Chapter 4: The Bath and the Bed
The bathwater was too hot.
Kakashi discovered this the moment Sakura guided him into the tub, the scalding heat seeping into muscles he hadn't realized were clenched. He hissed through his teeth, one hand gripping the porcelain edge, but he didn't pull away. Steam curled around them like a second skin, fogging the small mirror above the sink, blurring the world beyond this room into something soft and irrelevant.
"Too much?" Sakura asked. She was behind him, still dressed in nothing but a loose shirt she'd pulled on after they'd stumbled out of bed. Her hair was a mess—pink strands sticking up at odd angles, the kind of chaos that made her look younger and older at the same time.
"It's fine."
"You're lying."
"I'm a shinobi. We're trained to endure worse than hot water."
Sakura laughed. Not the polite kind, but the real thing—bright and unexpected, echoing off the tiled walls. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
He was learning.
She knelt beside the tub and uncapped a small jar. The smell hit him immediately—sharp and herbal, tinged with something that reminded him of the ointments medics used in the field. But softer. More deliberate.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Arnica. Comfrey. A few things I've been experimenting with." She scooped some onto her fingers. "It'll help with the soreness."
"I'm not sore."
"Humor me."
She reached for him.
Kakashi flinched.
He didn't mean to. It was instinct, drilled into him over years of missions and ambushes and the kind of trauma that rewired a person's nervous system. When someone reached for you, you braced. When someone touched you, you prepared for pain.
Sakura's hand hovered in the air. She didn't pull back. Didn't flinch.
"Okay," she said, like she understood something he hadn't said out loud. "I'll go slow. Is that all right?"
He nodded.
Her fingers pressed against his shoulders.
The salve was cool, startlingly so after the heat of the bath. It spread across his skin in slow, deliberate circles, and something in Kakashi's chest cracked open. Her hands worked at the knots in his muscles—the ones that had calcified years ago, the ones he'd stopped noticing because they'd become a permanent part of his anatomy. Months of back-to-back missions. Years of sleeping on the ground, in trees, in the kind of positions that destroyed spines. Decades of carrying weight he was never meant to carry alone.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"I know."
She dug her thumb into a particularly stubborn knot, and Kakashi's vision went white at the edges. Not from pain. From the release. It was like a kunai being pulled out of a wound he'd forgotten was bleeding.
"Right there," he said. "Fuck, right there."
"I found it."
She kept working. Her hands moved down his back, easing tension he hadn't known was there, and Kakashi had to grip the edge of the tub to keep himself upright. The bathwater rippled around his waist. Steam rose in lazy spirals. And somewhere in the apartment, a clock ticked slowly, measuring time in a way that felt almost cruel—because he didn't want this to end.
"Your knees," she said. "Are they still hurting?"
"A little."
"Lean back."
He turned his head. "What?"
"Lean back. I'll do your knees next."
He shifted in the water, turning to face her. The tub was small—too small for two adults—but he managed to angle himself toward the edge, his legs bent, knees rising above the surface.
Sakura applied salve to her palms.
Then she touched him.
Her hands wrapped around his right knee, and Kakashi stopped breathing. Not because it hurt. Because it was gentle. Because she was careful. Because someone was tending to him—not out of medical necessity, not because he was injured in the line of duty, but because she wanted to.
"You're tight here," she said quietly.
"I kneel a lot."
"I've noticed."
He didn't know why that made his face flush.
Her thumbs traced circles along the sides of his kneecap. She worked at the tendons, the muscles, the small, overlooked places that carried weight in ways no one ever acknowledged. Water lapped against the sides of the tub. The candle on the sink flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls.
"Does that feel okay?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
She finished with his right knee and moved to his left. Same careful attention. Same deliberate pressure. Kakashi closed his eyes and let himself feel it—the warmth of the water, the soothing cool of the salve, the strange, unfamiliar sensation of being cared for.
By the time she finished, he was barely holding himself together.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome."
She pulled off her shirt.
Kakashi blinked. "Sakura—"
"I'm getting in."
"There's no room."
"Then we'll make room."
She stepped over the edge of the tub, one foot at a time, and the water rose alarmingly. Kakashi reached out instinctively, one hand finding her hip to steady her as she lowered herself into the water. Her body pressed against his—breasts against his chest, thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of her overwhelming in the best possible way.
