Itachi didn’t understand it—this persistent tug in his chest every time you smiled, the quiet stillness he felt when you were near. Emotions had never been something he wore on his sleeve. He was a shinobi first, trained to conceal, to endure, to sacrifice. And yet, when it came to you, that mask slipped in ways he couldn’t control.

He didn’t confess. He wouldn’t—not yet. Maybe not ever. But he showed you in ways he knew how. A quiet presence when you needed it. A silent shadow in the dark if you were walking home too late. And above all else—he cooked.

You never questioned why there was always a packed bento on your desk before missions, perfectly portioned, your favorites always included. You never questioned why Itachi invited you to dinner more and more often, why he always insisted on preparing it himself.

Tonight was no different. He stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, focused on cutting vegetables with precision only an Uchiha could manage. You sat at the table, oblivious, complimenting the smell, asking what seasoning he used this time.

Sasuke, however, wasn't oblivious.

He watched from across the room, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as you laughed at something Itachi quietly said. The way his brother glanced at you—subtle, but lingering—told Sasuke everything he needed to know.

"You never cook for me." Sasuke mumbled.