Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Setting:
Konoha City — A sleek, one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise. The kind with too much personality to be rich and too clean to be broke.
It’s close to midnight. The windows are cracked open. Rain drizzles faintly outside.

Sarada Uchiha stands in Boruto’s kitchen, barefoot, white coat slung over the back of a chair, hair down for once, eating greasy pepperoni pizza like she hasn't eaten all day — because she hasn’t.

She’s still in her navy scrubs, though her sleeves are pushed up and her ID badge is somewhere in her tote bag. There's a stethoscope next to the soy sauce on the counter. She doesn’t even care anymore.

Boruto, lounging across from her in a worn black hoodie and joggers, watches her over the rim of his beer bottle.

“Didn’t know heart surgeons had cheat nights,” he says, nodding toward the pizza box.

“I’m not a heart surgeon,” she replies between bites. “Yet.”

“Still. Kind of wild seeing you eat something that isn’t green or shaped like sadness.”

Sarada snorts, leaning against the marble counter. “I’ve been on call three nights this week. A nurse fainted during a code blue. A guy swallowed half a fork. I earned this.”

Boruto laughs, setting his bottle down. “Fair enough, Doc.”

His place smells like fresh ink and laundry detergent. A giant drawing tablet glows dimly in the corner. Open sketchbooks are scattered across the coffee table — loose pages, mockup logos, a half-finished commission he’s supposed to deliver tomorrow.

“I like your place,” she murmurs after a beat, glancing around. “Less disaster than I expected.”

He arches a brow. “Gee, thanks?”

“No, I mean that. It’s got… flavor.”
Her fingers trail the edge of a bookshelf filled with graphic novels and dog-eared anatomy references. “Designer-chaos meets brooding anime protagonist.”

Boruto smirks. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

She turns to him slowly, eyes sharp and unreadable. “You’re hard to pin down.”

He steps closer. “Maybe you haven’t tried hard enough.”

There’s a loaded beat.

She licks a bit of tomato sauce off her thumb. “Or maybe I didn’t want to break the tension.”

His voice drops. “Too late now.”

She’s in front of him before either of them can say another word.
Her hand slides into his hoodie, flat against his chest.

“You going to kiss me,” she says lowly, “or just keep trying to charm me with sarcasm?”

Boruto grins, slow and wicked. “Can’t I do both?”

Their mouths crash together.

The kiss is rough at first — months of teasing and sidelong glances catching up all at once. Sarada’s grip tightens in the fabric of his hoodie. Boruto’s hands find her waist, then lower, pulling her flush against him like he’s been waiting forever.

She moans softly when his tongue brushes hers. He mutters her name like it’s something sacred.

She hikes herself onto the counter without hesitation, scrubs and all. He stands between her knees, fingertips pressing into the backs of her thighs.

They only stop kissing when air becomes non-negotiable.

“You’re—way—too good at this,” she whispers, lips brushing his jaw.

Boruto’s voice is hoarse. “Not my fault you finally gave in.”

She tugs him closer again. “Shut up and make sure it’s worth the wait.”

He does.

Chapter Text

Boruto blinked awake to the scent of fresh coffee—and the distinct weight of someone lying halfway on top of him.

He turned his head and was met with a glorious mess of black hair and a bare shoulder poking out from beneath his rumpled gray blanket.

Sarada.

She was on her side, half-asleep, glasses nowhere in sight, hair a chaotic crown around her face. One arm draped lazily over his chest. Her brow furrowed slightly, even in sleep, like she was dreaming of correcting someone’s grammar.

Boruto grinned to himself.

He leaned in, close enough to smell her shampoo — something herbal and expensive, definitely not what he used. She stirred slightly, groaned, then muttered:

“...If you say anything cheesy, I will stab you with your toothbrush.”

He laughed. “You’re no fun in the morning, huh?”

She cracked one eye open. “I just had sex with you, Boruto. Don’t ruin it.”

“Oof,” he clutched his chest. “Already with the verbal kunai.”

She sat up slowly, the blanket slipping slightly—enough to tease, but she caught it. She didn’t seem embarrassed. Just sleepy and unimpressed.

He watched as she stretched, bones cracking, spine arching like a cat.

“So,” she said, grabbing his shirt off the armrest and pulling it over her head, “was last night… a one-time thing, or are we doing this again?”

Boruto raised a brow, folding his arms behind his head. “Depends. Did the Doc girl just steal my hoodie?”

She looked down at herself, the shirt hanging loosely off her. “Your shirt smells like bad cologne and ego.”

“That’s called masculine musk, thanks.”

Sarada padded barefoot into the kitchen, grabbing a mug and pouring herself coffee without asking. “Hope your masculine musk knows how to cook eggs.”