The water sloshed.
It spilled over the rim, pooling on the floor tiles, but neither of them moved to fix it.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"Still okay?"
He looked at her. Really looked. The way the candlelight caught the wet strands of her hair. The way her lips curved into that knowing smile. The way she fit against him like she'd done this a hundred times—except he knew she hadn't. She was just comfortable. Confident. Certain.
"I'm better than okay," he said.
And for once, he meant it.
She kissed him.
It started soft—gentle pressure, the taste of her mixed with the mineral bite of the water. But then she shifted her hips, and Kakashi felt her slide against him, and the softness disappeared. His hands found her waist. Her fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss deepened into something hungrier, and he was hard again, or still hard, or maybe he'd never stopped.
"Condom?" she breathed against his mouth.
"Bedroom."
"Fuck."
"I can—"
"No. I'll get it."
She rose from the water—water streaming down her body, her skin flushed pink from the heat—and disappeared into the other room. Kakashi sat in the tub, breathless and aching, listening to her rustle through drawers.
She came back with a foil packet between her teeth.
"Cute," he said.
"Shut up."
She climbed back into the tub. Water sloshed again. He reached for her hips, and she positioned herself above him, tearing the packet open with quick, practiced fingers.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yes."
She rolled the condom down his cock. Her hands were steady. His were not.
Then she lowered herself onto him.
The world stopped.
Kakashi's head fell back against the rim of the tub. His breath caught in his throat. She was tight—tighter than before, maybe because of the angle, or the heat, or the way she was sinking onto him inch by inch, slow as a blade sliding home.
"Gods," he managed.
"Good?"
"Fuck."
She moved.
Slow at first. Deliberate. Water lapped against the sides of the tub with every shift of her hips. Her hands found his shoulders. Her forehead pressed against his. And she rode him—there was no other word for it, no elegant euphemism that captured the way she moved above him, the way her body claimed his.
"You feel—" He couldn't finish.
"I know."
"Fuck, Sakura—"
"Shh."
She kissed him. Swallowed his words. Her tongue swept against his, and her hips kept moving, finding a rhythm that made his toes curl and his fingers dig into her hips.
"You're so deep," she whispered against his mouth. "Feel that? That's you."
He felt it. Every inch. Every stroke. Every time her inner walls clenched around him, it was like she was trying to pull him deeper, desperate to keep him there.
"You like that?" she asked.
"Yes. Yes. Don't stop."
She didn't.
She rode him through the water, through the heat, through the steam that filled the tiny bathroom until the air itself felt thick and liquid. His hands moved from her hips to her ass, gripping hard—desperate—and she moaned into his mouth when he squeezed.
"Harder," she said.
"What?"
"You. I want it harder."
He didn't need to be told twice.
Kakashi shifted beneath her. Planted his feet against the bottom of the tub. Thrust upward, burying himself inside her in one swift motion—and Sakura gasped, her whole body jolting.
"Oh fuck yes," she breathed.
He did it again. And again. Water splashed over the rim in waves—he ignored it. Sakura's mouth found his neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. He groaned, feeling the pain and the pleasure merge into something electric.
"You're going to make a mess," he said.
"I don't care."
Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her hips moved against his, countering every thrust. They found a rhythm—messy and frantic and entirely theirs—and Kakashi felt the pleasure building in his gut, winding tighter with every stroke.
"I'm close," he said.
"Me too. Don't stop."
He didn't.
Sakura came first—her body arching, her nails digging into his skin, a broken, cut-off cry escaping her lips. The sight of her falling apart pushed him over the edge, and he followed her—thrusting up into her one last time, shuddering, spilling himself into the condom even as she clenched around him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The bathwater had cooled. The candle had burned down to a stub. And somewhere in the apartment, a neighbor's radio played a slow, melancholy song.
"That was," Sakura said.
"Yeah."
"We're going to need towels."
"A lot of towels."
She laughed. He laughed with her.
Then she climbed off him, and the water sloshed one more time, and Kakashi realized he didn't know the last time he'd done this—laughed with someone. Not at a joke. Not at a mission gone wrong. Just… laughed.
He liked it.
They dried each other off.
It was inefficient—Sakura kept getting distracted, and Kakashi kept getting distracted by her, and the towels ended up in a pile on the floor while they traded kisses that were more lazy than urgent. But that was okay. That was fine.
