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You were never official. No labels. No promises. But you knew—deep in your bones—that there was something between you and Kakashi. Something real. Something unspoken, yet undeniable.
You’d known him since the academy. He was quiet, brilliant, and always a little distant. But with you, he let his guard down. You trained together, shared quiet moments, and exchanged glances that said more than words ever could. You understood each other in a way that didn’t need explanation.
There were nights when he’d sit beside you on the roof of your apartment, watching the stars in silence. Sometimes he’d speak, his voice low and thoughtful.
“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we weren’t shinobi?”
“All the time,” you’d reply.
And he’d nod, as if that answer was enough.
When you chose to leave the shinobi path and live as a civilian, you thought that would be the end of whatever it was between you. But it wasn’t. If anything, it made your bond stronger. He’d visit you after missions, sometimes bruised and tired, but always with that same calm presence. You’d make tea, patch him up, and sit together in the quiet.
You never said what you were to each other. You didn’t need to.
...and then the S-Rank mission came
Lady Tsunade summoned him and a team of elite shinobi. You knew what that meant. Missions like that didn’t come with guarantees. You didn’t cry when he left. You just stood at the edge of the village, watching him go.
“You’ll come back,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.
He looked at you, his visible eye softening.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He gave a small nod, then disappeared into the trees.
Days passed. Then weeks. Then silence.
The administration lost contact. No messages. No chakra traces. No bodies.
The village whispered. “They’re gone.” “They must be dead.” But Tsunade refused to close the case. She ordered investigations. She held onto hope.
So did you.
Shikamaru, your best friend, was always there. He’d sit with you on your porch, watching the clouds drift by, his expression unreadable.
“You have to prepare yourself,” he said one evening. “You know how these missions go.”
“I know,” you whispered. “But I also know Kakashi. He’s not dead.”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You’re stubborn.”
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
He smiled faintly.
“Yeah. I’m still here.”
Three years passed. Some bodies were recovered. Others weren’t. Kakashi’s wasn’t.
The village built tombs for the missing. His name was etched in stone. But you never visited.
You couldn’t.
You wouldn’t.
Five years later, you were at the market when a woman handed you a single white flower.
“For Kakashi’s tomb,” she said gently. “Today marks five years.”
You froze. Your hands trembled. You didn’t respond. You just walked—no, drifted—toward the river. Your place. The one you always went to when you missed him most.
You sat down, placed the flower beside you—his spot—and stared at the flow of the water. The wind was cool, the sky overcast. You imagined him sitting beside you, mask pulled down, eyes closed, just listening to mother nature.
Shikamaru, now a husband to Temari, a father to Shikadai, found you, as he always did and he sat beside you.
“You’re here again,” he said softly.
You just throw a rock onto the river. He noticed the white flower beside you.
“You know… it’s okay to let go.”
“It's not. And I can’t,” you said. “Not until I see him. Not until I know.”
He didn’t argue. He just wrapped an arm around your shoulder.
“You still have us,” he said. “Me, Temari, Shikadai. You’re not alone. We don't mind babysitting you”
You glared at him before answering.
“Tss. I know,” you whispered. “But, Shika... he’s still out there. I feel it.”
"If that's what you feel then."
He stayed with you for the mean time. To talk about... nothing. You know that Shikamaru isn't a type of guy who talks a lot but when this day come, he brought a lot of stories to discuss with you.
"Ahh I forgot! Shikadai is looking for you, so let's have a dinner in our house later."
sigh "I can't say no—first, because I already miss Shikadai, and second, Temari’s cooking is impossible to resist."
You’re truly thankful for Shikamaru. After shutting everyone else out, he chose to stay. And now, with Temari and Shikadai, you have something to hold on to—something to start over with.
Ten years passed. You were thirty now. Life had softened. You smiled more. You let people in again. You helped raise Shikadai, taught at the academy part-time, and found joy in small things. But not a day went by that you didn’t think of him.
Then, one ordinary morning at the market, you heard shouting.
“They’re back!”
You turned, confused. People were gathering, asking questions.
“Who’s back?”
“The shinobi from ten years ago—Kakashi and the others. They’re alive!”
The basket slipped from your hands. Your breath caught. Your legs refused to move. Your heart pounded so hard you thought it might break.
You forced yourself to walk. One step. Then another. The world blurred around you. You heard voices, cheers, disbelief.
“It’s true. They’re alive.”
“That’s Kakashi for you.”
You pushed through the crowd, your body numb. And then you heard it—Guy’s voice, loud and full of emotion:
“Kakashi!!!”
That was your breaking point.
