Alone.

It seems like Sakura's always been alone.

Nineteen years old, pathetic. Living alone. Sleeping in her bed alone. Making breakfast alone, for nobody but her. At night, when she comes home from the hospital, she sets her keys on the counter, takes a short shower, and goes to bed, all the while trying to push the thought of there being nobody waiting for her from her mind. She just climbs beneath the pristine white sheets, set her alarm clock, and digs her face into the pillow, pretending the smell of her shampoo is the smell of someone else's, that someone else that matters to her smells like strawberries and cream.

Sure, she's always had her team. Bright, gleaming Naruto and dark, brooding Sasuke-kun and perverted but well-meaning Kakashi-sensei. But they'd never really been there for her, had they? Before, Naruto had always been caught up in his dreams of becoming Hokage, and Sasuke with his dreams of avenging his clan and killing that stupid Itachi, and Kakashi-sensei paying attention to only to two prodigious males on their team; none to her. Where had Sakura been to them?

These days, Naruto was still pursuing his dreams, Kakashi was always out on long, taxing missions, and Sasuke was just gone.

Her parents never talked to her anymore. They weren't shinobi; they'd come to detest that whole race, only calling on holidays (which maybe sometimes included her birthday). It's not like she made any effort to talk to them, either; work never left any time for that. They never understood her drive, her ambition, her talk of perfecting her chakra control and Kakashi-sensei's latest genjutsu, so maybe it was best. Who knows.

On her desk in the hospital, there was only one picture. Others had three, four, five; a significant other, a family, a pet, or maybe just their children. Hers was none of these; it was the famous Team Seven.

On the right side, there's Naruto, teeth bared and gritted in frustration at the boy on the left, Sasuke, whose brows were furrowed and eyes were averted; he always looked like that. Kakashi-sensei was at the top, ruffling the two adolescent males' hair, visible eye crinkled by the smile he hid under his mask. My boys, she thought sadly, nostalgically, whenever she looked at that picture. Memories came when she looked at it; memories about as comforting as pretending the smell on her pillow wasn't hers. Stupid memories that didn't matter anymore anyway.

There, at the bottom, was a jovial Sakura. It seemed like she had always been at the bottom.

There was another copy of that picture on the windowsill at her house. Last Thursday, she had come home from work, beaten and exhausted like she always was at the end of the day. The routine was normal; keys on counter, quick shower, change into pajamas. But before she collapsed into the pillow to pretend that she had a lover that smelled like strawberries and cream, she caught sight of the picture. Holding the photograph in one shaky hand, she scanned the faces, bright and angry and genial and brooding—those were her boys. Her boys that ignored her, complimented her on her chakra precision, and bugged her to pick up the Ichiraku tab; her boys that just left her alone in the end.

She threw the photo down and buried her face in the pillow, her own sobs distracting her from the smell that wasn't supposed to be hers. She would clean up the mess of shattered glass in the morning.

When she trained with Tsunade (which she still did occasionally), she pretended that the targets she attacked were her boys, ruthlessly punching them and maiming them and destroying them for making her so damn pathetic and skipping out on her like her boys weren't supposed to do; for leaving her so alone. She would just kiss them and apologize later; for that moment, she wanted to pretend like she was getting her revenge, her respect. Most of all, when she left, she would let a few tears slip out from the corners of her eyes, wishing they were there with her.

Somewhere inside her, Inner Sakura is screaming. Why are you acting like this? You are a strong, independent woman! You don't need them! They were just lame teammates! How could you possibly miss them? Forget them!
Outer Sakura just laughs. She thinks too much, of course she'd find reasons to miss them.

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The ice cream had long since melted. She stared into the ceramic bowl, stabbing at the mass of brown and white swirls uselessly with her spoon, occasionally scooping some out and slurping it up. It was barely even cold anymore, she thought in dismay. She wasn't going to waste it though, so she continued to slice her spoon through it, still bringing some to her lips every sixteen stabs.

Saturday night, a day off from work. Alone again, of course. It was never any different. Sitting at home with a melted bowl of ice cream, waiting for someone to come along and give her company. Misery loves company, she thought. She laughed. Or at least the miserable do.