Boruto tossed a pillow at her. “You’re in my house, remember?”

She caught it one-handed, smirking over the rim of the mug. “You’re the one who begged me to stay.”

“I distinctly recall you saying, and I quote, ‘make sure it’s worth the wait.’”

She raised a brow. “And you followed orders. Like a good boy.”

Boruto sat up, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “Damn, you’re really out here trying to dominate the whole morning after.”

“You want gentle? Get a girlfriend.”

He stood, shirtless, grinning. “Well, maybe I’m applying.”

She paused mid-sip. Blinked. Just for a second, the sarcasm dropped.

Boruto smirked. “Too soon?”

Sarada set her coffee down slowly, stepped forward, and wrapped her arms around his waist.

She looked up at him, a smile playing at her lips. “Maybe not.”

He leaned down, kissing her forehead.

“Next time,” she whispered, “I get to be on top.”

Boruto blinked.

“…Deal.”

Chapter Text

2 years later. Konoha City.
Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.

Rain tapped softly against the windowpane. The apartment was dim, save for the warm light of a floor lamp and the soft glow of Boruto’s laptop screen, which he was currently ignoring.

He glanced up from the couch, watching Sarada standing in front of the bathroom mirror, tying her hair up into a loose bun, wearing his old hoodie and sleep shorts. Her expression was distant. She hadn’t said much since coming home.

“Tough shift?” he asked gently.

She hummed. “Twelve hours, two emergency surgeries, one arrogant senior doctor who thinks ‘Uchiha’ means ‘must be perfect.’”
She caught his eye in the mirror. “Also I haven’t eaten since noon.”

He was already standing. “Give me five minutes. I’ve got leftover curry—”

“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cut in.

By the time she sat at the kitchen island, he’d reheated the curry, fried an egg on top, and even added a spoonful of her favorite pickled radish.

She stared at the plate. Then at him. “You remembered.”

Boruto smiled. “You forget I live to impress you?”

Sarada rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “Corny.”

“But effective.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes before she set her spoon down, voice quieter now.

“…Do you ever feel like we’re living two different lives in the same apartment?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she exhaled, “you’re building your own business, freelancing, creating your art… You get to chase passion. I’m drowning in work. Schedules. Pressure. Expectations. I come home and crash. You’re always waiting. Always giving. And I feel like I’m just… taking.”

Boruto leaned on his elbow, expression soft. “Sarada. You don’t take. You carry.”

She looked at him, eyes searching.

He reached over, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. “When you’re tired, you still ask how I’m doing. When you’re late, you apologize like you’ve wronged the universe. You think being strong means not needing help. But I’m here. Always will be.”

She swallowed hard. “That sounded dangerously close to a proposal.”

“Maybe I’m just warming up.”

Her laugh was soft. “You’re insane.”

He stood and walked over to her side of the island, wrapping his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. “Maybe. But I want this—you—on your good days, your exhausted ones, the days you question everything and the days you own the world.”

She turned her face, brushing her lips against his cheek. “You’re too good at this love thing.”

He shrugged. “Someone’s gotta be. You’re already winning at everything else.”

They stayed like that, tangled in each other, as the rain pattered on.

Then she murmured, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I want a dog.”

He pulled back. “A what?”

“A Shiba. Or a Husky. Or something fluffy.”

He stared at her, stunned. “You just hit me with a monologue about emotional exhaustion and now you want a damn dog?”

“I’m complex.”

He grinned. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to her neck, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks later…

Boruto stood by the door, one sock on, one sock missing, holding a half-clipped leash like it was a bomb about to go off. The small orange tornado currently attached to it was losing her mind — yipping, spinning in circles, and occasionally slamming her entire tiny body into his shin like this was some kind of ninja exam.

“Sarada!” he yelled, wobbling as the Shiba Inu launched into another orbit around his ankles. “Your dog is trying to assassinate me!”

From the kitchen came the telltale clink of mugs and a voice that was far too calm. “Our dog, Boruto. You voted yes. That makes you legally and morally responsible.”

“She conned me with her big anime eyes,” he grumbled, glaring down at the fluffball now attempting to chew the strap of his sandal. “She’s too energetic. I haven’t had coffee yet. This is a war crime.”

The puppy barked as if in agreement, tail curled and wagging like it was attached to a wind turbine. Her name tag jingled cheerily: Sparky.

Boruto scowled. “And you named her ‘Sparky’? Now she thinks she’s lightning.”

Sarada padded into the room, hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, wearing his oversized navy hoodie that hit mid-thigh and nothing else visible — which honestly wasn’t helping Boruto focus.

