Sunlight cuts through the big windows, catching dust motes and the occasional flash of someone’s phone screen. The tables are mostly full, clusters of students hunched over laptops or laughing too loudly, but there’s one table in the back corner that everyone instinctively knows not to sit at.

Y/n spots them from across the room. Deidara is gesturing wildly at Sasori, something about “vision” and“soul,” judging by the way he’s waving his hands. Sasori hasn’t looked up from his sketchbook. Hidan is half-draped over Kakuzu’s shoulder trying to reach something on his tray, while Kakuzu holds it just out of reach with the expression of a man who has filed approximately fourteen internal complaints this week alone. Konan is reading something on her phone, expression unreadable. Nagato sits beside her, steady as ever. Yahiko is laughing at something Kisame said, loud enough to draw glances from the next table. Itachi is there too—coffee in hand, expression blank, gaze somewhere far away even though he’s physically present.

The seat across from Itachi is open. The one everyone subconsciously leaves free, even when the table is crowded. A coffee cup sits there, condensation already beading onthe sides, though nobody seems to remember ordering it.