The sun had barely begun to stretch over the rooftops of Konoha when Sasuke stirred awake.
It was six-thirty.
The light filtering in through the blinds painted long, golden lines across the ceiling and the floor.
There was a strange warmth in the air, a kind of domestic stillness she wasn’t used to.
Her eyes blinked open slowly, and for a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then her hand brushed against the blanket.
The scent clung to it—subtle but distinct.
A mix of something soft and warm—like chocolate—and the unmistakable salt of miso soup.
Naruto’s scent.
Before she realized what she was doing, she lifted the blanket slightly, pressed her face into it, and inhaled again.
Then her eyes snapped open in horror.
What the hell am I doing?
She bolted upright, cheeks flushing ever so faintly as she hastily tied her hair into a neat bun, fingers slightly clumsy for once.
The familiarity of the bed beneath her—his bed—had lulled her into a moment of weakness.
And weakness, in her world, meant vulnerability.
Intimacy.
Dangerous things.
Dismissing the thought, she stood, adjusted her gown, and padded silently out of the bedroom.
In the living room, she found Naruto exactly where she expected—sprawled awkwardly across the too-small couch, limbs dangling off both ends, one arm crooked behind his head, the other hanging off the edge like a loose puppet.
His neck was twisted at a painful angle, his mouth wide open.
And somehow, despite the discomfort, he was still snoring like a construction site.
Sasuke sighed.
“Idiot.”
With almost no effort, she crouched down and slipped her arms beneath him, lifting his entire weight without disturbing his nap.
He murmured something unintelligible but didn’t wake.
She gently adjusted him, settling him in a better position so his neck wouldn’t be ruined for the day.
That was when he spoke.
“Sasuke… plasse eat it… Say ‘ah’…”
She froze.
Her eyes widened.
“…Like that… yes… just like that… mhn… make sound… while eating… No… more… no, more… ramen… raaamen…”
Sasuke’s face went completely blank.
Oh no.
Her Sharingan activated involuntarily—triggered by stress and horror alike—and everything was committed to perfect, vivid memory: the slack-jawed face, the murmured ramen-fetish nonsense, the sound of flatulence echoing like a dying horn.
She turned off her eyes immediately.
No use.
It was recorded now.
Etched into her brain forever.
I married this.
She stood slowly.
Walked away like a haunted specter.
Nothing could be said.
No battle.
No enemy.
No ancient cursed technique had scarred her like this.
In silence, she went to the bathroom.
The sound of running water soon followed.
Steam filled the space as she washed away what trauma she could.
She stood under the shower longer than necessary, letting the heat soak into her skin.
She wasn’t a Shinobi anymore, officially.
That identity—rogue, avenger, shadow—was set aside.
Not that she’d ever truly been free of its weight.
Now, however, things were different.
Different didn’t mean easier.
Once she was done, she dried off and wrapped the towel around her before looking at her options.
Which were, frankly, non-existent.
She didn’t have any personal clothing beyond what Naruto had pulled from the old Uchiha vault.
Her old Kunoichi attire was off-limits now—by decree.
No weapons, no flak jackets.
No headband.
The gown from last night had been fine for sleeping, but she couldn’t just wear it all day again.
She rifled through the small bundle Naruto had left out and found another traditional piece—this one darker, a soft charcoal-gray kimono with a crimson sash and subtle Uchiha fan insignia stitched on the back in thread that glinted slightly when the light hit it.
She held it for a moment.
Soft.
Worn.
Familiar.
It smelled faintly of cedar, dust, and something older—like her mother’s perfume, long faded.
She let her fingers linger there for a moment longer before slipping into the clothes.
They fit surprisingly well.
Comfortable, but stately.
The Uchiha didn’t do “casual.” Even their house robes looked like something one might wear to a state dinner.
And somehow, despite everything, Sasuke didn’t mind.
She had no need for shinobi garb now.
No need for kunai holsters or throwing pouches.
What she had were memories.
These clothes, this scent, this quiet morning—they reminded her of who she had been before everything collapsed.
A daughter.
A sister.
A part of something that had been torn apart.
Now it was her again, walking the slow path toward something uncertain.
Naruto was still snoring when she emerged.
She walked past him without a glance, though the image from earlier threatened to surface again.
She squashed it down like an unwanted weed.
It would be a long day.
And possibly a long life.
But at least, for now, there was quiet.
And maybe quiet was a… good start.