She held out a steaming mug with a raised brow. “Maybe she is lightning. Ever think of that, genius?”

Boruto took the mug like it was a life-saving potion. “She’s too small to cause this much chaos.”

“She suits it,” Sarada said, crouching to ruffle the puppy’s ears. “And don’t act like you didn’t cry when she fell asleep on your lap.”

He sputtered. “I was—! That was—! Her face was cute, okay?! It caught me off guard!”

Sarada smirked into her coffee. “Admit it. You’re whipped.”

He took a long sip and avoided eye contact. “Maybe a little.”

They stood in silence for a beat, sipping coffee while Sparky zoomed across the apartment like her paws were on fire. She skidded into the kitchen island, ricocheted off the trash can, and kept going.

Boruto blinked. “She’s either broken or built different.”

“She’s just excited,” Sarada said fondly. “She knows she lives with idiots.”

“Hey!”

“I meant that affectionately.”

Boruto narrowed his eyes, then leaned against the counter, watching her with a quiet smile as she reached for a slice of leftover toast. She moved around his apartment—their apartment now, really—with the kind of ease that only came from habit. From belonging.

“Y’know,” he said, “it’s kinda wild how normal this all feels.”

Sarada raised a brow, chewing. “Dog ownership?”

“No. Us. Coffee. Your ponytail. You stealing my hoodies. Chaos puppy chewing my socks. The way this apartment smells like your shampoo and burnt toast and whatever cologne I overused.”

Her lips twitched. “Burnt toast is your fault.”

“My point,” he said, stepping closer, “is… it’s not wild in a bad way. It’s just… right. Like, unremarkably perfect.”

Sarada looked at him, smile softening. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “It is.”

Sparky, as if on cue, launched herself at Boruto’s leg again, barking excitedly.

Sarada scooped her up with ease. The pup immediately tried to lick her face.

“She’s like a little lightning bolt,” Sarada said, laughing, holding the dog away from her face like a sticky toddler.

Boruto leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Well,” he said dramatically, “I guess that makes us thunder and glass.”

She stared at him, deadpan. “What?”

“Think about it! You’re smart and sharp—glass. I’m loud and unpredictable—thunder.”

“That’s… terrible. Also weirdly poetic. Did you write that down somewhere?”

“Don’t be jealous of my brain,” he said, puffing his chest.

“You mean your soggy cereal of a brain?”

Boruto gasped. “Ma’am, I’ll have you know I graduated with honors.”

“From where?” she teased. “The School of Dumb Dog Names and Dramatic Metaphors?”

Boruto pointed at Sparky. “She likes her name.”

The puppy barked again. Sarada gave her a kiss on the nose.

“Traitor,” Boruto muttered under his breath.

They eventually made it to the door, Sarada pulling on sneakers while Boruto juggled the leash, coffee, and puppy wrangling like a circus act. She was smirking the whole time.

Outside, the street was quiet and slick with leftover rain. Clouds were beginning to thin, and the early morning sun peeked out just enough to make the pavement shine.

Boruto held the leash in one hand, coffee in the other, and looked over at Sarada walking beside him, hair swaying, hoodie sleeves too long for her arms, puppy bouncing along between them.

And he thought: Yeah. This is it. Right here. No explosions. No grand gestures. Just this. Just her.

He smiled, nudging her shoulder with his.

She nudged back. “Don’t get sappy on me.”

“Too late.”

They walked on.

Coffee in one hand. Leash in the other.
Love between them.
Nothing extravagant. Nothing forced.

Just home.

Chapter Text

Early morning.

Sun barely rising. Sparky asleep in her little dog bed.
The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and vanilla-scented candle smoke from the night before. Outside, the city hadn’t quite woken up yet.

Inside?
Boruto and Sarada were very much awake.

Soft gasps. Sheets rustling. Limbs tangled. Kisses that wandered. Whispered laughter that had no business being that breathless at 6:00 a.m.

Boruto’s hand slipped under the oversized hoodie Sarada had stolen last night—again—while she nipped at his lower lip, smug and glowing and a little too pleased with herself.

“Someone’s needy this morning,” she whispered, pushing her hips up to tease him.

“You started it,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly. “Walking around in my clothes, making coffee with your legs out like it’s not a war crime.”

“You’re obsessed with my legs.”

“I’m obsessed with you. The legs are just—bonus content.”

She was about to respond with something witty and probably wildly inappropriate when—

click...

“—Sarada?”

A calm, low voice echoed from the entryway.

The entire apartment went dead silent.

Sarada froze mid-movement, eyes wide, mouth still slightly open in disbelief. Boruto’s eyes met hers like a deer in headlights.

“…Was that—”
“Yep,” she hissed. “That’s my father.”