You shoved through the crowd, desperate, breathless. And then you saw him.
Bandaged. Dirty. Exhausted.
But alive.
He turned. Your eyes met. Time stopped.
He walked toward you, slow and steady, as if afraid you’d vanish. When he reached you, he pulled you into his arms.
You collapsed into him, sobbing, clinging to him like you’d never let go again.
“Tadaima,” he whispered.
Through your tears, you smiled.
“Okaeri.”
It had been three days since Kakashi returned.
Three days since you collapsed into his arms, sobbing with a decade’s worth of grief and hope. Three days since the village erupted in celebration, disbelief, and tears. And yet, even now, you still found yourself waking up in the middle of the night, reaching out to make sure he was real.
He was.
Kakashi had been given a room in the hospital for recovery, but he rarely stayed in it. Most nights, he ended up at your place, sitting on the porch with a blanket over his shoulders, staring at the stars like he used to.
“You haven’t changed,” he said one night, his voice low and warm.
“You have,” you replied, watching him from the doorway.
He turned to you, his face half-lit by moonlight. The lines around his eyes were deeper. His hair was longer, streaked with more silver. But his gaze—steady, thoughtful—was the same.
“Ten years is a long time,” he said.
“I waited,” you whispered.
He looked down, his fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket.
“I know. I thought about you every day. I didn’t think I’d make it back. But I held on to the thought of you. Of this place. Of your voice.”
You stepped forward, kneeling beside him. You reached for his hand, and he let you take it.
“You’re home now,” you said. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
He didn’t speak. He just leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours.
The days that followed Kakashi’s return were slow, gentle, and filled with quiet rediscovery.
You and Kakashi fell into a rhythm that felt both new and familiar. Mornings began with the soft clinking of teacups and the rustle of newspaper pages. He’d sit at your kitchen table, mask pulled down just enough to sip his tea, while you prepared breakfast. Sometimes he’d read aloud from the paper, his voice low and amused, especially when he found something ridiculous in the classifieds.
“Someone’s offering to trade a scroll of sealing for a lifetime supply of pickled radish,” he said one morning, raising an eyebrow.
“Tempting,” you replied, sliding him a plate of tamagoyaki. “But I think I’ll pass.”
He chuckled, and you caught the rare sight of his full smile—soft, crooked, and entirely Kakashi.
Afternoons were spent in the garden. He wasn’t much of a gardener, but he tried. You’d catch him talking to the plants when he thought you weren’t listening.
“You’re doing great,” he muttered to a stubborn tomato vine. “Just… grow a little faster, okay?”
You laughed from the porch. “You know they don’t respond to guilt trips, right?”
“I’m just trying to motivate them.”
Sometimes, he’d fall asleep under the tree in the backyard, a book resting on his chest, Pakkun curled up beside him. You’d sit nearby, sketching or reading, content just to be near him. The silence between you was never empty—it was full of comfort, of shared breaths and unspoken understanding.
Evenings were your favorite.
The kitchen was warm with the scent of simmering broth and sautéed garlic. You’d cook together often, but it didn’t take long to realize Kakashi wasn’t just helping—he was genuinely good at it. Precise, calm, and methodical, just like on missions. Only this time, his kunai was replaced with a chef’s knife.
He moved through the kitchen with quiet confidence, slicing vegetables into perfect, uniform pieces. His hands were steady, his timing impeccable. You watched as he flipped a pan with practiced ease, the ingredients landing with a satisfying sizzle.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” you said, raising an eyebrow as he plated the stir-fry with a flourish.
Kakashi glanced at you, his visible eye crinkling with amusement.
“I have a reputation to maintain. Can’t have people thinking I’m domesticated.”
You laughed, handing him a bowl. “Too late for that. You just julienned that carrot like it owed you money.”
He smirked, taking a bite. “I trained under the best. Old lady at the market. Terrifying woman. Taught me everything I know.”
You shook your head, smiling as you leaned against the counter. “Well, remind me to thank her but this is amazing.”
He looked at you then, a softness in his gaze that had nothing to do with the food.
“Cooking for someone you care about makes it taste better.”
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. The quiet between you was full of warmth, like the steam rising from your bowls.
After dinner, you’d sit on the porch, wrapped in a shared blanket, watching the stars. Sometimes he’d rest his head on your shoulder. Other times, he’d take your hand and trace circles on your palm with his thumb.
“I missed this,” he said one night, voice barely above a whisper.
“Me too.”
And when the nightmares came—because they always did—he’d wake up gasping, drenched in sweat. But you were there. You’d hold him, whispering softly until his breathing slowed.
