The thing about courtship in a ninja village is that eventually it drags everyone in its orbit whether they volunteered or not.
That was how I found myself scrubbed, dressed, and marched across Konoha in the late afternoon because Tomi's friend Inzuka Hanae had invited the three of us to supper.
"Three?" I asked, suspicious on principle.
"Hanae insisted," Tomi said.
Dad looked pleased with himself in a way that usually preceded embarrassment for everyone nearby.
"Hanae said," Tomi went on, "that if I'm serious about a man, she'd like to see how he behaves with his children."
That was fair enough, though I did not enjoy being spoken of like a mule someone might buy at market.
"And her boyfriend will be there as well," she added, a little too carefully.
That was how I learned the evening involved Hatake Sakumo.
I had known the name already, of course. Hard not to. Even before the title and the stories and the reputation hardened into legend, the man had gravity around him. Jonin. Clean work. Dangerous in the way mountain lions are dangerous: quietly, with no need to advertise. I also idolized his son and cursed him for his suicide.
Dad just nodded like this was normal.
That was another thing about him. He had no instinct for being intimidated by the right people.
Hanae's place sat near the Inuzuka side of town, which meant two things immediately: there were dogs, and the air carried that honest mix of fur, leather, cooking meat, and old wood that told you this was a house where life happened at full volume.
Hanae herself opened the door.
She was sharp-faced, quick-eyed, and gave the impression that if you lied to her she would cut the lie off at the knees before you finished speaking. One of her dogs appeared at her side like it had grown there.
The dog looked at Dad.
Dad looked at the dog.
They assessed one another as men do before a duel, except one of them had four legs and better judgment.
Then the dog sniffed, sneezed, and sat down.
Hanae raised a brow. "Well. That's a point in your favor."
Dad brightened. "I like dogs very much."
The dog, having reached its own conclusions, leaned against his leg begging for scratches.
That was, I thought, a very good sign.
Sakumo was already inside.
He stood when we entered, not in a formal way, just out of habit and respect. Tall. Controlled. Hair already that distinctive pale silver, though not yet touched by the fatigue I remembered from later stories. He moved like a man who knew exactly how much violence his body could produce.
His gaze passed over all three of us.
Not dismissive. Not indulgent. Measured.
Then it settled on Dad.
"Might Duy," he said.
"Hatake Sakumo!"
Dad said names the way some men unsheathe swords.
Sakumo's mouth shifted at one corner. Not quite a smile, but closer than I expected. "It's been a while."
"You're looking strong."
"You as well."
That was all. Enough, somehow.
Good men do recognize one another quickly.
The evening improved from there.
Hanae fed us like she thought good company and meat belonged together. She was right. There was a stew, grilled river fish, pickled vegetables, rice, and some sort of seared meat strips that Choza would have written poetry about under the right conditions. I did my best to behave in a way that reflected well on my household and not like a child who had discovered religion in a bowl.
Dad did not steal any lines from novels that night. That alone was a triumph.
Instead he was just himself. Which sounds dangerous, and often is, but under the right circumstances it works better than polish.
Hanae tested him a little.
Not cruelly. Just enough to see what was under the volume.
"So," she said at one point, leaning back with her cup in hand, "Tomi tells me you train obsessively, work every mission they'll give you, and somehow still come home with enough energy to build sheds."
Dad nodded. "Yes."
That was all.
Hanae blinked. "That's not an answer."
"It is a complete answer."
"It lacks detail."
Dad considered, then said, "I want to become a shinobi capable of protecting what matters to me."
That shut the room up for a second.
Not because it was profound. Because he meant it without decoration.
Sakumo looked at him over his cup and said, "That's a better reason than most."
Dad, being Dad, beamed at him.
The conversation turned to training after that, which was probably inevitable.
Sakumo asked clear questions. Not the sort people use to expose weakness. The sort skilled men use when they want to know how another craftsman thinks.
"What do you emphasize first with a young body?"
"Structure," Dad said without hesitation. "Always structure. A bad body can survive good effort. Good talent built on bad structure just breaks faster."
Sakumo nodded once.
"What do you look for in a student?"
"Whether they lie to themselves."
That one came from the chest.
Hanae snorted into her drink. Tomi covered a smile. I sat there trying not to look too proud of him and probably failed.
Sakumo did not smile much, but something in his face eased.
"I like that a lot," he said.
Later, while Hanae and Tomi were in the kitchen and Sakumo was helping me bring empty bowls in because apparently he was the sort of man who helped carry dishes without being asked, he glanced down at me and said, "Your father is a good man."
I looked up at him.
"Yes," I said. "He is."
Sakumo gave the smallest nod, as if we had agreed on something that mattered and did not need to be repeated.
On the walk home, after Hanae had hugged Tomi and warned Dad not to become unbearable from success, Tomi slipped her hand into his.
Dad almost tripped over his own sandals.
I pretended not to notice.
He recovered quickly enough to say, in a low voice he clearly thought I couldn't hear, "The moonlight pales before your radiance."
Tomi made the pained little sound women make when something is both awful and effective.
"You practiced that," she said.
"I studied."
I sighed so heavily even the night air judged him.
Still, she kept holding his hand.
That was answer enough.