Boruto rolled off her like he’d touched molten lava, somehow getting tangled in the blanket, crashing sideways off the bed. A thud. A curse.

“WHY is your door unlocked?!” he whisper-shrieked.

“I ordered groceries last night! I didn’t—ugh, not important!!”

Footsteps. Calm. Measured. Dooming.

Sarada leapt up, scrambling for clothes like it was a timed mission. She threw Boruto’s hoodie over her head and tried to nudge him under the bed with her foot.

“I’m not a cat, Sarada!” Boruto hissed.

“Then get in the damn closet! Or jump off the balcony—be useful!!”

But it was too late.

Sasuke Uchiha, destroyer of peace and awkward domestic moments, stepped into the bedroom doorway like the grim reaper of parental judgment.

His lone eye scanned the scene.

Boruto, half-covered in blankets, hair a disaster, wide-eyed and shirtless on the floor like a man caught in several crimes.

Sarada, red-faced, wearing said criminal’s hoodie, standing beside a bed that looked like it had lost a war.

Sparky, god bless her, was chewing on what was very clearly a lacy black bra in the corner like it was a prized kill.

Silence. Terrible, ancient silence.

“…Morning,” Boruto croaked, voice cracking like puberty had hit again.

Sasuke blinked. Once. Slowly.

Sarada stepped forward like someone approaching a landmine. “Dad. Hi. I thought you were—uh—on a trip.”

“I was,” Sasuke said flatly, holding up reports. “Until your mother asked me to drop off these.”

He stepped further into the room, gaze unimpressed. “I assumed you lived alone.”

“We’ve been living together for over a year,” she replied, voice a few octaves higher than normal.

“I see,” Sasuke said. Calm. Dead calm. Calm enough that it was actually terrifying.

Boruto, to his credit, was now half-praying in the corner.

Sasuke walked over, placed the file on the desk, then — in a surprise twist — looked down at Sparky, who barked once, tail wagging.

“…Cute dog,” he muttered, almost fondly.

Sarada and Boruto both blinked.

And then — as if the awkward gods took pity on them — he turned around and walked back toward the front door.

But just before he left, he paused.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t change tone.

Just said:
“Use protection. I don’t want to be a grandfather yet.”

The door closed.

The silence shattered instantly.

Boruto collapsed backward, limbs splayed like he’d just run a marathon in hell. “I saw my life flash before my eyes. I think he scanned my soul.”

Sarada groaned, burying her face in her hands. “He’s never going to unsee that. Oh my god. My bra, Boruto.”

“You think he noticed?”

"He’s CIA, Boruto! Of course he noticed!!"

In the corner, Sparky barked proudly, still chewing the bra like a chew toy sent from heaven.

Boruto sat up slowly. “Sparky’s grounded.”

“She’s a puppy.”

“She’s complicit.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Sarada looked over at him, biting back a smile.

“…So. We’re still finishing, right?”

Boruto gawked at her. “Are you—are you actually serious right now?!”

She tossed a pillow at his face. “You’re insane.”

“And yet, you’re the one who wakes me up like this every other day.”

“Because you’re easy.”

“And you’re evil.”

She pulled the hoodie tighter around herself and smirked. “You love it.”

Boruto grinned, already crawling back toward her. “No lies detected.”

Chapter Text

Later that afternoon.

Sarada’s gone to her residency shift at the hospital.
Boruto’s still home — and Sasuke stayed behind after the accidental morning ambush.

They're now… alone.
Having coffee like civilized men.
(Except one is internally dying.)

Boruto stirred the instant coffee like it held the secrets of survival. He was 90% sure this was the same brand Sarada used to scrub the bathroom tiles once. Still, he pressed on — because it was either serve coffee or die from the silence.

He risked a glance toward the dining table, where Sasuke Uchiha, infamously stoic, notoriously unreadable, was sitting with all the calm of a man who had absolutely witnessed hell and decided it was boring.

His coat was folded perfectly over the back of the chair. His arms were crossed. His leg bounced once every ten seconds like the world’s slowest metronome of judgment.

Boruto approached carefully, like he was handing coffee to a very large bear that might speak.

“Here you go, Mr. Uchiha,” he said, setting the mug down like it was a peace offering.

Sasuke glanced at it. “I don’t take sugar.”

Boruto blinked. “Oh. Uh… it’s just one spoon. I can remake—”

Sasuke took a sip. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at Boruto like he had been the one to ruin the Uchiha clan’s honor.

Boruto sat down across from him and clutched his own mug like it had defensive jutsu.

The silence was brutal. Like standing in the middle of an open field with a thunderstorm approaching — and you’re holding a lightning rod made of guilt.