She led him back to the bedroom.
The sheets were still tangled. The book on the nightstand was still face-down, spine cracked, page forgotten. Sakura collapsed onto the mattress and pulled him down beside her, and Kakashi let himself be pulled.
The ceiling was a blank expanse of white.
He stared at it for a long time.
"Hey," Sakura said.
"Mm."
"What are you thinking about?"
He thought about lying. Thought about deflecting, making a joke, retreating into the kind of evasion that had kept him safe for twenty-one years.
Instead, he considered the question.
"You," he said.
"What about me?"
"I'm thinking I don't want to leave."
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Honest. Real.
Sakura shifted next to him. Her hand found his chest, fingers tracing absent patterns across his skin.
"Then don't," she said.
"I have a mission next week."
"So?"
"So I should be preparing."
"You can prepare tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, I have—"
"Kakashi."
He stopped.
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Her expression was serious now. Tender. The kind of expression that saw through masks.
"You don't have to leave," she said. "You don't have to disappear. You're allowed to stay."
He didn't know how to tell her that staying was the one thing he'd never learned. That disappearing was easier. That missions made sense, and fights made sense, and leaving made sense.
This didn't. This was the kind of thing that had no protocol, no manual—just a woman who wanted him to stay, a bed that smelled like her, and a gravity that pulled him down instead of away.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"I'll stay."
She smiled.
It was the kind of smile that could shatter years of discipline and training, and Kakashi felt that shatter happening in slow motion. He felt the walls he'd built crumbling, brick by brick.
She lay back down. Curled against his side. Her breathing slowed, and her heartbeat steadied, and the night outside grew quiet.
Kakashi didn't sleep.
He lay awake and counted the minutes until dawn—not because he wanted to leave, but because he wanted to remember this. The weight of her head on his chest. The soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. The fact that someone was there—really there—and so was he.
The hours passed.
The stars moved.
And for the first time in twenty-one years, Kakashi didn't count the minutes until dawn because he needed an escape.
He counted them because he couldn't believe this was real.
He counted them because he couldn't believe this was real.
The ceiling hadn't changed. Still white. Still blank. Still the same cracked plaster he'd been staring at for hours, but the weight on his chest had shifted. Sakura's breath came slow and even now, her body curled against his like she'd been sleeping next to him for years instead of hours.
His arm had gone numb somewhere around three in the morning.
He didn't move it.
The window above her dresser let in a thin sliver of moonlight, just enough to trace the outline of her shoulder. Skin still faintly pink from the bath. Still warm. He could feel her heartbeat through his ribs—steady, unhurried, the kind of rhythm that belonged to someone who wasn't afraid of what morning might bring.
Kakashi had spent his entire life waking before dawn. Old habit. Necessary habit. You didn't survive as a shinobi by sleeping through the hours when enemies moved. But tonight his body refused to follow the pattern. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, he'd catch himself listening—not for threats, not for danger, just for her.
The soft catch in her breathing when she shifted. The almost-silent mumble against his collarbone. The way her fingers curled into the fabric of the sheet, holding on even in sleep.
He'd never been held before.
Not like this.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, and he didn't know what to do with it. Twenty-one years of training, and nothing had prepared him for the simple, devastating weight of another person's trust. She'd handed it to him without hesitation. Without conditions. Just laid it against his skin like it was nothing—like he was someone worth trusting.
The book on her nightstand caught his eye. Still there. Still face-down, spine cracked. He wondered what page she was on. Wondered if she'd tell him when she finished.
Outside, the village was quiet.
No footsteps in the street. No distant shouts from the training grounds. Konoha at rest was a rare thing, and he'd almost forgotten what it sounded like—or rather, what it didn't sound like. The silence felt different tonight. Less like waiting for an attack. More like permission.
He didn't know when he'd stopped counting the exits.
But somewhere between the bath and this bed and the slow unwinding of hours, the hypervigilance had faded. Not gone—never gone—but quieted. Like a guard dog that had finally decided the danger wasn't coming tonight.
Dawn crept in sideways.
First as a softening of shadows. Then as a gray-blue wash that turned the room into something softer, gentler. The moonlight retreated. Birds started up somewhere outside, tentative at first, then louder. The world was waking up, and Kakashi was still here.
