The school bell chimed for the third period, but the students lounged on the lawn, waiting for a teacher who hadn't yet appeared.
"Strange — where is sensei?" someone muttered.
"Yeah… Mitsuki's not here either," Denki said, frowning.
Boruto blinked. A clone had been in Mitsuki's place earlier — had the story already moved him off-campus? He felt the small tug of worry you only get when a tidy plan frays at the edges.
Sumire stood and smoothed her uniform with a practiced motion, calling the class to order. "Please be quiet. He'll be here soon." Her voice was polite; the lie beneath it was as careful as the mask she hid behind.
Students clustered in whispers. Boruto kept his distance from the gossip — different versions of events could expose things better left secret. He watched the courtyard instead: the seams where movement and stillness met, the gaps someone might use to slip away.
"Where did Mitsuki go?" Boruto asked the class rep.
Sumire answered calmly, eyes down. "He had something to do this morning. You can check his home after class." The line was plausible, practiced. She'd chosen it to avoid suspicion — not for his benefit, but for her own.
Boruto inclined his head and let the matter drop. He sensed her tension as she circulated back toward the girls, then saw it twist into sudden alarm. Her pupils widened; she rose abruptly and left the lawn.
"Is the class rep okay?" someone asked.
"She said she was hot," Chocho offered, unhelpfully, crunching another chip. Outside, the sky was overcast and cool.
Sumire pushed through the grounds with a tight stride and called in a voice laced with panic, "Nue—where are you? Come out, now!"
She stood in the open like a statue, every muscle taut and waiting. Then, as if a thought snapped into place, her face changed — color rushing to her cheeks, a private, forbidden flutter that made her breath catch.
Boruto… it was him. The memory of that brief, strange contact pulsed in her chest: the warmth, the hands, the way his presence had stopped her. She felt both exposed and elated in a wash of contradictory emotion.
By the time she returned to the classroom, she had practiced her composure again, folding it into the niceties of school life. She slid into her seat but watched Boruto with a new, bewildered attention.
A little while later, Shino and Mitsuki reappeared, tidying garments and trying to seem composed. The clone that had been covering for Boruto returned as well, and the class erupted in confused laughter and exclamations.
"You used a shadow clone to sit for you?" Iwabe crowed.
Boruto laughed and shrugged, half-apologetic. "Shino-sensei asked me to help keep an eye on things. We did a bit of extra training."
Shino took the cue and smoothed things over with a weary smile. "Yes — Boruto kept pestering me to teach him some techniques. He's been enthusiastic."
The students' curiosity flared. "Show us, show us!"
Boruto obliged with a small demonstration, forming seals and releasing a shower of small, controlled fire orbs that burst like careful fireworks into the dim sky. The display melted tension into applause; the classroom buzzed. Even Shino, still pale, let a small laugh escape.
After school, dusk painted the town in warm tones. Boruto walked home alone, alert to edges and people. He hadn't forgotten the sensation of being hunted; he moved slowly and deliberately through the crowd, eyes tracking avenues of escape should trouble appear.
A figure waited beneath a stand of trees, black robe blending with the shadows. Sumire stepped into the clearing, mask in place, and the air between them snapped taut.
"You used a contract seal on me," she said, voice thin, deadly. "Anyone who knows must die."
Boruto smiled, brows up in that infuriating, effortless way he had. He drew no weapon. "You wound me. I only wanted to keep everyone safe."
Sumire's hands braided through seals, and she unleashed a spray of misting water that cut like a thousand fine bullets — Water Release: Spray — each droplet sharp and fast.
Boruto's expression never flickered. He drew in a breath and exhaled a wall of flame that vaporized the incoming spray as if it were nothing. "That won't kill me," he said, almost bored.
She shifted tactics, curling droplets into a charged pulse — Water Spirit Wave — a sniper's strike of concentrated water. Boruto watched calmly; the small, secret pupil he kept hidden tracked every vector, every breath between her motions. He tightened his grip on a small Rasengan in his palm and met the barrage.
She raised a water wall at the last instant. Boruto used the opening to weave around her, moving like a cat around an inattentive dog. In a practiced flick, he ripped at the edge of her robe — enough to reveal a flash of purple hair.
The mask stayed on, but the scandal of exposure flicked across her face. Sumire spun to block, and the Rasengan slammed into the gap she'd offered. The force threw her back and sent her stumbling.
Boruto reached out and steadied her with a gentlemanly touch to her shoulder, an absurdly polite counterpoint to what had just happened. For a few beats, there was nothing but the sound of their breaths and the rustle of leaves.
"You—" Sumire started, then faltered, cheeks burning under the mask. Her hands trembled; she had wanted to flee, and yet now she stood caught between shame and something else — something complicated and unwelcome.
Boruto let her compose herself. "Let's leave the old wars to the older folks," he said easily. "For now, focus on class. We've got our own fights to win."
Her mask still hid much, but the purple of her hair and the trace of flustered color in her cheeks told a story Boruto already understood. He had expected her to run. He hadn't expected her to blush.
The air held the unsaid things between them — threats, secrets, and a brittle sort of truce — and somewhere in the distance a bell chimed the approach of night.