House Hyuuga says it's not serious. The spies report two beige figures in the rain, the girl's cheeks flushed like sunset. Hiashi sits on his starlight throne and decides against immediate action. A lesser star like Hinata must (Hyuugas must, always must) accede, then recede. All Hiashi needs to do is wait for gravity, because insects can only fly so far.

House Aburame says it's not serious. The house is one mind parceled among a hundred scarred bodies, frowning upon want. Aburames have no use for the Hyuga heir's milky beauty and bumbling dreaminess. Shino holds himself well, always. He will marry as chosen and march to innocuous, honorable death, sans complaint.

Kiba says it's not serious. Shino and Hinata barely touch — their clothes barely touch. When he passes them in the forest, their scents are unmingled. Sure, they hang around each other a lot, but that's because they're both subtle and weird and teammates, and what's so sexy about teammates?

Neji says it's not serious. She has been promised to Neji, and Neji believes in promises wrought in iron and grief. Shino is not a genius, not even a makeshift one like Lee. Shino is not handsome or elegant or legendary. He's never even made her bleed.

Hinata and Shino say nothing. He harumphs in response to the questions, and she smiles blankly. After training, he walks her back in silence. On Sundays, they read in the shade and practice calligraphy and mend clothes and garden, all the in-between activities that once meant blessed solitude but now mean side-by-side. In his room, she shrugs off her jacket and lets the kikaichu curl around her bare arms. In her room, he takes off his glasses, so she can see his starless eyes.

Hinata and Shino can't be anything but serious.