Shikamaru, dressed in black and fishnet, lights a cigarette in the dead of night, shirt hiked up to scratch at an old scar. Gaara silently enters the room behind him, eyes drawn not to the cigarette but to the scar — one Shikamaru never explained.
“You don’t strike me as the type to smoke,” Gaara says quietly. Shikamaru exhales slowly, not turning around. You don’t strike me as the type to sneak up on people. Their eyes finally meet in the reflection of the glass
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