The sun's morning rays fall in through the window, a beautiful shade of sunflower-yellow as they filter across the pillow. The morning breeze is cool as it caresses her exposed limbs, drawing goose bumps from porcelain white skin. The rough blanket her naked body is wound in is coarse and itches, but she doesn't dare move for fear of waking up the sleeping man beside her.

Are you proud of me yet?

A slow smile slips across her face as she turns on her side with slow, subtle movements. Her gaze catches on the lake of fine black hair pooling onto the pillow, and without hesitating she reaches out a hand, letting slender fingers lace through raven strands.

I am closer to killing this man than you. I am closer.

She feels his skin on hers and she closes her eyes, relishing in the contact. At her side, he shifts and his legs lace through hers, soft lips issuing a half-hearted sigh. Silently, her eyes return to the perfect contours of his face; gentle fingertips follow his sculptured jaw, caressing and fragile as though this man – this man whom no one could kill – would break. (I can feel his heartbeat.)

Oh, isn't he more beautiful than I could ever hope to be?

Her hands move southward, onto his bared torso. His skin, though creamy and beautiful, is adorned with a lifetime of old wounds, though not one of them is recent – he hasn't bled in years. Faintly, her touch no more than feather-soft, she fingers his scars, delighting in the feel of them beneath her hands.

He is, perhaps, more beautiful than you.

Moving altogether now, she places her head on his chest, allowing blonde locks to spill over onto his skin. He doesn't move his arms automatically to hold her, but she can feel his hand softly against her waist and it's just enough. Her gaze rises and falls as he continues to breathe, lost in time with his perfect heartbeat.

Sasuke, have you noticed me yet?