It was good, she thinks (not for the first time that night), that she remembered to leave the window cracked this time. Her tongue peeks out as she paints her pinkie toe, and she tilts her head to the side, scrutinizing her work.
She caps the lid and lets out a loud sigh. “I know you’re out there, and that you have been for quite a while now.” She gets up carefully, making sure nothing ruins her hard effort.
He opens the window just enough to squeeze through and comes into her room, hands deep in his pockets. “Well, you’ve been painting your nails for quite a while now, so…”
Putting the nail polish on her dresser, she glares.
She turns to face him fully and puts her hands on her hips. “Would you like to explain why you’re laughing at me?” she says, and glares some more.
He stops laughing, but she can see his wide grin even beneath his mask. “Hmm, how should I put this,” he muses aloud, stroking his chin. “You can take out almost any jounin—hell, you can take me out—in under five minutes, but it still takes you thirty minutes to do your nails?”
She stares at him, then glances at the clock. “Twenty-eight. And that’s including my hands. See?” She wiggles her fingers at him. “I’m improving. Now, why did you come here?”
He walks over to her bed and sits down, bouncing a little, but doesn’t respond.
She raises an eyebrow. “Lonely for once?” For me?
“Never,” he says, reaching behind him and pulling out the latest volume of Icha Icha.
Rolling her eyes, she mumbles, “Perverted old man,” under her breath.
“You know,” he says conversationally as he settles back onto her pillows, “I can hear you,” but his gaze remains glued to his orange novel.
“Good—you were supposed to,” she growls. “Now, if you only came over here to read that damned book of yours, get out,” she says, pointing to the window.
He gives her a hurt look. “I can’t even go out the front door?”
Her hands are back on her hips. “Did you come in through there?”
His gaze shifts to the ceiling. “No, not exactly...” He doesn’t even blink as she starts toward him, fist raised. “So what you’re saying is that I can stay if I do something other than read?”
“I suppose...” she agrees absently, leaning down to check her toes—wow, that quick-drying stuff actually works—before straightening up again. “What did you have in mind?”
He crosses his arms behind his head, and he smirks. “Well now, that all depends on you.”
Her mouth gapes, and then a blush creeps onto her cheeks and she begins to splutter. “What—what is that supposed to mean?”
“Take it any way you want.”
“Any way I...” she repeats, trailing off as he nods and gives her a wink. “I need to sit down.” She fumbles for the edge of the bed.
“Go right ahead—in fact, why don’t you sit right here?” he says, patting his stomach and then reaching for her arm.
“Wait, what? On your lap?” She resists a little (but not much) as he pulls her toward him.
“Not exactly what I suggested, but that works, too.” He arranges her so that she is straddling him and grins. “Very nice.”
It is, she supposes—her eyes are wide and her heart is pounding in her ears and her stomach is doing somersaults at the speed of light—but, it is. “Does this...” and her voice is suddenly hoarse, “does this mean that I finally get to see your face?”
He is still grinning, but it is softer, and understanding, as he strokes her wrists with his thumbs. “Sakura, given that I practically pulled you on top of me...do you even have to ask?”
She grins back and scoots down—and he almost groans because it feels so good—so that their bodies are pressed close together and their noses are nearly touching. Her fingers move to the edge of his mask, but she pauses. “Do you know what this means? What it means for us?”
He answers by covering her fingers with his own and tugging the fabric down in one smooth motion.
She blinks and for a moment she wonders how in the world she managed to wind up on top of a complete stranger (a very attractive stranger, but a stranger nonetheless), but then he smiles, and she can see that—
“What, did I take your breath away?” he jokes.
—yes, it really is him. Not a stranger, just Kakashi. “Maybe for just a second,” she allows, skimming a finger along his jaw.
And then his hands are tangled in her hair and his lips—not his mask, but his lips—are brushing against hers, and the contact is barely anything at all, but to her, it is almost everything.
She pulls back a bit, her hands framing his face, to ask, “Why now? I mean, after practically four months—”
“Well,” he hedges, “I was away on missions.”
She pulls back a little more, “Yes, you were.” She sits up, and her hands are fists on his chest. “But you didn’t have to be.”
“No,” he admits, and he sits up, too, but doesn’t loosen his hold on her. “I wanted to...give you time.”
She rests her head on his shoulder and looks out the window. The moon is shining. “Time for what?”
“Nothing in particular—just time,” he says, running a hand down her spine.
Just time, she thinks, still gazing at the moon, and maybe she is grateful, but in this moment, with him, “I didn’t need time. I knew.”
A slow smile forms on his lips, but she can’t see it. “I’m glad.” He is silent, content to hold her, then, “Sakura?”
She leans back in his arms and squints her eyes. “Eh?”
He reaches for one of her hands and holds it up. “Your nail polish. It’s silver.”
“Oh, that,” she says, flushing but not looking away, “I just thought silver looked good on me.”
He laughs and plants a loud kiss on her mouth. “Can’t argue with that.”
(What is pleasing to the heart is pleasing to the eye.)