like a person I can live up to."
She huffed a laugh that was half a breath and half a promise. "Then live up."
He nodded, once, like a soldier accepting orders he'd written with her. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good." She nudged him with her shoulder. "Now towel, tea, and then the plant. We're naming this one Not Dead Yet."
"Morbid."
"Motivating."
He kissed her temple, then unwound himself carefully, offering a hand to help her up he knew she didn't need and she took anyway. As they moved—towels, soft banter, the pleasant ache of having said the thing and found it received—Malik felt the static ease, not silenced but civilized. Love, louder. Lust, listened to and leashed. A plan, practical and kind.
They tidied the space—towels folded, tray covered, room left better than they'd found it. Contentment settled in her bones like a good weight: not buzz, not exhaustion. Held. Respected. Seen.
They left damp footprints across warm tile and stepped back into winter wrapped in cedar and steadiness, two people walking home the long way on purpose—picking a plant with a foolish name and a fightable chance, ready to practice what they'd just promised in the smallest rooms of their shared life.
The Walk Home (Hands and Promises)
Back in their coats, they took the long way. Konoha was winter-hushed; smoke ribbons twisted into early night. Malik offered his arm; Sakura laced her fingers near his wrist. He squeezed once. She squeezed back.
"I'm glad you asked me out the same way again," she said as their steps tapped the stone. "I'm glad it wasn't the same."
"Me too," he said. "I like who we were. I love who we're making."
Near her gate she slowed, then stopped just shy, as if savoring the last bit of path she'd walk alone. He faced her without theatrics—just a man happy to be here.
"Breakfast at mine," he said. "Then boots. Then nap. Then crimes and cinema."
"And you'll try not to sneak out before dawn," she said, mock-stern.
"I will try," he promised. "And tell you if I fail."
"Yes, you will," she said, eyes warm. She stepped in and rested her forehead against his. He let the moment press a neat seal over the evening. When she leaned back, he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles—old-fashioned, careful.
"Goodnight, Sakura."
"Goodnight, Malik."
She took the final steps alone on purpose. He watched long enough to see her glance back and smile at finding him still there.
The snow began again—small, patient, steady. Malik walked home with his hands in his pockets and his heart full of a thing that didn't need magic to name itself.
Not a grand performance.
Not a spectacle.
Just a gentleman, a queen, and a quiet yes to carry them both through the noise.
The snow had just begun to fall again—soft, deliberate, like the sky was whispering lullabies to the rooftops. Malik's boots tapped lightly against the stone as he walked away from Sakura's house, hands tucked into his coat pockets, heart full and quiet. The night wrapped around him like a well-worn cloak, the cold hitting his skin in a full cool breeze, and he let himself savor it—no rush, no spellwork, just the slow rhythm of a man walking home from something good.
Then, from above, a window creaked open.
"S'cuse me!" Sakura's voice rang out, clear and unmistakable, cutting through the hush like a bell. "You were supposed to ask me, 'Can I come in and spend the night?'"
Malik stopped mid-step, turned slowly, and looked up with a grin already blooming across his face. Her silhouette was framed in the second-story window, hair loose, cheeks flushed from warmth and mischief. She leaned on the sill like a queen surveying her kingdom—and catching her knight trying to sneak off without a proper farewell.
"I was trying to be romantic," he called back, voice lilting with mock innocence.
She gave him a look. The kind that said don't play coy with me, the kind that could melt steel and freeze fire in equal measure.
"Then be romantic in my room," she said, one brow raised, arms folded with theatrical patience.
Malik's grin widened. "No need to tell a man twice."
He stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and with a flick of his fingers, the air shimmered beneath his boots. A soft pulse of pink-gold magic lifted him off the ground—graceful, effortless, like a leaf caught in a warm updraft. His coat fluttered behind him as he ascended, boots skimming the snowflakes, eyes locked on hers.
Sakura didn't move from the window. She just watched him rise, arms still crossed, mouth twitching at the corners.
He hovered just outside the frame, one hand braced on the sill, the other reaching toward her.
"Permission to enter, Captain Haruno?"
She leaned forward, kissed him once—quick, firm, and entirely approving.
"Granted," she said.
He swung himself through the window with practiced ease, landing lightly on the floor of her room. The warmth hit him instantly—her scent, her space, the quiet hum of a heater and the soft rustle of blankets. She turned and walked toward the bed without ceremony, already pulling her hair into a loose bun.
Malik followed, shedding his coat with a flick, boots vanishing into a neat corner with a whisper of magic.
"Romantic enough?" he asked, voice low.
She glanced over her shoulder. "We'll see."
And as the snow continued to fall outside, gentle and steady, Malik stepped into the room not as a guest, but as something far more deliberate—a man invited, a man chosen, a man who knew how to ask and how to stay.