Birds chirped. The fridge groaned. Sparky sneezed under the table.

Boruto tried to smile. “So, uh… nice weather?”

Sasuke blinked slowly. “Is this small talk supposed to distract me from the fact that I walked in on my daughter in bed with you this morning?”

Boruto nearly inhaled his coffee. “N-No, sir! I wasn’t trying to— I mean—yes—but also no—”

Sasuke tilted his head slightly. “Relax. I didn’t murder you, did I?”

Boruto gave a weak, dry laugh. “Honestly, that was still 50/50.”

A beat passed.

Then Sasuke added, deadpan: “You were shirtless. Her hair was messy. Hoodie was on the floor. Also—your pants were inside-out. Sloppy.”

Boruto practically choked. “Okay! We don’t need a visual post-mortem, thank you!”

“I’m just saying,” Sasuke replied, as if reading aloud from a mission debriefing, “next time, lock the door.”

Boruto dropped his face into his hands. “I want to become mist.”

Sasuke took another sip of the suspiciously sweet coffee. Then, casually:

“You love her?”

Boruto’s hands dropped. His voice steadied. “Yeah. I do. A lot.”

Sasuke nodded once, like it confirmed something he'd already known. “Good. Because if you’re just playing house until it gets inconvenient, I’ll make things very inconvenient for you.”

Boruto gulped. “Crystal clear, sir.”

Silence again.

Boruto was just starting to breathe easier when Sasuke spoke one more time — a little too casually.

“…Also, just so you know — if she ends up pregnant and I find out from your Instagram story before I hear it from her… I will personally revoke your spine.”

Boruto blinked. “That’s… a weirdly specific threat.”

“I’ve had time to think about it.”

He stood, sliding on his coat with all the elegance of a man who once traveled world for fun. He paused at the door. Looked down.

Sparky — who had been chewing on Boruto’s sock like it was a toy designed by Kiba — looked up at him with innocent brown eyes and gave a single “woof.”

Sasuke stared for a moment.

“…Nice dog,” he muttered, almost begrudgingly.

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut with terrifying gentleness.

Boruto sat frozen for a few seconds. Then slowly looked down at Sparky.

“…We're never having people over again,” he whispered.

Sparky responded by sneezing into his remaining sock.

Chapter Text

Later that evening.

Sarada walks in from a brutal hospital shift.
Scrubs wrinkled. Hair barely holding in a bun.
She's tired. She's glowing. She's survived a 12-hour shift with no homicide.
A win.

Boruto?
Wrapped in a blanket burrito on the couch like he’s recovering from emotional warfare.
Eyes wide open.
Expression vacant.
The haunted aura of a man who now respects sugar-free coffee and trauma bonding.

The front door creaked open.

“Sparky, I’m home!” Sarada called out, voice still a little hoarse from yelling over panicked interns and malfunctioning equipment.

A beat later — zoom.

Sparky launched herself down the hallway like a fluffy missile.

Sarada bent down to catch her, arms full of warm, squirming joy and high-pitched yaps. She pressed a kiss to the pup’s head.

But then—
She saw it.

Boruto.

On the couch.
Blanket draped like a funeral shroud.
Staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers.
The very picture of post-Sasuke stress disorder.

She blinked. “...Why do you look like you just returned from war?”

Without moving his body, Boruto turned his head with the slowness of a broken animatronic.

“Your father drank the coffee I made… and then threatened to break my spine via Instagram notification.”

Sarada blinked. “Ah. So he stayed for coffee.”

“He stayed for a psychological takedown disguised as ‘conversation,’” Boruto muttered.

Sarada clapped a hand over her mouth, choking on a laugh.

“This isn’t a joke.”

Sarada wheezed, dumping her bag and Sparky on the floor as she collapsed beside him on the couch. “This is better than anything on TV.”

“He described the room like a crime scene! He said ‘hoodie on the floor, bra near the dog, my pants… inside out.’ Why does he remember that?!”

She wiped a tear from her eye, trying not to collapse all over again. “I told you he’s terrifying when calm.”

“He asked if I was playing house,” Boruto added dramatically. “As if this—” he gestured at his blanket, “—is a tactical strategy instead of me being emotionally defeated.”

Sarada leaned in and kissed his cheek. “You poor thing.”

He glared at her from beneath the folds of fleece. “You enjoyed this.”

“Because now you understand the Uchiha parenting experience,” she said smugly. “This is hazing. You’ve been initiated.”

“He drinks sugarless coffee and ends lives with compliments. I’m not built for this.”

She smirked. “You are now.”

He turned toward her, dead serious. “Sarada.”

“Yes?”