Still here.
The thought should have panicked him. Should have triggered the familiar itch—the need to move, to leave, to disappear before anyone could get too close. He waited for it. Counted heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
Sakura stirred beside him. A small sound, half-formed, lost somewhere between sleep and waking. Her hand found his chest in the dark, fingers spreading wide like she was checking he was still there.
"I'm here," he said.
His voice came out rough. Barely a whisper. He wasn't sure she'd heard.
Her fingers pressed harder against his skin.
"Good," she mumbled.
The word landed somewhere deep. Somewhere he didn't have a name for.
He watched the light grow. Watched it creep across the floorboards, over the discarded towels, up the side of the mattress. Watched it find the curve of her hip, bare above the tangled sheet.
His hand moved before he decided to move it.
Just his fingertips. Just a light touch. He traced the line of her waist, barely grazing her skin, like he was learning the shape of her by feel. Memorizing it. Her hip bone. The soft dip beneath her ribs. The rise of her shoulder. Every inch of her was warm, and real, and here, and he couldn't stop touching her.
Not hungry. Not urgent. Just... touching.
Because he could. Because she'd let him. Because twenty-one years of nothing had made him desperate to know what this felt like—the simple, staggering fact of another person's body under his hands.
Sakura made a small noise.
He stilled.
"Don't stop," she said, voice thick with sleep.
"You're awake?"
"Mm. Kind of." She stretched beneath his hand, a slow arch of her spine that pushed her breasts against his palm. "How long have you been up?"
"Not long."
"Liar."
"You don't know that."
She opened one eye. Green, hazy, sharp all at once. "Your arm's been dead for at least an hour. I can tell."
He glanced at his hand. Still tingling. Still numb.
"Maybe two," he admitted.
"Kakashi."
"I didn't want to move."
Something in her expression softened. She reached up, her hand finding his face—palm against his jaw, thumb tracing the maskless line of his cheek. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
His hand started moving again.
Slow. Deliberate. He traced the curve of her breast, the swell of it, the weight in his palm. Her nipple tightened under his thumb, and she breathed out—a soft, shaky sound that sent heat straight to his gut.
"You're going to start something," she said.
"I know."
"Are you sure?"
"Are you?"
She answered by pulling him closer.
Her leg hooked over his hip. Her mouth found his throat—hot and open and wet—and his hand slid down her stomach, lower, until he found the slick heat between her thighs.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"You're already—"
"I know. I know."
He pressed two fingers inside her. She gasped, her hips jerking against his hand, and he watched her face—watched the way her eyes fluttered shut, the way her mouth fell open. He wanted to memorize this too. Wanted to know exactly what she looked like when she came apart.
"Kakashi."
"Yeah."
"Now."
He pulled his hand back. She reached for the nightstand—fumbling through the drawer, finding another foil packet. Her fingers tore it open, and she rolled it onto him with quick, practiced urgency.
Then she pulled him over her.
"Like this," she said. "Slow. I want to feel you."
He sank into her.
Slow. Just like she'd asked. Just like she'd said. The heat of her clenched around him, and his breath caught somewhere in his throat—stuck, suspended, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body.
"Okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. Yeah. Just—give me a second."
She waited.
Her hands found his face again, thumbs tracing the hollows beneath his eyes, the slope of his nose, the lines of his mouth. She looked at him like no one ever had. Not like a weapon. Not like a legend. Just like a person—flawed and wanting and terrified of letting this end.
"Move," she whispered.
He moved.
Slow. Deep. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, a pressure that built between them like water behind a dam. Sakura's legs wrapped around his waist. Her heels dug into his back. Her mouth found his ear, her teeth nipping at the lobe.
"Harder," she said.
"I thought you wanted—"
"I changed my mind."
He gave her harder.
His hips snapped against hers—fast now, sharp now, the kind of rhythm that knocked the breath out of both of them. The headboard hit the wall. The sheets twisted beneath them. Sweat slid down his back, and her nails raked lines of fire across his shoulders.
"Fuck, Sakura—"
"Yeah—don't stop—"
"I'm not—"
"If you stop, I'll kill you."
He laughed. Chest heaving. Breathless. Then he fucked her harder, and the laugh turned into something else—a groan that started in his gut and worked its way up.
