Sasuke moved toward the so-called “kitchen” in Naruto’s run-down excuse for an apartment, a reluctant sigh escaping her lips.
The creaking of the wooden floor beneath her feet added to the already grating sensation of being in a home that seemed held together by pure delusion and cup noodles.
The moment she opened the fridge, a faint, chilling breeze swept across her face—followed by an immediate wave of disappointment.
Her eyes scanned the sparse contents.
Ice cream.
Three tubs.
Cans of soda and expired energy drinks.
Raw beef.
Raw mutton.
Raw chicken.
She leaned in.
The meats were packed in ziplocks and labeled “Ramen topping – battle mode”, “Ramen topping – emotional support”, and—disturbingly—”Ramen topping – date with ramen (don’t jinx it).”
“…What the hell.”
She closed the fridge slowly, pressing her hand against the cool metal as though to collect herself.
Okay.
Fine.
He’s a ramen addict.
But surely—surely—he must have something edible?
She turned toward the upper cabinets, tugged one open.
Cockroaches.
One of them waved at her.
Her Sharingan activated out of pure self-defense before she slammed the door shut and stood there in stunned silence.
The cabinet was an unholy temple of empty ramen cups, some stacked like a monument to madness.
The others had dried bits of god-knows-what stuck to their rims, and judging by the dust, they hadn’t moved in years.
She opened the next cabinet.
More ramen.
Third one?
Instant noodles and tasting salt, whatever that was.
No rice.
No vegetables.
No bread.
No miso paste unless it was powdered and inside a ramen packet.
She opened the final drawer—her last hope.
A small mountain of spice packets stared back at her.
She blinked.
Why did he even own this much seasoning?
What did he season—air?
“…I’m going to kill him.”
It didn’t need volume.
The words, even softly whispered, carried the weight of a kunai against the throat of common sense.
Sasuke leaned back against the sink, crossing her arms and staring at the window.
She wasn’t hungry, exactly, but the realization that there wasn’t even a single edible thing—no rice ball, no tea, not even instant curry—gnawed at her patience.
Cooking?
Fine.
She could cook.
She’d made enough meals on missions.
Roasted wild boar over a campfire, made rice in a tin pot.
But this?
This wasn’t a mission.
This was supposed to be a home.
And this home was hellbent on making her into some tragic parody of a housewife, and that word—it alone made her skin crawl.
Housewife.
The Uchiha heir reduced to making breakfast while her idiotic new husband snored and farted on the couch like a swamp toad.
It was worse than anything Madara could’ve ever planned.
Still…
She turned her head, casting a glance toward the living room.
Naruto was asleep, mouth slightly open, one hand hanging off the couch, the other curled around a pillow like it owed him money.
His face was unguarded, open, strangely soft.
There was something in that stillness that told her he hadn’t had many mornings like this—safe.
Resting.
Dreaming stupid things.
Whatever idiocy he’d mumbled about ramen earlier had been sincere.
Childish, yes, but genuine.
And she didn’t have the heart to ruin it.
Damn it.
With a defeated breath, Sasuke looked around the living room.
And grimaced.
The table was covered in half-read scrolls, unopened letters, shuriken wrappers (why did those even exist?), and what looked like a fossilized banana peel.
The floor had dust collected in the corners like it was nesting there.
One of the tatami mats was curled at the edge.
The window sill was coated with the kind of grime that whispered you don’t belong here.
No. This wasn’t about being a housewife.
This was about survival.
Living in this filth was impossible.
Even birds built cleaner nests.
She started by opening the windows.
A gust of fresh morning air blew in, chasing out the stagnant scent of boy-socks and weapon oil.
Then she found the broom—broken handle, but usable.
She swept with mechanical precision.
Dust, wrappers, old scrolls, and mysterious crumbs were all gathered and destroyed.
The dishes in the sink?
She washed them.
The plates were chipped, the cups mismatched, and one of them said “World’s Best Ninja (Believe It!)” in fading red ink.
She briefly considered breaking that one.
She resisted.
Next came the shelves.
Scrolls were stacked properly.
Ink bottles and brushes arranged.
Floor mats beaten out.
The walls… well, nothing could fix those cracks, but she wiped them anyway.
Then she found a photo.
Hidden behind a stack of old magazines.
A photo of Naruto, young and laughing, with Iruka.
She stared at it for a long moment before gently setting it on the cleared table, facing the room.
By the time she was done, an hour had passed.
Naruto was still asleep.
Still snoring.
And Sasuke?
She wiped her hands on a cloth, stood in the now-breathable space of the living room, and crossed her arms.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was livable.
She wouldn’t say she felt proud.
That would be a step too far.
But a tiny part of her—a very tiny part—felt like the house breathed easier now.
Still, she had to eat.
And for that, she’d need to wake him.
Because she was not about to explain to the ANBU guard that she went out to buy breakfast alone and got tased for it.
She glanced toward the couch again.
Naruto mumbled something.
“…Sasuke… no… don’t eat the last fish cake… it’s mine…”
She blinked.
“…Miso…flavor of love…”
She turned away.
Breakfast could wait a few more minutes.