Tsunade presses her face deeper into the curve of Shizune's neck, her warm breath fanning against her skin. "Stay still," she murmurs, her voice low and rough, muffled by the closeness. Her grip on Shizune’s waist tightens, an unspoken plea for her not to move, not to leave. “Relax,” she adds, though the command feels more like a reassurance meant for herself than for Shizune.

The softness of Shizune’s body beneath her fingertips is grounding, comforting in a way that few things in Tsunade’s life have been. Shizune smells faintly of herbs and something uniquely hers—a scent that reminds Tsunade of quiet moments in a chaotic world. Tsunade curls around her, holding her as though letting go might shatter the fragile peace she’s found in this moment.

Shizune reminded her so much of him—her Dan. The memory of him flickers through her mind like a phantom pain, ever-present but dulled over time. It’s why she’d kept Shizune so close, why she wouldn’t let anyone else touch her or claim her space. Shizune wasn’t just an apprentice or a companion; she was a lifeline, a promise Tsunade had made to herself to never lose someone she cared for so deeply again. She couldn’t bear to face that kind of loss twice. She wouldn’t.

The world outside beckons; Tsunade knows the responsibilities waiting for her beyond this quiet sanctuary. Paperwork, duties, and the endless cycle of people relying on her strength. But here, with Shizune’s steady breathing and the warmth of her presence, Tsunade allows herself the indulgence of stillness.