It's always like this, she thinks. Letting the nostalgia take over her. Waiting for it to kill her in the end, stabbing through her soul until it's too unbearable. Driving her over the edge, taunting her to let go. That's exactly what she wants to do now, just let go, blow out the candles, throw in the towel. But she was taught to be strong, and in homage to that lesson, she would put it to use. Sighing, she shoved a spoonful of the dripping cream into her mouth.
Oh, what a horrible pity party. Inner Sakura huffed. WHY am I so damn ALONE all the time?! And for once, Outer Sakura agreed.

There was a knock at the door.

She figured it would be Naruto needing a ramen cup or Ino wanting to borrow her cute new red shirt. She didn't feel like answering to either person, so she stayed stationary on the futon for a moment. Another knock followed.

God, how annoying! Rolling her eyes, she shouted a “Hold your horses!” before setting the bowl on the coffee table and getting up. Padding over the soft woolen carpet, she wrenched the door open.

“What do you—”

The first thing she saw was the skin. It was pallid, almost translucent in the fluorescent lights of the apartment complex's hallway. It was flawless, unblemished, enough to make any girl envious at its perfection. Odd that it belonged to such an unappreciative boy.

Next came the lips. They were a pale pink, and something in the back of her strange mind related it to her own hair. They were well-shaped, a little shiny, and the space between them formed an immaculately straight line.

Then, the hair. It was black, bordering along the lines of a navy blue. It shone, hinted at being well taken care of, even though this boy had spent many years in a probably smelly cavern full of snakes and dirt and grime. The bangs, not surprisingly, still hung in his eyes, though they didn't quite block her view of them in all their endless onyx glory.

It was back to his lips as he spoke from them—

“You're not alone.”

Then he was backing her into a wall, somehow on the other side of the room, his scorching breath seeming to melt the sensitive skin on her lips—before he met them.

It was hot and passionate and full of restrained feelings from seven years—lust, neediness, anger, joy, pity, and Sakura wanted to believe there was love somewhere in there. It hadn't been what she expected her first kiss with Sasuke to be; actually, she had expected her first kiss with him to be a gentle, soft, loving one during a midnight picnic in a field of flowers. This was scalding and heavy, full of red hot energy, but at least it was with Sasuke, so she could take what she got.

He raised his hands to tuck one behind her neck, thumb resting on her jawline, and the other to wrap his arm around her waist and bring her even closer to him. She entangled her slim fingers in his hair, gripping desperately at it for some leverage as she moaned at the sheer heat of the kiss; nobody had ever kissed her like this, who knew this would come from Sasuke-kun? The cold, glass something in her chest shattered, setting her insides on fire; instinct told her it was provoked by the feel of Sasuke's tongue flicking across her bottom lip in a request for entrance. She obliged; what else was she to do? He was back, holding her in his arms and kissing her like there wouldn't be a tomorrow, was she supposed to push him away and wag a finger in his face?

She gasped for air, then let out a strangled moan. His lips had moved to her neck.

He attacked her throat with a series of hot butterfly kisses, slightly nipping at her soft skin every few. It made Sakura's heart drum wildly—it felt like it was going to leap out of her ribcage soon. He seemed to find a spot he liked, for his lips suddenly latched onto it, sucking at it very much like he had her lips, nibbling at it like he would a bar of chocolate. Ne, his mind told him. This is better than any chocolate; more like tomatoes...

Now, if Sakura could read minds, she probably would have been a little miffed at Sasuke's comparison of her neck and a tomato, even though her complexion was quite a match of the round red fruit/vegetable. But, alas, she wasn't telepathic, and even if she was, she was a little bit too distracted right now. Sasuke's lips and fingers felt impossibly good, enough to make her contemplate if he was real for a second. Then she dismissed that thought immediately—nothing fake could feel that good. Sasuke let his butterfly kisses travel back up her neck, onto her jaw, and then onto her swollen lips once more, adjoining them for one more searing, heavenly kiss, one that threatened to throw Sakura over the edge with the raw pleasure it brought her.

Then he broke it. Sakura moaned in disappointment, but he then put his finger on her lips. She fell silent.

He put his forehead against hers, and gave her a perfect view of his eyes again. They were dewy, wild, and half open, gleaming with an intensity that made her shudder even more than the kiss had. His thumb, which was still laid on her jawline, began stroking her face lightly, filling Sakura with the kind of bliss only he could bestow upon her.

“I couldn't leave you alone if I tried.”