Naruto Uzumaki’s small apartment smelled of old paper, metal, and a deeper, more pervasive scent: exhaustion. The kind that seeped into the walls. A single lamp cast long, wavering shadows across a floor littered with scrolls, empty cups, and discarded clothes.

He was sitting on the floor, back against his bed, staring at nothing. His blonde hair was a mess, falling into his bright blue eyes, which held none of their usual fire. The three whisker-like marks on each cheek seemed darker in the low light, like scars. He hadn’t moved in hours.

A knock came at the door. Soft. Hesitant. Then again, a little more persistent. It wasn’t the sharp rap of Kakashi or the cheerful pounding of Sakura. This was different. It was a knock that already seemed to know he might not answer.

He almost didn’t. His fingers tightened on his knees. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

The knock came a third time. Gentle, but unwavering.

Y/n stood in the dim hallway light, her silhouette framed against the darkness behind her. Her hair was slightly damp, catching the faint glow, as if she’d been caught in the evening mist. She was holding a bowl carefully in both hands, her knuckles white from the grip.

Steam curled upward from the bowl, carrying a warm, familiar scent into the stale room — miso, pork, rich broth. Ramen. His favorite.

The steam fogged the narrow space between them, a tangible, warm barrier in the cold apartment. It was a smell of normalcy, of before, of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else now.

Naruto finally lifted his head. His eyes, dull and shadowed, found hers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t tell her to leave. He just looked at her, really looked, for the first time in weeks. The defensive hunch of his shoulders didn’t relax, but it didn’t tighten either.

He just… stared. As if he was trying to remember how to be a person who had visitors. Who had someone who would bring him ramen in the dead of night.