“He said—if you ever get pregnant and he finds out through an Instagram story, he’ll revoke my spine.”

Sarada burst out laughing all over again, clutching her stomach.

“He’s not joking,” Boruto whispered. “I need my spine, Sarada.”

“You do,” she said, wiping tears of laughter. “For walking. And other… activities.”

Boruto blinked. “Did you just—?”

Sarada gave him an innocent look. “I’m just saying-”

“Sarada!”

She laughed again, laying her head against his shoulder.

A beat passed.

Boruto mumbled into her hair, “So… we’re definitely locking the door from now on, right?”

She paused. Then tilted her head, fake thoughtful. “Hmm. Or…”

He narrowed his eyes.

“…we could live dangerously,” she finished with a smirk.

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

He sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately. Deeply. Irreversibly.”

Just then, Sparky jumped onto the couch and directly into Boruto’s lap — then immediately sneezed in his face.

Boruto groaned. “Even your dog disrespects me.”

“She’s my spirit animal,” Sarada replied, grinning as she scratched Sparky’s ears. “She has excellent taste.”

They sat like that — tangled together under a blanket, a dog between them, the aftermath of the most awkward day of their lives behind them.

No glamor. No drama. Just exhaustion, jokes, and a little dog who farted in her sleep.

And still, somehow… it felt perfect.

Chapter Text

Same night.

Post-Sasuke trauma still lingers faintly in the air like smoke after fireworks.
But so does something better — soft light, soft music, and the easy rhythm of them.

The apartment glowed with sleepy charm.
Fairy lights blinked lazily over the kitchen counter, casting golden halos on cabinets that probably hadn’t been cleaned in two weeks.
The playlist—curated entirely by accident—cycled through indie confessionals, 90s love songs, and a few anime B-sides that made Sarada raise an eyebrow every time.

Boruto was at the stove like he was hosting a cooking show no one asked for.
Wooden spoon in hand, apron on (with a questionable cartoon ramen bowl printed on the front), and the smug confidence of a man who could barely cook but made up for it with vibes.

“You’re not sautéing,” Sarada said, watching him from the other side of the kitchen island. She was in her scrubs, sleeves rolled, chopping garlic with surgical precision. “You’re flirting with the pan.”

Boruto flicked his wrist dramatically. “The pan responds to love, thank you. That’s why my pasta always tastes like poetry.”

“More like edible drama.”

“You wound me.”

“Good. Keeps you tender.”

Boruto gasped like she’d stabbed his honor. “That’s why we work. You’re the spice. I’m the simmer.”

Sarada rolled her eyes but didn’t stop the little smirk pulling at her lips. She slid the garlic into the pan with a practiced hand, then poked him in the ribs. “I’m saving your dinner from becoming an apology.”

He leaned over and bumped her hip playfully. “My whole life is an apology. And somehow, you still love me.”

“Don’t make me regret it mid-pasta.”

Boruto lowered the heat and turned to her, smile softening. The music changed — a nostalgic acoustic song, probably something they’d danced to months ago while doing laundry at 1 a.m.

“You make everything better,” he said, voice quiet.

Sarada paused. The garlic sizzled.
She looked up at him.

“Even after today? Even after the world’s most traumatizing breakfast cameo?”

He grinned. “Especially then. If I have to be humiliated, I’d rather be humiliated next to you.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she leaned in and pressed her forehead to his. “You’re such an idiot.”

Then — in the most Boruto way possible — he extended a hand, still flour-dusted from stirring.

“Dinner can wait. Dance with me?”

Sarada arched a brow. “To this?”

The lo-fi track now playing sounded like it was composed by a cat walking on a synthesizer, but with feelings.

“I make chaos look elegant.”

She snorted but took his hand anyway.

Bare feet on the cool tile floor.
Her arms around his neck, his at her waist.
No real rhythm. No need. Just two people gently swaying like the rest of the world could wait.

Boruto pressed his lips to her temple.

“You ever think about doing this forever?” he murmured.

Sarada didn’t answer right away.

Then:
“I think about it… every single time we do this.”

He squeezed her hand, just once. No ring, no question. But the promise was there anyway — folded into warm lighting and slow music and the sound of boiling water in the background.

They stayed like that for a long moment.

Until—

Sparky barked.
Once. Loud.
Then tried to jump up between them like the world's smallest, furriest chaperone.

Boruto laughed. “She’s jealous.”

“She thinks you’re about to grope me over the pasta.”

“I wasn’t, but now that you mention it—”

Sarada shoved him with a laugh. “Kitchen. Food. Hands where I can see them.”

Boruto gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. All hands on deck. And by deck, I mean—”

“BORUTO.”

He turned back to the stove like a man trying not to get arrested.