“You’re safe,” you’d say. “You’re home.”
He never said thank you. He didn’t need to. The way he held you afterward, like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world, said enough.
One quiet evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of amber and violet, Kakashi reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, worn notebook. The leather cover was scuffed, the corners frayed from years of handling.
He held it out to you with a hesitant hand.
“I kept this,” he said softly. “Wrote in it every day. Letters to you.”
You looked at him, your heart already tightening, then took the notebook with reverent fingers. The weight of it felt heavier than it should—like it carried years of silence, of waiting.
You opened it slowly.
The pages were filled with his handwriting—some neat and precise, others rushed and shaky. Words spilled across the paper like confessions whispered into the dark. Words of longing. Of hope. Of love. Some pages were stained with watermarks—rain, maybe. Or tears. Others were torn at the edges, as if they’d been clutched too tightly in moments of despair.
You turned a page and saw a sketch of your face, drawn from memory. Another page held a pressed flower, brittle and faded, but still intact. Each entry was a piece of him—his fears, his dreams, his regrets.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to give this to you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “There were days I thought I’d lost you forever. But writing to you… it kept me going.”
You closed the notebook gently, holding it to your chest as tears welled in your eyes.
“You just did,” you said, your voice trembling. “And I’ll keep it. Every word.”
Kakashi stepped closer, his hand brushing yours. For a moment, the world was silent—just the two of you, the fading light, and the quiet promise of something finally found
When summer came, the village came alive with the glow of lanterns and the soft hum of excitement—it was time for the annual Firefly Festival. You hadn’t gone in years. The memories were too distant, too bittersweet. But this time, Kakashi asked you.
“Come with me?” he said, his voice gentle, his hand extended toward you.
You hesitated only a moment before slipping your fingers into his. His hand was warm, steady. Familiar.
The streets were bathed in golden light from paper lanterns strung overhead, swaying gently in the evening breeze. Stalls lined the paths, filled with the scent of grilled yakitori, sweet mochi, and roasted chestnuts. Children darted past in colorful yukata, their laughter echoing like wind chimes. Somewhere nearby, a shamisen played a soft, nostalgic tune.
You and Kakashi walked hand in hand, your steps unhurried. He bought you dango from a vendor, and you teased him by stealing the last bite. He didn’t protest—just gave a small, amused sigh as sugar dusted the edge of his mask. You laughed, and he smiled with his eyes, the way he always did when words weren’t enough.
As the night deepened, fireworks bloomed in the sky—bursts of crimson, gold, and violet that lit up the riverbank. Fireflies drifted around you, tiny stars come to earth, their glow flickering in rhythm with your heartbeat.
You found a quiet spot by the river, where the reflections of lanterns and fireworks shimmered on the water like a living painting. The air was warm, but the breeze off the river was cool against your skin.
“This feels like a dream,” you whispered, your voice barely louder than the rustle of the reeds.
Kakashi stood beside you, his gaze on the water, then on you.
“Then let’s never wake up,” he said, his voice low and certain.
You turned to him, and for a moment, the world fell away. No missions. No past. Just the two of you, wrapped in the soft glow of fireflies and the quiet promise of something real.
Months passed. Seasons changed. The pain didn’t vanish—it never truly does—but it softened, like a scar that no longer stings when touched. In its place, something new began to grow. Quiet. Steady. Real.
You and Kakashi built a life together, not all at once, but piece by piece. You planted a garden behind the house, where lavender and tomatoes grew side by side. He pretended not to care when the basil wilted, but you caught him reading up on soil pH late one night. You adopted a stray dog with one floppy ear and a bark far too big for its size. Kakashi named him “Maru,” and despite his protests, the dog followed him everywhere.
You started talking about the future again—not in vague, hesitant terms, but with real plans. Trips you might take. A room you might renovate. A life you might grow into, together.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in soft golds and fading blues, you sat on the porch steps, your hands wrapped around a cup of tea still warm from the kettle. The garden rustled in the breeze. Maru snored softly at your feet.
Kakashi sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable now, like a well-worn blanket.
Then, quietly, he reached for your hand.
“I never said it before,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But I love you. I always have.”
You turned to him, your heart catching in your chest—not from surprise, but from the weight of the moment. The truth of it. The years behind it.
You smiled, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder.
“I know,” you whispered. “I love you too.”
He let out a breath, like he’d been holding it for years. And in that moment, with the sky darkening above, the garden blooming behind you, and the warmth of his hand in yours, everything felt whole.
Not perfect. Not without its cracks. But whole—in the way that mattered most.