She came first.
Her whole body seized—back arching, head thrown back, mouth wide in a scream she swallowed at the last second. The sight of her, the feel of her clenching around him, was enough to tip him over.
He followed.
Two, three more thrusts. Then he was buried as deep as he could go, spilling into the condom, his body trembling with the force of it. The world went white at the edges. His arms gave out.
He collapsed onto her.
Neither of them moved.
Kakashi lay on top of her, chest heaving, heart slamming against his ribs. Her hands drifted into his hair—slow, lazy strokes against his scalp. Her legs stayed wrapped around him. Her breath was hot against his ear.
"Stay," she said.
"Wasn't planning on going anywhere."
"Good."
Minutes passed.
He didn't know how many. Time had stopped being linear. The only thing that mattered was the sound of her heartbeat, still racing beneath his, and the way her fingers kept moving through his hair.
Eventually, she let him go.
He pulled out slowly. She winced, just slightly, and he kissed her shoulder in apology before rolling onto his back. The condom went into the tissue on the nightstand—he'd deal with it later, or maybe just leave it, because he couldn't find the energy to care.
"We should shower," she said.
"We just had a bath."
"Hours ago. Now we need a shower." She sat up, stretching again, and he watched the muscles move beneath her skin. "Come on. I'll scrub your back."
"You're making it sound like a threat."
"I'm full of surprises."
The shower was quick.
Sakura washed his hair with actual shampoo—the kind that smelled like something, instead of the bar soap he used back at his apartment. Her fingers worked through the tangles, and he stood under the spray with his eyes closed, letting her finish what the bath had started.
When they stepped out, she handed him a towel. Then another one. Then pointed at his wet hair.
"You're not going out like that," she said.
"I wasn't planning on going out at all."
"So you're just going to drip all over my floor?"
"...Yes."
She threw a towel at his face.
They made breakfast together.
Kakashi sat on the counter—perched on the edge, feet dangling—while Sakura scrambled eggs and burned the first batch of toast. The kitchen was small, cluttered, bright with the mid-morning sun. She moved around it like she'd done this a hundred times. Maybe she had. Maybe she'd made breakfast for other people, in this kitchen, at this counter.
He frowned at the thought.
"What?" she asked, not looking up.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"I'm not—"
"You just made a face."
He hadn't realized he'd made a face. That was concerning. His face was supposed to be under control at all times. The mask was supposed to be off, yes—but the rest of him was supposed to be contained. Controlled. Unreadable.
"You're easy to read," she said, "when you're not hiding behind that thing."
"I'm not hiding."
"You were, for a long time."
He didn't have an answer for that.
She didn't seem to need one.
She slid a plate toward him—eggs, toast, a token slice of tomato. He looked at it. Then at her. Then at the plate again.
"You made me breakfast," he said.
"Profound observation."
"Why?"
Sakura paused. Fork halfway to her mouth. She set it down slowly, her expression shifting into something more serious.
"Because you're here," she said. "Because you didn't leave. Because I wanted to."
"Oh."
"You don't have to make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird."
"You're making it weird."
He picked up his fork. Took a bite of eggs. Chewed. Swallowed. Then, very deliberately: "This is good."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
He shut up.
She grinned. That grin—the one that meant she'd won, that she knew something he didn't, that she was enjoying every second of this. He should have been annoyed. Instead, something in his chest loosened. Something that had been wound tight for as long as he could remember, finally letting go.
They ate in comfortable silence.
The sun climbed higher. The apartment grew warm. Kakashi finished his plate first, and Sakura finished hers while reading the back of a cereal box—not the front, the back, like a weirdo—and he watched her do it.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're interesting."
"That's the worst compliment I've ever received."
"I'll work on it."
She looked up. Her eyes caught the light. Her expression was somewhere between amusement and affection, and he didn't know what to do with it.
"Good," she said. "You have time."
Time.
The word echoed in his head. He had a mission next week. Scrolls to organize. Reports to file. Weapons to maintain. A whole life waiting for him, just outside this door, demanding attention.
None of it felt urgent.
"Do you want to stay?" she asked. "After breakfast? I could—I don't know. We could do something. Or nothing."
"I should—"
"You should stay."
He looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time he could remember, the choice felt simple.
"Okay," he said. "I'll stay."