Dinner is almost ready. The knife rests on the cutting board. A pot bubbles softly. The house is quiet—the particular kind of quiet that comes from two people who have learned to exist in the same space without needing to fill it.

In the living room, Itachi sits on the floor cushion by the low table, a scroll open in front of him. But he hasn't turned it in a while. His eyes are on the doorway, then the kitchen, then the doorway again.

A beat passes.

Then the soft, measured sound of footsteps.

He steps into the kitchen and stops just behind her. Close. Warm. His presence is like a quiet weight at her back.

Then his arms slide around her waist. Slow. Deliberate. He rests his chin just above her shoulder, and for a long moment, he doesn't speak. He just watches the vegetables she's already cut, the steam rising from the pot, the small, ordinary movements of her hands.

The silence stretches. Comfortable. Familiar.

Then his arms tighten—just slightly.