Sarada leaned against the counter, watching him hum as he stirred the spaghetti, messy hair falling into his eyes, the smell of garlic and overcooked ego filling the room.

Sparky flopped onto her dog bed with a huff, clearly over the drama.

And Sarada — still tired, still in scrubs, hair frizzy and feet sore — thought:

Yeah.
This isn’t the fairytale.

It’s better.

Chapter Text

Later that night.

Dinner’s done.
Sparky has finally stopped attacking the throw pillows.
The TV plays something vague and colorful with the volume down low — just background noise for a night that doesn’t need filling.

The lights are dim. Fairy lights still humming from the kitchen. The apartment smells like garlic, dryer sheets, and the faint vanilla of the ice cream melting in their shared bowl.

They’re curled up on the couch — Sarada in one of Boruto’s old hoodies that hangs halfway down her thighs. Her legs are stretched across his lap, bare feet poking out from under a blanket.

Boruto’s head rests lazily against the back of the couch, spoon in hand. Sparky is sprawled like a tiny queen between them, her little paws twitching in a dream.

This? This is the kind of quiet you earn.

He scoops up another spoonful of vanilla ice cream and holds it out.

Sarada leans in, takes the bite from the spoon, and hums softly like it’s some Michelin-star dessert. “Mm. We should learn to make this ourselves.”

Boruto grins, smug. “Only if I get to lick the spoon after.”

“You always do,” she mutters, settling back against the cushions.

He tilts his head, dramatically smug. “Perks of being irresistible.”

Sarada snorts. “You nearly burned the garlic thirty minutes ago.”

“That was Sparky’s fault! She farted, and I choked. That was chemical warfare.”

Sparky lets out a tiny snore in protest.

Sarada laughs — head tilted back, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and contentment. “God, this is nice.”

Boruto turns to look at her.

Her hair’s up in a loose bun, a few strands framing her face. Her makeup’s wiped away. Her hoodie sleeves cover her hands. And she’s laughing — the real kind. The kind he used to chase like it was gold.

“Yeah,” he says. “It really is.”

And then—
It happens.

Sarada, still staring up at the ceiling, voice casual like she’s commenting on the weather:
“You think our kid would have my temper or your drama?”

Boruto chokes.

Not on the ice cream.
Not on the blanket.
On reality itself.

He fumbles the bowl, catches it, freezes, and turns to her like she’s just told him aliens exist and they’re already enrolled in kindergarten.

“KID?” His voice cracks like glass. “As in… human child??”

Sarada looks over at him with a perfectly calm expression. “Yes. Child. Offspring. Baby. Lil’ blob with your chaotic energy and my dangerous glare.”

He stares. Silent. Blinking like he missed five episodes of his own life.

She smirks. “Relax. I’m not announcing anything. I just meant… someday.”

Boruto tries to restart his breathing.

“You can’t—you can’t just drop a hypothetical child into my lap while I’m mid-spoonful of ice cream!” he gasps. “That’s emotional whiplash!”

Sarada raises a brow. “I’ve literally watched you jump off rooftops for fun. But this is what takes you out?”

“This is different! That’s gravity. This is feelings.”

She chuckles, stealing another bite of ice cream. “You’ve seen me pull 36-hour hospital shifts and still come home and clean up after Sparky. You really think I’m not parent material?”

Boruto blinks. “You’re… terrifyingly qualified, actually.”

“Exactly.”

He slumps further into the couch, dazed. “I mean—I want kids. With you. I really do. But you just… you slid that in there. Like it was an add-on order. ‘Should we get almond milk? Or a baby?’”

Sarada shrugs. “Same level of commitment, really. Both require patience, midnight breakdowns, and a weird amount of laundry.”

He stares. “Sarada.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“But I am not emotionally prepared to picture a mini-you asking me why I’m always shirtless in the kitchen.”

“She’d ask because she’s smart,” Sarada says matter-of-factly. “And maybe a little judgmental. Like me.”

He groans, pulling the blanket over his face. “God help me.”

She leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead.

And then, softly, “Someday.”

Just that one word. A whisper. A comfort. A promise folded into a moment so calm it almost doesn’t feel real.

Boruto peeks out from under the blanket, heart doing things he doesn’t know how to name.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Someday sounds good.”

Chapter Text

Family is over.

Yes — both sides.

Boruto and Sarada’s apartment is small. Warm. A little cluttered, in a lived-in, loved kind of way. There are cinnamon-scented candles flickering from every corner, burnt cookies cooling (badly) on the counter, and the unmistakable scent of Hinata’s famous ginger mochi wafting through the air like a hug.

Fairy lights drape lazily across the walls — some blinking, some definitely tangled, all of them charming. The tree is half-decorated, leaning slightly to the left, because Sparky tackled it two nights ago and no one’s fixed it properly since.

Underneath it, nestled among half-chewed ribbons and a fake snowflake garland, Sparky snores contentedly in a tiny red Santa hat.

Dinner is done.
The aftermath is delicious.

Plates are stacked, drinks are refilled, and every stomach in the room is dangerously full. Everyone’s sitting in the cozy sprawl of after-dinner bliss — limbs lazy, eyelids heavy, conversation humming in the background.

Sarada’s on the floor by the tree, legs tucked under her, a steaming mug of hot cocoa in hand. Her hair’s half-up in a festive clip Himawari gave her. She’s wearing one of Boruto’s sweaters again, sleeves long enough to cover her knuckles, eyes glowing as she watches the lights dance across the ornaments.

Across the room, Boruto paces.

Not dramatically — just enough to be noticed. His fingers twitch like they can’t decide what to do, and he keeps adjusting the hem of his hoodie like it offended him.

Hinata notices first. Of course she does.

Her voice is gentle, knowing:
“Boruto, sweetheart… you okay?”

Naruto, half-asleep against the arm of the couch, grins. “He’s probably just full. Kid ate like ten dumplings and half the mochi.”

Boruto doesn’t even defend himself. “I’m fine. Just… warm.”

Kawaki raises a brow. “You’re sweating through your shirt, man.”

Sakura: “Did you leave the oven on again?”

Sasuke: “Hn.”

That one syllable carries the weight of judgment, suspicion, and boredom — all at once.

Boruto claps his hands together, once, sharp. “Okay. Before anyone slips into a food coma or Sparky eats another ornament—” (the dog twitches in her sleep) “—I, uh… I have something. To do.”

Sarada, mid-sip, lowers her mug. “Do I need to stop drinking this cocoa?”

Boruto walks over. Stands in front of her.
Takes a breath like he’s about to dive into open water.

Then pulls a tiny red box from the pocket of his hoodie.

And the room freezes.

Sarada’s eyes widen. Her breath catches. The mug lowers slowly to the rug.

Boruto sinks down on one knee.

It’s not rehearsed. Not polished. Not dramatic.
It’s him — wide-eyed, sincere, hand shaking just enough to make it real.

“Sarada Uchiha,” he says, voice wobbly but full, “you’ve been the best part of my chaos since the moment you insulted me in the middle of class.”

Naruto wheezes from the couch.

“You’ve held me together, called me out, made me better. You’ve built this weird, warm, messy little life with me. And I want to build every next part of it with you, too.”

Sarada is frozen. Lips parted. Eyes wide.

Boruto opens the box. Inside: a simple silver band.
Nothing flashy. But engraved inside are two tiny symbols — a lightning bolt and a pair of glasses.

She stares.

He says, a little softer:

“Will you marry me?”

There’s a long, suspended breath in the room.

And then—

Sarada blinks. A breath leaves her. And she says:

“…Yes. Yes. You absolute idiot, yes.”

The room erupts.

Hinata gasps, pressing both hands to her mouth. Her eyes shimmer.

Naruto’s tearing up — aggressively pretending he’s not.

Himawari squeals, throwing her hands in the air and accidentally smacking her uncle’s shoulder.

Sakura? Crying. Silently. Proudly.

Sasuke grunts. Just once.
(That’s basically a five-minute standing ovation.)

Kawaki leans back with a smirk. “Finally.”

Boruto slides the ring on her finger, hands trembling slightly.

Sarada cups his face. Kisses him, soft and certain, right there on the floor in front of everyone.

Then pulls back with a look that’s half exasperated, half glowing.

“You really proposed with everyone watching?”

He grins, breathless. “You always said you wanted proof I was serious.”

She snorts, blinking fast, heart clearly still catching up. “Consider me convinced.”

From the couch, Naruto yells, “CAN I OFFICIALLY BE BEST MAN?”

Sarada doesn’t even look over. “Only if you don’t bring ramen to the altar.”

Hinata laughs softly. “I’ll help with the cake.”

Sasuke, without looking up: “You’re both too young.”

Sakura: “Says the man who married me at nineteen.”

Sasuke: “…hn.”

Sparky lets out a snore so loud the Christmas lights flicker. Everyone stares. She doesn't even wake up.

Boruto and Sarada sit back on the rug, hands tangled, legs brushing.

And for the first time since dinner started — maybe for the first time in a while — there’s nothing left to be said.

Just them. The twinkle of lights. The hum of family, love, and something new on the horizon.

Their first holiday engaged.
A full room.
A full heart.
A future wide open.